The Rambam’s Anguish and More Zevachim 2-4

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The Rambam’s Personal Anguish and Resilience

Our Gemara on Amud aleph refers to a Tanna with an unusual descriptor added to his name: Shimon the Brother of Azariah. Usually, people are identified by their father, not their brother. Rashi notes this and gives us the historical back story. Azariah, a businessman, supported his brother Shimon, the scholar. Because they were literally partners in Torah and finances, sharing both, Azariah merited the honor by association in his brother’s title.

This arrangement is known as Yissaschar-Zevulun based on the Midrashic model that these two tribes represented (see Rashi Bereishis 49:13), with Zevulun engaging in commerce enabled by being near the ports, and Yissaschar studying Torah. Yissaschar-Zevulun is different than kollel — it is a private business arrangement of common interests between two individuals whereby they genuinely split the financial and spiritual rewards. The Rambam, who notoriously declared that taking charity in order to study Torah is a Chillul Hashem (Talmud Torah 3:10), himself was a recipient of support from his brother who was a merchant (see Igeres Harambam le-Rabbi Yefes Hadayyan). Apparently, Yissaschar-Zevulun was not considered by the Rambam to be diminishing the honor of Torah by taking charity, since this was a voluntary private arrangement.

The story of the Rambam and his brother is multifaceted, and it is not a legend — we know about it firsthand from his letters. In the above-mentioned letter, the Rambam describes with vulnerability and gut-wrenching honesty his grief and loss:

“The most awful disaster that befell me in my life — worse than anything else — was the death of the holy one, may his memory be blessed, who drowned in the Indian Ocean.

On his voyages he brought much money and goods that supported me, himself, and others.

He left behind for me to take care of, a widow and a young daughter.

On the day the dreadful news of his death reached me, I fell ill and was bedridden for about a year. I suffered from inflammation, high fever, and depression, and I nearly gave up my soul.

Eight years have passed since then, and I am still in mourning, unable to find solace. And how could I be comforted? For he grew up in my lap. He was my brother and my student. He traded in the markets, earned profits, and conducted business, allowing me to sit securely at home. He quickly grasped the Talmud and excelled even more in the intricacies of language. My only joy was in seeing him. All joy has become bitter, and he has gone to the eternal world, leaving me bewildered in a foreign land. When I see his handwriting or one of his letters, my heart turns over within me, and my sorrow is reawakened.

To sum it up: ‘For I will go down to my son, mourning, to the grave’ (Genesis 37:35). Were it not for the Torah, which is my delight, and the words of wisdom that help me forget my sorrow, I would have perished in my affliction.”

Subsequent to his brother’s death and the Rambam’s loss of financial support, aside from his intense grief, he was forced to work. It was during this time he served as court physician for the Sultan. In his letter to Shmuel Ibn Tibbon, the Rambam graphically describes his daily schedule, expressing his anguish and exhaustion:

“I reside in Egypt, while the king resides in Cairo, and between these two places are 4,000 amos (approximately 1.5 miles). I have a very heavy obligation toward the king, and it is impossible for me not to see him every day at the beginning of the day. However, if he is found to be weak or if one of his sons or concubines falls ill, I am not permitted to leave Cairo. I spend most of the day in the king’s palace, and it is also impossible for me to avoid attending to one or two officials who fall ill, as I must busy myself with their treatment.

Every single day I go up to Cairo at dawn, and if there is no obstacle there or no new development, I return to Egypt after midday — under no circumstances do I arrive earlier. I return famished and find the courtyards filled with people — Jews and Gentiles, important and unimportant, judges and officers, friends and enemies, a mixed multitude who know the time of my return.

I dismount from my animal, wash my hands, and go out to them to appease them, to satisfy them, and to entreat them to forgive me for keeping them waiting until I can eat a temporary meal, which takes some time. Then I go out to treat them, to write prescriptions and medical formulas for their ailments. Those coming and going do not cease until nightfall, and sometimes, by the truth of the Torah, until two hours into the night or more. I explain to them, advise them, and speak with them. I lie down exhausted from great fatigue, and when night comes, I am in a state of utter weakness and unable to speak.

In conclusion, no one from Israel can speak with me or spend time alone with me except on the Sabbath. Then, the entire community, or most of them, come after the prayer, and I guide the congregation regarding what they should do during the week. We read quietly (from Torah) until noon and then go their way. Some return and read again after the afternoon prayer until the time of the evening prayer.”

When we imagine great people, especially one of the greatest rabbis and scholars of all time, we see their monumental accomplishments but have no idea about their personal struggles. We assume they met them with fortitude and stoicism. However, in these letters we hear not the voice of a detached philosopher nor a grand and dignified rabbinic leader, but of a human being who bares his soul regarding his suffering to his close colleagues. It is a lesson in what really happens to a person in life, no matter his personal beliefs and discipline. The Rambam speaks of being ill and depressed for a year. His greatness lies in what he accomplished despite this, and his courage to candidly share his feelings with close friends.

One final fascinating point. We know the Rambam’s final work, the Guide for the Perplexed, was written at the end of his life. As I have noted in other essays, he often inserts hints and secret messages about matters that he feels should not be discussed explicitly. Micah Goodman (Maimonides and the Book that Changed Judaism, JPS 2015, pp. 62–63) makes an amazing observation. Here is what the Rambam writes about man’s foolish pursuits:

“The sufferings of the body in consequence of these evils are well known; those of the soul are twofold: — First, such evils of the soul as are the necessary consequence of changes in the body, in so far as the soul is a force residing in the body; it has therefore been said that the properties of the soul depend on the condition of the body.

Secondly, the soul, when accustomed to superfluous things, acquires a strong habit of desiring things which are neither necessary for the preservation of the individual nor for that of the species. This desire is without a limit, whilst things which are necessary are few in number and restricted within certain limits; but what is superfluous is without end — e.g., you desire to have your vessels of silver, but golden vessels are still better: others have even vessels of sapphire, or perhaps they can be made of emerald or rubies, or any other substance that could be suggested.

Those who are ignorant and perverse in their thought are constantly in trouble and pain, because they cannot get as much of superfluous things as a certain other person possesses. They as a rule expose themselves to great dangers, e.g., by sea-voyage, or service of kings, and all this for the purpose of obtaining that which is superfluous and not necessary. When they thus meet with the consequences of the course which they adopt, they complain of the decrees and judgments of God.”

Goodman points out the Rambam is clearly hinting at his own suffering from his life — “sea-voyage, or service of kings,” indeed perhaps even a self-rebuke in the line “they complain of the decrees and judgments of God”

We are left speechless regarding the Rambam’s emotional courage, self-honesty, and humility.

3 Too Close for Comfort

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph observes that in Halacha, often that which is similar can be more disruptive than that which is alien. Thus, a chattas offering that is slaughtered with the intention of an Olah offering is rendered invalid, yet a chattas offering that is slaughtered with the intention of eating standard profane food remains a valid chattas. Somehow the thought of a profane food offering is so alien to the chattas that it has no power to disrupt it.

I have remarked many times in Psychology of the Daf that patterns that exist in the spiritual world also exist in the physical and emotional world, since one Creator designed it all in His wisdom. Here too, the idea that something somewhat similar causes more disruption than something utterly alien is true psychologically as well.

Kometz Hamincha (1:9–10) observes that the enmity between the amei ha-aretz and the sages is greater than the enmity of the gentile toward the Jew (Pesachim 49b) for this same reason. The more similar you are, the more the dissonance is jarring.

Often family members, particularly teenagers, who remind us of ourselves can arouse within us the greatest irritation. We see our flaws and our potential nascent within a younger version of ourselves just as we are grappling with our loss of youth and vitality, as well as lost opportunities, as we begin middle age. Teenagers can be obnoxious of their own accord, but the dynamics of similarity make it harder to keep a level head.

4 Power-Assisted Steering

Our Gemara on Amud Beis speaks of the responsibility and obligation to fulfill a pledge:

“Once a person said: It is incumbent upon me to bring an offering, it is considered as though the offering is loaded upon his shoulders.”

The idea of a spiritual obligation being felt as a burden upon one’s shoulders is a real phenomenon, but according to Mei Shiloach (Bo) and Sod Yehar (Rosh Hashanah 44), it also changes with time. Just as the Ark was carried on the shoulders of the Levites but miraculously carried itself, so too the burdens of mitzvos are hard at first, but then if you are sincere, God joins you and helps you carry the burden.

As it states, God says, “Open for me an opening the width of the point of a needle, and I will open it wide enough for wagons to pass through.” (Midrash Shir Hashirim 5:22) Once we put in the initial effort, we are not alone in carrying the burden.