The Blogs: The Subtleties of Collective Responsibility Sanhedrin 10-12

Seeing the Divine in the Mundane

Our Gemara on Amud Beis discusses the scriptural sources for determining the number of judges required to rule on Jewish calendar calculations:

The Gemara asks: Corresponding to what was it determined that the intercalation procedure should incorporate these numbers of three, five, and seven judges? …One said: These numbers correspond to the number of Hebrew words in each of the three verses of the priestly benediction (see Bamidbar 6:24–26). And one said: Three corresponds to the three guards of the door (see Melachim II 25:18), five corresponds to five of the officers who saw the king’s face (see Melachim II 25:19), and seven corresponds to seven officers who saw the king’s face (see Yirmiyahu 52:25). Since these numbers represent appointments of distinction, the Rabbis saw fit to employ them in the composition of the court as well.

Rashi explains that the seven officers who saw the face of the king refer to Achashverosh’s advisors (Esther 1:14). Tosafos reject this idea, arguing that it is improper to derive a concept for Jewish practice from an institution used by idolaters. Instead, Tosafos identify other verses referring to seven advisors in the Jewish monarchy (Yirmiyahu 52:25).

Yet, Rashi certainly must have been aware of this potential critique. So, what was his rationale? On a simple level, we can say that since this is recorded in the scriptures, even if it relates to a secular or foreign process, it still holds a lesson for us. After all, was it strictly necessary for the Megillah to inform us of the number of Achashverosh’s advisors? The specificity of the number hints at an inherent significance. The Torah seems to be endorsing the idea that seven advisors represent a critical mass of deliberative quality and dignity.

Additionally, Rav Dovid Kochav provides further support for Rashi’s approach. He notes that even without explicit scriptural approval, the institution of monarchy itself imparts moral and spiritual lessons to the God-fearing person — even if that monarchy is gentile. The Gemara (Berachos 9b) states:

Rabbi Yoḥanan said: One should always strive to run to greet the kings of Israel to witness them in their glory. And not only must one run to greet the kings of Israel, but even to greet the kings of the nations of the world, so that if he will be privileged to witness the redemption of Israel, he will distinguish between the kings of Israel and the kings of the nations of the world, to see how much greater the Jewish king will be and how his rule will be manifest.

At first glance, this Gemara may seem to suggest that the only value in observing the kingship of non-Jewish rulers is to contrast it with the future kingship of Mashiach. This could be seen as a “negative” lesson — akin to the person who learns how to be a good parent by doing the opposite of what his dysfunctional parents did.

However, the Sefas Emes (Devarim, Shoftim 28:2) offers a deeper interpretation. He explains that witnessing the grandeur and authority of a gentile king is not merely about contrast. It is about experiencing the concept of power, hierarchy, and awe, which helps a person internalize and understand the awe of Hashem on a more visceral level. By witnessing human monarchy, a person gains a practical and emotional appreciation for the grandeur and authority of the King of Kings.

Returning to Rashi, Rav Kochav offers another Midrashic insight that may justify his approach. The Midrash (Esther Rabbah 3:10) states that whenever the Megillah refers to “the king” without specifying Achashverosh’s name, it can be interpreted as referring to the King of Kings, Hashem Himself. According to this interpretation, parts of the narrative in the Megillah are also alluding to the Divine heavenly court. This could explain why Rashi had no concern about using the verses from Esther as a proof for the composition of Jewish courts, as the underlying message refers to Hashem’s own heavenly court.

I would add that this idea of “The King” in the Megillah metaphorically representing God is mirrored within the storyline itself. The miracles of the Megillah occur through seemingly mundane political processes and human initiatives. However, the way in which every event fits together reveals the hidden hand of Divine Providence. The overtly secular and political processes are, in truth, vehicles for divine intervention. This idea provides an insight into our own lives. We may see “secular” phenomena — societal structures, government processes, or even ordinary daily events — but with the right perspective, we can recognize reflections of Hashem’s will and providence.

Human society’s institution of monarchy is no exception. It is a reflection of human psychology, which in turn reflects God’s will for how the world should function. The need for hierarchy and authority is a natural part of human society. In modern times, we often downplay this because of the value placed on democracy and the historical injustices committed by monarchies. But you cannot outsmart human nature. People who reject all conventional or traditional authority do not become free. Instead, they appoint other “idols” to worship, such as celebrities, athletes, or social media influencers. The human heart craves an idealized figure to revere. The only question is which one we choose.

The Subtleties of Collective Responsibility

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph recounts how the sage Shmuel HaKattan took responsibility in order to spare a colleague from public embarrassment:

There was an incident involving Rabban Gamliel, who said to the Sages: “Bring me seven of the Sages early tomorrow morning to the loft designated for convening a court to intercalate the year.” He went to the loft early the next morning and found eight Sages there. Rabban Gamliel said: “Who is it who ascended to the loft without permission? He must descend immediately!”

Shmuel HaKattan stood up and said: “I am he who ascended without permission; and I did not ascend to participate and be one of those to intercalate the year, but rather I needed to observe in order to learn the practical halakha.” Rabban Gamliel said to him: “Sit, my son, sit. It would be fitting for all of the years to be intercalated by you, as you are truly worthy.” But the Sages said: “The year may be intercalated only by those who were invited for that purpose.”

The Gemara notes: And it was not actually Shmuel HaKattan who had come uninvited, but another person. And due to the embarrassment of the other, Shmuel HaKattan did this, so that no one would know who had come uninvited.

This is one of several stories in the Talmud where a sage took blame upon himself, even falsely confessing to spare another from humiliation.

The Maris Ayin quotes a commentary on Sefer Chasidim, which maintains that even in such cases, telling a direct lie is forbidden. This is why, in this story, Shmuel HaKattan said, “It is I who sinned,” without specifying what sin he had committed. Technically, this statement was not false, since everyone has some sin on their record, even a tzaddik. By making a vague admission, Shmuel HaKattan could technically speak truthfully while still shielding the actual offender.

However, Maris Ayin himself rejects this requirement. From the context of the story, as well as from other similar incidents quoted in the Gemara, it appears that the sages were sometimes willing to tell outright lies to protect another from embarrassment. He also notes the well-known tradition regarding Aharon HaKohen, who would make peace between disputing parties by telling each person that the other was seeking reconciliation, even if it was not strictly true (see Sanhedrin 6b). If this was permissible for the sake of shalom, then it is certainly permissible to protect someone from public humiliation, which the Talmud considers akin to murder (Bava Metzia 58b).

Even so, Maris Ayin introduces a remarkable and nuanced idea. He suggests that even if one were to falsely confess to another person’s sin, there would still be a kernel of truth to it. Why? Because of the principle of kol Yisrael areivim zeh bazeh — all Jews are responsible for one another. We even have teachings that hold a person liable as an accessory to a crime if they had the ability to object but failed to do so (Shabbos 54b). Maris Ayin takes this concept a step further. He asserts that even in situations where a person has no moral responsibility for the other person’s sin — for example, if he was unaware of the sin or had no ability to prevent it — he is still somehow spiritually implicated.

This profound insight reflects a deeper understanding of Jewish identity and collective responsibility. Legally speaking, a person is not liable for the sins of another if he had no ability to prevent them. But spiritually, it is a different matter. Just as pain in the pinky toe can be felt throughout the body, so too, all Jews are interconnected. The sin of one Jew affects the spiritual fabric of the whole.

This is famously captured in the words of Rav Yisrael Salanter, who said:

“If someone in Lithuania is lax in his sedarim for learning, then some baleboss in Paris is smoking on Shabbos.”

The spiritual connection between Jews means that each person’s actions reverberate across the entire system. If one limb of the body is weak, the whole body suffers. In this sense, even if Shmuel HaKattan did not literally commit the sin of entering the loft without permission, he could honestly say, “I have sinned,” because, on a spiritual level, he shared in the communal responsibility for the spiritual welfare of his fellow Jew.

Maris Ayin‘s insight challenges us to rethink what it means to bear responsibility for one another. We often assume that responsibility is limited to situations where we have some degree of control or influence. But if we are all part of one interconnected system, then every Jew’s action — or inaction — has broader consequences. This is not merely a call for moral responsibility but a recognition of the ties that bind the Jewish people together.

Calculated Risk

Our Gemara on Amud Aleph provides an aggadic backstory to explain why King Chizkiyahu sought atonement. The verse in Divrei Hayamim II (30:2) states:

“The good LORD will provide atonement for everyone who set his mind on worshiping God, the LORD God of his fathers, even if he is not purified for the sanctuary.”

The Gemara explains:

There was an incident involving Chizkiyahu, king of Yehuda, who intercalated the year due to ritual impurity (II Chronicles 30:2). And after doing so, he requested atonement for himself, as it is written: “For a multitude of the people, even many of Ephraim and Menashe, Yissachar and Zevulun, had not cleansed themselves, yet they ate the pesach offering in violation of what was written.”

Rabbi Shimon says…if ritual impurity is ultimately a legitimate reason for intercalating the year, for what reason did Chizkiyahu request atonement for himself? Because the court may intercalate only the month of Adar, and he intercalated the month of Nisan during the month of Nisan itself.

On a simple reading of the verse, it appears that Chizkiyahu sought atonement on behalf of the Jewish people for eating the Pesach Sacrifice while impure. However, the aggadic interpretation adds a more complex layer: Chizkiyahu overstepped his authority by declaring a leap year at an unsanctioned time — in the month of Nisan itself, rather than in Adar, as halakha requires.

The Malbim offers a clever synthesis of these two perspectives. He explains that Chizkiyahu took extraordinary action, hoping that the ends would justify the means. By adding a leap month, even in an improper fashion, he intended to create additional time for the Jewish people to purify themselves properly so they could bring the Korban Pesach in a state of purity. However, despite his efforts, many Jews remained negligent and did not purify themselves in time. This failure compounded Chizkiyahu’s sin, as the very justification for his controversial action was ultimately defeated.

This idea has echoes in our Rosh Chodesh Musaf liturgy. During the Musaf of Rosh Chodesh for all the months of a leap year (up until the added leap month), we add the phrase “u-lechaparas pesha” — “and to seek atonement for transgressions.” Eliyahu Rabbah (423:6) and Boruch Sheamar (335) explain that this additional supplication is connected to Chizkiyahu’s request for atonement. The Boruch Sheamar suggests that every Jewish court is anxious that it may have miscalculated the leap year. Such a miscalculation would disrupt the observance of the yamim tovim for the entire year. Therefore, a preemptive request for forgiveness is included as part of the Musaf liturgy, just as King Chizkiyahu so forgiveness for his improper ruling.

But what is the deeper connection between the leap year and the need for forgiveness? If we follow the Malbim’s peshat, Chizkiyahu’s sin was not merely technical but conceptual. His mistake was the result of good intentions gone wrong — a classic case of hoping that the ends would justify the means, only to have the effort backfire. His leap month failed to achieve its goal, and this failure added weight to his error.

This idea has profound relevance to all of us. Life is filled with judgment calls. As we reflect on our actions from the past month with an eye toward the future, we often face similar dilemmas. Life is messy, and decisions are rarely clear-cut. Parents, educators, and leaders make calculated risks, hoping that their choices will lead to the desired outcomes. But outcomes are beyond our control, and sometimes our best efforts fall short. Like Chizkiyahu, we must take responsibility for those miscalculations, even if our intentions were noble.

The lesson of “u-lechaparas pesha” is that we all seek atonement for these moments. Whether we are members of a Sanhedrin calculating the leap year or parents making choices for our children, we face the same human condition: we act with limited knowledge and hope for the best. We ask for Divine compassion and understanding, hoping that our intentions were sincere, even if our judgment was flawed.