1. This morning we are going to discuss the Jewish Notion of Paradise. But when we say “Paradise”, we do not mean to refer to the Paradise after death, to what is technically known as Olam Ha’ba, or the world-to-come. We speak, rather, of the Gan Eden Ha’tachton, the earthly Paradise. For Paradise is here, on earth, even as the Bible this morning goes out of its way to indicate that Eden is a very real place, filled with delights of all kinds. Gan Eden, as we use it this morning, and as Jewish thinking understands it, is, in essence, a way of life, a real utopia. Paradise is even more than a spot on the globe. It can be the globe itself. We speak of the Paradise which Life is, or can be. 2.Well, what is Paradise? Conceptions of it differ one from the other even as men’s minds and hearts and personalities differ one from the other. What is Paradise to one person is Hell to another. What is Gehennom to me may be Gan Eden to another. Yet there are certain distinct notions as to what G.E. – which in the Bible indicates this-worldly paradise – consists of. 2a. The Moslem Paradise. A cosmic harem with an infinite supply of wine, women and song. Physical pleasures and material plenitude, sensuous delights and bodily gratification – this is Paradise for the Moslem. 2b. The American Indian Paradise. The brave charging down an infinite hunting ground, mounted upon a swift white steed, with an inexhaustible supply of prize beasts to hunt. 2c. The modern man’s paradise. Builds on the above, and includes: sitting on a soft couch with feet on desk, snipping off a plum with right hand, apple with left, big long straw to sip all kinds of liquid without having to get off seat, TV set in one corner, convertible Cadillac for fast drive Riviera, triple-split level ranch-home, and end to income tax. 3. No one can deny that all these things are pleasurable, and, when pursued with moderation, are acceptable from a Jewish point-of-view. Talmud (Brachot 57): Shloshah marchivin daato shel a…

Our Sidra of this morning teaches us one of the most fundamental concepts of our faith. It is something we speak of often, and that is perhaps why we frequently fail to appreciate its depth and the magnitude of its influence. The concept of man’s creation in tzellem Elokim, the image of G-d, is one of the most sublime ideas that man possesses, and is decisive in the Jewish concept of man.What does it mean when we say that man was created in tzellem Elokim? Varying interpretations have been offered of this term, each reflecting the general ideological orientation of the interpreter. The philosophers of Judaism, the fathers of our rationalist tradition, maintain that the image of G-d is expressed, in man, by his intellect. Thus, Saadia Gaon and Maimonides maintain that sekhel — reason — which separates man from animal is the element of uniqueness that is in essence a divine quality. The intellectual function is thus what characterizes man as the tzellem Elokim.However, the ethical tradition of Judaism does not agree with that interpretation. Thus, Rabbi Moses Hayyim Luzzato in his "Mesillat Yesharim" does not accept reason as the essence of the divine image. A man can, by the exercise of his intellect know what is good — but fail to act upon it. Also, the restriction of tzellem Elokim to reason means that only geniuses can truly qualify as being created in the image of G-d. Hence, Luzzato offers an alternative and perhaps more profound definition. The tzellem Elokim in which man was created is that of ratzon — the freedom of his will. The fact that man has a choice between good and evil, between right and wrong, between obedience and disobedience of G-d — is what expresses the image of G-d in which he was born. An animal has no freedom to act. A man does. That ethical freedom makes man unique in the creation.But how does the freedom of the human will express itself? A man does not assert his freedom by merely saying "yes" to all that is presented to him. Each of us f…

The chronicles of our people are studded with the stories of famous friendships. One of the most interesting of these is that of Rabbi Judah the Prince, commonly called Rabbi or Rebbe, and Antoninus, the Caesar of Imperial Rome. Rabbi and Caesar had a mutual affection for each other and held each other in great esteem. One of the interesting sidelights of this friendship, which I wish to commend to your attention this morning, concerns a verse we just read from the Torah. After Cain was dejected because the Lord had rejected his offerings, G-d said to him: la-pesach chatat rovetz – “Sin crouches at the door.” It is concerning this verse that the Talmud, in Sanhedrin, records the following statement: Amar Rebbe – Rabbi Judah the Prince said, davar zeh limdani Antoninus, this thing was taught to me by Antoninus – that yetzer ha-ra sholet ba-adam mi-shaat yetziato la-olam, that the evil temptation rules over man from the moment that he goes out into the world. And proof for this statement is the verse la-pesach chatat rovetz – “Sin crouches at the door.” In other words, Antoninus interpreted the word pesach, door, in a biological and almost literal sense – at the doorway into the world, from the moment of birth, the evil propensity of man reigns over him.What a remarkable statement! Is it not unthinkable that the great Rebbe, the Redactor of the Mishnah, the pillar of Judaism throughout the ages, he who formulated and organized the structure of the whole oral Law, should have to turn to a non-Jew, a Roman, for the interpretation of a biblical verse? Is it not almost absurd to learn that this great teacher, known in our literature as “the holy Rabbi,” should have to rely upon a politician for the explanation of a simple verse of the Torah?I believe that we have here something subtle which speaks to all men and has something to say to all ages. Note that Rabbi says merely that Antoninus taught him this explanation! He does not say that he accepted it. Indeed I believe t…

The Torah’s record of the creation of the world by G-d, no matter how you may interpret it, is one of the major fundamentals of Jewish thought. Without the concept of creation, nothing else in Judaism makes much sense. It is therefore pertinent to raise one of the most persistent and universal questions that has bothered many a layman as well as some of the most serious thinkers of all times: why did G-d create the world? G-d is, after all, perfect. He does not need the world. He is complete without it. Why, then, did He bring it into existence?Furthermore, especially troublesome is the verse va-yar Elohim ki tov, and “G-d saw that it was good.” What does the Bible mean when it says ki tov, “it was good?” And what do we mean by the words va-yar Elohim, “and G-d saw?” Certainly it could not mean that G-d stepped back, like an artist who has just finished an oil painting, to admire his handiwork from the proper perspective. What then does it mean?Allow me to commend to your attention one of the most novel answers I have yet seen. It is suggested by Rabbi Jacob Zvi Meklenburg in his “Ha-ketav ve-ha-Kabbalah.” The word va-yar, he says, does not mean “and he saw,” but rather “he brought into existence.” For va-yar in ordinary Hebrew parlance may mean not only “he saw” but “he showed.” Just as the idea “to show” means to reveal something which is hidden, so creation by G-d means to bring into sight that which was previously hidden from mortal eyes. Creation by G-d means to bring an object from potential into real existence. Va-yar Elohim, “and G-d brought into existence (the world)” – and why? – because ki tov, because He is good! Not that G-d saw that the world is good, but He brought the world into existence because He, G-d, is tov, good! Whether the world is good remains at best a debatable thesis. It is the goodness of G-d, not the goodness of the world, that the Torah means to emphasize. So the verse va-yar Elohim ki tov comes to answer the question: why did G-d cre…

In pronouncing the verdict of guilty against Adam for eating from the forbidden fruit, God said to him: Ki shamata le’kol ishtekha, because you hearkened to the voice of your wife, va-tokhal min ha-etz asher tzivitekha lemor lo tokhal mi-menu, and you ate from the tree from which I commanded you that you shall not eat from it, arurah ha-adamah ba-avurekha let the earth be cursed because of you. What is remarkable about this proclamation is the apparently superfluous introduction. Adam’s sin consisted of eating the fruit forbidden to him by God; why, then, does the Lord preface His announcement of Adam’s punishment with the word Ki shamata le’kol ishtekha, “because you hearkened to the voice of your wife?” Permit me to present to you three interpretations offered by three different commentators, widely separated in time and geography, but all of which point in one common direction, which is of tremendous relevance to us in our own days. All of them indicate that even more significant than the actual crime was the attitude that Adam brought towards that crime; the apology was worse than the sin. Adam had the opportunity for greatness: to come clean, maturely to acknowledge that he had been wrong, and to beg forgiveness. Instead, he whiningly offered an insipid self-justification. And it is here, in this attitude, that Adam compounded his crime many times over again.The first of our commentators answers our problem by stating that the major sin of Adam was not the eating of the fruit, but in his demonstration of an utter lack of responsibility. Adam absolved himself of any guilt, and shifted the fault to someone else. When God first approached Adam to ask what he had done, what was his response? Ha-ishah asher natata imadi hi natnah li min ha-etz va-okhel, “the woman you gave to me, she gave me of the fruit of the tree and I ate thereof.” What a colossal impertinence! Adam feels he has now established his innocence by blaming his wife! And by disclaiming responsibilit…

At the beginning of his immortal Guide for the Perplexed (Part I, Chapter 2), Maimonides records a question that was posed to him concerning the story of Adam and Eve which we read this morning. These first two humans were given a single commandment by God: not to eat of the fruit of a certain tree. They violated that commandment. One might imagine that as a consequence they would suffer some severe punishment. Yet the major result of their transgression is va-tipakahna einei shneihem, that the eyes of the both of them were opened. Is not this an amazing story, an astounding turn of events? Does this mean that sin is to be rewarded with knowledge? Does crime pay?The answer that Maimonides gives is a profound one, and crucial to his whole philosophy. It is not an easy one to understand; the commentators on the Guide are not of one mind concerning its precise meaning. This morning, however, I wish to propose to you another answer, one suggested by a legendary and intriguing personality in the history of Hasidism, R. Yitzhak Isaac of Komarno. It is an important explanation, and one to which I think Maimonides would have given his consent.The Rabbi of Komarno tells us that man was initially endowed with two sets of eyes, i.e. two ways of viewing life, two kinds of vision. He was given the einei basar, eyes of flesh, and einei ruah, eyes of the spirit. The einei basar represent man’s physical and material outlook. They offer a direct channel to the senses. They are mere sight. The einei ruah are the eyes of the soul, man’s spiritual vision; they represent insight rather than just sight. They are what Yehudah Halevi in his Kuzari has called ha-ayin ha-niseret, the hidden eye, man’s deeper, inner vision.Before they committed their sin, Adam and Eve looked at the world and at each other only with einei ruah, with their spiritual eyes. They did not measure everything in terms of their own wants and needs and desires. They saw the best in others. They perceived nothing untow…

Those who follow the scientific literature, and even the daily press, know that modern science is on the verge of a great breakthrough. Before long, we are told, we shall hear the news that mankind has achieved the synthesis – the artificial production of life, defined as a large molecule which can reproduce itself. So certain are scientists that this can be done, that only this past month the President of the American Chemical Society called upon the government to establish the “synthesis of life as a national goal.” The laboratory creation of life is imminent; it is only a matter of time. There is no question that when this is accomplished it will have the most far-reaching consequences in every field of human endeavor, most of them as yet unforeseeable and unpredictable. Already, in a number of journals here and there, the religious question is making itself felt. We must begin to anticipate these religious problems, specifically the question: will the synthesis of life constitute a challenge to the Jewish notion of God as Creator? If a living, self-replicating molecule is produced in the laboratory, will this act have profound religious repercussions upon us? In order to answer this question intelligently and honestly, albeit briefly, let us refer to the basic teachings of Judaism as reflected in this morning’s Sidra. Next to the idea that God created the world, the most important concept in all of Genesis is that a part of that creation in some way resembles the Creator. This is the idea that man was created in the צלם אלקים, the image of God. In some ways, the Bible tells us, man is like God. But this is more than a mere statement of fact. It is also a charge and a challenge: Man’s function is to fulfill the image of God in which he was created. His purpose in life is to achieve, evermore, that resemblance to his Creator. His mission, in other words, is to imitate God. That is what the Torah itself means when it commands us: אחרי ה’ אלקיכם תלכון, “you shall g…

The Book of Lamentations comes to an end with an anguished cry of hope, a plea for restoration: hadesh yamenu ka-keddem, "renew our days as of old." It is a cry that we repeat every Sabbath as part of our prayers. The Rabbis towards the end of Mid. Ekhah Rabati analyze that verse. They tell us that the word keddem should not be understood as a temporal reference but as a spatial one: it refers not to olden days, but to a place, namely, East of Eden. They refer this word to the verse in the first Sidra: Va-yegaresh et ha-adam, the Lord expelled Adam from the Garden of Eden, va-yashken mi1keddem le'gan eden et ha-keruvim v'et lahat herev ha-mit,hapekhet lishmor et derek etz ha-hayyim, and He placed at the east of the Garden of Eden (at keddem of gan-eden) the cherubim and the flash of the turning sword in order to guard the way to the Tree of Life.What a strange statement! We ask God to restore our days, to renew our life, as in the days of keddem — and the Rabbis say this refers to the expulsion from the Garden of Eden! One would imagine that we would ask God to renew our days as they were in Paradise, not after we were chased out of Paradise.But there lies here a great and marvelous secret which the Rabbis tried to teach us.Every man and every woman has his own private gan eden, the paradise of his dreams and his youthful ambition. For some people it is great wealth, walking into a life where he has millions at his disposal. For another man it is a great novel that he will write without sweat, a great scientific discovery without perspiration, the great legal theories or philosophical discourses that he will develop at the drop of a hat, or a life of love and popularity and fame and happiness and satisfaction.What the Rabbis try to tell us is that this kind of paradise which hangs on the gossamer threads of our imaginations and is glued together by the unreal cement of our wish-fulfillment, is something that is terribly dangerous, that if we try to enter it we simp…

The Torah’s story of Adam was never meant to be simply the biography of the first human being, a biblical attempt to satisfy our idle curiosity about our origins. Rather, it is a source of what might be called biblical anthropology, God’s view of man. It is therefore the stuff of profound interpretation as to the nature of man, from the earliest, brief insights of the Midrash to the latest philosophical dissertations. This morning, I apologize for attempting to introduce such an imposing topic in so brief a time, and will proceed to seek suggestions for three insights, all drawing on the name Adam. The Torah hints, but never openly states, that the origin of the name is adamah, earth or ground, and therefore leaves open the question of the derivation of the name Adam and its significations. Some distinguished Oriental lexicographers assert that Hebrew Adam is related to Assyrian adamu, to make or produce (Brown, Driver, & Briggs, Hebrew & English Lexicon of the Old Testament). From this derivation, we learn that man’s superiority, his charismatic endowment, his spiritual dignity, lies in his technological genius. He is, like his creator, creative. He was placed in the Garden of Eden le’avdah u-le’shamrah, to work it and guard it, to develop it and improve it. A great scholar, Rabbi Lebele Eger, who became a Hasid of the Rabbi of Kotzk, once returned from a visit to his master and said that one of the three things he learned in Kotzk was: בראשית ברא אלוקים. When asked what he meant thereby, he said: I learned that God created only bereishit, only the beginning – man must do all the rest. Man, Adam, must be adamu, a maker and producer and creator. In a remarkable interpretation, the Sages revealed to us the same insight in yet another fashion. We read that when Abraham met the King of Salem after defeating the captors of his nephew Lot, the King, Melchizedek, said to him ברוך אברם לא-ל עליון קונה שמים וארץ, usually translated as: “Blessed be Abram to God the …

I) These comments on “How to Read the Torah,” are not meant to be a demonstration of cantillation or a means of training formal Torah readers. Rather, they are an attempt to set some guidelines as we begin again the cycle of portions of the Torah. They are intended as well as an introduction to our various adult classes, as all Jews begin their annual renewal of the study of Torah.At one point in today’s Sidra, we read זה ספר תולדות האדם, “This is the book of the generations of man.” Most commentators take that to mean not “book” in the formal sense of a volume, but as a listing of the generations that derived from Adam. Ramban, however, takes the word ספר literally, and tells us that כל התורה כולה ספר תולדות האדם – it refers to the entire Torah, which is the “book of the generations of man.” Torah is the story of mankind. The Book is apposite to Man.The Kabbalah affirmed this idea in many ways. For instance, the Holy Ari maintained that, by mystical permutations, the number of souls of Israel present at Sinai is equal to the number of letters in the Torah. Again, we find the equivalence between Book and Man.Hence, the approach to know the Book is akin to that of knowing Man. You learn how to understand ספר from how you understand אדם. Books may teach us much about people; but people can tell us more about books. And this is so especially concerning the Book of Books, the Torah. זה ספר תולדות האדם. IIThe first thing that we must learn is: respect. In order genuinely to know a man, you must consider him worthy of your study and friendship and concern. If he is not worthy, then your knowledge of him is superficial and unimportant. And what is true of man, is true of text, of Torah. At the very least, respect means not to ignore it. To sit in the presence of Torah and not consider it, is like staying in the presence of another human being and acting as if he does not exist – and few insults are more humiliating than that. To read Torah, you must be serious, and that m…