Talk of failed New Year's resolutions! Three or four times over the years, come Rosh Hashanah, I've promised myself that this year, this year, I'll study at home each week, with its standard commentaries, the parshat ha-shavu'a, the weekly Torah reading recited in synagogue on the Sabbath. Three or four times, I've started out a few weeks later with high hopes. Three or four times, I've worked my way through the ten weekly readings of Genesis and the first five of Exodus. Three or four times, I've stopped there.
Studying the weekly Torah reading with its commentaries is an old Jewish custom, and many
Jews—most, unlike myself, regular synagogue-goers—repeat the entire 52-week cycle of the Chumash, the Five Books of Moses, year after year. Although different annotated editions of the Chumash have different commentaries, the more complete sets include, at a minimum, the 2nd-century Aramaic translation of the Bible known as Targum Onkelos; the 11th-century commentary of Rabbi Shlomo Yitzhaki or Rashi; the 12th-century commentary of Rabbi Abraham ibn Ezra, and the 13th-century commentary of Rabbi Moses ben Nachman, also known as Nachmanides or "the Ramban." Together with the voluminous corpus of the Midrash upon which they frequently draw, these are the main pillars of Jewish biblical exegesis, on which all subsequent commentators have built.
Each has its distinctive traits. The Targum, though on the whole highly literal, occasionally introduces free rabbinic interpretations into the text. Rashi, a meticulous Hebraist, is pietistic in outlook and a faithful transmitter of rabbinic tradition. Ibn Ezra, no less scrupulous a grammarian, is a rationalist with a preference for naturalistic and sometimes philosophical explanations. The Ramban likes to rely on his predecessors for the plain meanings of verses while focusing on broader contextual issues.
They complement one another. Their interplay isn't always explicit. "Your brother has come in deceit and taken your blessing," says Isaac to Esau in the sixth weekly reading of Genesis upon realizing that he has been tricked by Jacob. Onkelos, like the ancient rabbis, is disturbed by this—how can one revered Patriarch call another a deceiver?—and translates the Hebrew be-mirma, "in deceit," as the Aramaic be-chukhma, "with wisdom." Rashi echoes Onkelos without citing him. Ibn Ezra demurs without mentioning either man. "He told a lie," he says tersely of Jacob, tacitly rebuking Rashi and Onkelos for whitewashing the text. The Ramban seeks to adjudicate. Yes, he says, Isaac does call Jacob a deceiver—but Isaac realizes the deceit is justifiable, having had the insight that Jacob, though not his own choice, is God's, thus making Jacob a wise deceiver.
The Patriarchs! Often I have thought of them as great, lawless spirits taken captive by moralistic minds. Of course Jacob lies. He has to, precisely because his father does not have the insight the Ramban attributes to him. If anyone has it, it's Jacob's mother Rebecca, who masterminds the deceit. Jacob goes along with her willingly. He knows that the stakes—the legacy of the blessing first given by God to Abraham—are too high to allow for the rules of fairness. He grasps the magnitude of this legacy better than does Esau and so is worthier of it. In Genesis, the worthiest strive to fulfill a destiny of whose grandeur they are conscious even if they, too, do not fully comprehend it.
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