It
is said that, “The devil’s in the details,” but I think more importantly, life
is lived in the details, and God is found in the details of life and how we
live it.
So
far, much of the story of Israel’s Exodus and Redemption have been big, bold,
splashy, dramatic events—the opposite of details. Israel experienced the
awesome might of God first in the terrifying plagues that afflicted all Egypt,
and then in the astonishing parting of the Sea of Reeds that gave way to a song
and dance number on the far shore. Moses had his tête-à-tête with God at Mount Sinai. As they communed in the
clouds, God revealed Torah, and Moses brought it down to the Israelites. Now
Hollywood and Bollywood fade away and Israel settles down to the business of
nation-building and living with one another, much if not most of which is in
the small details that occupy our waking hours.
Life
in the Wilderness is as messy as life anywhere else. Having broadcast the
headlines—the Ten Commandments—last week in Parshat Yitro, Torah now dives into
the nitty gritty of life and how it should be lived in order to stave off
chaos, promote justice, and preserve human dignity. Parshat Mishpatim is a
compendium of laws touching on everyday life: family, servants, neighbors,
animals… Life is lived in the details.
Among
the most mundane details of life is the law concerning finding and returning
lost property.
When you encounter your enemy’s ox or
his donkey going astray, return it, return it to him. (Exodus 23:4)
Deuteronomy
elaborates on this law, explaining that indifference to another’s claim is
unacceptable; we are obligated to care about the details.
If you see your fellow’s ox or sheep
gone astray, do not ignore it; you must take it back to your fellow. If your
fellow does not live near you and you do not know who he is, you shall bring it
home and it shall remain with you until your fellow claims it; then you shall
give it back to him. You shall do the same with his ass; you shall do the same
with his garment and so too shall you do with anything that your fellow loses
and you find: you must not remain indifferent. (Deuteronomy
22:1-3)
This
means that if I find a wallet or a cell phone, I am obligated to make a
reasonable effort to locate the owner and return the article. But not every
case is as simple as a wallet with a driver’s license or a cell phone with the
owner’s information on the lock screen. People’s claims to ownership are often
contested. For this reason, even in the ancient world, there were contracts,
witnesses, and oaths—more details—employed to prevent nasty disputes
Thirty-five
years ago, my husband left his camera in a taxi in Israel. We were in a hurry
to get to the airport because the bus drivers were on strike. The taxi driver
was rude and when we arrived, he charged us more than the ride was supposed to
have cost. It seems a clear case of price-gouging. We argued with him and then
took our things and dashed off to make our plane, leaving the camera on the
seat of the cab. Given our unpleasant argument with the driver, we assumed it
was lost to us forever. There was no doubt who the owner of the camera was, but
we didn’t even know the name of the taxi driver. Consider a case where the
identity of the owner is less clear.
When
the hasidic master, Rabbi Levi Yitzhak of Berditchev (1740-1810) moved to
Berditchev in 1795 to assume the post as rabbi, the very first case he heard,
in his capacity as judge, concerned the return of “lost” property: some barrels
of honey. Long before Levi Yitzhak had arrived in Berditchev, a wealthy
merchant from Hemelnick had brought several barrels of honey to the Berditchev
fair in expectation of selling them at a good price. Unfortunately for him, the
price of honey dropped just as he arrived.
Preferring not to take a major loss, the merchant asked a friend in Berditchev
to store the honey for him. They had long done business together and trusted
one another implicitly. They never used contracts, oaths, or witnesses; a
handshake and a smile sufficed to seal a deal because their trust ran deep.
Time passed. The honey remained in storage. More time passed and the man in
Berditchev became ill and passed away before he had the opportunity to tell his
family about the barrels of honey.
The
price of honey returned to its previous profitable level and the owner of the
barrels arrived one day from Hemelnick to reclaim his property. The merchant
spoke to his friend’s sons, but they knew nothing about the honey and refused
to honor his claim. Unable to arrive at a satisfactory agreement, they took the
case to the bet din. Rabbi Levi Yitzhak, newly arrived in Berditchev, heard
their case.
Levi
Yitzhak listened carefully to both litigants. In his mind, the case was clear.
There was no signed contract; there were no witnesses. What is more, Torah
stipulates that claims may not be brought against orphans. Therefore he was
compelled to find in favor of the sons. It certainly appeared to be an easy,
open-and-shut case. Yet two things bothered him, so he delayed announcing his
decision. The first concerned the nature of the case. Why, he wondered, was the
first case brought before him so simple and straight forward, leaving no room
for compromise? Was this a message from Heaven that he was to adhere to the strict
letter of the law in all future decisions? Second, the Hemelnick merchant and
his deceased friend were known to everyone in town. People knew them both to be
scrupulously honest. It was beyond imagination that the merchant was lying;
therefore the barrels of honey must be his. Yet there was no signed contract
and there were no witnesses, leaving Levi Yitzhak with no choice but to rule
against the merchant, a decision that would cause everyone in town to ask why
Torah law should be the opposite of common sense.
Levi
Yitzhak delayed his ruling for several days. The merchant and the sons spent
several days anxiously awaiting his ruling. Levi Yitzhak spent his time in
prayer, study, and contemplation. On the third day, the merchant from Hemelnick
burst into his study and exclaimed, “I remember, I remember!” “What is it you
remember?” Levi Yitzhak asked. “It’s a very old memory, Rabbi, but it returned
to me. Long ago, 50 years ago, when I was a small child, my father—may his
memory be for blessing—died suddenly, leaving my brother and me a large
inheritance of cash and property. The property included a storeroom filled with
casks of wine and oil. Then the father of these two young men, my dear friend—may
his memory be for blessing—came and claimed that the wine and oil belonged to
him and that he had left it in our father’s safe keeping. My brother and I didn’t
know what to do, so we went to the rabbi. The rabbi decided in our favor
because, just like this case, there was no contract and he could not take
anything from the inheritance of orphans without absolute proof and oath. So we
kept the wine and oil and sold them for a good profit.” Rabbi Levi Yitzhak
nodded, understanding what the merchant had in mind. “You see, Rabbi,” the
merchant continued, “the profit on the wine and oil equals the value of the
barrels of honey.” With that, the merchant happily conceded the case, feeling
that justice was being done.
Rabbi
Levi Yitzhak, for his part, understood the case to be one of Divine Providence
meant to teach him that what seems obvious and true to human eyes is not
necessarily true or just. But for us there may be another lesson: When we pause
to consider not just a specific rule or obligation, but its purpose and how it
fits into the large scheme of justice and decency, we often see things from a
different perspective. When our narrow, immediate interest give way to the
bigger picture, justice and decency come into sharper focus. And we see
that the details of life are linked inextricably to the larger values and purposes
of life.
Before our plane took off, my husband
called his cousin in Netanya to tell him that he left his camera in the taxi
and about the argument we had had with the driver. We all agreed that the
chance of recovering the camera was exceedingly low. When we returned to the
United States, my husband’s cousin called to tell us that he had called the taxi company. The driver had turned in the camera with a description of us so that
it could be returned to us. When you encounter your enemy’s ox or his donkey
[or his camera] going astray, return it, return it to him. (Exodus 23:4)
© Rabbi Amy
Scheinerman
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