Book Review: Studies in Rashi

Studies in Rashi (5 volumes, Kehot Publishing, 2023)
By Rabbi Menachem M. Schneerson
Reviewed by R. Yitzchak Etshalom

Rashi is indisputably the most popular commentator on Humash. Evidence of his renown is found in the hundreds of extant manuscripts of his commentary, in the wide distribution of his work during his all-too-brief lifetime, in the many scholarly articles and books – which continue to be produced into the 21st century – dissecting his methodology, in the appellation of an Italian font (that Rashi could never have seen as it was developed in the era of printing) as “Rashi script” because it was used in the first generation of the printing press to set off the text (square, Ashkenazi font) from the commentary – even in the fact that the first Hebrew book to be printed (Reggio c. 1470) was Humash with Rashi’s commentary. Rising above all of these attestations to the impact that R. Shlomo Yitzhaki had on Jewish (and even non-Jewish) study of Torah is the immense collection of Rashi supercommentaries.

A “supercommentary” is essentially a commentary on a commentary. R. Eliyahu Mizrahi, Maharal of Prague, R. Shlomo Luria, R. Shabbetai Bass and hundreds of other rabbinic scholars composed books whose raison d’etre was to challenge, explicate and refine our appreciation for the French master’s exquisite guide through the Humash. (It is prudent to note here that beyond the many proper “supercommentators”, dozens of commentators who were authoring their own exegetical works incorporated Rashi into their work, often as a starting point after which they would part ways with his approach. Ramban is perhaps the most well-known example). Although each of the nearly 200 supercommentaries on Rashi published over the centuries has its own style, approach and lexicon, the common goal is to challenge Rashi’s choice of rabbinic explanations, his wording and even his omissions. These are all undertaken, broadly speaking, within the context of what the author and his readership already know about Rashi’s style, available library etc. In other words, each of these authors perforce must approach his critique with a set of assumptions about Rashi’s methodology and, within that rubric, to challenge, distill and ultimately explain the master’s choices.

Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson (1902-1994) was the seventh Lubavitcher Rebbe, taking the reins of leadership in 1951, a year after the passing of his father-in-law. He is properly credited for turning Habad from a relatively small Hasidic group into an international force for spreading Judaism and establishing hundreds of outposts to spark Jewish life in the most remote corners of the world. His leadership skills, personal charisma and oratorial sophistication are legendary. He is still referred to, by Lubavitch Hasidim as well as legions of admirers outside of that community, simply as “The Rebbe.”

Over the forty-plus years of his leadership, Rabbi Schneerson delivered thousands of public talks, most of which were given on Shabbat afternoon within the context of the farbrengen. Astute Hasidim, chosen for their phenomenal memories, would gather immediately after Shabbat to review each talk as others committed these reviews to writing. In some cases, these written versions were then publicized within (and beyond) their community as “Sichos” in their original Yiddish; in other cases, they were properly reviewed, edited and annotated for publication, such that what was originally an oral presentation became a stylized written version – still in Yiddish. Beginning in 1964, Rabbi Schneerson would incorporate an analysis of one of Rashi’s comments on that week’s Parashah into his talk, such that within a few years, there was already a collection of his analyses of numerous comments of Rashi available in print.

Over a decade ago, Kehot (Habad’s central publishing house) began to translate a select analysis from each Parashah and, one Humash at a time, to publish these selected articles. In 2023, the entire set of five volumes was made available to the public. Although the volumes are a bit uneven in style and presentation, it makes for a handsome set and includes engaging material that can be both engaging as well as inspiring.

One of the unusual features of this work is the inclusion, in the introduction of each volume, of “Rashi’s General Principles” which purports to be an authoritative presentation of rules guiding Rashi’s methodology that then inform the analyses. The list ranges in length from 16 distinct “principles” (in Bamidbar) to 23 (Devarim). The reason for this fluctuation seems to be based on the articles selected for that volume – only “principles” which are utilized in the selected essays used in that volume are listed. It would have made for a more even and persuasive presentation if this list were presented once in the set. I will return to these principles towards the end of the review.

First, here is a thumbnail sketch of three of these articles (due to space limitations, we will limit it to one from each of the first three Humashim) to give the reader a “forshpeis” (an appetizer) followed by some brief observations about the work as a whole – including revisiting the methodology and the “principles.”

“Up To Timnah” (Parashat Vayeshev) (vol. 1 pp. 224-244)

Rashi addresses the report given to Tamar that Yehudah is “ascending” to Timna, and explains that Timna was on a slope, such that going to it could be either “ascending” or “descending”, depending on the starting point. This helps explain the discrepancy between the report here and that involving Shimshon who “descended” to Timnah (Shoftim 14:1). Rabbi Schneerson raises several questions about this comment, all based on either his “principles” or on what he presents as Rashi’s source for the comment – a passage in BT Sotah 10a. Since that passage made three suggestions as to how to reconcile the apparent contradiction – and the “built on a slope” was the third of those solutions – he asks why Rashi selected that one. Arguing that within the context of the text, since “ascending” was already mentioned in the previous verse, Rashi should have commented at that point. He then distinguishes between the previous verse, which is the narrative and our verse, which is a quote from someone reporting to Tamar where Yehuda has gone. Using this insight, he builds a case for rejecting the other two explanations in the Gemara as less likely candidates for “Pshat”, thus explaining why Rashi preferred the last one. Some of the arguments are internally brilliant and he concludes with a message about the importance of ascent in our Divine worship.

As impressive as the arguments may be, they rest on several assumptions which may be challenged and should have been addressed and supported. First of all, Rashi does not indicate his source for his interpretation and there are several versions of the “Timnah-slope” Aggadah – including in the Yerushalmi as well as Beresheet Rabbah – which deviate somewhat from the Gemara that the Rebbe cites. Secondly, and more to the point, his argument is premised on the assumption that Rashi never references later potentially contradictory sources. Thus, his mentioning of the Samson verse is awkward. He maintains that we would have expected Rashi to “wait” until Shofetim 14 to address the contradiction. It is hard to substantiate this claim as Rashi’s commentary is replete with references to later verses which apparently contradict the “local” verse and he reconciles them at the earlier verse.

Despite the impressive presentation, those familiar with Rashi’s commentary are left wondering as to the basis for the questions which drive the essay. In other words, why would we think that Rashi would “wait” until Shoftim to comment on the “ascent/descent” problem. And why do we assume that when a series of answers are offered in Rabbinic literature, precedence equals preference, such that Rsahi’s choice of the third answer is surprising.

“God Descended On Har Sinai” (Parashat Yitro) (vol. 2 pp. 130-154)

Rashi, commenting on the verse “God descended on Mount Sinai” (Ex. 19:20), addresses a seeming contradiction in the aftermath of the Revelation: “You have seen that I have spoken to you from the heavens” (ibid. 20:18). His solution is based on a passage in the Mekhilta – “this teaches that He bent down the upper and the lower heavens and spread them upon the mountain like a bedcover upon a bed, and the Throne of Glory descended upon them.” The author suggests that if Rashi’s intent were merely to reconcile the apparent contradiction between the descriptions, he would have prefaced his comments in a terse manner. In addition, he (again) assumes that Rashi will wait until the contradictory passage appears to reconcile them. Therefore, he argues, Rashi is trying to clarify an uncertainty in this verse itself. He then develops a theory about the relationship between the fire and the reported smoke on the mountain that indicates that the Divine Presence didn’t actually touch the mountain but was in close proximity to it. This is based on several additional assumptions for which he does not provide proof. His supposition is based on the notion that there was ample vegetation on the mountain; if the Presence had touched it, that vegetation would have burned and there would have been fire, not just smoke. But why would we think that there was vegetation on this desert mountain – considering that the one remarkable bush, which Moshe had encountered at least a year earlier, had been at some low point on the mountain? Rabbi Schneerson goes on to describe in nearly material terms the “upper heavens”, “lower heavens” and several other phrases used by Rashi. He concludes with a mystical note, implying that the kabbalistic lesson was part of Rashi’s agenda.

Beyond these local issues, there looms a larger question. Why would we expect to treat a passage about God’s descent on Har Sinai with the same analytic tools as we do a passage about Yehuda ascending to Timna? It was certainly clear to the authors of the Midrash and to the medieval commentators that the entire scene at Har Sinai was a mystical, otherworldly experience where the text can only use borrowed terms from our mundane existence to explain it, allegorically, to the anticipated future audience. To assume that Rashi is addressing this text with the same tools and approach that he brings to the legal sections of Vayyikra, to the travelogues of Bamidbar or to the narratives of Beresheet is a supposition that begs for validation. In the same vein, to apply the term “simple meaning” to a concept as abstruse as “the upper/lower heavens” does a disservice to the reader, especially the novitiate who may not have a traditional understanding of the multi-layered nature of the literature of the Tanakh.

Again, the Rebbe’s essay here is intriguing and, within the bounds of its own logic, somewhat compelling. When viewed through the wider lens of traditional exegesis and the inherited sense of reading different genres through different lenses, it has the feel of a mechanically deft but superficial contribution. Readers are left wishing that the editors would have taken us more deliberately through the Rebbe’s thinking, giving some background and foundation to the Rebbe’s ideas, instead of leaving us feeling that they are mechanically deft, but superficial.

“On The Day of His Purification” (Parashat Metzora) (vol. 3 pp. 116-132)

The opening verse in Vayyikra 14 reads: “This is the law of the metzora on the day of his purification, he shall be brought to the Kohen.” Rashi’s opening comment includes the lemma: “This is the law of the metzora etc.” and his comment is: “This teaches that his purification does not take place at night.”

The conventional understanding of Rashi’s comment is to highlight the apparently unneeded word “day” in the middle clause of the verse and to point to its Midrash Halakhah – that the Tohorat haMetzora is one of those many ceremonies which must be done during the day. This is a brief synopsis of the lengthy opening comment in the Torat Kohanim ad loc., identifying all of the procedures involved in his purification as daytime-only rituals.

The author challenges this understanding of Rashi’s comment on two interrelated grounds. First of all, the lemma only reads the first clause, followed by the word “vekhulei” (etc.). If, he contends, Rashi was focused on the word “day”, he should have 1) quoted it and 2) not left it to the elliptical vekhulei. He therefore suggests that Rashi is not commenting on the word “day” and is, instead, inferring the “daytime only” rule from the first clause in the verse – “this is the law of the Metzora”. He suggests that the word Metzora in the verse is perceived as potentially superfluous, since the immediately previous text speaks about the Metzora, that classification shouldn’t need to be repeated. The analysis goes on to suggest that the word “day” in Torah doesn’t necessarily refer to daylight hours and, therefore, “the day of his purification” cannot automatically rule out nighttime. I will leave it to the interested reader to read the rest; suffice it to say that there is enough here to both interest us and raise some concerns. We are intrigued by the careful and exacting way in which the Rebbe reads Rashi’s comments and takes what most people would see as a negligible detail and notices the possibility of added insights and exegesis.

Yet, again, there are concerns. It is a staple of rabbinic interpretation that we read legal texts with a different eye than other texts. To our point, the “day” mentioned in the narrative of Creation (“it was evening, and it was morning a third day”) is used in the more “colloquial” sense, whereas “And on the eighth day, he shall circumcise the foreskin” (Vayyikra 12:3) is to be read more narrowly and thus disallow Berit Milah at night. We also recognize patterns within the legal system, specifically in Vayyikra and Bamidbar, where a set of instructions for a particular ritual is introduced (or summarized) Zot [tih’yeh] Torat haX – whether X is “Ha’Olah” (Vayyikra 6:2), “HaMinhah” (ibid. v. 7) or “haQena’ot” (Bamidbar 5:29). Indeed, we would be surprised if our text didn’t begin with Zot [tih’yeh] Torat haMetzora!

In sum, we have seen in these three examples some brilliant insights, deft movement of the constituent parts of Rashi’s commentary and, as usual, Rabbi Schneerson’s well-known encyclopedic knowledge of rabbinic sources brought to the fore. To someone unschooled in traditional exegesis, the read is enticing, and the method compelling. Yet to the student trained in studying Humash with traditional exegetes, these analyses raise serious questions about perspective and whether a more nuanced reading of these comments of our master, Rashi, would lead us to a different set of conclusions and a more textured set of assertions about his method.

As noted above, each of these handsome volumes contains a listing of some of “Rashi’s Principles.” These are all taken from a Hebrew work “K’lalei Rashi” composed by Rabbi Tuvia Blau and published in the Rebbe’s lifetime. It includes a detailed list of rules of Rashi’s method; each is gleaned or directly quoted from one of the Rebbe’s talks – which makes the list here somewhat self-referential. Some of these principles are taken from Rashi’s own comments – the most famous, of course, being his comment that “I have only come to explain P’shuto Shel Mikra…” (the ellipsis is telling) (Beresheet 3:8); yet, as many scholars have pointed out – Sarah Kamin has an entire book devoted to the topic – this statement can hardly be taken at face value.

As Eric Lawee, Mordechai Z. Cohen, Sarah Kamin, Avraham Grossman (among others) have noted, Rashi was indeed a trailblazer; in a clear departure from commentators who preceded him, he turned his focus to the meaning of the text, rather than the spirit of the text – i.e away from seeing the text as a launching pad for Midrash and analyzing it on its own terms. Relative to the commentaries that preceded him (if such could be said), Rashi was a pashtan; however, when he says “I have only come to explain P’shuto shel Mikra…” he doesn’t mean it in the same way as is used today – which is closer to the Rashbam-ibn Ezra approaches. Rashi continues to use Midrashim liberally and is not bound by such strict definitions as the “principles” that seem to undergird this study.

The glory of Perush Rashi, that most revered and precious commentary on Humash is enhanced as more discussions revolving around his astute observations are published; I hold in my hands another flagpole that raises Rashi’s esteem. It is an impressive work, a series of brilliant tours-de-force which is both easy to read and accessible. As I read through it, I could not help but think…what would Rashi think about it?