The Lazy Farmer & the Bread Tree

In chapter six we are introduced to a new spiritual level. Typically translated as “Alacrity,” Zerizus is about becoming pro-active and excited about Mitzvos. Despite the chapter’s title – “Defining the Trait of Zerizus” – Luzzatto spends the chapter describing not Zerizus, but the lack thereof, i.e., the ill effects of laziness. Our author did the same for the previous level of Zehirus, “Vigilance.” Chapter two was titled “Defining the Trait of Zehirus” and instead of describing Zehirus itself, Luzzatto painted a stark picture of what people look like when they lack vigilance. Apparently, some things are best appreciated by their absence.

Learning from Everyman

Chapter six is built upon a short story told by King Solomon:

I passed through the field of a lazy man and the vineyard of a man who lacks a heart. And behold! It was entirely overgrown with thorns; nettles covered its surface; its stone fence was in ruins. I looked, my heart took notice. I saw, I took a lesson. A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to lie down, and your poverty will arrive steadily, your loss like an armored man. (Proverbs 24:30-34)

After affirming the literal meaning of the text – a description of what happens to the field of a lazy farmer – Luzzatto cites a Midrash which sees these verses as an allegory about a lazy Torah scholar:

“And behold! It was entirely overgrown with thorns” – He searches for the explanation of a Parasha and can’t find it. “Nettles covered its surface” – Because he didn’t labor in [Torah], he will sit and [mistakenly] judge the pure to be impure and the impure to be pure, and he will breach the fences of the sages. What is his punishment? Solomon stated it explicitly, “One who breaches a fence will be bitten by a snake” (Koheles 10:8). (Yalkut Mishlei 961)   

Elaborating on this Midrash, Luzzatto describes the doom of the lazy sage, step-by-step. The problem began in his youth, innocently enough: he lacked diligence in his studies. But due to this lack of diligence, his training was flawed. A flawed training leads to misinterpretations of Torah, which leads to faulty rulings, which leads to violations of the law. And the consequence for breaching the fence of law, King Solomon informs us, is a “snake bite.” Luzzatto explains that just as the poison of venom spreads slowly, so too the effects of laziness spread slowly and invisibly, ultimately leading to death by sins the man doesn’t even realize he is committing.

Luzzatto loves this Midrash and he calls it “beautiful.” The Midrash certainly raises awareness about the dangers of laziness for scholars, but King Solomon wrote about an overgrown field. What made the sages think King Solomon was referring to Torah study?

I would suggest they were tipped off by the words, “I took a lesson...”

King Solomon was not a lazy man. According to a Midrash cited by Luzzatto (in chapter seven), King Solomon prided himself for his swift construction of the First Temple. But yet King Solomon states here that he learned a lesson from a lazy farmer?! What lesson could that possibly be?

The Midrash supplies the answer. There is one area where even King Solomon can be self-critical. There is one thing that no one, no matter how great, can ever be fully confident about, and that is Torah study. When King Solomon passed through the overgrown field, he asked himself, “Maybe in my youth I wasn’t sufficiently diligent… and maybe my skills currently suffer as a result!”

The Mishnah states, “Who is a wise man? He who learns from every man” (Avos 4:1). It takes a great deal of sensitivity, humility and wisdom to learn a personally relevant lesson from every person you meet. The wisest of men demonstrated precisely this kind of wisdom when he learned a lesson from the laziest of men.   

As Luzzatto said, it is a beautiful Midrash.

The Field of Halacha

This is not the only time King Solomon uses a field as a symbol for Torah learning. According to the Talmud, King Solomon used the exact same symbol just three verses earlier.

“Prepare your work outside and set up what you need in the field. After that, build your house” (Proverbs 24:27).

“Prepare your work outside” – this refers to Scripture and Mishnah. “Set up what you need in the field” – this refers to Gemora. “After that, build your house” – this refers to good deeds. (Sotah 24a)

Here the symbol of the field is refined. It refers not to Torah study in general, but specifically to the study of “Gemora.” What is Gemora? Rashi explains:

[To learn] Gemora is to explain the rationale behind the Mishnah and the determination of which opinion the Halacha should follow.

This Rashi helps us appreciate the flow of this allegorical verse. It begins with “preparing your work outside,” i.e., the learning of Mishnah. With its cryptic wording and multiplicity of opinions, the bare Mishnah text is deemed to be “outside” and unusable. From working on Mishnah we progress to “setting up what we need in the field,” i.e., the learning of Gemora. As Rashi explains, this refers to the determination of the Halacha. After that, we are ready “build” a “house,” i.e., perform good deeds. King Solomon is comparing the application of Halacha and the performance of good deeds to the construction of a house from the profits earned out in the field. 

This Talmudic understanding of the field in 24:27 fits perfectly with the Midrashic understanding of the lazy man’s field three verses later in 24:30. If a scholar lacks diligence when it comes to Gemora, if he is lazy in the study of the Halacha and fails to work his “field,” then he will get the Halacha wrong. And just as a house built on errors cannot last, so too a Judaism of errors cannot last, no matter how well intentioned. 

Apparently referring back to his analogy in Proverbs, King Solomon wrote the following in his Megillah:

“Due to laziness the ceiling sags and due to the lowering of hands the house leaks” (Koheles 10:18).

It is no coincidence that in our chapter Luzzatto connects this verse about a leaky house in Koheles to the overgrown field in Proverbs. For the produce of the “field” is meant to be used in the construction of a “house,” but if we are lazy in the field, then our homes are in danger of collapse.

There is a fascinating tie-in here to the Yomim Tovim. Shavuos, the day we received the Torah, is called "Chag HaKatzir," the holiday of the harvest (Shemos 23:16). And Sukkos is called "Chag HaAsif," the holiday of gathering in the produce and bringing it all home. On Sukkos we build a temporary home, a Sukkah, and we are instructed to use the leftover straw and branches from the harvest for the Schach (Sukkah 12a). This is precisely what King Solomon said. From the harvest of Torah we construct a home.

There is another well-known instance where the sages draw a parallel between Torah and a field:

One who studies Torah but does not review is akin to a man who plants and does not harvest. (Sanhedrin 99a)  

Here too, it is the harvest of the field – the Halacha – that is of interest. And here too, it is laziness - the failure to review - that leads to the loss of the precious harvest.

In light of all the above, we gain a new appreciation for a Talmudic teaching cited by Rashi at the beginning of Parshas Mishpatim:

"And these are the laws that you shall place before them" (Shemos 21:1).

God said to Moshe, "Don't think, I'll teach them the chapter and the law two or three times until they are fluent in it like its Mishnah, and I won't trouble myself to make them understand the rationale or the explanation." This is why the verse states, "...that you shall place before them" - like a table set and prepared for people to eat.

Hashem is saying that the memorization of Mishnaic texts is insufficient. Moshe must serve the people something "edible" - the complete Talmudic understanding of the law. 

The sources all line up neatly, but we have never explained why the Halacha is compared to food. For the answer to that question we will need to delve a little deeper.

Feeding the Universe

There is another layer of meaning to our Midrash, a mystical dimension, but in order to appreciate it we must first learn some spiritual cosmology.

The Talmud draws a surprising comparison between God and the human soul. “Just as the Holy One, blessed be He, fills the entire universe, so too the Neshama fills the entire body” (Berachos 10a). After warning us not to take the comparison literally (the Creator is unique and incomparable to any created thing), Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner elaborates on the God/universe and soul/body analogy in his sefer Nefesh HaChaim, supporting his thesis with a plethora of Talmudic, Midrashic and Zoharic sources. In the process, we gain a new perspective on food.

Keeping our soul in our bodies obviously requires the consumption of food. In other words, if we don’t eat, we die and the soul departs. For our souls to dwell securely inside our bodies so we can function properly, our bodies need to be physically healthy, and for that people need to have a robust diet of healthy, nutritious food. A malnourished man has a weak hold on his soul and cannot live life to the fullest.

The same can be said for the universe. If we want to maintain a fully functioning universe, we need Hashem to maintain a strong presence, and to achieve that, the universe needs to “eat.” The prescribed diet for the universe consists of Torah, Tefillah and Mitzvos. This is what keeps the universe spiritually healthy and makes it a place where Hashem is comfortable and His blessings flow. When Mitzvos are lacking, the universe is malnourished and weakened, and we receive correspondingly limited divine blessings.

Of course, not everything is nutritious. Food gives life; poison saps it. Just as a person who consumes poison damages his body, so it is with the universe. If we feed sins into the universe, we damage the system and Hashem can’t connect. With the flow of blessings restricted, things will not function as they should. The results can be disastrous. 

The food/mitzvah analogy is no mere illustrative analogy. The fate of humanity is intimately linked the fate of the universe and, as a result, an actual symbiotic relationship exists between the mitzvos we do and the food we eat. 

We declare this truth daily in the Shema. If we listen to the Mitzvos, to love Hashem and serve Him, then the rain will fall, food will grow, we will eat and be satisfied. But if we turn away from Hashem and worship other gods, then Hashem will seal the sky and there there will be drought and famine (cf. Devarim 11:13-17). This idea is not new; the Shema is a reiteration of the opening verses of Parshas Bechukosai:

If you follow my laws and observe my Mitzvos and do them, then I will deliver your rains at the right time and the earth will give its produce and the trees will give their fruit... But if you do not listen to Me and do not do all these Mitzvos... your land will not give its produce and the tree of the land will not give its fruit.  (Vayikra 26:3-4,14,20).

Two Loaves of Bread

Earlier we pointed to the agricultural dimension of the Yomim Tovim, but now we can better appreciate the significance of Shavuos as the Holiday of the Harvest. On Shavuos two loaves of bread are brought as offerings (Vayikra 23:17) and they serve to direct divine blessings to the fruit harvest of the coming year (Rosh Hashana 16a). As we have learned, the earth needs our mitzvos in order to produce food, and so the harvest of the coming year truly does depend on our Kabolas HaTorah on Shavuos.

But the reality runs deeper. Human behavior determines not only whether or not there will be food, it also determines the quality of that food. 

In the Garden of Eden before the first sin, the universe was pristine, and consequently, the earth produced perfected food which required zero human input. In the garden, bread literally grew on trees (Bereishis Rabba 15:7). Roasted meat and filtered wine was served to Adam and Eve by angels (cf. Sanhedrin 59b). Similarly, after the Exodus the world was in a perfected state and the Jews received Manna from heaven which produced no waste.

However, when Adam fed sin into the system (by eating forbidden fruit) the universe’s ability to produce healthy food was damaged. “The ground is cursed because of you… thorns and thistles it shall sprout for you” (Bereishis 3:17-18). Similarly, after the sin of the Golden Calf, the Manna lost its cleansing power (cf. Yoma 75b).  (See at length, Rabbi Chaim Volozhiner, Nefesh HaChaim 2:5-7; Derashos Beis Dovid, drush 3.)

Understanding the relationship between Torah and food gives us a new insight into the two loaves of Shavuos. Earlier we cited the Talmudic teaching that these loaves directed divine blessings to the fruits of the trees. But the loaves were made of wheat, not fruit! Why should they have an effect on trees? Rashi (ad loc.) finds a precedent for calling wheat "fruit." There is an opinion that Tree of Knowledge was actually wheat (Berachos 40a). But this appears to be a dodge, not an answer. How could the tree of knowledge be wheat?! Wheat does not grow on trees. What is Rashi saying?

The answer is that in the garden, bread really did grow on trees! The tree of knowledge was a "wheat tree" which grew the forbidden fruit, loaves of fresh bread. Adam sinned and he was cursed together with the land: "By the sweat of your brow you shall eat bread." No longer would the earth produce bread; man will have to work for it. But one day in the future, the world will be fixed and once again bread will grow on trees. "In the future, the land of Israel will give forth loaves of bread... wheat will grow up like a palm tree" (Kesubos 111b; cf. Toras Chaim to Sanhedrin 70b). 

This then is the symbolism of the two loaves of bread offered in the Mikdash on Shavuos. One for the lost past, the bread of the garden, and one for the utopian future, the bread of Israel rebuilt. How do we bridge the gap? How do we fix the earth? By receiving the Torah on Shavuos.

Returning now to the Midrash cited by Luzzatto, we arrive at a new and astounding realization: A field is a symbol for Gemora because the determination of Halacha is synonymous with the production of food!  If we are diligent in the study of Gemora and get the Halacha right, then we will eat right. Otherwise, we are producing thorns, thistles and poison. This is the snake venom referred to by King Solomon.

The health of the universe and the health of man depend on sound Halachic rulings, and in the end, Halachic rulings come down to our Zerizus in the field.

A beautiful Midrash, indeed!

Partners in the Good Fight

Chapter two is about "Zehirus," which, according to Luzzatto, refers to the need to be introspective and take control of our lives. But, just as the chapter is about to end, the author makes one final, surprising point.

Even if a person keeps watch over himself, it is obvious that he lacks the strength [to defeat the Yetzer HaRa] without Hashem's help, for the Yetzer HaRa is very powerful...

It is generally assumed that we are able to make choices and follow though on those choices because our positive and negative drives are of basically equal strength. But this is a misconception born of the illusion of our experience. The spiritual reality is altogether different.

The truth is that the Yetzer HaRa is far stronger than the Yetzer Tov and we are powerless against it. Left to our own devices, we would lose every battle and commit any and every sin that came our way. If we have ever emerged victorious against the Yetzer HaRa it is only because we have a secret ally called God. God regularly intervenes and saves us. However, God only gets involved if we put up a fight. 

If a person keeps watch over himself then Hashem will help him and he will be saved from the Yetzer HaRa. But if he fails to keep watch over himself, then Hashem will certainly not protect him, because if he doesn't care, why should anyone care about him?

In short, man cannot defeat the Yetzer HaRa alone, but if he makes an attempt then Hashem will help. 

Strange that things would be designed that way. Why did Hashem make the Yetzer Tov weaker than its opponent? Wouldn't it make more sense to have a balance of powers? That way we could save ourselves and Hashem wouldn't have to help us all the time.

The beginning of answer can be found at the end of chapter one.

... And so we learn that the point of man being in this world is only to fulfill Mitzvos, to serve [Hashem] and to withstand [the divinely orchestrated] challenges [of life]... There should be no intent in any act that man does, big or small, other than getting closer to Him...   

In other words, beating the the Yetzer HaRa brings us closer to Hashem. The basic idea is that man is elevated through the struggle and sanctified by the Mitzvah, but now we have new understanding of how the system works.  

Man gets closer to God when he struggles against his Yetzer HaRa because when man puts up a fight, Hashem is at his side fighting with him. This fosters a deep relationship between God and man for nothing bonds two soldiers like a good battle. And since building a relationship with God is the sole purpose of life on earth (as per chapter one), this set-up turns out to be a central feature in the design of man. 

The Gemora in Yoma (39a-b) brings the point home with an astonishing parable. (The translation of the verse is based on Rashi.)

אם ללצים - הוא יליץ, ולענוים - יתן חן  "If [a person wants to associate] with scorners, then he [alone] is [responsible for] becoming a scorner, but if [he wishes to associate] with the humble, then [God will] make him charming" (Proverbs 3:34). When a person is trying to make himself impure, he is given the opportunity, but when a person is trying to be pure, he is helped. In the Yeshiva of Rabbi Yishmael they taught: The parable here is to a vendor who sells petroleum and persimmon. [If] a customer comes to measure out petroleum, the vendor tells him, "Do it yourself." [But if] a customer comes to measure out persimmon, then the vendor says, "Wait for me to do it with you, for then we will both be scented." 

There you have it. God Himself comes to assist man in his strivings because God also wants to enjoy the sweet aroma of Mitzvah and the sweet victory over evil. In the process, a new relationship is forged. It is this singular relationship that gives meaning to all of creation, but everything depends on the few good men who take a stand against their Yetzer HaRa. 

The Stones of Yaakov: A Tangent that Isn't

Dedicated to the Four Kedoshim of Har Nof

Was ever a writer more disciplined than the Ramchal or a book more precise than the Mesilas Yesharim? Famous for its economy of language, the Gaon of Vilna declared that he couldn't find a single superfluous word in the first ten chapters. At the very least, we can expect the Ramchal to stay on point. Which is why I was troubled when I discovered a long, meandering tangent right in the heart of chapter one.

The author's message in this chapter is clear. Man was created to experience the pleasure of being with the Shechina. This occurs in the afterlife, but it must be earned first. Life on earth is our opportunity to earn that reward through the performance of Mitzvos. That's the chapter in a nutshell.

Strangely, right in the middle of this presentation on the meaning of life, the Ramchal introduces a mystical concept.

If you delve deeper into this issue you will realize that the world was created for the service of man. For if man follows after the physical realm, distancing himself from his creator, then he is ruined and the world is ruined with him. But if he controls himself and sticks with his creator, using the world solely to assist him in his service of his creator, then he is elevated and the world is elevated with him. 

Luzzatto proves this point with a well-known Midrash. The Torah tells us that although Yaakov placed multiple stones around his head before he went to sleep (Bereishis 28:11), in the morning there was only one stone there (28:18). Rabbi Yitzchok explains that each stone wanted to be the pillow for the Tzaddik. God had compassion on the stones and fused them all into one (Chulin 91b). 

There is an innate desire in all things, writes Luzzatto, to be of service to the "perfected man who is sanctified with God's sanctity," for by doing so the mundane matter is itself sanctified. Every lonely stone on every barren hilltop yearns to get closer to its creator.  

This is all very fascinating, but what relevance does it carry for our chapter? What difference does it make? Let us imagine, for a moment, that this is all false and the physical realm is unaffected by the presence of Tzaddikim. What bearing would that have on the fact that people were created to do Mitzvos and earn reward for the World to Come? None whatsoever. So why is the Ramchal writing about this here?

I struggled with this question for several weeks before I came up with an answer. 

All writers are afraid of being misunderstood, and the fear is particularly acute in writers of Jewish theology. The Ramchal was worried that some readers would think of life as a big casino. The game is to do as many Mitzvos as you can, accruing the maximum number of chips. And then, when you're finished playing, you cash in. Right? 

Wrong. 

This analogy is deeply misleading. While it can be said that we do Mitzvos in this life and receive reward in the next, that is only because the physical universe filters out the splendor of the Shechina. This has no bearing on the fact that every Mitzvah we do and every test we past builds a relationship with Hashem. It is not a matter of collecting plastic chips for future use. The relationship is real and it exists in the here and now.

The Ramchal proves the point with the stones of Yaakov. If Mitzvos were mere chips, stones would reap no benefit by assisting the Tzaddik. The stones are attracted to the Tzaddik because he is "sanctified with God's sanctity" in this life, right here on earth. 

Unable to experience the presence of the Shechina, the Tzaddik is himself unaware of the Kedusha within him. As much as we think we can sense Kedusha and identify Tzaddikim, that is just wishful thinking. Only Hashem can make that judgement (cf. Rambam, Laws of Teshuva 3:2). We are oblivious to the Kedusha that is all around us. Yaakov said as much upon awaking after a night on the rocks. "Hashem is actually present in this place and I didn't know!" (Bereishis 28:16).

Despite the Tzaddik's ignorance, he sanctifies the world. Sadly, the opposite is also true. When we opt out of a relationship with Hashem and distance ourselves from Him, we drag the world down with us. 

This is the Ramchal's point and it is no tangent. It is central to our understanding of the power of mitzvos and the ultimate purpose of human life, the subject of chapter one.

Last Tuesday, Hashem selected four Tzaddikim for all the world to see. They brought Kedusha into the world - בקרובי אקדש - and now that Kedusha is lacking. 

The very stones of Jerusalem mourn their loss.

ה' ינקם דמם

Are You Arrogant or Do You Just Enjoy Honor?

Most people naturally assume that arrogance and an interest in honor are synonymous, but Luzzatto has a more nuanced approach. He views them quite differently.

At the end of chapter eleven, Luzzatto identifies and analyzes what he considers to be the most common character flaws: Arrogance, Anger, Jealousy, and Desire. Luzzatto then divides Desire in two - the desire for money and the desire for honor - bringing the total to five common flaws. (The "desire" discussed here is a character issue and is to be distinguished from the Yetzer HaRa for prohibited relationships. Luzzatto dealt with that problem at length at the beginning of the chapter.) By way of introduction, Luzzatto tells us that these traits all occur naturally in man and it is no small battle to get them under control.

Luzzatto thus begins his list of flaws with arrogance and ends it with the desire for honor. Interestingly, he spends more words on these two traits than on any of the others. But aren't they one and the same? What is arrogance if not an obsession with being honored?

The answer to our question can easily be found by contrasting Luzzatto's sharp definitions for these two traits. Arrogance, he writes, is thinking that you are important and deserving of praise. Honor, on the other hand, is a desire. The difference is clear. Arrogance is a way of thinking about yourself (irrational and baseless, but a way of thinking nonetheless) and the desire for honor is just that, a desire. Fundamentally, it no different than other desires, e.g., the desire for money. Desires exist irrespective of how you think about yourself.

Although it is true that arrogance can lead to an obsession with honor - Luzzatto himself described this phenomenon in his treatment of arrogance - it does not follow that any interest in honor is indicative of arrogance. It is natural for man to enjoy honor and the humble are no exception. 

What an incisive insight! And what a great relief! Thank you, Luzzatto.

Giving Nachas

In chapter eighteen Luzzatto introduces "Chassidus." Echoing what he wrote in the introduction to the book, Luzzatto decries all the nonsense that passes for Chassidus and feeds the perception that Chassidus is basically irrational. The truth is that Chassidus is an exceedingly deep concept, the roots of which are expressed by the well-known line of the Gemora in Berachos (17a):

אשרי מי שעמלו בתורה ועושה נחת רוח ליוצרו

"Praised is the man who labors in Torah and gives Nachas to his Creator."

How exactly can a human being give pleasure to God? In unqualified and inspiring prose, Luzzatto compares the love of God to the love for a parent or a spouse. The effect of true love is always the same: it generates a desire to give pleasure to the other. The loving husband figures out what his wife likes and he buys it for her. He certainly doesn't wait for her to ask for it; that would miss the point. The same is true for one who is in love with God. Such a person uses the mitzvos of the Torah to read God's Mind and to figure out the kinds of things that God likes. He then expands on the mitzvos and fulfills the spirit of the law in all that ways that he deems would give God pleasure. This is what it means to give Nachas to Hashem and this is the true Chassidus.

The idea is a beautiful one, but the implementation is fraught with dangers. Who can say with confidence that they have read God's Mind accurately? Are the mitzvos of the Torah open to subjective interpretation and expansion? Won't this lead to the very extremism and foolish behaviors Luzzatto complained about? If there are no defined parameters, anybody do anything in the name of Chassidus. This is a frightening prospect.

Not surprisingly, our concerns were addressed by the Gemora itself. Let's read it again: "Praised is the man who labors in Torah and gives Nachas to his Creator." Chassidus is for the man who labors in Torah! Only a Talmid Chachom with a deep understanding of the entirety of Torah could conceivably succeed at Chassidus, accurately determining God's unspoken preferences. The rest of us will have to settle with the practices of Chassidus mentioned by Chazal and described at length by Luzzatto in chapter nineteen. As the sages said flatly, "An ignoramus cannot be a Chosid" (Avos 2:5).   

It was a delight to discover that R. Chaim ben Atar (the Ohr HaChaim HaKadosh, a contemporary of the Ramchal) makes a similar point. Moreover, he saw it in a verse.     

אם בחקתי תלכו ואת מצותי תשמרו ועשיתם אתם

"If in my laws you walk, and my mitzvos you safeguard and perform..." (Vayikra 26:3)

The Ohr HaChaim typically offers multiple interpretations, but here he went all out. Forty-two different ways of understanding this verse! Here is number six:

This [verse] can also be explained in light of what they said, "An ignoramus cannot be a Chosid" (Avos 2:5). This means it is forbidden for an ignoramus to practice Chassidus, to take on stringencies and [add] fences [to the law] as the Chassidim do, because sometimes he will be "strict" in a way that actually turns out to be lenient. [For example,] you could have a "Chosid" who wishes to commit to fulfilling the mitzvah of Onah (conjugal relations) on the holidays. He thinks it is a great mitzvah to be intimate with his wife on Yom Kippur; we have heard that this has actually happened! This is why the sages forbade the ignoramus to practice Chassidus and this is the meaning of our verse: "If in my laws you walk" - i.e., [if you] labor in Torah study (cf. Rashi ad loc.) - then "my mitzvos you shall safeguard" - you should put up safeguards for the observance of the mitzvos, i.e., [extra] fences and observances - but otherwise, don't! 

A Blind Man and a Horse II

We have addressed the question before. Why does Luzzatto need two different metaphors to illustrate the same point? Here we revisit the problem and offer an alternate approach.

The two metaphors are found in chapter two. The title of the chapter is "Defining the Trait of Zehirus." What is Zehirus? A literal one-word translation will obviously not due justice to Luzzatto's chapter-long exposition, but this much we can say: A Zahir is an introspective person who takes life seriously.

Despite the title, Luzzatto spends the bulk of the chapter describing not the Zahir, but the non-Zahir, and it helps sharpen his point. Man must be introspective about his life, warns Luzzatto, or else he is doomed. One who lacks Zehirus "submits his soul to the dangers of oblivion" and "follows his habits like a blind man in the dark." 

Luzzatto continues his scathing rebuke of the non-Zahir with the following metaphor:

"One who goes through life without considering if his lifestyle is proper or inappropriate is like a blind man who walks along the edge of a river. He is in grave danger..."

Our author is not satisfied. He presents yet another metaphor for the non-Zahir, this one from Sefer Yermiyah:

"No man regrets his evil deeds, saying, 'What have I done?!' They are all busy running like a horse plunging into battle" (Yermiyah 8:6). That is, they were pursuing and following their habitual pursuits and lifestyle without giving themselves time to analyze their behavior...

The question is this. Why does Luzzatto need the second metaphor with the horse? What did the horse add that wasn't captured by the blind man?

In an earlier post we suggested that these two metaphors describe two different non-Zahir personalities. But now we offer an alternative possibility. 

Both metaphors describe the very same person - at two different stages of his development. 

The first step in the degeneration of man is his failure to be introspective and self-critical. At this point he stumbles through life like a blind man, guided only by his desires and oblivious to the dangers inherent in his lifestyle. This is bad enough, but it soon evolves into something worse: the development of habits. This is where the horse comes in. The problem now is no longer mere ignorance, but an ingrained tendency for unhealthy behaviors and the mindless pursuit of pleasure.

At the beginning of the chapter Luzzatto told us that one who lacks Zehirus 1) "submits his soul to the dangers of oblivion" and 2) "follows his habits." It stands to reason that the two metaphors that follow are meant to illustrate these two points. The blind man walking along the edge of a river is submitting his soul to the "dangers of oblivion" and the horse plunging into battle is blindly "following his habits." Habits born of the ignorance of the laissez faire.

At the end of chapter nine Luzzatto explains why Zerizus comes after Zehirus:

You can understand why it is appropriate for Zerizus to be the level that comes after Zehirus, for generally people can't become Zariz unless they are Zahir first. A person who pays no attention to his behavior and doesn't contemplate the service [of God] or its requirements - which, as I have written, is the trait of Zehirus - will find it difficult to feel a love and a longing for it and be driven by a passion to [serve] his Creator. For this person is still drowning in the physical pleasures and running in pursuit of his habits that distance him from all of this...  

"Drowning in the physical pleasures and running in pursuit of his habits!" 

Here in chapter nine, as he refers back to the non-Zahir personality, Luzzatto echoes the metaphors of chapter two: the blind man who is about to fall in the river and the galloping horse. As before, drowning comes first. 

The metaphors are graphic, but the slippery slope of the riverbank is all too familiar. After drowning in the river of pleasure, the careless blind man resurfaces transformed; now he is a battle horse. Saddled with animalistic addictions and driven by an insatiable appetite, he gallops further and further away from a meaningful relationship with God.

A little Zehirus early on can save a lifetime of heartache.

(For a third approach to these two analogies see this post.)

Coming Clean

Chapter twelve is short. Throughout the lengthy and intimidating chapter eleven we braced ourselves for a grueling regiment for acquiring Nekius, but Luzzatto surprises us. All we need to do is learn.

Based on its description in this chapter, Nekius is a hyper-Zehirus, a scrupulous observance of Torah to its very last detail. As seasoned masters of Zehirus, we are well trained in taking the Torah to heart and implementing what we learn into practice. The only thing we lack is a comprehensive knowledge of Halachah and Mussar. So Luzzatto prescribes learning. Learn and be Naki. That's it.

Sounds reasonable enough, until we remind ourselves of Luzzatto's original definition of Nekius. Back in chapter ten he explicitly differentiated Nekius from Zehirus. As long as man is driven by self-interest he can never be truly Naki, Luzzatto wrote, for man's subconscious id blinds his objective thinking and corrupts his judgement. Luzzatto therefore made the bold claim that attaining Nekius requires nothing less than the total eradication of the Yetzer HaRa itself. It's hard to argue with the logic, but it begs the question: How on earth can a human being change his nature and attain the spiritual level of an angel?!

The title of chapter twelve promises to provide an answer to this mystery, but Luzzato seems to have conveniently forgotten the idealism of chapter ten. We could easily accept his educational recommendations if Nekius were merely a matter of observance, but it is not. According to chapter ten, Nekius is the transformation of a flawed human into a perfect, purified being devoid of negative drives. How could simply reading Halachic and Mussar works possibly suffice to achieve that superhuman goal? What we need here is a brain and heart transplant!

What has happened to Luzzatto? Is he backpedaling?

Tradition informs us and experience has shown that we can trust our author. The key to discovering his intent is simply to read carefully and follow through. If Luzzatto tells us in chapter twelve that Nekius is basically just a complete, all-encompassing Zehirus, then we would do well to turn back and review what he wrote about Zehirus earlier in the book. Indeed, a rereading of chapter five quickly demonstrates that Luzzatto has not abandoned one iota of his utopian Nekius and the advice he gives us here in chapter twelve is, in fact, the one and only way to acquire it.

The fundamental teaching of chapter five instantly puts chapter twelve in a whole new light. Luzzatto quotes a Gemora: God said, "I created the Yetzer HaRa and I created the Torah as its antidote" (Kiddushin 40b). Torah study is the antibiotic that eliminates the Yetzer HaRa! 

There you have it. Nekius does indeed require the total cleansing of the negative drives and, as astonishing as it sounds, this is an attainable goal. It is achieved by the very method Luzzatto advocates here in chapter twelve: the study of Torah. But not just any Torah study. Unceasing study of the entirety of Torah with the goal of observance in mind. Deep study with creative thinking and chiddushei Torah, as Luzzatto describes. And with that, with the divine light of Torah permeating and illuminating every aspect of life and every dark crevice of the human mind and heart, the Yezter HaRa vanishes. And man comes clean.