The Tragic Tale of Rav Rachumi
YK Evening 5774 – 2013
Congregation Beth El of the Sudbury River Valley
Rabbi David B. Thomas
Last week, on Rosh Hashanah, I introduced six Talmudic questions we’ll
be asked on the Day of Judgment. As you can see, they are posted
around the sanctuary. Taken together, these questions suggest six
criteria for a life well-lived. Tomorrow I will introduce a new element –
one that may trump all of these. But tonight, I want to raise the question
of what happens when the performance of one of these virtues leads to
serious conflict with the fulfillment of another?
In particular, the sages of our tradition were concerned (really, to the
point of obsession) with the tension between the mitzvah of procreation
–“Asakta b’fria ur’via” and the mitzvah of Torah study – “Kavata itim
latorah.” Knowing that the mitzvah of Torah learning is without
measure, that is, you can never do enough of it, they were concerned
about the possibility that passion for Torah would interfere with a
scholar’s conjugal duties to his spouse.
Now, before we go any further, I should point out that the conflict here
is not really about the mitzvah of procreation, so much as it is about the
first question: “Nasata v’natata be-emunah – Do you deal with people
faithfully?” You see, while having and raising children is certainly a
mitzvah – the first mitzvah, in fact – the rabbis consistently understood
that the essence of marriage is not procreation, but intimacy.
This idea is established in the second chapter of Genesis when God looks
at Adam, alone among all the animals and declares: “Lo tov heyot haadam l’vado – it is not good that the human is alone.” The impetus for
the creation of Eve as Adam’s partner is to overcome existential
loneliness. The Torah says: “Thus a man leaves his mother and father
and clings to his wife, and they become one flesh.” (Gen. 2:24)
So, from a Jewish perspective, the main purpose of marriage is intimacy
– emotional and social, as well as physical. This is why we happily
marry all kinds of couples – those who have already had children, are
too old to have children, can’t have children or simply don’t want to
have children. According to Jewish law, men are obligated to be fruitful
and multiply. Furthermore, they are obligated to be married even after
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they have fulfilled that mitzvah. And they are obligated to their wives
for intimacy for as long as the marriage lasts. In our tradition, to deal
with a spouse faithfully, is not only to forsake all others, it is to provide
her with warmth, intimacy and sexual pleasure.
Obviously, we are exploring the dynamics of traditional, that is to say,
non-egalitarian marriage here. My purpose is not to try to translate
these rules and norms into a modern, egalitarian context, (which we
certainly could do) but to discern certain values and principles we might
apply in our own lives.
In Tractate Ketubot – the section of the Babylonian Talmud that deals
with a man’s fundamental obligations to his wife, the rabbis struggle to
define the boundaries of these conjugal duties. How much love does a
guy gotta give?
The Mishnah states: “The times for conjugal duty are: for men of leisure
– every day; for laborers – twice a week; for donkey drivers – once a
week; for camel drivers – once every thirty days; for sailors – once in six
months. This according to Rabbi Eliezer.”
To be clear, when it comes to sexual intimacy, the wife is meant to be in
control. She is entitled. He is obligated to her. And she can waive her
rights or refuse him at any time. But husbands require the permission
of their wives to abstain from sexual intimacy. Their only recourse is
divorce, which requires full payment of the Ketubah.
At the same time, the Mishnah tries to set reasonable limits on a
husband’s obligation based on what he does for a living and how much
travel his work requires. However, I should point out that a man cannot
change jobs in order to earn more money without his wife’s consent if it
would mean he would spend less time at home with her. (This is
probably not the only reason we don’t hear about many Jewish sailors)
In any case, the conflict I am interested in arises when the rabbis turn to
the question of Torah study, which is their highest priority. Men of
those times were accustomed to going away for a month or more to the
great Yeshivot in Babylonia to study – much as I go to the Hartman
Institute in Jerusalem for a couple of weeks a year. The sages want to
know how long one can leave to study Torah without his wife’s
permission.
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After a fair bit of wrangling over how much to preference study over
marital bliss, Rabbi Adda bar Ahava (whose name literally means
“Destroyer of Love”) says in the name of Rav: “The majority rule that
students may go away to study Torah without the permission of their
wives even for two or three years.”
Now, we know that the rabbis believed that Talmud Torah keneg kulam
– The study of Torah is equal to all the other mitzvot – because it is
supposed to lead to them all. However, by giving scholars a three year
pass on their obligations to their wives, the rabbis threaten the death of
intimacy.
Yet that’s how the majority of sages ruled. The thrust of the halacha is
to privilege Torah learning above all else, even the obligation for a
husband to provide companionship, nurture and intimacy to his wife.
The allure of Torah threatens to mute the voice of God saying: “It is not
good for human beings to be alone.” This seems neither right nor fair to
women.
Fortunately, there is a pluralism of voices in our tradition. If I’ve
learned nothing else in my years of study at the Hartman Institute, it has
been to look for, identify and listen to the pluralism of voices
throughout our tradition – in the Torah, the Tanakh and especially in
rabbinic literature. So it doesn’t surprise me that, after the sages elevate
Torah learning to the highest rung, privileging it over marital intimacy,
it is not long before we hear a voice of protest in the Talmud.
Rava steps in, and while he cannot overrule the majority, it is clear he
can’t live with their ruling either. He says: “Rabbis who rely on Adda
bar Ahavah do so at the risk of losing their lives.”
Now, after lengthy halachic discourse and with the law set, we get
Rava’s protest and we get a story. It’s not a pretty story. It is a
cautionary tale, a powerful protest against the law as it has been fixed
and determined. Like Rava, the story teaches that a man may be within
his rights to neglect his relationship with his wife on account of his
devotion to Torah study, but he does so at his own peril.
The story is short – all of seven lines in the Aramaic. I’ll read it in
English, and then unpack it for you:
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Rav Rachumi was always found studying before Rava in Machoza.
He would regularly come home on the eve of each Yom Kippur.
One day, his study drew him in.
His wife was expecting him: “Here he comes… Here he comes…”
He did not come.
She became upset.
She shed a tear from her eye.
He was sitting on a roof.
The roof fell from under him.
And he died.
(Ketubot 62b)
I first studied this story at Hartman five years ago. I was reintroduced
to it more recently by MK Ruth Calderon, who also studied it at Hartman
and who taught it in her inaugural speech in the Knesset this past
February, the week David Hartman died. I will unpack the story for you
with some insights I have learned from Calderon, Noam Zion, Jeffery
Rubenstein, Yonah Frankel and others.
The story begins innocently enough. We meet the protagonist by his
name and title – Rav Rechumi. Rav means “master,” or “rabbi” or “a
lot.” Apparently, he is a whole lot of man. Rechumi in Aramaic means
“love.” Rechumi is derived from the word rechem, meaning womb –
understood as the seat of compassion, because the womb knows how to
hold someone, like a baby, and completely accept them.
Rabbi Love was a regular in the yeshivah in Machoza. It was one of
four great yeshivot in Babylonia – the Ivy League of the Jewish world at
the time. And he studied with Rava, the head of the Yeshivah. Rava
means “The Rav.”
Rabbi Love was always found there. Ruth Calderon points out that
the sages do not like people who do things habitually. In general, when
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someone in the Talmud does something regularly, someone dies within
a few lines.
He would regularly come home on the eve of Yom Kippur. Home, in
Aramaic, is another word for wife. A man with no wife, is “homeless.”
Rechumi had two homes, his bayit–his wife and the Beit Midrash – his
other wife, if you will. He would come to his wife every Yom Kippur eve
– meaning ONLY every Yom Kippur eve. A rare visit home, and on Yom
Kippur of all times! Why on this day? Does he come out of contrition?
With a desire to repent on account of his neglecting his wife? Or does he
come because it is the one day sexual relations are prohibited?
One day – that is one time, one year – his study drew him in. He is
seduced by a sugiyah, titillated by the text, lured by lust for the
luminous. He forgets to go home.
Meanwhile, she waits…anticipating him. She looks for him on the
horizon, listens for his footfall at the door. “Here he comes…Here he
comes.” She says plaintively. Listen to the breathless Aramaic: “Hashta
atei…Hashta atei…” He doesn’t come. At some point she realizes that he
isn’t coming this year. Perhaps it is the call of the shofar she hears,
announcing the beginning of Yom Kippur, after which no one would
come on account of the sanctity of the day.
She becomes upset. She waited patiently an entire year….many years,
she waited every year for just one day with him. She is disappointed,
upset, distressed. She can no longer hold back the tears, and she lets
one fall to her cheek.
While she sits at home, he sits on the roof of the Beit Midrash. He is at
the height of his spiritual existence. Dressed in white, he is as high as the
heavens, close to God. As her tear falls at home, the roof falls from
under him in Machoza and he falls to the ground and dies.
The story is all the more tragic because Rachumi thinks he is doing the
right thing. He achieves emotional, intellectual and cosmic fulfillment in
Torah. He is at the top of his game – one of the greatest in the field. He
is a fierce guardian of our tradition, preserving and transmitting Torah
for generations to come.
And yet, as Ruth Calderon has taught, “Rabbi Love is drawn not by a
great and noble love for which it is heroic to die if necessary. He never
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appreciates the true love, the earthly love which is so much more real,
which his wife demonstrates to him.”
The tragedy is that Rechumi thinks Torah is lifting him to new spiritual
heights, when in fact, it is pulling him down ethically.
What can we learn from this story?
First of all, the lessons for work-life balance are clear enough. We are
more than what we do for a living. The core of our humanity is found in
the way we relate to others – our lovers, our family, our friends. I could
go one here, but I won’t. You get the idea.
At a deeper level, the story teaches us that righteousness cannot be
strict adherence to the Torah at the expense of sensitivity to the needs
and desires of other human beings. Torah is not a lover to be courted or
a partner to be idolized. Torah is a sacred path, a way, a beacon of light
to illuminate our lives in the world we inhabit, not just the rarified
world of the spirit. Torah is supposed to lead us toward others, our
lovers, our friends and strangers we meet along the way. Torah exists
to teach us how to be in holy relationship with people.
I have offered you six criteria for a life well-lived – and we have
considered what happens when two or more criteria draw us into
conflict. It seems we need some mediating factor. Halacha, the norms
of our tradition, does not suffice – Rava couldn’t live with the halacha,
and the story of Rechumi cries out against it. I think these six questions
require an overarching principle. I’ll tell you about that tomorrow.
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