Tisha b'Av recalls one of the most terrible events in Jewish history. On August 10 in the year 70 C.E.--the ninth of Av on the Jewish calendar--Roman legions sought to destroy the motive and symbol of Jewish independence by battering through the walls of the Temple in Jerusalem and setting it ablaze. The legions mercilessly butchered anyone who stood in their way, most of whom (as the historian Josephus reports) "were peaceful citizens, weak and unarmed. . . . Round the Altar," Josephus writes, "the heap of corpses grew higher and higher, while down the Sanctuary steps poured a river of blood and the bodies of those killed at the top slithered to the bottom. . . ." Although "the Temple Hill, enveloped in flames from top to bottom, appeared to boiling up from its very roots," this was as "nothing to the oceans of blood"; "nowhere could the ground be seen between the corpses" (Penguin ed., tr. G. A. Williamson, pp. 324-25).
The scene reads like something out of Holocaust literature. To borrow a phrase from the American writer Isaac Rosenfeld, Tisha b'Av evokes a "terror beyond evil." And the terror even more than the evil is what stays with a modern Jew. Why then is parashat Devarim read on the Shabbat before Tisha b'Av? In what way does this parashah recall the terror of that day nearly two thousand years ago?
The traditional answer--at least the answer contained in Midrash--is that this parashah contains Moshe's rebuke of Israel. According to the rabbis, the opening words of our parashah should be read not as "_Eleh ha-d'varim asher diber Moshe el-kol-Israel_ (These are the words that Moshe spoke to all Israel)," but rather "_Eleh ha-tokhahot_ (These are the rebukes)" [Sif. Deut., 1; Deut. R., 1.4]. And there is some logic to this traditional Midrashic answer. As Nahmanides observes, parashat Devarim comes to an end only when Moshe's rebukes come to an end. In rabbinical thinking, the sack of Jerusalem and the burning of the Temple are divine punishment for Israel's disobedience, and this parashah, then, is read as a kind of advance warning. In Devarim, Israel stands ready to be led into the promised land, but watch out--in time it will be led out again, in chains.
I am uncomfortable with the traditional Midrashic explanation. The Midrash depends upon a theology of retribution which, in the wake of the Holocaust, is difficult to stomach. It is true that Lamentations--the book that we read on Tisha b'Av--is founded upon the belief (a belief so deepset it is taken for granted) that Jerusalem is destroyed because Israel had sinned. After Auschwitz, though, we can no longer take this belief for granted. When I read Josephus's account of the oceans of blood and the corpses slithering to the bottom of the Temple Hill, when I am reminded of the heap of naked stiffened emaciated corpses that greeted the soldiers who liberated Dachau and Buchenwald, I do not moan, "Oy! How gruesome, but how deserved, is the punishment of our people for not following the mitzvot!" If Hashem indeed willed the mass death of Jews, in 70 C.E. or in the Holocaust years, then he is not a God whom I even want to obey. The image of those corpses--in Jerusalem, at Treblinka and Majdanek--does not inspire repentance, but grief and terror.
What is more, if you read parashat Devarim attentively you will find that it does not even consist of a series of rebukes. The theology of retribution just does not seem to fit it.
Let's look at the parashah itself, then, and see what it has to tell us. The dramatic situation is this. After thirty-eight years of wandering in the wilderness, the people Israel are encamped on the plain of Moav, just about to cross over into the promised land. "_Eleh ha-d'varim_"--these are the words that Moshe addresses to the people before they cross over. Apparently, since he cannot accompany them, he is going to give them some last words of instruction. Such at least is the implication of v. 5: "_Moshe beer et ha-Torah ha-zot_ (Moshe undertook to explain this Torah)." Nor is this Torah a *new* Torah, for so v. 6 suggests: "_Hashem elohenu diber eleynu b'Horev_ (Hashem our God spoke to us--has already spoken to us--at Horev)," that is Sinai. Moshe is not declaring a new Torah; the Torah had already been declared at Sinai. What he does instead is to explain (or repeat) the already-spoken Torah. Hence the name that is sometimes applied to the book of Deuteronomy, from an expression that appears at 17.18: _mishneh ha-Torah_, "the repetition of the Torah." Translated into Greek, this becomes Deutero-nomos (or "second law").
And yet it is not until chapter 4 that Moshe commences to repeat the law. Instead, he begins by telling a story. In the remainder of this parashah and a portion of the next, Moshe recounts the events from the time Israel left Sinai. He tells of the people's arrival at the promised land, the spies' report of a land flowing with milk and honey, the people's fear and refusal to obey Hashem's command to take possession of the land from its large and fierce-looking inhabitants, Hashem's anger, the people's guilt, their second refusal to heed the warning that Hashem would not be with them if they went up against the Amorites, the crushing defeat they took at Hormah in Seir. And then: thirty-eight years of wandering in the wilderness.
Why does Moshe begin the _mishneh ha-Torah_, the repetition of the Torah, with this story? You will remember that after their refusal to obey his command Hashem had decreed that, except for Yehoshua ben Nun and Kalev ben Y'funneh, the rebellious generation would not be permitted to enter the land. As our parashah observes, "_Ehad asar yom me-Horev . . . ad Kadesh-Barnea_ (It is eleven days from Horev to Kadesh-Barnea)," on the plain of Moav where the people are now encamped [1.2]. Although the journey ought to have required only eleven days it has taken thirty-eight long years. And why? Because the rebellious generation--the generation that escaped from Mitzrayim--had to die out before Israel took possession of the land which Hashem swore to their ancestors to give them.
Those whom Moshe addresses in parashat Devarim, then, are not the same persons who had rebelled against Hashem thirty-eight years earlier. They are, instead, the *children* of that generation. This is why Moshe must teach them the law. Since they were not at Sinai--they were not born yet--Moshe must repeat the Torah to them. But this is also why he begins the repetition of the law by telling the children the story of their parents' generation. Not only must he explain why it has taken thirty-eight years rather than eleven days to get from Sinai to where they are now. More to the point, Moshe offers the story as a prelude and justification for the repetition of the law. It is precisely because the parents rebelled against Hashem that the children need to be taught his commandments.
Our parashah clearly distinguishes between the two generations. On one hand there is "_dor ha-rah_ (the evil generation)" [1.35]; on the other hand there are "your children who do not yet know good from bad" [1.39]. The phrase that appears in parashat Devarim to characterize the second generation does not appear in the original version of the story in Numbers. There the second generation is described merely as "your children who you said would be carried off" (Num. 14.31). Here in Deuteronomy, though, the children are about to take possession of the land. And so it is highly significant that they do not yet know good from bad. Before they cross over, Moshe must teach them. The whole purpose of the book of Deuteronomy is to give them a short course in Jewish law--a Jewish education, if you will--to prepare them for coming into the inheritance that Hashem had promised their ancestors.
At the beginning of the book of Deuteronomy, then, Moshe is no longer the lawgiver, for the law has already been given. He is now the law's *interpreter*. And this is the source of his traditional title: Moshe Rabbenu, Moshe our teacher. Here in the book that Philo calls his last will and testament, Moshe is no longer, as he once did, imparting information which he alone had been given by Hashem. His new role is to teach--to repeat, clarify, explain, expound, rephrase, and interpret the traditional material contained in the Torah to make sure that it is understood by the "children who do not yet know good from bad." He does not *rebuke* them, because they have done nothing wrong. Instead, he gives a historical account of having rebuked their parents. He is not castigating Israel for its sins; he is asking Israel to remember its past.
Two conclusions follow. First, the children do not yet know good from bad; they were not at Sinai; they were not born yet; they must be taught the Torah. An important lesson is being underscored here. Despite the vulgar controversies now being waged over who is a Jew--matrilineal versus patrilineal descent, Orthodox versus non-Orthodox conversions--the fact remains that no one *becomes* a Jew without being taught to *be* a Jew. Jewish tradition does not fall to anyone by accident of birth; it must be obtained by great effort. Hence our tradition's emphasis upon Torah, _avodah_, and _gemilut hasidim_--study, worship, and acts of generosity. Jewish ancestry may be a necessary condition for Jewish identity, but it is not a sufficient condition. What is both necessary and sufficient is the daily activity of keeping faith with our ancestors' deeds--their study, their worship, their acts of generosity--which daily construct us as persons of our ancestors' Jewish faith.
And this leads to the second conclusion. Although the children whom Moshe addresses in parashat Devarim are not guilty of their parents' deeds, they are *responsible* for them. They are not rebuked for what their parents have done, but they must answer for it. I do not mean to propose a renewal of the biblical visitation of sin upon the thousandth generation. What I am suggesting is that the Jewish past demands a continual response from the present generation. In our prayers, we thank Hashem for freeing *us* from Egypt, for giving *us* the Torah--"us," not "them." We were not there, but we are responsible for the consequences of what transpired there. Although the age of the prophets has drawn to a close, although Hashem no longer addresses men and women directly, we can either hear Hashem's voice in the Torah and respond like the prophets--"_Hineni_ (Here I am)"--or we can default upon this responsibility, treating Hashem as if he does not exist, pretending not to hear. In parashat Devarim, Moshe begins the repetition of the Torah by teaching the children of Israel that a new Jewish life--obedience to Hashem's commandments--begins in accepting responsibility for the Jewish past.
And this, I believe, is why parashat Devarim is read upon the Shabbat preceding Tisha b'Av. In two-and-a-half days, we will sit upon the ground and sadden ourselves with Lamentations. We will tell the story of the sack of Jerusalem and the destruction of the Temple, calling to mind a terror beyond evil. Why? What is the good of remembering such terror? I am often asked just this question by students in my classes on Holocaust literature. Why are we reading about these boiling fires, these oceans of blood, these heaps of slithering corpses?
The answer is suggested by parashat Devarim. We are not guilty of the Temple's destruction, but those who perished in its defense demand a response from us. Will we stand with them or not? The stories to which we hearken, the beings to whom we respond, determine the kind of persons we will be. Parashat Devarim teaches the principle and Tisha b'Av establishes its consequence. Will we turn away from the terror beyond evil, or will we identify ourselves with those who went through it? Will we accept responsibility for the Jewish past, or will we abandon that for the sake of which millions have suffered and died?