Balancing faith and logic, na’aseh and nishmah

If Hashem is giving me something, how could it not be good?”

While Westerners most often view Sunday morning as a chance to sleep late, relax with the family, and catch up on the news, for most Israeli soldiers it can be the most depressing moment of the week.

Every Sunday morning, all over the country, soldiers begin their long, weary trek back to their bases. The weekend is over.

While in officer’s course, they began flying us back to base. It costs an astronomical amount to put a cadet through tank officer’s training, and the powers that be decided it was more efficient and economical to get us back to base faster rather than waste eight hours on buses deep into the Negev desert.

As painful as Sunday mornings were, these flights took us to new depths of depression. Instead of having five or six hours on a long bus-ride to acclimate ourselves back to the reality of army life, we would arrive at the stark, gray, air force terminal, get on a plane at 10 am, and by 11, we were already working on the tanks.

Every Sunday morning, without fail, there were always two Chabad Chassidim offering the guys a chance to put on tefillin. I used to wonder what the value of such an action really was — wouldn’t it have been more valuable to explore the philosophy of the mitzvah, rather than simply perform an action almost divested of any meaning?

Of course, someone wrapping tefillin on their arm does indeed fulfill the mitzvah of tefillin. So what is the relationship between what we do, and our need to understand the purpose of our actions?

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This question of finding the balance between the doing and understanding seems to be very clearly resolved in an oft-quoted verse from this week’s portion, Mishpatim.

The Jewish response to Hashem’s desire to give us the Torah is two words — “na’aseh ve’nishma (we will do, and [then] we will listen).”

The Jewish people, presented with the opportunity to receive the Torah from G-d, rather than question its contents, or explore its values, simply respond that they are willing to accept it, sight unseen. “Just tell us what to do,” exclaim the Jews, “later you’ll let us know what it’s all about!”

Jewish tradition extols the virtue of this moment, describing it as an extraordinary leap of faith, which formed the basis for our relationship with Hashem and His Torah. Indeed, the Talmud (Tractate Shabbat 88a) has G-d Himself proclaim, regarding this statement:“Mi Gilah Le’Banai Raz Zeh? (Who, asks G-d, revealed this secret [used by the angels] to my children?)”

But is this really the ideal? Does Judaism encourage us to completely abrogate the all-important faculty of intellect? Am I not supposed to question?

The Sefer HaChinuch (Book of Knowledge), written by an unknown but widely accepted medieval commentator, was one of the first works of its kind, exploring the philosophical underpinnings of the mitzvoth in the Torah. In his introduction, he suggests that there are those who will suggest that “Tzaddik be’emunato yichyeh (the truly righteous live by faith alone), implying that if one truly believes, there is no need for understanding. To them the Chinuch responds with the verse: “K’sil ba’choshech ye’halech (a fool walks in darkness).” In essence, G-d gives us an intellect, and we are meant to use it.

In fact, one wonders how the Jewish people were meant to fulfill the Torah (the na’aseh, or ‘doing’), without first exploring it. How could they know what Hashem wanted them to do, if they did not first study what the mitzvoth were all about?

This is precisely the question of Rabbeinu Yonah on the Mishnah in Ethics of the Fathers (3:9), which says that the main thing is not the study, but rather the action. Whereas the mishna seems to be pointing out that the purpose of study must always be the ethical behavior it hopefully leads to, here, in our portion of Mishpatim, the implication of na’aseh ve’nishma is that the action precedes the study, and is not dependant on it at all, which seems to be completely illogical.

Even more challenging is what it suggests about our relationship with the giving of the Torah in the first place?

Imagine you are in the process of a business negotiation and are about to sign on a new partner. You prepare a long and complicated contract and get together to share it with him for his perusal. And imagine he walks in and says: “No problem! I don’t need to look at this,” signs the 200-page contract and runs off to his tennis game. You would begin to wonder whether you had the right partner!

So how could the Jewish people, presented with the greatest book ever written, not want to peruse its contents? How could we just accept it on face value, without utilizing the intellect that Hashem gave us, the gift that ultimately elevates us above the animal?

Rav Avigdor Nevehnsal, in his Iyunim on Sefer Shemot, points out that everything depends on who the author is. Obviously, if I were about to sign a business contract, it would be foolish not to examine closely the contents of that contract. But what if the person giving me the contract is my father? Well, then the idea of closely examining that contract is ridiculous. You see, everything begins with the relationship.

If Hashem, who brought me into this world, is giving me something, how could it not be good? So the Jewish people at Sinai were not abandoning logic, they were actually employing the only logical response possible. Every relationship, ultimately, begins with trust, the willingness to allow oneself to be totally in someone else’s hands.

This is one of the hardest aspects of any healthy relationship; to allow ourselves to be vulnerable and even dependent; to admit that “I need you.” And if love is all about giving, then trust is about learning to receive. Relationships are about give and take, about trust.

So back now to that first step: Na’aseh.

If you are asking me, then that is what I will do. And when I later find out what that trust was really based on, then my relationship grows even deeper.

And that is the second stage: Nishma, when I find out what it’s all about. I want to know what Hashem has given me because I want to love Him even more. 

Faith begins where reasoning ends, and that is the balance of na’aseh and nishma.

Love is a good example of the balance between faith and reason. You have to begin with logic, but for love to succeed, you have to take a leap beyond logic. And that’s when love grows.

Love’s greatest moments begin with the willingness to take that leap into the unknown. Yet, it is reason that calls faith to come and take its place at the table.

Ultimately, we need to find the balance of na’aseh and nishma; to discover the relationship that allows us to take those leaps, and to come back to the meaning of those leaps, to allow the relationship to grow.

Originally published in 2013.