On Faith

^{1 Av 5775 | July 17, 2015}

Parshat Mattot-Mase'i

Rabba Sara Hurwitz

President and Co-Founder

As the Jewish people are about to settle in Eretz Ca’naan, the Torah reminds them they are responsible for building cities for the Levi'im. The Levi'im were the religious leaders, designated to perform Avodat Hashem, sacred work. They would not have time to work and could not afford to build their own homes; the responsibility of providing homes for the Levi'im fell on the community.

The Torah goes on:

Not only must B’nei Yisrael build cities for the Levi'im, the Torah mandates that B’nei Yisrael must build open spaces around the cities as well (migrash). The Torah describes that the migrash, these open spaces, must be 1,000 or 2,000 cubits all around - approximately three to four thousand square feet.

But why does the Torah require an open space around cities?

The Gemara (Aruchin 33b) offers an environmental benefit of the migrash. The city itself is zoned for building and the outer area is zoned for agriculture. Residents may plant trees in the migrash, but may not use the area for construction; it is to remain open park land. Rashi, however, offers a more spiritual and meaningful explanation. The open space had to remain undeveloped for aesthetic reasons-- to beautify one’s surroundings,

It is a space where one goes to exalt in the beauty of God’s creations, of the trees, the flowers and the gardens. The beauty is up-lifting. There’s an intrinsic benefit of having an open space, beyond it being good for the environment. It’s actually good for the soul.

In fact, our Torah seems to have a preference for open spaces, classifying them as more elevated space than a city. Consider, for example, some of the first cities constructed in Bereishit: Nimrod, Noah’s grandson, is responsible for building the cities of Bavel, Erech, Akkad, and Kalnay, all cities that ultimately became corrupt. The Tower of Bavel became a paradigm of corrupt city life. Lot chose to leave Avraham, and the open space and settle in the city of Sodom (Bereishit 13:12). And finally, the Jews in Egypt had to construct a city with their bare hands, with the sweat off their backs.

God commanded the people to build cities for the Levi'im, with all of its comforts and potential vices; but to combat the potential immorality wrapped up in cities, they were commanded to build the migrash as well.

Practically, we no longer observe the law of migrash today. After the destruction of the Temple, we were exiled from our land and no longer had sovereign control over Eretz Yisrael. In modern day Israel, when we once again gained authority over the land, the Rabbinic leadership gave thought to how to observe other agricultural laws mandated in the Torah, such as shmitta, and yovel. However, the law of migrash was never reintroduced into the bylaws of the country.

And yet, surprisingly, the majority of the rabbis involved in the Talmud's discussion of the migrash concluded that this law applies to all Jewish towns in Israel, not just to those reserved for the Levi'im. The laws of migrash were extended to all of Clal Yisrael! Maimonides accepts this opinion as law—

And so I wonder, is there anything we can derive from the mitzvah of migrash, the mitzvah of open spaces, even if today, we cannot literally designate large, open, undeveloped areas surrounding our communities?

Perhaps the mitzvah of migrash can be seen as a metaphor for allowing unpopulated, quiet space in our lives. This week, at the Hartman Institute, we are exploring issues of Faith and God. Emunah (faith) for some is tangible and resonates with us daily. For others, the journey towards faith (derech emunah, as Rav Nachman explains), is a lifelong process. I believe that even if we don’t have words to describe faith, we need to create an empty and quiet unpopulated space, like the migrash, where the mystery of the divine can reveal itself and take shape. In the hustle and bustle of our lives, the mitzva of the migrash inspires us to wander into the unknowable essence of God and contemplate all the beauty (and ugliness) that the world has to offer.