September 12th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
In the world of rhetoric, The term ad hominem refers to a logical fallacy in which one attacks one’s opponent rather than the opponent’s argument. In the world of rhetoric, we are taught to identify this tactic and avoid it. If one’s goal is to be, in the words of Quintilian, “Vir bonus, dicendi peritus / “a good man speaking well,” one is urged to find other ways to persuade. Ad hominem arguments are beside the point and unfair.
That being said, we often find ourselves practicing the opposite, trusting someone because we like him/her and not because the argument makes sense. Some have suggested that these arguments be called pro hominem, and we see them all the time in celebrity endorsements. A fun example is Peyton Manning, an outstanding quarterback, a seemingly very likable fellow, and an alumnus of my Mother-in-Law’s high school in New Orleans (Isidore Newman). Nonetheless, one wonders about his expertise in cars (Buicks), pizza (Papa John’s), and credit cards (MasterCard). (Regardless of what cards he uses, I cannot imagine his financial situation and needs being similar to the people hearing his advice.) Nonetheless, we like him, and his smile is very good for a number of businesses.
We should understand the logical fallacy of such behavior, but it seems tied to the human thought process. We respond to people who are likeable, and we are not immune to using such pro hominem arguments when they can work to our advantage. Examples abound in our High Holy Day prayers where, throughout, we ask God to take into account Zechut Avot, the merit of our ancestors. Because our ancestors were faithful and pious, we hope that some of their credit will be transferred to us. We remind God that Abraham, our ancestor (!) was a personal friend of the Lord. In places like Avinu Malkaynu and the Shofar Service—as well as in every Avot v’Imahot we say, we remind God of our long-term family relationship and the fact that God has had mercy on our ancestors and us for centuries. Please, O Lord, given that our ancestors were eminently likeable and holy, and given that you have loved us for a long, long time, could you please go easy on us?
Perhaps this speaks to a desperation in our human situation—that we are all woefully inadequate and in need of mercy. We are never as strong as we wish we could be, never as good as we hope to be, never as resilient as we need to be. We are all weak and vulnerable and in need of Divine Love. Tradition considers our plight and teaches us that God understands—that God looks at our many flaws with Infinite Chen/Grace, Rachamim/Compassion, and Ahavat Olam/Eternal Love. God knows our imperfections, for the Divine is a totally accurate Judge Who sees everything and Whose moral compass is unassailable. Indeed, if the world were judged alone on its imperfection and evil, it would merit immediate and complete destruction. However, God is also possessed of a remarkable measure of understanding and tolerance and genuine affection for us, and God’s compassion always overcomes God’s justice. Thus are we allowed to continue our existence and get another “second chance.”
It is a poignant situation, and our prayers acknowledge this dynamic and invoke God’s kindness to us and our people. However, despite the delicacy of our position, why do we need to resort to rhetorical strategies before God? Why do we need to say such things—to use these ploys—when God already knows about our noble yichus (family relationships), the history of Divine compassion and love, and our own hopes for improvement? God already knows all of the words of our prayers and pleas—about Abraham’s faith and Rebecca’s faith and Moses’ holiness and Ruth’s determination and love. For what purpose do we recite things God already knows?
A psychological hint can be derived from this week’s Torah portion, from the prayer of self-identification that our ancestors recited when they brought their first fruits to the Lord. Most of us are familiar with the passage from the Passover Seder, but its original context was at a harvest thanksgiving ritual:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10)
Were our ancestors reminding God of who they were—sort of like the way we identify ourselves to someone who has forgotten us or never paid attention to us, or could we look at these words of self-identification as reminders to ourselves of who we are? God already knows who we are, where we have been, etc., but do we remember? Do we remember the pivotal events in our lives—and the pivotal people and Influences? Do we remember what we represent—how we are the continuation of an ancient and continuing project in which Divine Energy and Goodness can be present in human life?
Zechut Avot/the Merit of our Ancestors may be seen as a persuasive reminder for the Judge of All the World, but it can also be a reminder for us that we have holiness within. Zechut Avot means that we, like our ancestors, have noble possibilities and that we should have godly aspirations. Though we speak these words to God, the hope is that we listen to them ourselves.
Pro hominem prayers are more than just cajoling. They are reminders that each of us can be a Vir Bonus, a good person, a Mensch, a vehicle that brings godliness to the world.