Our Gemara on Amud Aleph repeats a well-known scriptural interpretative rule: “Wherever it is stated in the Torah: Guard (hishamer), or Lest (pen), or Do not (al), it connotes a negative prohibition.”

One fascinating use of this principle is understanding the intent of the Ten Commandments’ directive to guard and remember the Shabbos. In version one (Shemos 20:8), we are commanded to “remember the Shabbos.” In version two (Devarim 5:12), we are told to “guard the Shabbos.” Guard connotes a negative prohibition, while remember connotes the positive. The negative prohibitions consist of abstention from work via the 39 melachos, and the positive commandments include prayer and other modes of honor and sanctification.

There is an entire genre of commentary that explains subjectively the various textual differences between the first and second luchos. The Rama (Toras HaOlah III:38) makes a creative and context-dependent suggestion about the discrepancy between the zachor and shamor of the first and second luchos. Since in the wilderness the Jewish people had all their material needs met—between manna, water, heavenly pillars of fire, and clothing that miraculously did not wear out (Devarim 8:4)—they honored Shabbos principally through positive actions, kiddush and other sanctifying rituals. However, the second luchos were given as the Jews prepared for civilian life and would need to farm, hunt, cook, and sew. They now had a new focus for Shabbos: a cessation of the distractions of labor and building in order to honor the Shabbos.

This interpretive genre highlights the subjectivity of the language of the Torah. Even when expressing eternal laws, practices, beliefs, and values, the choice of words or rituals can be based on a historical context. This is how the Rambam famously adopts the linguistic principle of dibra Torah b’lshon bnei Adam (the Torah speaks in the vernacular) to interpret metaphorical ideas as well. The Talmud used this principle in a literal sense, allowing for historical, poetic, and linguistic idiom (Berachos 31b). The Rambam extended it in the Moreh Nevuchim (I:26, 28, 33, 46, and Yesode HaTorah 1:12) to apply to anthropomorphic descriptions of Hashem that are not truly possible, such as regret, anger, and sadness, as a perfect God is not affected and does not change in response to external or even internal cues. Change is a physical matter and indicates composite quality and the potential for deterioration.

Without actually using the phrase dibra Torah, the Rambam takes historical context in the Torah further to explain certain details and practices within the laws of sacrifices, where pre-existing modes of worship from idolatry were utilized to express devotion to God (ibid. III:32). The Rambam says it is against human nature to dramatically change in one shot, so although the Torah abhors idolatry and made certain practices forbidden, others, in God’s wisdom, were re-routed toward divine service, which according to the Rambam includes the offering of sacrifices instead of pure contemplation and prayer. In other words, if Christmas trees were around at the giving of the Torah, God may have used them to celebrate on Succos—or rejected them as too pagan, such as adding honey or chametz to sacrifices (ibid. III:46), or meat and milk during the season of the first fruits (III:41 and 48).

(Notably, the Ramban, Vayikra 1:8, rejects this as a complete underappreciation of the mystical and spiritual secrets of the sacrifices.)

The rishon who takes the principle of historical and cultural context in the Torah the farthest is the Ralbag. The Ralbag faced a dilemma: how could prophecies like Avraham’s vision suggest the stars are innumerable when they were believed to be catalogued according to the science of his time, which he embraced? (He was a famous astronomer, consulted by popes and kings.) In his commentary on Iyov (ch. 40), he proposed that prophets receive divine messages which are then framed by their own beliefs and translated into various symbolic images and words. If Avraham believed the stars were countless, the message he received was that his descendants would be as innumerable as the stars appeared to him. Similarly, the Ralbag addressed verses in Yechezkel which describe celestial music from the heavenly spheres, aligning with the science of Yechezkel’s time but later seemingly inaccurate according to current science.

The Ralbag’s approach can be better understood if we acknowledge the subjective nature of all perception, and that we are constantly interpreting reality according to our frame of reference. We don’t “see” colors; we perceive light wavelengths interpreted by our retinas as colors. Actually, when you think about it, every color is really all other colors on the spectrum except for that color. This is because the material that has this so-called color is actually absorbing all the colors of the spectrum and reflecting back only that particular wavelength, which activates receptors in our retina. Similarly, we don’t “hear” sounds; vibrations in the air are interpreted by our eardrums. Thus, the riddle, “If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound?” is answered: no—it only produces sound waves. Sound exists only when perceived. As we have been discussing in the past few blog posts—and to paraphrase a famous adage—“perception is 9/10 of the law.”

Ironically, the Ralbag’s confidence in the scientific knowledge of his era was misplaced. There are far more stars than he or his contemporaries could have counted, and possibly new stars continue to form. His theological approach remains valuable for reconciling apparent contradictions between science and traditional texts. However, his reliance on the science of his time serves as a cautionary tale about the limits of human knowledge and the humility required in the face of the unknown.