Jason Moser
In this week’s parasha of Vayeshev we read about Yehuda and Tamar. Yehuda has three sons, of whom the eldest Er marries Tamar, but Er dies without children. Onan refuses to complete the Yibum by having children with Tamar, and God kills him as well. Yehuda delays marrying Tamar to Shela, the youngest son, as he fears for Shela’s life. As time passes and it becomes clear that the marriage is not happening, Tamar resorts to dressing as a prostitute thereby tricking Yehuda into having sex with her. She takes his staff and signet ring as surety for future payment. However, when Yehdua later tries to pay his debt – the prostitute has vanished. Tamar becomes pregnant, and as this becomes impossible to hide, she is sentenced to death for being unfaithful. At this point she privately sends the staff and signet ring to Yehuda, who publicly acknowledges that she is free of wrong-doing (as she is pregnant from him), and thus the death penalty is reneged. Tamar has twin sons Peretz and Zerach.
We are all see the highlight of the story in the final act, when Tamar is being taken out to put to death and Yehuda finds the courage to admit he was wrong and not Tamar. This is taken, with good reason, as one of the outstanding examples of Teshuva in the Torah.1 Yehuda could so easily have remained silent and no one would ever have known of his role. He had to stand up, admit he was wrong and take the blame for what happened. “צדקה ממני” “She is more righteous than I” or perhaps we would say ‘She is right, I am wrong’ – a difficult confession to make even to oneself, let alone in such a public encounter.
However, I wish to focus on another part of the story. The story is one unit, of 30 verses. It is built in a chiastic structure 2 which indicates that the critical point of the story is in the middle, the dramatic high point. This falls between verses 15 and 16:
טו) וַיִּרְאֶהָ יְהוּדָה וַיַּחְשְׁבֶהָ לְזוֹנָה כִּי כִסְּתָה פָּנֶיהָ.
טז) וַיֵּט אֵלֶיהָ אֶל הַדֶּרֶךְ וַיֹּאמֶר הָבָה נָּא אָבוֹא אֵלַיִךְ כִּי לֹא יָדַע כִּי כַלָּתוֹ הִוא וַתֹּאמֶר מַה תִּתֶּן לִי כִּי תָבוֹא אֵלָי.
What happens at this point? Why is this so central to our story?
I want to suggest that very little actually happens at this time, and that is the central message of the story. I want to base this on an idea I draw from Clayton M. Christensen, How will you measure your life 3:
Unconsciously, we often employ the marginal cost doctrine in our personal lives when we choose between right and wrong. A voice in our head says, “Look, I know that as a general rule, most people shouldn’t do this. But in this particular extenuating circumstance, just this once, it’s OK.” The marginal cost of doing something wrong “just this once” always seems alluringly low. It suckers you in, and you don’t ever look at where that path ultimately is headed and at the full costs that the choice entails. Justification for infidelity and dishonesty in all their manifestations lies in the marginal cost economics of “just this once.”
Christensen illustrates this point with the story of Nick Leeson, the twenty-six-year-old trader who bought down the world’s second oldest merchant bank – Barings Bank - in 1995 after 233 years of glorious history by running up debts that finally grew to £827 million ($1.3 billion). Leeson had access to a special “error account” (a type of account used for storing small errors in trading) to deal with discrepancies which were too trivial for London head office to be bothered with. As Leeson describes it, in order to protect a young trader who sold when she was supposed to buy, he used the error account to cover a loss of £20,000. Thereafter, having discovered the use of the account, he used it to hide a loss of $1.7 million. Leeson followed a "doubling" strategy: every time he lost money, he would bet double the amount that was lost in order to recoup the amount. This had been successful for him in the past, including once in 1993 where he was able to cover a £6 million negative balance in the error account and after which he vowed not to use the account again. However, Leeson had to maintain his reputation as a trading genius and soon found himself hiding his losses there again. As the losses grew higher and higher, Leeson fabricated cover stories to explain why he needed more cash from London.
The beginning of the end occurred on 16 January 1995, when Leeson placed a short straddle in the Singapore and Tokyo stock exchanges, essentially betting that the Japanese stock market would not move significantly overnight. However, the Kobe earthquake hit early in the morning on 17 January, sending Asian markets, and Leeson's trading positions, into a tailspin. Leeson attempted to recoup his losses by making a series of increasingly risky new trades, this time betting that the Nikkei Stock Average would make a rapid recovery. However, the recovery failed to materialise.
Leeson left a note reading, "I'm sorry" and fled Singapore on 23 February. Losses eventually reached £827 million (US$1.4 billion), twice Barings' available trading capital. After a failed bailout attempt, Barings, which had been the UK's oldest merchant bank, was declared insolvent on 26 February. After fleeing to Malaysia, Thailand and finally Germany, Leeson was arrested in Frankfurt and extradited back to Singapore. 4
How did Leeson end up causing such damage – the collapse of a once great bank, his own imprisonment, loss of career and divorce? The answer is that he took the first step – it was just a small one, and it seemed that the consequences could only be minor. However, it blurred the line and then each additional step made it worse. He could have admitted to the first mistake and dealt with the reaction. But it was easier to take the other path, which seemed to have no consequences at all. Each step is a marginal, negligible, change from the previous one. However overall the result becomes vast. Thus began a snowball effect that ended with a spectacular crash.
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practise to deceive!” (Sir Walter Scott).
I think that this is the critical point of the story of Yehuda. Until now, Er and Onen have been wicked and punished for it. Yehuda has taken the decision not to marry Shela and Tamar with an apparently reasonable suggestion that Shela is too young, although the underlying issue is fear for his third son’s life. Despite the passage of time, Yehuda has chosen not to act, to remain passive, since Tamar is far away, returned to her father’s house. However, now he has to decide. His wife has died and he is travelling away for work. He sees a prostitute. It is a small decision, seemingly without repercussions. It is not the overwhelming dilemma of whether or not Shela should marry Tamar, but a simple, mundane, possibly commonplace choice. Should he use her services or not? Surely no-one will ever know. “When Yehuda saw her, he thought she was a prostitute, for she had covered her face”. What should he do? – “He went over to her by the roadside and said, “Come now, let me sleep with you.” The turning point, as the Torah needlessly emphases, is that ‘he went over to her’ וַיֵּט אֵלֶיהָ אֶל הַדֶּרֶךְ . This phrase is unnecessary, and nothing would be missed were it to be excluded. However, the Torah is showing us that Yehuda made a decision – and his decision is to take the low road. From here the tangled web extends and envelops, until someone’s life is at stake. Yehuda could never have imagined that this would be the end result of such a small, meaningless, encounter.
This is the central idea in story. The dramatic turning point from which this tragic story alters course, resulting in the final scene with its resonant “she is more righteous than I”. This public announcement is clearly an act of bravery, an act of repentance to be revered and emulated. However, the root cause that takes Yehuda to this point is the accumulation of small, private, actions, highlighted by Torah as the decision to sleep with a prostitute. One such routine choice leads to an entirely unexpected conclusion.
Our stories need not end with such dramatic effect – but still we need to weigh our every action, even the smallest, as we cannot see where the path will lead.
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I want to build upon a distinction that Rav Soloveitchik makes in his essay Catharsis, where he discusses the difference between classical (Greek) heroism and Biblical heroism:
In his agony the classical aesthete invented the image of the hero. The mere myth of the hero gave the aesthete endless comfort. At least, the classical aesthete said to himself, there was an individual who dared to do the impossible and to achieve the grandiose. In short, the hero of classical man was the grandiose figure with whom, in order to satisfy his endless vanity, classical man identified himself: hero worship is basically self-worship.The classical idea of heroism, which is aesthetic in its very essence, lacks the element of absurdity and is intrinsically dramatic and theatrical. The hero is an actor who performs in order to impress an appreciative audience. The crowd cheers, the chronicler records, countless generations afterwards admire, bards and minstrels sing of the hero. The classical heroic gesture represents, as I said before, frightened, disenchanted man, who tries to achieve immortality and permanence by identifying himself with the heroic figure on the stage. It does not represent a way of life. It lasts for a while, vibrant and forceful, but soon man reverts to the non-heroic mood of everyday living.In contrast to classical aesthetic heroism, Biblical heroism, as portrayed in the narrative about Jacob, is not nurtured by an ephemeral mood or a passing state of mind. It is perhaps the central motif in our existential experience. It pervades the human mind steadily, and imparts to man a strange feeling of tranquility. The heroic person, according to our view, does not succumb to frenzy and excitement. Biblical heroism is not ecstatic but rather contemplative; not loud but hushed; not dramatic or spectacular but mute. The individual, instead of undertaking heroic action sporadically, lives constantly as a hero. Jacob did not just act heroically upon the spur of the moment. His action was indicative of a resolute way of life; he was not out to impress anybody. This type of heroics lasts as long as man is aware of himself as a singular being. 5
The classical hero is the one who steps in to save the day, who rushes into burning buildings, who faces grave danger in battle. The Yehuda who faces the crisis of whether to step forward and save Tamar is the classical hero.
The Biblical hero is different – and here I diverge from Rav Soloveitchik’s treatment of the subject6 . Heroism of the Torah is not to be found in the great acts of daring-do, the one-off events, the historic moments. Heroism is found in the mundane, in the day-to-day - in taking the right decision, however small the decision is – and then taking that decision again and again and again. Each time you choose the high road, the correct path – then ‘the individual, instead of undertaking heroic action sporadically, lives constantly as a hero’.
”The safest road to hell is the gradual one - the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.” (C. S. Lewis)
The story of Yehuda and Tamar is not the story of the heroism of the grand finale. How many of us are likely to be in such a situation, or anything equivalent? The real story, for us, lies in the middle – where Yehuda, as with so many of our biblical figures, fails and falls. He makes the wrong decision – a small decision, apparently inconsequential - and continues on his mundane travels. However, the Torah shows us the impact of each and every choice we make, and rapidly presents Yehuda with the seemingly inexorable chasm of decision when Tamar is to be put to death. Each small choice counts.
This is also a message of the Chanuka lights. We follow Bet Hillel, lighting one candle the first night, and then increasing the number every day. Here too, we are saying – the heroism that we need, the strength to fight the vast Greek army, arises not in a single moment, but is built up day-by-day. By continually choosing good, choosing life, in every small decision that we take, we build the moral fiber needed to keep the flame of Judaism burning across the generations.
1 See for example, Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, https://rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation-vayigash-choice-and-change/ or https://rabbisacks.org/vayigash-5774-unexpected-leader/↩
2 For further details on the structure, see Professor Yonatan Grossman, The Story of Yehuda and Tamar? Three Structures and Three Readings, or Rav Elchanan Samet, Yehuda and Tamar - A Story Within a Story?.↩
3 Christensen, C. M., Allworth, J., & Dillon, K. (2012). How will you measure your life? New York, NY: HarperCollins. See also https://hbr.org/2010/07/how-will-you-measure-your-life↩
4 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nick_Leeson. See also https://www.irishtimes.com/news/the-man-who-broke-the-queen-s-bank-1.31807↩
5 Joseph B. Soloveitchik, “Catharsis,” Tradition 17 (Spring 1978): 38-54, esp. 41-42↩
6 For the Rav, heroism is to be found in capacity to withdraw, to overcome oneself, to purge or to purify one's existence. See Rav Ronnie Ziegler, Introduction to the philosophy of Rav Soloveitchik, LECTURE #7: "Catharsis," Part 1 https://www.etzion.org.il/en/8-catharsis-part-1↩
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