Parshas Massai
In this week’s parsha we are introduced to the idea of a City of Refuge, designed to accommodate unintentional murderers until the death of the Kohen Gadol, at which point they may return to their homes. The meforshim grapple with this uniquely Torah concept, trying to explain many facets that at first glance seem counter-intuitive.
For example, the Torah describes at length how the unintentional murderer had no malicious intent, was not scheming and had no enmity against his victim, and yet the verse goes on to call him a “murderer.” Even western law employs the lesser term “manslaughter” when dealing with death caused unintentionally. Why, after the Torah testifies that a man had no evil intent, does it go on to call this same man a “murderer?”
In Maseches Makkos 8b we see that even a father who unintentionally causes the death of his own son must go into exile in a city of refuge. A father loves his son, and surely has no evil intent against him, and yet he too bears the same title of “murderer.”
Moreover, if the Torah testifies that death was caused unintentionally, why is the punishment so severe? Why should the unintentional murderer have to wait — sometimes decades — in exile until the death of the Kohen Gadol?
In the sefer Zichron Meir, Harav Reuvman says that the lesson here is alarmingly straightforward: in dealings with one’s fellow man one must exercise the utmost caution not to cause any harm. This obligation goes beyond the immediate outcome and includes even far-reaching ramifications of our actions. One shudders at the thought of it, but if we take a step without first considering what may be the negative repercussions to our fellowman, any negative outcomes are considered our doing. In the case of our parsha, as unintentional as he may be, the culprit is nevertheless deemed a “murderer.”
Harav Reuvman adds that the greater a person is, the more responsibility he bears toward his fellow man. This is taught by the connection between the unintentional murderers and the Kohen Gadol of their time. The Mishna states (Makos 11a) that the mother of the Kohen Gadol would provide the accidental murderers food and drink so that they would not pray for the death of her son. And if they would pray…? What claim have they against the kohen gadol, and why should their deed be linked to him in any way at all?
Rather, the Torah teaches that in a sublime way the kohen gadol is responsible for cases of manslaughter in his time. As the Gemara states (ibid.), “he should have prayed more for the welfare of his generation.” This responsibility is not limited strictly to the kohen gadol; rather, the greater a person is the more responsibility he bears for his fellow man. [See above source for an account of the punishment that Rebbe Yehoshua ben Levi incurred from heaven after a lion killed a man in his region].
Moreover, the Torah obligates us to avoid more than just our fellowman’s physical injury. We must be careful not to cause emotional distress as well. In Kesubos 62b it states that Rav Rachumi would learn far from home, and came home only on erev Yom Kippur. Once, in the days before
Yom Kippur he found it hard to break himself away from his studies and set out for his home later than planned. His wife noticed that he was late and began wondering if he would return or not, and she began to cry. At that same moment, Rav Rachumi was in a building and the upstairs story collapsed upon him and killed him. Even though he had no evil intent, since he had caused his wife distress this was the result.
What can we learn from this frightening episode? asks Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz. Causing another person distress is tantamount to igniting a fire. Rav Rachumi surely had no intent to pain his wife, and his death cannot be considered a punishment, because his wife would now suffer only more. Rather, Rav Shmuelevitz says that we see from here that causing distress automatically sets off a fire in the world. Just as we run away from fire, so too we should take all possible precautions to avoid causing our fellowman emotional distress. Additionally, we must develop sensitivity to what may be causing the people around us distress, even if they do not let us know.
Great tzaddikim were very sensitive about their fellowman’s feelings, and went to great lengths to avoid causing even the slightest bit of distress. The Chazon Ish writes (in Igros I, 13), “It is a special joy for me when I can cause someone happiness in his heart, and I see it as my obligation that I shouldn’t cause any unpleasantness to anyone, not even for one moment.” When asked once during a difficult time how it was that he could maintain a cheerful mood, the Chazon Ish replied: “How can I not? People are coming to me all the time; how can I let myself upset them, even for a moment?”
Rav Avraham Chaim Brim once arrived at a wedding celebration, and when the band noticed him, they switched to a tune that was known as one of Rav Brim’s favorites. All the participants at the simcha welcomed Rav Brim into the circles of dancing with renewed joy. Only, Rav Brim was troubled. As he entered the wedding hall he noticed a bachur on the stage who was singing a different nigun, and his entry had caused the band to switch tunes, leaving the bachur with no choice but to put down the microphone and join in with the dancing.
“Who was the bachur who was singing before I came in?” Rav Brim began asking people, alarmed at the distress he surely had caused the young man. He asked and asked, but no one had been paying attention enough to recall.
Finally, after the wedding was over, Rav Brim finally discovered the identity of the bachur who had been singing, and he approached him, begging forgiveness for the distress he had caused him.
The bachur was taken aback. “What could the Rav possibly mean? I wasn’t hurt at all by your arrival!”
Despite the bachur’s insistence that he had not been hurt, Rav Brim asked fervently that the bachur forgive him for having deprived him of being able to finish the song he’d been singing.
May we be zoche to gain full sensitivity to our fellowmen!