13. The Phylactery of the Arm

The question is the same in both cases: “If a man does not have an arm, is he still obligated to wear the teffilin of the head?”

But in the first case, the question is asked by a student in his yeshiva’s beit midrash.

In the second case, the question is asked by a man whose son lost his arm in a car accident.

In the former case, the student will be directed to the first mishna in the fourth chapter of Menachot. He will read that the teffilin of the head and the teffilin of the arm stand alone as separate entities. If he is interested, he will pursue the matter further. He will look at TB Menachot 44a and, most likely, will be intrigued by the gezeira presented there by Rav Chisda. He may consider looking at 36a, which discusses a connection between the teffilin of the head and the teffilin of the arm, and Rashi and Tosfot there. He will see that Sefer HaChinuch (421, 422) and Sefer HaMitzvoth (12, 13) count two separate Biblical obligations. This should be enough for the student: he has his answer.

In the latter case, the question is asked not out of curiosity but out of necessity. A practical issue has presented itself. The father would much rather not be asking the question. He gains no joy from the process of the investigation, feels no pride in finding an interesting Tosfot on 36a, no satisfaction in the hunt. When the answer is given to him, he does not bask in the sensation of a completed circle, a mystery solved. Instead he asks a follow-up question that the student did not ask:

“Can I help him?”

When you think about the case in real terms, this corollary halachic question flows naturally from the previous question. With only one arm, the process of putting on, taking off and wrapping the teffilin of the head could be challenging; what, if anything, must be done exclusively by the wearer of the teffilin to fulfill the mitzvah and permit the recitation of the bracha? When presented with this question, the student might ask, “How did I miss that?” But, unsolicited, will such a question be asked in the world of the modern beit midrash? (I refer to the ‘modern’ beit midrash not to intimate a study hall decorated with state-of-the-art computers or flat-panel television screens, but to distinguish between the beit midrash I have witnessed in reality and the longed-for beit midrash of the gemara and Jewish lore.)

And even if the question is asked, will it contain within it the emotion evident in the father’s question? Will it be weighed down by the density of human frailty and mortality? Will it press forth from the mouth of the student solemnly, directly, quickly? Will the student know the relative insignificance of this one question in the face of all that is lost, will be lost, cannot be regained? And will the student recognize the importance of this question, its essentiality? Will the student ingest this duality and breathe it?

Or will the student hide behind the walls, tables, books and see only a game, a Mensa challenge of the mind, a contest to determine who is wisest, who is sharpest, who belongs and who does not?

We have a religion now that is so largely untouched practically: we do not have a Sanhedrin; we do not offer sacrifices to God, neither daily nor as a means of individual penitence nor on holidays; we cannot observe the majority of the laws pertaining to ritual purity; et cetera. How can we study the minutia of tzara’at or the idiosyncrasies of Pesach Sheini and feel involved? How can we expect that this detachedness won’t infiltrate even the most practical matters of Halacha today?

There is a contention that a person cannot attain knowledge of something until he/she has experienced it. There is, obviously, some validity to this argument. But it can also serve to excuse indolence or cowardice in thought. No one can experience everything. But the brave, steadfast soul will know far more than can be marked by its experiences.

There is no need to disregard the aspects of Judaism that now appear irrelevant. The opposite: to ignore these significant facets of Orthodoxy is to consciously dismiss crucial parts of a unified system. But we have a tendency to allow the ‘dead’ parts of our religion to remove the life from the ‘living’ parts when in fact it should be the reverse.

In every halacha, every moral lesson, every story in the gemara, there is life—tragedy and ecstasy—but it’s our choice whether and to what extent we choose to experience this life. If we choose to avoid the reality of what we study, if we turn Halacha into a theoretical exercise, we do a disservice to the system. It is not designed to exist, certainly not designed to thrive, isolated from nature and society. But even more so, we do a disservice to ourselves. If we avoid the truth of what we learn while we are in the holy structure of the beit midrash, we will form a disconnect between the (apparently) abstract world of the study hall and the concrete world outside. The beit midrash should prepare us for existence but it is powerless to do so if we do not let the words of Torah enter and affect us.

Torah can be used to uplift or distract or, even, to entertain. But to use Torah in this manner shows a great disrespect for the Halachic system. It is not meant to provide us with a world to turn to when the world we live in proves difficult. If you cannot bring your shoes with you into the beit midrash, there is something wrong with your shoes. And if you have encountered something distressing, sit it next to you while you learn. Perhaps you will find that you have been investigating that very issue in the gemara you are studying. And you will wonder, “How did I miss that?”