| When responsibility saves lives: Oiri and the lesson of Eglah Arufah Ever since October 7th, Israel has been flooded with stories of courage and selflessness. Some of these stories lift our spirits because lives were saved, while others break our hearts because the hero did not survive. Ori Danino was one of those heroes. He was at the Nova music festival with friends when the Hamas massacre began. As soon as he heard the gunfire, he got people into his car and drove them away from danger. At that point, Ori could have stopped. He had already saved lives and he was safe himself, but Ori realized there were still others who needed help. He turned his car around and drove back into the gunfire. It was on that return that he was captured and later murdered in captivity. What pushes a person to risk everything for strangers, and what can ordinary people like us, who are not facing terrorists or battlefields, learn from this kind of heroism? At the end of this week’s parsha, Shoftim, the Torah introduces a very unusual mitzvah called eglah arufah. Imagine: a man is found murdered on the road between two cities, and nobody knows who did it. The Torah tells us that the elders of the nearest city must perform a ritual asking Hashem for atonement. What’s most surprising is the declaration they make: Our hands did not spill this blood, and our eyes did not see. Are the elders really suspected of murder!? (“our hands did not spill this blood”) The rabbis of the Talmud explain that what they are really saying is that this man did not come to our city asking for food and we turned him away. He did not leave our city without anyone accompanying him. He was not abandoned by us. The elders are not publicly announcing that they didn’t kill him rather, they are affirming that they protected and provided for him when he was in their city. The message is clear. When innocent blood is spilled, the Torah doesn’t only ask, “Who swung the knife?” It also asks, who failed to stop it? Who looked the other way? Who saw someone in need and said, it’s not my problem? The eglah arufah is the Torah’s way of saying that a community is responsible not only for crimes committed, but for lives that could have been saved if only someone had stepped up. Even if you didn’t cause the tragedy, did you try to prevent it? This is a radical idea because the surrounding culture tells us that someone is moral and long as he or she caused no harm. As long as my hands are clean, I’m fine. But Judaism insists that this is not enough. It’s not enough to say, I didn’t spill blood, I also have to say, I did everything I could to prevent it. This takes us back to Ori Danino and what makes his story so powerful. Nobody would have blamed him if he had said, “I saved some lives; I can’t do more,” but Ori chose the opposite. In the most extreme situation, he refused to live with the it’s not my problem attitude. He took responsibility, even for strangers because he knew that their lives depended on him. The objective of the eglah arufah is not about guilt for a crime you didn’t commit, it’s about responsibility for a life you might have saved. Most of us will never be faced with the kind of split-second life-or-death decision Ori faced, but every day, we see people who need help. It could be an older person struggling carrying bags of groceries or a coworker sitting alone at lunch. It might be a bed ridden friend or relative waiting for a call. Do I tell myself that someone else will take care of it or do I take a step forward and say that maybe G-d put me here because I am the one who can help—it’s the daily mindset of a thoughtful Jew. Ori’s brand of heroism didn’t begin in that tragic moment of crisis; it was built from a mindset of responsibility every day; small acts of care and awareness prepare a person to act with greatness when the big test comes. Here’s another story of caring and taking responsibility and how even a child can be inspired to life his life with that at the forefront. Rabbi Berel Wein was 91 years old and passed away last week, but a story he told, a personal story that put him on his life’s path, continues to live on. One of my most vivid childhood memories is of my father taking me with him to Chicago’s Midway Airport to greet Rabbi Isaac Halevi Herzog, the chief rabbi of Palestine after the Second World War. Almost all the distinguished Orthodox rabbis in Chicago came to the airport that day to welcome him. I remember him alighting from the plane and walking down the stairs in his shiny top hat, holding his cane in one hand and a Tanach (Bible) in the other. With his silver beard and aristocratic demeanor, he was a majestic presence. Rabbi Herzog told us he had been to the Vatican and had asked Pope Pius XII to return the thousands of Jewish children entrusted to Catholic institutions in Europe by parents hoping to save them from annihilation at the hands of the Germans. The pope had flatly refused, claiming that since all the children had been baptized upon entering those institutions, they could not now be given over to those who would raise them in a different faith. Overcome with emotion, the rabbi put his head down on the lectern and wept bitterly. We were all in shock, as the enormity of the Jewish tragedy of World War II began sinking in. Then Rabbi Herzog defiantly raised his head and looked at the young men gathered before him. “I cannot save those thousands of Jewish children,” he declared, “but I ask of you – how are you going to help rebuild the Jewish people?” Afterward, when we filed by him to shake his hand and receive his blessing, he repeated to each and every one of us: “Did you understand what I said to you? Don’t forget it.” All my life, Rabbi Herzog’s words have echoed in my ears and soul. Numerous times in my rabbinic career, I’ve been discouraged and downhearted, but then I remembered his words. They have continually inspired and challenged me, shaping many of my decisions and actions. Good Shabbos |
