בנים אתם לה' אלקיכם לא תת גדדו ולא תשימו קרחה בין עיניכם למת
“You are children of Hashem, your G-d. You shall not cut yourselves and you shall not make a bald spot between your eyes for a dead person.” (Devorim 14:1)
The Gemara (Sanhedrin 68a) tells the story of Rabbi Eliezer’s levayah procession, which was traveling from city to city. Rabbi Akiva met up with the levayah on Motza’ei Shabbos and was so upset at the loss of Rabbi Eliezer, his rebbi, that he began striking his flesh in anguish until he was bleeding. He then proclaimed, “‘My father, my father, the chariot of Yisroel and its horsemen’ (Melachim II 2:12). I have many coins, but I do not have a money changer to give them to: I have many questions, but after your death, I have no one who can answer them.”
Tosfos asks: How could it be that Rabbi Akiva was striking his flesh until blood flowed, in clear violation of the verse in Kedoshim (Vayikra 19:28), which is repeated in our parsha? According to Tosfos, in this case there was no restriction because Rabbi Akiva was not mourning the person, but the Torah.
How are we to understand this distinction?
Before we answer, let us ask one more question: When the Torah repeats the prohibition of cutting ourselves in mourning in this parsha, we find the preface of: “You are children of Hashem, your G-d.” Why? The Da’as Zekeinim answers that even if one has lost his flesh-and-blood parent, he must realize that he is not an orphan: He still has a Father in Heaven, Hashem. Similarly, the Seforno writes that it is not appropriate to display excessive grief over a relative when Hashem, a most respected relative, is still there. Indeed, “Banim atem la’Shem Elokeichem,” we are His children and He will be there for us.
Rav Yosef Shaul Nathanson (Divrei Shaul, Mahadura Reviah) also explains the connection. People typically maintain possession of two types of items: those that serve a functional or aesthetic purpose, and those that have sentimental or commemorative value. The difference between these two classes becomes evident when an item breaks. Items kept solely for their practical or aesthetic value are thrown out once they become dysfunctional or ruined. Items of sentimental value, however, are preserved irrespective of their physical form. For example, otherwise valueless shards of glass may be lovingly preserved if they are from a glass or dish used in an important event in one’s life.
In the same way, Klal Yisroel is Hashem’s “treasure”; every Yid is of enormous worth to Hashem, even after he “breaks,” after his death, when body and soul separate. This is because the neshamah still remains after death, and the deceased is simply “broken,” rather than no longer extant. As such, it is unnecessary to excessively mourn the loss of a loved one. The bereaved person is expected to express his belief in the inestimable worth of his loved one even after death, by displaying a degree of restraint in the practice of mourning. The issur against extreme methods of self-mutilation during mourning flows directly from the concept of “am segulah,” Bnei Yisroel’s special standing as Hashem’s chosen nation and treasured possession, which maintains its value regardless of its physical condition.
The Ramban brings out a similar point by directing us to the next pasuk, “Ki am kadosh atah la’Shem Elokecha — For you are a holy people to Hashem, your G-d.” Since we are a “holy people,” who are treasured by Hashem, He will ensure that our souls are not lost or destroyed after we die, but will live on in the World to Come. It is a central belief of ours that although the physical body dies, the spiritual essence of the person, the soul, ascends after death to a higher place, closer to Hashem. It is therefore inappropriate to mourn excessively for a loved one, to the point that we pull out our hair or cut ourselves, for by so doing, we demonstrate a great lack of faith in the eternal life of the departed soul.
The Torah is teaching us to look at the bigger picture. Yes, there was a loss, and a tragic one. But however dear the departed, we still have the love and care of Hashem, and we still have the knowledge that the soul is not lost forever.
But, says Rav Chaim Shmulevitz (cited by Rav Shimshon Pincus in She’arim BeTefillah, p. 39; and in Margolios HaShas Sanhedrin 68a, #605), there are some things that are irreplaceable, for which we cannot receive consolation on their loss. When a person loses something as real, as central, and as lifegiving as Torah, no one can say, “Get over it.” And this is what Tosfos is saying. Rabbi Akiva’s despair wasn’t because he felt he lost a relative, but because he felt his Torah was shattered! He was concerned that he wasn’t able to accomplish and grow anymore; he felt removed from his Torah without Rabbi Eliezer, who was no longer there to answer his questions. For such a loss, there is no comfort. We see from here that the Torah’s rationale for not cutting yourself simply does not apply when Torah is lost.
In the same manner, Rav Chaim Shmulevitz (Sichos Mussar 5731, #19) answers another question. The Gemara (Bava Metzia 84a) relates how Reish Lakish first became a talmid of Rabbi Yochanan and later the person through whom Rabbi Yochanan was able to elucidate his Torah. Reish Lakish challenged every statement of Rabbi Yochanan’s with twenty-four questions, forcing Rabbi Yochanan to clarify and perfect his thoughts, thereby increasing limud Torah. After Reish Lakish died, Rabbi Yochanan was inconsolable. The other Sages tried to find a replacement, but no one was on the level of Reish Lakish. Without his special disciple, Rabbi Yochanan could not develop his learning further. His despondency came to the point that the Sages asked for mercy from Hashem and Rabbi Yochanan died.
Rabbi Yochanan was no stranger to personal loss and tragedy. The Gemara (Berachos 5b) tells us that Rabbi Yochanan lost ten children, and that he would console others who suffered their own losses by showing them a bone of his tenth son. When he, a fellow sufferer, told them, “Don’t worry. You can get over it,” they could accept his words.
How was Rabbi Yochanan able to get over the loss of ten sons, yet unable to get over the loss of Reish Lakish?
In line with what we said earlier, we can understand that if a person can no longer achieve what he was able to in Torah, he is beyond consolation. One cannot say to him, “Get a perspective, get a grip!” Without the student who helped him truly understand Torah, Rabbi Yochanan felt lost. This is as the Rambam states (Hilchos Rotzei’ach U’Shemiras Nefesh 7:1), that the lives of scholars and Torah seekers without Torah are like death. Rabbi Yochanan had the right perspective; when need be, he was able to console others. But when his talmid died, he realized that something truly irreplaceable had been lost.
With this, we can understand another meaning of the pasuk cited from our parsha. Chazal (Yevamos 14a) derive an additional prohibition from the words, “Lo sisgodedu”: “Lo saasu agudos agudos — Do not band yourselves in groups.” You cannot have one beis din with divergent views, or two batei din in the same city, each with a different viewpoint: one following the opinions of Hillel and one following the opinions of Shammai. We are supposed to be united, not divided into splinter groups, each following its own path and doing its own thing.
The Maharal (Gur Aryeh Devorim 14:1) questions the propriety of an interpretation so far removed from the simple meaning of the pasuk. In addition, he asks: How does the second part of the verse, not to make a bald spot between one’s eyes when mourning the dead, fit with not making separate groups? The pasuk seems to be discussing a reaction to death, not the fractionalization of Klal Yisroel. The Maharal explains that just as a gash divides the body of man, so that his flesh is no longer one and unified, so it is when a beis din has divergent views. It is as a body of man divided.
According to the Maharal, “Banim atem la’Shem Elokeichem” means that our relationship with Hashem is so close and special that something essential about Him is reflected in us. And one of the most fundamental things we can say about Hashem is that He is One. Thus, the idea of cutting oneself into pieces when faced with tragedy and the idea of dividing the community into pieces, are both antithetical to this idea of oneness. We have to exhibit wholeness and unity within ourselves, and within the community, because this is Hashem’s characteristic.
Rav Yisroel Freund (rav of Sasregen, in a hesped on Rav Moshe Greenwald of Chust, recorded in Alufei Yehudah/Kuntrus She’eiris Yisroel, p. 25) spoke about how, with the loss of a tzaddik, and certainly one who was a source of guidance and halachah, there is a concern of fractionalization. Until now, we had a posek with whom to take counsel; he was our guide and inspiration. With his loss, where will we turn? As long as Hillel and Shammai were alive, there were only three arguments within Klal Yisroel (Shabbos 14b). With their death, divisiveness ensued, with what was then the appearance of two Toros, the extreme of “Lo saasu agudos agudos.”
Accordingly, the Torah tells us “Lo sisgodedu”: not to cut ourselves and also not to split into groups. We are not supposed to have division and discord in halachic issues; we are also not supposed to cut ourselves over a loss. However, when the loss is so tragic, when we lose a gadol and posek, and divisions will inevitably ensue, things are different. That is a loss that runs so deep that we may cut ourselves, just as Rabbi Akiva did.
As much as we recognize that our Father in Heaven always remains, and that excessive mourning is uncalled for, we still have a set of guidelines governing the appropriate mourning for a deceased relative. It is said that Rav Yitzchak Hutner shared a profound observation, which gives a new insight into precisely what the loss of a parent means.
The aveilus for a parent is for an entire year, whereas the mourning for other relatives — spouse, siblings, or children — is for thirty days. While the loss of a parent is indeed painful and tragic, it is still the way of the world and something to be expected. After (hopefully) a long and rewarding life, the parent goes the way of all living people and passes on. Losing a young sibling or child or spouse, however, is often more painful, since it is unexpected and out of the norm. So why is aveilus for a parent, who dies in old age, more severe than for a child, who was cut down in his prime? Shouldn’t the length of aveilus be proportionate to the sorrow of the loss?
Rav Hutner is reported to have explained that the mourning over the loss of a parent is not so much for the personal pain, but for the loss of a link in the chain to Har Sinai. We mourn because of the loss of the connection to the person who brought us closer to HaKodosh Boruch Hu, the person who was our bridge to the generation before, and all generations going back all the way to the Avos. Our mourning is not only personal, but spiritual in nature. The grief over such a loss does indeed require one year of aveilus. (R’ Avraham Bukspan, Classics and Beyond 2)
