DO YOU RESPECT BOUNDARIES?

In a Liberal temple in Toronto there once was a president of the community who was a nice man but Jewishly, well, he was ritually-challenged. On Rosh HaShanah the gabbai offered him an aliyah; panicked, he said "No no no! I can't read Hebrew, I'll embarrass myself."

The gabbai said: "You HAVE to take some honor, you're the president!"

"Isn't there anything where I don't have to talk?"

The Gabbai thought for a minute and suggested "How about glila?"

"What's glila?" said the president.

"Simple," replied the gabbai, "you just come up after the Torah is lifted, and when the cover is put on, you put on the breastplate and the crown and then sit down."

Relieved, the president accepted the honor.

And so, right after lifting the Torah, the president came up, put on the breastplate and crown, and returned to his seat.

The gabbai came running over and exclaimed:

 "NOT ON YOU, on the TORAH, on the TORAH!!"

This week’s Torah portion Shoftim deals with what is known in Torah law as “hasagat gevul,” or "moving the boundary markers".

The literal meaning of this law is that one must not move the markers, pegs, or any other landmarks that are used to define the boundaries between neighbors' properties. To go in the middle of the night and move the landmarks, or to take some of your neighbor's land for yourself, carries an additional prohibition over and above the normal laws against theft. I must not infringe on your property; I must honor your boundaries and not try to “move them.”

This law gave rise to a whole slew of laws dealing with market competition.

Although the Torah generally supports the free market economy, allowing for competition, creativity, and entrepreneurship, the question does become what happens when I open a business that truly “infringes on your property,” meaning it directly takes away your business to the point that you cannot earn what you need to live, is it permitted?

The Talmud discusses two scenarios. You are a fisherman, and you use a lake to fish. I come by and spread out my net right near your net. Is that permitted?

This is how the question was raised 1800 years ago.

Generally, the consensus among most authorities is that competition is fine, as long as the competitor will not cause the other person financial ruin. Although, as the code of Jewish law concludes, it is the way of the pious, not to cause any financial harm to another person’s business.

Rav Moshe Feinstein rules by the Chatam Sofer that one may not open a business if it will destroy someone else's livelihood.

An interesting case in point was a story in the 16^th century. The chief Rabb of Cracow, Rabbi Moshe Iserlish, known as the Rama, adjudicated a dispute between two Italian publishers who both printed editions of the Rambam's Mishneh Torah. The one who published it first objected to the existence of a rival edition of the Mishneh Torah. The Rama rules against the second publisher, reasoning that all authorities of Jewish law forbid opening a store if it will ruin the original entrepreneur's business. The Rama thus concludes that the second publisher should not be patronized, as he was unfairly ruining the original publisher's livelihood. Only after he finished selling his books, can the second publisher sell his books.   

A story: A follower of Rabbi Meir once complained to him about a man who had started a competing business. “He is depriving me of my livelihood!” cried the chassid. “You must tell him to close his shop!”

Said Rabbi Meir: “Have you ever noticed how a horse behaves when led to a water hole? He begins to paw angrily at the water with his hooves; only when the water is well-muddied does he begin to drink.

Why does the horse act this way?”

“I don’t know,” said the chassid. “Why?”

“Because the horse sees his reflection in the water and thinks that another horse has come to drink his water. So, he kicks and paws until he has ‘chased away’ the other horse.

“What the horse doesn’t understand,” concluded Rabbi Meir, “are three truths.

1) What he sees as his opposition is only a mirror of himself. He is his own greatest enemy. It is his face that he despises.

2) ”By kicking at the other horse all he is accomplishing is making his water dirty and murky. Instead of enjoying clean water, now he will have dirty muddy water.

3) “He also fails to realize that G-d has created enough water for all the horses.”

But this is really beside our discussion today. I want to talk about another form of infringing on boundaries. Not physical or financial boundaries, but moral and spiritual boundaries.

In life, when you have neighbors, associates, friends, and relatives, who may sometimes do things differently than you. How do you not sometimes lose your identity, your values, your integrity, and your holiness in the process?

The answer is: There are the “markers that the early one established.” For 3000 years, Jews always maintained “markers” and “boundaries” that they never crossed. These markers included everything from what we ate, to how we spoke, dressed, and lived. And you must be cautious not to move those markers, because when you move those markers, even a little bit, you may blur and lose the boundaries altogether.

G-d gave us certain landmarks to help us see who we are and where and how we live. When we remove those landmarks, we lose our borders and we lose our distinctiveness.

Long ago, G-d gave us a Shabbat, a day on which the Jew behaves very differently from his neighbors. He gave us Kashrut so that we eat differently, too. He urges us to educate our children Jewishly so that they will understand, feel, and know why they are distinctive.

But if we move those markers, and Sunday becomes like Saturday, and Friday night like Tuesday night things become hazy and young people become confused. And then they wonder why we are suddenly putting up barriers that we previously took down.

A friend once asked a prominent businessman why he, a nice Jewish boy, was marrying out of the faith. Couldn't he have found a nice Jewish girl? The fellow answered, "Rabbi, I just don't mix in those circles anymore."

But had this individual retained the landmark of a kosher home, for example, he would have still been mixing in kosher circles. By preserving our landmarks, we preserve our identity.

A story:  A Chassid once came to the "Maggid" of Mezeritch. "Rebbe," he said, "there is something I do not comprehend. When the Almighty commands us to do something or forbids a certain act, I understand. No matter how difficult it may be, no matter how strongly my heart craves the forbidden course, I can do what G-d desires or refrain from doing what is against His will. After all, man has free choice, and by force, he will decide on a course of action and stick to it, no matter what. The same is true with speech. Though somewhat more difficult to control, I accept that it is within my power to decide which words will leave my mouth and which will not.

"But what I fail to understand are those precepts which govern matters of the heart; for example, when the Torah forbids us to even entertain a thought that is destructive and wrong. What is one to do when such thoughts enter his mind of their own accord? Can a person control his thoughts?"

Instead of answering the chassid's question, The Rebbe dispatched him to the town of Zhitomir. "Go visit my disciple, Rabbi Zev," he said. "Only he can answer your question."

The trip was made in the dead of winter. For weeks the chassid made his way along the roads which wound their way through the snow-covered forests of White Russia.

Midnight had long come and gone when the weary traveler arrived at Rabbi Zev's doorstep. To his happy surprise, the windows of the scholar's study were alight. Indeed, Rabbi Zev's was the only lighted window in the village. Through a chink in the shutters the visitor could see Rabbi Zev bent over his books.

But his knock brought no response. He waited a while, then tried once more, harder. Still, he was completely ignored. The cold was beginning to infiltrate his bones. As the night wore on, the visitor, with nowhere else to turn, kept pounding upon the frozen planks of Rabbi Zev's door, while the rabbi, a scant few steps away, continued to study by his fireside, seemingly oblivious to the pleas which echoed through the sub-zero night.

Finally, Rabbi Zev rose from his seat, opened the door, and warmly greeted his visitor. He sat him by the fire, prepared him a hot glass of tea, and inquired after the health of their Rebbe. He then led his guest -- still speechless with cold and incredulity -- to the best room in the house to rest his weary bones.

The warm welcome did not abate the next morning, nor the one after. Rabbi Zev was the most solicitous of hosts, attending to the needs of his guests in a most exemplary manner. The visitor, too, was a model guest, considerate and respectful of the elder scholar. If any misgivings about the midnight "welcome" accorded him still lingered in his heart, he kept them to himself.

After enjoying the superb hospitality of Rabbi Zev for several days, the visitor had sufficiently recovered from his journey and apprehension to put forth his query. "The purpose of my visit," he said to his host one evening, "is to ask you a question. Our Rebbe sent me to you, saying that only you could answer me to my satisfaction."

The visitor proceeded to outline his problem as he had expressed it earlier to the Maggid. When he had finished, Reb Zev said: "Tell me, my friend, is a man any less a master of his self than he is of his home?

"You see, I gave you my answer on the very night you arrived. In my home, I am the boss. Whomever I wish to admit -- I allow in; whomever I do not wish to admit -- I do not."

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Yoseph Geisinsky