“Am naval velo hakham”

We are approaching Rosh Hashana. The parasha read last Shabbat was Nitzavim-Vayelekh. Had Rosh Hashana not fallen on Shabbat, the next parasha to read would have been Haazinu. Since Rosh Hashana falls on Shabbat, Haazinu will be read between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur — during the ten days.

And Haazinu itself holds things bound to the time we are in. The last verse of the song ends with vekhiper admato amo — one already hears the word kippur coming. But within the verses of the song themselves there is what to learn for the day we are entering.

On the first day we read in the Torah “and the Lord remembered Sarah as He had said”. Why? Because Sarah our mother, like Rahel and like Hanna, was remembered on Rosh Hashana. So we read their matters on that day.

All of this belongs to Rosh Hashana. What we shall learn now comes from Haazinu, and it too is bound to Rosh Hashana.

We must understand this word, naval. From the rest of the verse — am naval velo hakham, a naval people and not wise — one would spontaneously say that naval means someone who is not wise. In plain language: a fool. The question is whether the Torah uses the word here in that sense, or in another.

The Or HaHaim HaKadosh stands on this question. Rashi, here, does not help us much. And the Or HaHaim says: let us look at how the verse begins.

The verse opens with ha-la-Hashem tigmelu zot — is it to the Lord that you repay this? The verb is ligmol, to repay. Repay what? Evil for good. The Holy One does us only good, and we go against His will.

To strengthen this reading, further on in the parasha we find the same root — nun, bet, lamed.

What does vayenabel mean in that verse? He abandoned the Holy One. That is, he returned evil for good. So we see that the root does not carry the sense of foolishness but of a kindness repaid with ingratitude.

It is not by chance that we meet in Tanakh a figure who bears precisely this name: Naval the Carmelite. His story is told in Shmuel I, chapter 25.

David was then pursued by Shaul. He and his men were hiding in the hills, and among other things they guarded the flocks of that wealthy man called Naval. At one point they hear that Naval is holding a great feast. David sends men to ask him for food and drink, to complete their provisions. The messengers arrive and say that David sent them. And here is the answer.

That is what a naval is. You do not know where they are from? They are the ones who guarded your flocks and herds from raiders, in those hills. David’s servants go back and report all of it. David then grows angry and tells his men: “let each man gird his sword” — and he will not leave even a dog.

Avigail, the wife of Naval the Carmelite, learns of the incident. She knows it is grave. She knows her husband, she knows the goods. And above all, Avigail was a prophetess: she knew that David was destined to be king in Israel, and that from him would come the King Mashiah. She said: I must stop him, so that he does not now go and shed blood.

To save them all from bloodshed she takes provisions and donkeys and hurries to where David is. She gives him what must be given, falls at his feet, and says — among many words of wisdom:

What does the text tell next? In the morning, when the wine had gone out of him, Avigail reports everything to him: what I did last night, I took the provisions and brought them to David, because they are his due.

He hears the thing, no more: his heart dies within him and he becomes like a stone. In today’s terms, he had a cardiac event. Then: and it was about THE ten days, and the Lord struck Naval, and he died.

The Babylonian Talmud says the same: Rabba bar Avuha teaches that these are the ten days between Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur (Rosh Hashana 18a). On the same page, Rav Yehuda in the name of Rav gives another explanation: those ten days correspond to the ten legimot Naval had given to David’s servants. Both readings are in the Gemara; it is the first that we follow here.

Why does the Holy One not have him die at once? He makes him fall ill in his heart, but not die immediately. There are ten days here, and those ten days have been set apart since the creation of the world: they are days of teshuva.

How do we know it comes from the creation of the world? The Egyptians, for instance, reckon by the sun, and the length of their year is three hundred and sixty-five days. And among the Jews, in a year that is not a leap year? Three hundred and fifty-five — the numerical value of the word shana.

The Holy One gives Naval his chance. Here: you have had a cardiac event, you are lying in bed, you have ten days.

What does a normal man do with those ten days? He does teshuva. Why did this happen to me? What was not right in what I did? And he remembers: David’s servants came to me, I denied the good, and I sent them away.

Let us now go to the first who denied the good. Who was it? Adam HaRishon.

The Holy One comes and asks him where he stands. And what does he answer?

The verse does not say “of the fruit”, it says min ha-ets, of the tree. Rashi, in the name of the midrash, teaches that she struck him with the tree until he ate. And even so free choice remains: strike as much as you like, the Holy One said one does not eat — one does not eat.

The Zohar speaks of many directions on the sin of Adam HaRishon. This is one of them: he denied the good. The Holy One gave you a wife to be a help facing you; only yesterday she was preparing everything and doing all as it should be; and at the first mishap you accuse her. Accuse yourself, take responsibility upon yourself.

It is said that whoever denies the good ends by denying the Holy One. What does “the woman You gave to be with me” mean? A man can reach an absurd position and say: what are You blaming me for? The woman You gave me. And from there: the neshama You gave me is what made me sin.

This is a very hard level. It is right to call it effrontery. Denying a man’s kindness leads to denying Heaven’s, and it can go very far.

What is asked of us on Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur is to set a mirror before our eyes and say where we are not in order. And there the answer comes: what do you mean, I lost my temper, but…

What comes out of Rosh Hashana, and of this story of Naval the Carmelite, is that we must make our reckoning and our judgement with ourselves, and not cast them on others.

The moment a man takes responsibility upon himself — I am responsible for what I do, I am responsible for what I did — he is thereby doing teshuva. He understands what must be repaired. And there is a chance that in 5787 he will be a little better than he was in 5786.