Human Accountability

By Rabbi Moshe Krieger, Yeshivas Bircas HaTorah (www.bircas.org)

In Parashas Massei we are introduced to the laws of arrei miklat (cities of refuge). These were cities designed to accommodate those who had murdered unintentionally until the death of the kohein gadol, after which they were allowed to return home. The commentators grapple with this unique concept, trying to explain the many facets that seem to be counterintuitive.

The Torah emphasizes that the murderer had no malicious intent. He was not scheming, and had no enmity against his victim. Yet, the passuk calls him a murderer. In Makkos (8b), we see that even a father who causes the death of his own son by mistake must go into exile in an ir hamiklat. A father loves his son, and surely has no evil intent against him. Still, he too bears the title of murderer. Even Western law employs a different term, manslaughter, when dealing with death caused unintentionally. Why does the Torah call this man a murderer, just like anyone who killed intentionally?

Moreover, if the Torah testifies that the death was caused unintentionally, why is the punishment so severe? Why should the unintentional murderer have to wait in exile, sometimes for decades, until the death of the kohein gadol?

In the sefer Zichron Meir, HaRav Reuvman writes that the lesson here is straightforward: in interpersonal dealings, we must exercise the utmost caution not to cause any harm. This obligation goes beyond the immediate outcome, including even far-reaching ramifications of our actions. If we take any step without considering what negative repercussions we might be causing another person, the outcomes are considered our doing. In this extreme case, as unintentional as the act may have been, the perpetrator is deemed a murderer.

HaRav Reuvman adds that the greater a person is, the more responsibility he bears toward his fellow. This is taught by the freedom of unintentional murderers hinging on the death of the kohein gadol. The Mishnah states (Makkos 11a) that the mother of the kohein gadol would gift the accidential murderers with food and drink to prevent them from praying for the death of her son. The implication is that if they would pray for his death, there is a distinct possibility that he would die! Why is that? What claim could they possibly have against the kohein gadol? Why should their freedom be linked to him in any way at all, for that matter? The Torah is teaching us that in a subtle way, the kohein gadol is responsible for any cases of manslaughter in his time, as the Gemara states (ibid.) that he should have prayed for the welfare of his generation.

This responsibility is not limited to the kohein gadol. The greater one is, the more responsible he is for what happens to the people around him. The same gemara tells of how Rabi Yehoshua ben Levi was held responsible when a lion killed a man in his region.

The Torah obligates us to avoid more than just the physical injury of our fellows. We must also be careful not to cause emotional distress. In Kesubos (62b), it says that Rav Rachumi would learn far from home, returning only on erev Yom Kippur. One year, he found it difficult to break himself away from his studies, and he set out later than usual. When his wife noticed that he was late, she began wondering if he would return or not, and it caused her to cry. At that moment, Rav Rachumi was in a building. The upstairs story collapsed on him and he died. Even though he had no evil intent, this was the result of causing his wife distress.

What can we learn from this frightening episode? Rav Chaim Shmuelevitz teaches that causing another person distress is tantamount to igniting a fire. Rav Rachumi surely had no intention of paining his wife. His death could not be a punishment, because his wife would surely suffer even more. Rather, Rav Shmuelevitz says, we see that causing distress automatically brings destruction to the world. Just as we run away from fire, we must take every possible precaution to avoid causing someone distress.

Great tzaddikim are very sensitive to the feelings of others, and they often go to great lengths to avoid causing even the slightest pain to others. The Chazon Ish writes (Igros I, 13), “I feel a special joy when I can cause someone happiness, and I see it as my obligation not to cause unpleasantness to anyone, even for a moment.” When he was asked how he was able to maintain a cheerful mood during a particularly difficult time, he replied, “How can I not? People come to see me constantly. How can I let myself upset them, even for a moment?”

Rav Avraham Chaim Brim once arrived at a wedding celebration. When the band noticed him, they switched to a tune that was known to be one of his favorites. All of the participants welcomed him into the dancing circle joyfully. However, Rav Brim was troubled. He had noticed that a boy was singing the first song on the stage, and due to his entry, which caused the band to switch tunes, the boy was left with no choice but to put down the microphone.

Alarmed at the distress he had surely caused, Rav Brim began asking people who the young man was. He asked and asked, but no one had been paying enough attention to remember. Finally, after the wedding was over, Rav Brim discovered his identity. He approached him, begging forgiveness for the distress he had caused.

The boy was taken aback. “What could the Rav possibly mean? I wasn’t at all hurt by your arrival!”

Despite the boy’s insistence that he had not been hurt, Rav Brim fervently asked that he forgive him for having deprived him of being able to finish singing the song.

May we be zocheh to develop sensitivity to our fellows!

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