It all starts with a verse from Ecclesiastes (12:11): "The words of the wise are like goads, and like nails well fastened are the collectors of wisdom; they are given from one shepherd."
The Rabbis, in their insightful way, unpack this verse layer by layer. First, "The words of the wise are like goads [kadorvonot]." But what exactly is a goad? Here, the Midrash, the ancient rabbinic commentary, offers a surprising comparison: "like a girls' ball [kadur shel banot]." Imagine a group of girls passing a ball, never letting it fall to the ground. That's how the wisdom of the Torah is passed down, generation to generation. It's a living tradition, always in motion, always being held and cherished. As it says in Joshua (23:14), "not one word of it has fallen short."
The Midrash beautifully illustrates this transmission: Moses received the Torah from Sinai, and he passed it on to Joshua, who passed it on to the elders, and so on, all the way to the members of the Great Assembly. It's a chain of knowledge, a relay race of wisdom.
But the image of the "goad" goes even deeper. A goad, you see, is a tool used to guide an ox while plowing. It directs the animal towards a specific purpose. Similarly, matters of Torah, the Midrash tells us, guide our hearts "from the path of death to the path of life." The text even gives us three names for this goad: dorvan, malmad, and marde’a. Malmad, because it trains [melamed] the cow; marde’a, because it imparts knowledge [moreh de’a] to the cow; dorvan, because it causes understanding to dwell [dayer bina] in the cow.
Think about that for a moment. If we use a goad to guide an animal, how much more should we use the wisdom of the Torah to guide ourselves, especially against our own "evil inclination," that inner voice that tempts us away from what's right? It’s a powerful a fortiori argument – if we care enough to guide an animal, surely we should care enough to guide ourselves.
Now, let's turn to the second part of the verse: "and like nails well fastened [netuim]." Why "nails" and not "trees," since the word netuim is more commonly used for planting trees? The Midrash explains that the Torah has the advantage of both: like a plant, it can grow and flourish within us, producing more knowledge and understanding. But also, like a nail, it remains firmly ingrained in us.
There's also a more sobering interpretation: even if someone stumbles and is reprimanded by the Sages, even if they repent, the impression of their actions remains. But then the text offers an exception, referencing the story of Rabbi Eliezer, who was ostracized but whose teachings were ultimately accepted even after his death (Bava Metzia 59b). This shows that even when someone is ostracized, the truth of their wisdom and teachings can endure and ultimately prevail.
Finally, the verse mentions "the collectors of wisdom [baalei asupot]." When are matters of Torah stated properly? When they're heard in gatherings [asupot]. The Midrash emphasizes the importance of community and learning from one another. Hearing wisdom from anyone in the community is like hearing it from a Sage. And it builds, step by step: hearing it from a Sage is like hearing it from the Sages, from the Sanhedrin, from Moses himself!
And ultimately? It's like hearing it from the Holy One, blessed be He, as it is stated: “Shepherd of Israel, listen” (Psalms 80:2). Because, as we say in the Shema, "Hear Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one" (Deuteronomy 6:4). The source of all wisdom, the ultimate shepherd.
The Midrash then veers into a seemingly unrelated discussion about spiked sandals and the number of spikes one is allowed to wear on the Sabbath. It cites a Mishna from Shabbat (6:2), and then various Rabbis chime in – Rabbi Yoḥanan, Rabbi Dosa ben Ḥananya, Rabbi Ḥanina, Rabbi Yosei ben Ḥanina, Rabbi Ze’eira, and Rabbi Ḥiyya.
Why this sudden detour into sandal regulations? Because the verse mentions nails! And the Rabbis, in their meticulous way, connect everything. The number of spikes, some suggest, corresponds to the books of the Torah, the days of the week, or the months of gestation. Rabbi Ḥiyya even suggests placing eleven spikes on one side and thirteen on the other, corresponding to the twenty-four books of the Bible. The details matter.
So, what are we left with? The Torah is dynamic, passed down through generations like a ball. It guides us like a goad, protects us, and becomes ingrained in us like a nail. It is best learned in community, ultimately coming from the One Shepherd. And even the smallest details, like the number of spikes on a sandal, can hold profound meaning. It's all connected, a beautiful and intricate tapestry of wisdom. What part of this inheritance will we choose to pick up and carry forward?