Rabbi Yehuda and Rabbi Nehemiah suggest a fundamental principle: punishment, at its core, is unproductive. It doesn't bear good fruit. Goodness, on the other hand, does generate more goodness, echoing the verse in Hosea (10:12): "Sow righteousness for yourselves, reap the fruit of unfailing love."
So, how does God deal with our imperfections? The Midrash Tehillim offers a beautiful, almost poetic, explanation. God, in a sense, "collects" a person's sins, but then gives them their reward. It's a delicate balance. Even when punishment is meted out, it's less than we deserve, as we find in Ezra (9:13): "You, our God, have punished us less than our sins deserved."
Now, picture this: Rabbi Elazar and Rabbi Yosei bar Hanina paint a vivid image. Imagine a hand holding scales. On one side, sins; on the other, merits. What does God do? The Midrash tells us He inclines the scales toward mercy. It’s that unfailing love, that chesed, tipping the balance. And Rabbi Yosei bar Hanina adds another layer: God snatches the "bill of sins" in one hand, and immediately the merits are decided. Poof! Gone! It reminds us of Micah (7:18): "Who is a God like you, who pardons sin and forgives the transgression of the remnant of his inheritance?"
But what about intention? Does God judge us on what we intend to do, or only on our actions? This is where it gets even more interesting, especially when comparing Jews and gentiles. Rabbi Nehemiah argues that if a non-Jew intends to commit a transgression, God considers it as if they actually did it. He bases this on the verse in Deuteronomy (26:5): "An Aramean tried to destroy my father." Laban never actually destroyed Jacob, but his intention was enough to be held accountable.
However, if a non-Jew intends to perform a mitzvah (a good deed), it’s not counted until they actually do it, as we see in Daniel (6:15). It’s only "even until the sun rose" – until the act was completed – that it was considered.
For an Israelite, it's different. If an Israelite intends to commit a sin but doesn't do it, God doesn't record it. As Micah (2:1) says, "Woe to those who devise iniquity and work evil upon their beds"—the emphasis is on the working of evil, not just the devising. David echoes this sentiment in Psalms (66:18): "If I had seen iniquity in my heart, the Lord would not have heard me." The intention, the thought, matters less if it doesn't translate to action.
On the flip side, if an Israelite intends to perform a mitzvah but is prevented from doing so, God considers it as if they had done it! Think about David. He yearned to build the Temple, but he wasn't the one chosen for the task. Yet, the psalm dedicating the Temple is ascribed to him: "A psalm, a song for the dedication of the House, by David" (Psalms 30:1). His heartfelt intention was enough.
The Midrash concludes with a powerful lesson: anyone who is deeply distressed or concerned about something is, in a sense, "called" by that thing's name. Just as Moses, who was so invested in the Torah, is forever linked to it: "Remember the Torah of Moses, My servant" (Malachi 3:22). Similarly, David's connection to the Temple endures through the psalm attributed to him.
So, what does all of this tell us? Perhaps it's that God sees our hearts, our intentions, and our efforts, even when we fall short. It's a comforting thought, isn't it? It emphasizes the importance of intention, particularly for those striving to live a life of mitzvot. We are reminded that even when circumstances prevent us from fully realizing our good intentions, the Divine sees and values the desire. The scale isn't just about actions; it's about the heart behind them.