Jewish tradition wrestles with these questions constantly. Take, for example, the difficult case of the mamzer.

The mamzer, often translated as "illegitimate child," occupies a complicated space in Jewish law. And in Vayikra Rabbah, a collection of rabbinic homilies on the Book of Leviticus, we find some startling perspectives on their fate.

Rav, a prominent sage, goes so far as to say that a mamzer never lives more than thirty days. Then Rabbi Ḥunai adds another layer: that once every seventy years, God brings a great plague upon the world to "eradicate the mamzerim," and, tragically, "takes the upright with them" in the process.

Harsh, right? Where does such a view come from?

The source cited is Isaiah 31:2: “He too is wise, and He brings misfortune.” The text points out that the verse should have said, "He brings good." The implication? Even when God brings misfortune, it's done with wisdom. And, crucially, "He does not retract His words" – or in this case, "He does not remove His plague."

But why? The text continues, "He will rise up against the house of evildoers." Vayikra Rabbah understands this to mean that God uses plagues to eliminate the mamzerim, but in a way that doesn't publicly shame them or their families. By taking them during a widespread plague, their deaths are less pointed, less stigmatizing.

It's a controversial idea, to be sure. But notice the concern: to minimize public embarrassment. Reish Lakish, another important rabbi, reinforces this idea with a parallel. He points out that Leviticus 6:18 states, "In the place where the burnt offering is slaughtered, the sin offering shall be slaughtered." Why? "So the sinners will not be publicized." Again, the emphasis is on protecting individuals from public shame, even in matters of sin and atonement.

Reish Lakish then moves into a fascinating litany of figures – some whom "one mentions and blesses," and others whom "one mentions and curses." The Hebrew word used here, meshaḥakin, literally means "crushes." It reflects a custom where people would respond to the name of a wicked individual by saying, "may his bones be crushed."

The examples are striking:

We bless: Betzalel, son of Uri, son of Ḥur, the artisan who built the mishkan (Exodus 31:2). We curse: Akhan, son of Karmi, who violated the ban in Joshua 7.

We bless: the children of Levi (Numbers 3:15). We curse: Amalek (Deuteronomy 25:17).

We bless: Mordekhai (Esther 2:5). We curse: Haman (Esther 7:6).

The list goes on, contrasting figures like David and Yerovam, Elkana and Mikhaihu, Oholiav and Shelomit. What's the point?

Perhaps it's a reminder that history remembers both the righteous and the wicked. That our actions have consequences that reverberate through generations. And maybe, just maybe, it's a cautionary tale about the power of our words – the power to bless and the power to curse. Even, or perhaps especially, when we think we're acting with wisdom.

This passage from Vayikra Rabbah leaves us with more questions than answers. How do we reconcile divine justice with human suffering? How do we balance the need for accountability with the imperative to protect human dignity? And how do we ensure that our pursuit of justice doesn't inadvertently perpetuate cycles of shame and blame? These are the kinds of complex, uncomfortable questions that Jewish tradition invites us to grapple with, even today.