The Yalkut Shimoni, a fascinating compilation of Midrashic teachings (Midrash means interpreting scripture) and rabbinic commentary on the entire Hebrew Bible, sheds some light on this, specifically in section 788 on the Book of Torah. It explores the verse that speaks of someone "falling upon" another and causing death. Whoa! What does that even mean legally?
The Yalkut Shimoni presents us with a series of very specific scenarios to help us understand. Imagine this: someone is spinning a heavy grinding stone, you know, one of those massive things they used to grind grain. And… tragedy strikes. The stone slips and falls, killing someone. Or picture this: a guy is dragging a barrel, and the rope snaps! The barrel rolls back and, horrifically, crushes someone. Or even someone descending a ladder, and the ladder falls and kills someone.
In these cases, says the Yalkut Shimoni, the person indirectly responsible – the one spinning the stone, dragging the barrel, or climbing the ladder – is exiled. Exiled! That sounds harsh. But it wasn't necessarily seen as purely punitive. Exile served as a form of atonement and also protected the accidental killer from potential revenge by the victim's family.
But then, the text throws a curveball. What if the person is pulling the grinding stone, and it falls on them, killing them? Or they're carrying a barrel and the strap breaks, and it falls on them? Or they're climbing a ladder, and it falls and kills them? In those cases, there’s no exile. Why the difference?
The Yalkut Shimoni spells it out: the key is whether the cause of death is a descending object. If so, exile. If not, no exile. Simple. (Well, maybe not simple, but at least a clear distinction.)
From where do we get this rule? Shmuel says that the verse "And he fell upon him and died" implies that the manner of falling must be in a "customary manner." Meaning, it’s the natural consequence of an action, not a bizarre or unforeseeable event. "And he fell" also includes the case of someone who leaped into a well, but "And he died" teaches that the person killed wasn’t an enemy and didn’t seek harm in court. Basically, we're dealing with a pure accident.
But the text doesn't stop there. It delves into the nuances of relationships and biases. The Sages taught that the verse "And he is not his enemy, he shall testify for him, and he does not seek his harm, he shall judge him" is crucial. How do we know someone isn't an enemy? If they hate someone, then they're an enemy! But what if they love someone? The Yalkut Shimoni uses a fascinating logical deduction: "If he hates someone because he is distant from him, then he also loves someone because he is close to him."
So, impartiality is key. Which brings us to another intriguing point. What if the person in question is a judge? Or, as Issi ben Yehuda points out, what if we have two Torah scholars who hate each other? Should they sit together in judgment? Absolutely not! The text tells us that "From here we learn about two Torah scholars who hate each other and should not sit together in judgment." Bias, even intellectual bias, can cloud judgment and lead to injustice.
What I find so compelling about this passage from the Yalkut Shimoni isn’t just the legal reasoning, but the deep understanding of human nature it reveals. It's a recognition that accidents happen, but that responsibility, relationships, and even subconscious biases all play a role in how we understand and respond to those accidents. It's a reminder that justice isn't just about applying rules, but about understanding the complex web of human connections and motivations. the next time you consider cause and effect - and perhaps how our relationships influence our judgements.