One of the most familiar responses in any discussion of Chumash, particularly when someone proposes an interpretation that differs from the one we learned in school, is the almost reflexive protest: “But Rashi always says over pshat!!!”
Which begs the question: What exactly do we mean by “Rashi’s pshat”? And perhaps more importantly, are we certain that what we’ve been calling Rashi’s pshat is actually what Rashi himself meant by pshat? Because those aren’t necessarily the same thing.
Rabbi Hayyim Angel, who was my second-year chavrusa at Yeshivat Hakotel back in 1988–89, has employed the formulation “It’s not so simple” in challenging assumptions that have become conventional wisdom. I’d like to suggest four variations on that theme, all of which emerge from a rather remarkable place: the first four pesukim of the Torah. And the irony is that we don’t have to search through obscure commentaries or competing schools of interpretation to find them.
We can begin with the very first Rashi.
“Amar Rabbi Yitzchak: Lo hayah tzarich lehatchil es haTorah ella mehaChodesh hazeh lachem.” The Torah, Rashi tells us, really ought to have begun with the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people. Why, then, does it begin with Creation? Because the nations might accuse Israel of stealing Eretz Yisrael, and the account of Creation establishes that God, who created the world, can assign its lands as He chooses. But is that pshat? We’ve barely opened the Chumash, and Rashi has already introduced a Midrash explaining why the Torah begins where it does, rather than explaining what its opening words mean.
All right, let’s try the next Rashi. Maybe now we get to pshat.
“Ein hamikra hazeh omer ella dorsheini.” This verse demands interpretation! Rashi invokes the Midrash that the world was created for the Torah and for Israel, both called reishis. But then he adds something fascinating: “Ve’im basa lefarsho kipshuto” — if you wish to explain it according to its plain meaning.
Wait. We weren’t doing that already? Rashi proceeds to explain why the apparently straightforward chronological reading of Bereishis 1:1 is grammatically problematic.
And we’re still on the first pasuk!
The next comment introduces the Midrash that God initially contemplated creating the world through Middas HaDin, but, recognizing that it could not endure, joined Middas HaRachamim to it. By pasuk four, Rashi tells us, “Af bazeh anu tzrichin ledivrei Aggadah” — here too, we require Aggadah. And once again, he subsequently offers an explanation beginning “Ulefi peshuto.” So here’s my question: Are we at pshat yet?
Actually, Rashi has already answered that question, albeit not in the way we might expect. In Bereishis 3:8, he famously explains that his purpose is to elucidate peshuto shel mikra and Aggadah that properly resolves the language of the text. Not pshat exclusively, and not Aggadah indiscriminately. And certainly not an assurance that whichever explanation appears first must therefore constitute the definitive literal meaning.
Which brings me to four propositions, each of which challenges a somewhat different assumption about what we’re doing when we learn Rashi. The first two concern what we’ve been taught and what we think we’ve learned, while the latter two concern the text itself and the possibility of competing interpretations. They overlap, certainly, but they’re not interchangeable.
And the distinctions matter.
First: Pshat isn’t what they told you it was. This is not necessarily an indictment of our teachers, since elementary education requires simplification, and sometimes the explanation most readily transmitted to a child is not the most sophisticated interpretation available. But what we learned as “Rashi’s pshat” may actually have been a Midrash, an Aggadah, or simply one interpretation among several. And unless someone eventually explains the difference, the simplification can become a permanent misunderstanding.
Second: Pshat isn’t what you think it is. The distinction is subtle but important, because even when we accurately remember what we were taught, we may have misunderstood its interpretive status. Rashi’s first comment is unquestionably Rashi, but that doesn’t automatically make it peshuto shel mikra. Indeed, Rashi himself frequently tells us when he’s moving between interpretive approaches.
Third: Pshat isn’t what it sounds like. Sometimes the seemingly obvious meaning of a verse isn’t supported by its grammar, context, or structure. Bereishis 1:1 is itself Rashi’s opening demonstration, since the apparently simple chronological reading creates grammatical difficulties that he proceeds to identify. What sounds straightforward may become considerably less so once we actually examine the words. Rebbetzin Pnina Benata and her talmid Lenny Solomon once made a hekesh to the SATs: sometimes you have to choose the best pshat. Just as on a reading-comprehension question, where more than one answer might appear plausible, the task isn’t necessarily to find the only interpretation that could possibly be correct, but the one that best accounts for the text. And that means evaluating the alternatives rather than automatically accepting the first one presented, or the one with which we’re most familiar. After all, if there were always only one possible pshat, why would we need so many mefarshim in the first place?
Fourth: There never is only one pshat. Well, perhaps “never” is overstating it, since some texts admit one overwhelmingly persuasive reading, but many do not. And here’s where interpretation resembles the SAT reading-comprehension questions we remember taking, where the challenge frequently isn’t identifying the one plausible answer among three absurd alternatives. It’s selecting the best answer among several defensible possibilities.
The existence of multiple interpretations doesn’t mean they’re equally compelling, nor does the first interpretation encountered necessarily deserve priority. Indeed, Rashi’s own opening commentary provides the perfect illustration: his first explanation is not necessarily his preferred grammatical reading, and his grammatical reading is not necessarily what initially seems obvious. There is a difference between an interpretation being legitimate, being persuasive, and being the most persuasive. And those distinctions don’t disappear simply because the interpretation happens to appear in Rashi.
None of this diminishes Rashi’s authority - aderabba: it requires us to take Rashi seriously enough to distinguish what he actually says from what we’ve become accustomed to saying in his name. [As a mara d'asra of mine put it: "Sometimes Rashi doesn't hold by Rashi."] If anything, the first few pesukim of Bereishis demonstrate that Rashi himself expects us to recognize those distinctions. So the next time someone objects, “But Rashi’s pshat!!!”, perhaps the appropriate response isn’t to dismiss Rashi, or even to disagree with him. It’s simply to ask: “Are you sure Rashi said that was pshat?”
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