The law of the ben sorer u-moreh, the rebellious son, is one of the most challenging in the Torah. Due to a series of exegetical moves that make the chances of a child fitting the criteria vanishingly small, the Talmud even presents a position that this law never has, nor ever will, be implemented. Rather, the Torah teaches it so that we can expound it and gain reward (Sanhedrin 71a). 

 

Maharsha (ibid) argues that a central reason that this law is impossible is that it depends on the participation of the parents.  The Talmud justifies the execution of a thirteen-year-old rebel by predicting his future, ala Minority Report. Given his gluttonous and rebellious actions, we can assume that his actions will spiral out of control, leading to violent theft and murder.  However, Maharsha argues, no parent will agree with this assessment, rather believing, hoping, and (ideally) working towards ensuring that their son never reaches that level. [Maharsha bemoans that in his time the final element was lacking, as parents chose not to discipline their children.]

Maharsha’s suggestion, however, highlights one of the deepest tensions in this law that emerges from another comment by Chazal. Probing possible psychological or religious causes for such a son, the Midrash (Tanchuma 1, cited by Rashi to 21:11) constructs the following scenario based on the juxtaposition of this law to those that precede it. Noting that the Torah’s discussion of the rebellious son follows the law of the captive woman, taken and married as an expression of uncontrollable lust, followed by the prohibition for one with two wives, one loved and one hated, to treat a younger son of the beloved wife as the firstborn, the Midrash suggests a cause and effect. If one marries such a woman for lust, he will eventually hate her. In turn, that will lead to his child rebelling.  

This sequence of events heightens the problem noted by Maharsha. While it may be true that no parent would want to have his son executed, especially for a bit of overeating that may indicate a future life of crime, in this case it is worse. Even if the father were to believe that his son will become a criminal, as Chazal present it, it is his fault! Thus, such a parent has two options, both of which would make it unfathomable for him to participate in the judging of his child. First, as Maharsha notes, no parent should or would lose hope in his or her child, though it is that loss of hope upon which this law is predicated. Second, were the father to resign himself to this possibility and give his child over to the courts, in this case it would be the greatest abdication of responsibility. As Chazal understand it, the child’s rebellion is due to the father’s lack of restraint.  

It may be that this recognition is part of what compelled the contention that this law was not intended to be practical, but rather was meant to be understood and its messages integrated. The theoretical parent is one who is willing to understand how any small action, if not kept in check, can lead to a lifestyle of more serious moral failings. Yet, he was unable to integrate that message in his own life, nor accept responsibility after the fact for the results of his indiscretions. Such a person should not exist.  

Yet, while we hope that no parent would have such a poisoned relationship with his child, this dynamic often permeates our interactions with others. We are all too willing to understand our own minor mistakes as isolated incidents, denying that they are, or may become, part of a problematic lifestyle. However, when we look at others, we judge them as if every minor crime is indicative of a systematic character flaw. This often allows us to deny our role in generating problematic situations and relationships. The repentance that Elul demands should push us to do the opposite. In others, we should understand that not every wrong indicates a flawed personality, and even if it does, our approach should be constructive rather than accusatory. On the flip side, when we examine our own misdeeds, we should look for the ways that have become endemic to our identity, or at least, work on ourselves to prevent those missteps from defining the people we become.