Judaism has a very strange relationship with the pig. Technically, it is no less unkosher than any other non-kosher food. Yet, in Rabbinic literature and in the popular Jewish imagination, it has come to epitomize everything non-kosher. Even mentioning the pig by name was considered so repugnant to our Sages that it was simply referred to as “davar acher—the other thing.”1
Even more strange is the fact that encoded within the letters that make up its name is a prophetically kosher future. According to its etymological root, chazir, the name for pig, means “to return”—“For our Sages teach us that it will return to become permitted in the future.”2
That’s right—the time will come when pork will become kosher. The pig is, therefore, named not after its past or present status, but after its future state of being.
This begs the obvious question: How will the quintessential nemesis of everything kosher eventually become kosher itself? To answer this question, we first need to understand what makes an animal kosher in the first place.
The Torah distinguishes kosher mammals from others through two specifications: a kosher mammal must chew its cud and have split hooves.3 This disqualifies all mammals that possess neither, or even only one of these characteristics.
The pig is explicitly mentioned in the Torah as the only mammal that has split hooves but does not chew its cud.4 It therefore appears kosher externally, but its internal reality renders it unkosher.
The Sages see in the pig’s biology a symbolic form of deceptive posturing.5 The pig tricks others into thinking that it is kosher by displaying its visibly kosher feature, its split hooves, without possessing the requisite inner feature, chewing its cud, to back it up.
The pig, at present, thus represents a two-faced character—what you see is not what you get.
The Midrash6 describes Esau as having embodied this piggish nature. He would present himself to his father, Isaac, as pious and G‑d fearing, despite the fact that he was actively engaged in immoral behavior and idolatrous practices. He was, in effect, merely playing a role to satisfy what he thought Isaac wanted to see from him.
Transparency is a central value in Judaism. Maimonidies7 lists misrepresenting oneself to others as a Torah prohibition, a form of theft—“stealing people’s minds”—even when it causes no monetary loss. In R. Gamliel’s yeshivah in the city of Yavneh, any student whose internal character and external conduct did not match was not permitted to enter the study hall.8 Even more strongly, the Talmud9 declares that any Torah scholar whose outward expression of righteousness is insincere “should not be considered a Torah scholar.”
However, all hope is not lost for the pig. Reflecting the purpose of creation, which is to reveal the currently concealed presence of G‑d within all, the future messianic age will be an age of transparency, when whatever is concealed on the inside will be exposed, and truth will become ubiquitous. No longer will it be possible to harbor insincere or hypocritical thoughts or behaviors.
Indeed, we are already seeing considerable advances in this area. Thanks in part to the explosion of public information, transparency has become a baseline value that we now expect from financial firms, companies, and elected officials. It is becoming increasingly harder to pretend that you are something other than what you truly are.
Adapting to this change in the world, rabbinical sources teach that the anatomy of the pig will evolve accordingly so that its inner and outer features are aligned, and, as a result, it will become kosher.
In the final analysis, the very animal that is the archetypal antithesis of all things kosher serves as the ultimate reminder that being kosher, rather than merely eating kosher, is a matter of character, not just consumption.
In Jewish thought, it is not enough to eat kosher, one must also strive to be kosher in all that one does.
One day, the Baal Shem Tov instructed several of his disciples to embark on a journey. The Baal Shem Tov did not tell them where to go, nor did they ask; they allowed Divine Providence to direct their wagon where it may, confident that the destination and purpose of their trip would be revealed in due time.
After traveling for several hours, they stopped at a wayside inn to eat and rest. The Baal Shem Tov’s disciples were pious Jews who insisted on the highest standards of kashrut. When they learned that their host planned to serve them meat in their meal, they asked to see the shochet of the house, interrogated him as to his knowledge and piety, and examined his knife for any possible blemishes.
Their discussion of the kashrut standard of the food continued throughout the meal, as they inquired after the source of every ingredient in each dish set before them.
As they spoke and ate, a voice emerged from behind the oven, where an old beggar was resting amidst his bundles. “Dear Jews,” he called out, “are you as careful with what comes out of your mouth as you are with what enters into it?”
The party of Chasidim concluded their meal in silence, climbed onto their wagon, and turned it back towards Mezhibuzh. They now understood the purpose for which their master had dispatched them on their journey that morning.10
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