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Between the Mountain and the Moment

The last words of the Ten Commandments resound from Sinai and the narrative of revelation continues:  All the people saw the thunder and the lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance (Exodus 20:15). Modern translators, wanting to align the senses, retreat from the awkward verb by saying:  All of the people perceived the thunder and the lightning.

One ancient version of the sacred text (the Samaritan Torah) sorts out perception by saying:  All of the people heard the thunder and saw the lightning.

Rabbi Ishmael, a sage of the 2nd century, addressed this verse’s confusion of the senses:  They could see that which was visible and hear that which was audible.  For Rabbi Ishmael, the Torah speaks in human language; reason draws the line between the literal and figurative. One can only see that which is see-able.

His colleague, Rabbi Akiba, disagreed. Rabbi Akiba said:  They could both see and hear that which was visible. When God spoke at Sinai, Akiba insisted, senses overflowed their banks; sight and sound inseparable.

(Click here for biblical text and midrash)

The Israeli poet, Rivka Miriam, expanded Rabbi Akiba’s view to include all of the senses:

A semblance of mountain returned to Sinai
even as the visions remained in Moses’ ears, and in his eyes the shofar and thunder sounded still

and the sixty myriad of their faces were still buried, trembling against his chest

touch still in their nostrils, taste still in their hands

and then, like opening a sack or a purse, the Torah loosened her knots before them

with her letters slowly blotting confusion from their expression, as with a kerchief
.

(Click here for Rivka Miriam poem in Hebrew and English)

As the divine words fade, the people are fearful and confused in the presence of a revelation too deep and high for individual senses to hold; vision resounds, smell and taste elaborate touch. The mountain had expanded to become a moment. Only now, as the poem opens, does the mountain begin to regain its former state. As each sense reclaims its own way of knowing, an unexplainable wholeness becomes only the sum of its many parts.

Torah takes her place precisely here, where the more and the mundane meet, where the meta and the physical join. Precisely now she opens her sack, her purse. With her letters, she blots away confusion and becomes the text that mediates between the mountain left behind and the moment to be met.

Posted in Holidays, Midrash, Poetry, Torah | 1 Comment

The Perfect Search

The Mishnah describes how we conclude the search for leaven on the eve of Passover eve:

With the last light of the fourteenth of the month, we search out the leaven by the light of a lamp.  Any place where we do not bring leaven does not require searching…

We need not worry that a weasel has dragged something leavened from one house to another or from one place to another.  For if this were so, it could have been from one courtyard to another or from one town to the next and the matter would have no end.

(Click here for the mishnah in Hebrew and English)

The ancient text brings to light and addresses a very real worry:  It is possible to become obsessed with the Torah’s commandment to remove all leaven from your homes (Exodus 12:15).  

Here, on the eve of Passover eve, the ancient text describes a ritual that redeems us from endless search, or else the matter would have no end.  We would be endlessly enslaved to the commandment.  Going forth from the obligation/ y’tziah mi-y’dei chova sets the stage for going forth from Egypt/ y’tziah mi-Mitzrayim.

As daylight gives way to lamplight, the final search for leaven is not a scrupulous hunt in the bright sun of clear distinction.  In the end, it is the shadow that reveals, in our day, a few pieces of bread strategically hidden so as to be found.  More for the soul than for the search, this is an act of both obedience and freedom.  We have done the best that we can; there must be an end in order to make a beginning.

We declare closed the search for leaven, but the “yeasty” symbol of a candlelight quest continues to rise into new meaning.

The poet, Yehuda Amichai, watched his father light his lamp from the Mishnah’s flame and search his way into parable:

Last evening I gave you a parable
of my father who on the eve of Passover eve
would cut bread with precision
into exact cubes and put
them on the window sill so that he would be able
to find them with his heavy eyes
by the light of a candle dancing mitzvah dances
so that his blessing for burning the leaven not be
in vain.

This is how we live:
directors of our selves
deceptive directors
with perfect faith, almost,
so as not to be
in vain.

(Click here for the Amichai poem in Hebrew and English)

The evening search is contrived—but not beyond belief.  By candlelight we, along with the poet, learn from practice and parable the well rehearsed act of nullifying the leaven while leaving the drama intact.  Such is the nature of perfect faith, almost.

Posted in Poetry | 3 Comments

A Passover Conversation in Four Voices

Four conversed about the pine tree.  One defined it according to genus, species and variety.  One held forth concerning its shortcomings in the lumber industry.  One quoted verses about pine trees in numerous languages.  One struck root, stretched out branches and rustled.

(Click here for the Pagis poem in Hebrew and English)

In his prose poem called Sicha (Conversation), Dan Pagis gathers four characters, beginning with one who scientifically classifies and ending with one who does not speak. His scene suggests a similar ancient Passover gathering described in the Haggadah:

The Torah speaks about four children—one who is wise, one who is wicked, one who is simple, and one who does not know how to ask.

The Torah does not explicitly tell a story about four children. Rather, three times the Torah anticipates that children will ask questions about Passover; a fourth child is instructed, although no question is actually asked.

(Click here for the Haggadah’s Four Children in Hebrew and English)

Ancient sages were sensitive to this unique parent-child instruction in the Torah that foresees a gap developing between Passover ritual and reason. Based upon the biblical give and take, they constructed a character for each child and then assembled those four at the Passover Seder.

(Click here for the Biblical Voices in the conversation)

The Haggadah project of assembling the Torah’s four children had its own limitations. The biblical exchanges would only allow so much nuance and flexibility for the Haggadah’s script. Over the course of time, types tended towards stereotypes.

The wise child’s inquiry into laws and rules garnered praise. The wicked child’s question about the ritual’s meaning to you earned him a harsh answer in kind that excluded him from the community that the Haggadah insists he has disowned. The third child’s simple question, What is this? elicited a simple, condensed exodus narrative. He was readily identified as naïve and innocent, lacking a capacity for more than a simple, straightforward answer. The child without words is easily seen as a very young child.

The Jerusalem Talmud, at least as old as the Haggadah, already resisted such stereotypes by reversing the answers given to the wise and to the simple child. In so doing, this ancient version of the story implicitly asked:  Is there such a thing as a wise or a simple question?  Perhaps a question is shaped, strengthened, even redeemed by the response.

(Click here for the Jerusalem Talmud’s four children)

Pagis’ poem renews the challenge to re-imagine the four. Each participant in the poem offers a commentary on his Haggadah counterpart.

The first participant occupies the wise child’s place of privilege. His technical knowledge is his wisdom. The one with the sharp and critical eye tests assumptions about what it means to be “wicked.” Pagis’ third character lives in a world of language and verse—a “simple” world that is neither naïve nor unsophisticated.

The final personality is profoundly “rooted” in the subject of the pine tree. His being, his “pining,” is his stand; presence, not presentation is his eloquence.

The poem’s title, Sicha, creates a certain tension with the poem, itself. Does Conversation capture the action of the poem? After all, the poem’s characters do not speak to one another. Just, so, the four children of the Haggadah do not speak to one another. Perhaps the title, Conversation, carries the hope for what might follow once all participants are honored for their presence and for their potential.

(Click here for a related post on the Haggadah’s four children)

Posted in Holidays, Passover, Poetry, Talmud | Leave a comment

Kindness, Not Sacrifice

Lonely and painful winter days invite nostalgia for days of hesed—days of loving kindness and compassion. So says the poet, Yehuda Amichai:

“Those were days of hesed,” I heard them say once
on a winter street during days of loneliness and pain.
Even for days of hesed we need at least two,
one to give hesed and one to receive it.
When they are separated the hesed does not abide
or it is spilled into the street as if from a broken pipe.

Religions do not do hesed, they only remind
empty time, with a bell, with a muezzin’s call,
with a siren or a shofar, with knocks on the door
during days of penitence:  God they are
unable to remind or his hesed.

Since the day that sacrifices ended
Each person is left himself
To sacrifice.

(Click here for Amichai poem in Hebrew and English)

It stands to reason that a world without hesed is cold and lonely. After all, hesed requires community. Without people to give and to receive, hesed vanishes or leaks away, a useless spill. Hesed is the work of people in community. For Amichai, religions are but frameworks for hesed.  By all evidence, God is indifferent to hesed and his attribute of hesed remains distant. The ritual connection of God above and people below—sacrifice—does not have the impact of hesed’s human connection.

Hesed is not in heaven.  It is as grounded as a water pipe, plumbing the human depths of need and responsibility.

According to Amichai, hesed does promote sacrifice, but not ritual sacrifice to God:  Since the day that sacrifices ended, each person is left himself to sacrifice. It is self-sacrifice, the giving of oneself, that is a feature of hesed. Says a modern Jewish philosopher:  Self-sacrifice for another individual, value, or collective seems key to much of ethical life. (Moshe Halbertal, On Sacrifice).

Both philosopher and poet are consistent with an ancient teaching that the ruined Temple’s ritual sacrifice to God has been effectively replaced by hesed’s sacrifice for the sake of community:

Once, Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai was leaving Jerusalem and Rabbi Yehoshua, who was walking with him, took note of the ruined Temple. Said Rabbi Yehoshua:  Woe is us on account of that which is ruined, that place in which we might atone for the sins of Israel! Rabban Yohanan ben Zakkai replied:  My son, do not be troubled. We have another means of atonement that is its like. And what is that?  Gemilut hasadim/deeds of kindness, as it is said: For I desire hesed/kindness, not sacrifice (Hosea 6:6).

(Click here for midrash in Hebrew and English)

In a world without the Temple and its altar-atonement, it is hesed—kindness and compassion—that offers community the possibility to renew an open ended future.

Posted in Midrash, Poetry | 1 Comment

Divine Gaze

After the fiasco of the golden calf, a resentful God said to the pleading Moses: You cannot see my face, for no one can see my face and live (Exodus 33:20). So says one ancient story teller:

It was taught in the name of Rabbi Yehoshua ben Korhah that the Holy One spoke to Moses this way:  When I wanted you to look, you did not want to. Now that you want to, I do not want it.

Perhaps Rabbi Yehoshua imagined that God had been brooding ever since Moses hid his face from the burning bush (Exodus 3:3).  How could Moses snub an invitation to encounter God face to face?

Rabbi Shemuel disagreed with Rabbi Yehoshua. He insisted that Moses had acted correctly by hiding his face from the burning bush. In fact, the Torah records three rewards for Moses’ act of hiding his face, one reward for each aspect of reverence captured in Exodus 3:6—And Moses hid his face/ for he was afraid/ to look at God. One word in each part of that verse tallies with each reward:

Rabbi Shemuel bar Nahmani taught in the name of Rabbi Yonatan:  As a reward for three acts Moses merited three things. As a reward for ‘Moses hid/va-yaster his face’ (Exodus 3:6), Moses merited a radiant face/k’laster after being in God’s presence on Sinai. As a reward for ‘he was afraid/yarei (Exodus 3:6), Moses merited that the people were ‘afraid/yire-u to approach him’ when he came down from the mountain, his face aglow (Exodus 34:30). As a reward for ‘Moses specifically being afraid to look/mei-ha-beet at God’ (Exodus 3:6), he merited ‘seeing/ya-beet the likeness of the Lord’ (Numbers 12:8).

(Click here for Talmud story in Hebrew and English)

The Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, brings another voice to the conversation. Amichai agrees that Moses should not have hidden his face. But the poet tells the story of Moses’ regret, not God’s. True, Moses was commanded to stand his distance and shed his sandals. But it was Moses’ own idea to hide his face. From that moment on, says the poet, it was regret that propelled the career of Moses.

Moses, our teacher, only once saw the face of God
and forgot. He did not want to see the wilderness
not even the promised land, but only the face of God.
He struck the rock in the fury of his longings
he went up and down Mt. Sinai, he shattered the two
tablets of the covenant and made a golden calf, he searched
in fire and cloud. But he remembered only
the strong hand of God and his outstretched arm
not his face and he was like someone who wants
to remember the face of a loved one but cannot.
He made himself a police sketch from the face
of God and from the burning bush and from the face
of Pharaoh’s daughter who leaned over him when he was an infant in the basket,
and he distributed the picture to all the tribes of Israel
and throughout the wilderness. But no one had seen
and no one recognized. And only at the end of his life,
on Mt. Nebo did he see and die
with a kiss from God’s face.

(Click here for Amichai poem in Hebrew and English)

For Amichai, Moses’ career was drawn taut between only once seeing the face of God at the burning bush and only at the end of his life seeing it, again. The Torah records the outer story of Moses’ inner quest. It was a personal search that impelled him up the mountain. With dashed hopes of seeing God’s face again, he shattered the tablets he had gotten there. The poet even imagines that the shattered Moses made his own golden calf to try and give shape to his dim memory. But Moses could not neither sculpt nor draw on memories of the face that he was not permitted to see on the mountain.

You cannot see my face, God said to a pleading Moses who climbed the mountain one more time. For Rabbi Yehoshua, this was God’s rebuke; for Amichai, it was Moses’ disappointment. The poet goes on to say that with the second half of the verse, Moses’ search came to an end:  no one can see my face and live. And so it was that only at the end of his life, on Mt. Nebo did he see and die with a kiss from God’s face.


Posted in Parshat HaShavuah, Poetry, Talmud | 5 Comments

Overturning A Mountain of Tradition

An ancient story teller uprooted Mount Sinai and held it threateningly over the people of Israel:

They stood beneath the mountain (Exodus 19:17). Said Rav Avdimi bar Hama bar Hasa, This teaches that the Blessed Holy One vaulted the mountain over them like a barrel and said to them:  If you accept the Torah well and good, and if not, there will be your graves.

The Talmud presents this jarring story side by side with imaginative love-at-first-sight Sinai stories gilded by the Song of Songs, adorned by divine presence and by angels who descended to crown Israel and to celebrate. But this story teller resisted the embellished stories of God and Israel’s mutual love. He insisted upon uprooting the plain meaning of the verse, They stood beneath the mountain, in order to say that Israel was compelled by threat of death to accept the Torah.

(Click here for the Talmud story and an additional contrasting story)

Rav Avdimi’s story elicited surprise from another colleague:  Said Rabbi Ahah bar Ya’akov, This story is a strong indictment against Torah!  But in so lifting the mountain, Rav Avdimi uncovered a foundational truth:  Torah is the single story that tells Israel into being. Without Torah, Israel could not exist. At the very least, Israel could not be the people of this book. The story of the uprooted mountain is a story of necessity—a compelling story.

The Israeli poet, Yehuda Amichai, offers another jarring story about Israel compelled to live with Torah:

When God left the earth he forgot the Torah
at the Jews’ and since then they look for him
and cry after him, you forgot something, you forgot, in a loud voice
and others think that this is the prayer of the Jews.
And ever since they strain to find hints in the Bible
as to the place he might be found as it says, Seek the Lord where he is to be found,
Call upon him when he is close. But he is far.

(Click here for the Amichai poem in Hebrew and English)

Set between the phrases God left and God is far, Amichai portrays the leaving of the Torah at Sinai, not the giving of the Torah. God did not give the Torah; he forgot it at the Jews’ camp in Sinai. Torah is an accidental possession, and the inadvertent recipients feel compelled to return it.

Like Rav Avdimi, Amichai overturns a mountain of tradition and exposes a characteristic of Israel’s life with Torah that, ironically, appears conventional and pious; namely, Israel learns Torah in order to find God. The act of learning and seeking is intense, unending, and prayer-like.

The story teller and the poet agree:  Torah is a compelling force in Israel’s life. God might be threatening or God might be indifferent and far, but Torah is close.

Posted in Parshat HaShavuah, Poetry, Talmud | 2 Comments