Text Study – The Embodied Torah of Study

Psalm 20

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How much has the world changed in the last 2013 years? How much has it changed in the last 5744 years? Is there anything that has existed for the entire timeline of recorded history?

My friend and colleague Rabbi David Seidenberg wrote recently that what is possibly the oldest living culture, the Australian aborigines, is about 60,000 years old (see his writings at neohasid.com). That’s pretty old, possibly as old as the earliest development of symbolic culture and language. For the rest of us, our religion, culture, traditions, laws, and rituals are a whole lot younger. Still, our cultural and religious systems provide a measure of stability and continuity over time. The Psalmist, in Psalm 20, reflects on what is temporary and what is permanent.

They [call] on chariots, they [call] on horses, but we call on the name of Adonai our God. They collapse and lie fallen, but we rally and gather strength. (20:8-9)

When you get down to brass tacks (what does that really mean, anyway), what do you find at the core? The Psalmist presents two contrasting world views, that of gashmiyut vs. ruhaniyut — materialism vs. spiritualism.

All material objects are temporary. Living creatures eventually die, and their (our) bodies disintegrate, slowly turning back into more basic elements.

I remember flying in and out of New York, looking at all of the buildings and thinking that even such enormous structures cannot last forever. I used to try to imagine Manhattan tens of thousands of years in the future, the buildings covered with vines, slowly eating away at the material, slowly crumbling. I never imagined that the end of the two most imposing towers at the South end of the island would be so dramatic as the one we witnessed in horror on September 11, 2001.

Gashmiyut, materialism – Horses and chariots, mortal beings and material objects, will all eventually collapse and disappear. Everything that we create will ultimately be destroyed.

Ruhaniyut, spiritualism – The existence of a Divine realm over and above us assures us that there is the possibility of a transcendent set of values and meaning for our existence. We can gather together in community and call upon the name of God, we can find strength in rallying together under a banner of a religious community whose purpose is to do good in the world.

Psalm 19

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The Torah of Adonai is perfect, renewing life… (19:8)

One question that comes up frequently in the comments to my “Ethics and Religion Talk” columns is ‘how can we base a system of ethics on a piece of literature that gives laws which are unethical according to our contemporary standards?’

I have written one column addressing this question in the context of The Hebrew Bible’s apparent acceptance of the (for us) immoral practice of slavery by mandating a set of laws proscribing proper treatment of slaves.

It has also come up in connect with the Biblical law that a rapist must marry the woman whom he raped, and the apparent second class status of Priests with disabilities.

These are some of the questions posed against any religious tradition which holds the Hebrew Bible to be sacred scripture. The only truthful response to these challenges is to say that Torah reflects the reality of the society in which it was created. Its laws were in fact progressive compared to contemporary non-Biblical legal systems, even though they are primitive compared to our laws. Ah, there’s the rub – how can the Bible be perfect/revealed/word of God if they laws of the Bible are not perfect. If God is omniscient and perfect, then why don’t the laws of the Bible reflect a perfectly evolved system of law.

We might understand the Bible as an eternal book whose meaning transcends time, and/or as a product of God’s revelation. Nevertheless, the Bible came into existence as a specific time and place in history, and its language, style, and content spoke to that first generation who embraced its wisdom.

The best way to understand the Bible is to contrast it with contemporary wisdom and law in the ancient Near East. In the code of Hammurabi (a Babylonian law code), we can read about slave treatment that is truly brutal. Against that backdrop, the Hebrew Bible is a giant step towards humane treatment of slaves. It is not unreasonable to presume that the Hebrew Bible deliberately sought to wean humanity away from slavery.

The Bible has undergone constant reinterpretation over the many generations since it first came into being. What was acceptable to one generation was no longer acceptable to later generations. The Bible is timeless because from its inception, it was intended to be a progressive, rather than a static, code of law and behavior.

Psalm 18

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Adonai, my crag, my fortress, my rescuer, my God, my rock in whom I seek refuge, my shield, my mighty champion, my haven…. Then the earth rocked and quaked; the foundations of the mountains shook, rocked by His indignation…. I ground them fine as windswept dust; I trod them flat as dirt of the streets. (18:3, 8, 43)

My senior sermon delivered during my final year of Rabbinical School played with the image of the rock as an image as a representation of God. I’ve always lived in a place where the earth is fairly solid and still, so the image of God as bedrock makes sense to me. Only once have I been in an earthquake – an early morning in Jerusalem – and my first thought was that a convoy of very large trucks must be driving by to make the building shake for such a long time. My roommate Larry, from Washington, immediately recognized it for what it was and had jumped out of bed and was standing in the doorway, which he later told me was the safest place to be during an earthquake.

The Psalmist envisions God’s power as a bedrock, but by no means sees God as being confined to the rock. God’s anger breaks the rock, shaking it, and ultimately grinding it down to dust.

Maimonides understood that any language we use to describe God is inadequate. The metaphor of a rock is destroyed by an earthquake. Elijah looked for God in the earthquake, in the whirlwind, and instead found God in the thinness of silence.

What is thinner and more silent that a force of attraction? Perhaps we might read Elijah’s story as one of finding God in the attractive forces that bind the sub-atomic particles together. Those particles, so few of them, combine in increasingly intricate ways to form a multitude of solid forms, including rock and including carbon based biological life forms.

Thus my God infused fingers press on keys made from the remains of the ancient dead, rearranging electrons in their orbits and thus changing patterns of light. Sometimes, after I finish a sermon or an article, I think to myself – if what I have produced is good, it is because God is speaking through me. God gets the credit. If what I have produced is nonsense, it is because I have not paid close enough attention to the Divine voice. I get the blame.

Psalm 17

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The Psalmist is  certain that his cause is just and those who oppose him are wicked:

I call on You; You will answer me, God; turn Your ear to me, hear what I say. (17:6)
Rise, O LORD! Go forth to meet him. Bring him down; rescue me from the wicked with Your sword … (17:13)

What is it like to be so sure of yourself? I am not. I am filled with self-doubt. Even when I know that I have a solid foundation for the path I have chosen, for the decision I have made, even when I know that I am doing the right thing, I still have doubts. As long as there is someone who takes a different path, makes a different decision, I wonder whether I should be so sure that I am right and he is wrong. Is this healthy humility, or paralyzing timidity?

Rabbinic texts, Mishnah and Talmud, record the rejected opinions because they see the potential for more than one correct answer. Talmud often goes the extra mile to explain the logic behind a position that they ultimate reject, to teach us that we can learn to appreciate an opinion with which we vigorously disagree.

There is a lot of arrogance in the words of this Psalmist. I wonder what happened to him to make him so certain that God tested him and found his cause just? What would happen to his faith in God if he were to discover that his enemies, whom he calls arrogant, are actually very nice people, and he is wrong?

The ultimate test of our faith is not what happens when we experience a Divine intervention proving that we are right, but rather what happens when we feel let down and discover that we are wrong!

Psalm 16

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Many articles spilled much ink noting that Hanukkah 2014 was the earliest Hanukkah in the solar year in 125 years. Some noted that Hanukkah will coincide with Thanksgiving again in 70,000-some years, an assertion which assumes that the growing error between the Jewish year and the solar year will never be corrected. Were this the case, in 35,000 years we would be celebrating Rosh Hashanah in April and Passover in September. The problem is that the Jewish year is corrected to match the Julian year. We follow the Gregorian calendar, which corrected a very slight error in the length of the year. At some point, when Passover is projected to fall too late in the Spring, the calendar will be corrected so the celebration of Thanksgivakkah or Hodunakkah may very well happen again, although not necessarily in our lifetime.

I bless the LORD who has guided me … (16:7)

The Hanukkah story is an example of how we use a religious myth – the myth that God’s guiding hand can be seen in history. Please do not misunderstand the word ‘myth.’ It does not mean ‘a made up story, one that is not true.’ A myth may or may not be a historically true story, but it does teach something significant and true. The most accurate definition of ‘myth’ is a narrative that provides a meaningful framework for our lives. The Exodus story is the backbone of the Torah. The principles derived from the experience of the transition from slavery to Mount Sinai, such as the obligation to take care of the weak and vulnerable in our society, are the most important principles of the Torah. Tzedakah and Shabbat, for example, are explicitly linked to the Exodus.

The way we tell the Hanukkah story reinforces the idea that our successes, our victories, are directly linked to acting on our faith in God.

An objective telling of the Hanukkah story might focus on military acumen, the wisdom of fighting a guerrilla war against the Syrian army rather than confronting them in the conventional face to face battle. The Syrians, fighting on behalf of Greek values, were a powerful army, but not particularly committed to the ideology for which they were fighting. They could be worn down over time, and that’s what the Mattathias and his five sons did.

The theological story of Hanukkah emphasizes the victory of the few against the many, the weak against the powerful, an event that could only have happened with God’s intervention. This story is the one told by the al ha-nissim prayer, inserted into the Amidah and Birkat Hamazon on Hanukkah.

An even more extreme story is told by the Talmud to explain the 9 branched Hanukkah menorah. The 8 day celebration of Hanukkah, we are told, is only indirectly connected to the Maccabee’s victory. Rather, we are celebrating the miracle that the last vial of consecrated oil, uncontaminated by Syrian idolatrous hands, burned for 8 days, until new oil could be pressed.

The dreydel, with its four letters representing “A Great Miracle Happened There,” is ambiguous. Which miracle are we talking about – the military victory, the oil, or both? It doesn’t really matter – both stories illustrate “I bless the LORD who has guided me …”, seeing the hand of Divine providence in the critical events of our history.