There Shall Be No Needy, part 5: The dignity of labor

 One thing to remember about Torah and work: Don't be like Pharaoh. Be like Boaz.

According to chapter 5 of Rabbi Jill Jacobs' There Shall Be No Needy, if we want a model of what NOT to do as an employer, Pharaoh is the perfect negative example. Why?

 

Anyone who has ever read the Passover Haggadah knows that in the biblical story of slavery in Egypt, Pharaoh made the Israelites work "with rigor" (b'farech). Jacobs cites a midrash that reads that word with different vowel points, as b' peh rach, "with a gentle mouth." In the midrash, Pharaoh goes out and inspires them to work hard as a team--then requires them to work that hard every single day! 

 

Don't be like Pharaoh. Don't ask your workers to be Stakhanovites, and don't tell them "We are all one family here," because you are not going to treat them as family. You know that.

Another midrash says that Pharaoh put a heavy burden on a child and a light burden on an adult. What is cruel about this is not only that the child (or in other examples, the elderly person, or the woman) is being overworked. It is also that the stronger worker is forced to witness the degradation of the weaker and do nothing about it. It dehumanizes both, and it also dehumanizes the boss who "by extension, questioned the value of all humans, including themselves" (102). I see a striking parallel to Marx's theory of alienation here, as I've explained it in chapter 5 of Political Discourse in Exile: Karl Marx and the Jewish Question.

 

Don't be like Pharaoh. Hardening your heart against your workers makes you less human yourself.

[There are other lessons I could draw from the biblical text of Exodus itself: 

• Don't work your employees so hard for so many hours that they cannot have satisfying sexual relationships with their spouses (a theme explored at length in Aviva Zornberg's The Particulars of Rapture, which I have blogged about here.)
• Don't retaliate against workers for making demands, as Pharaoh does when he hears Moses and Aaron say "Let My people go." Pharaoah responds with a worker speedup, forcing the Israelites to go out and gather the straw they need for their brickmaking while requiring the same number of bricks from them as before.
•  At the simplest level: don't enslave people. Or do anything that even resembles slavery, like debt peonage, indentures, or trafficking.]

Boaz--not a Ruthless employer!

Much later in the Tanakh, in the Book of Ruth, we get a story of a man that Rabbi Jacobs thinks can set us a positive example. Boaz (whose name means "in him there is strength") is Ruth's kinsman, and a wealthy landowner. He notices the widowed Ruth working in his fields, protects her, and eventually marries her.

It is not just the one employee that Boaz treats with dignity. As Jacobs points out:

First, it is clear that Boaz visits the fields often. He is familiar with the workers, and he even notices the appearance of a new gleaner [Ruth]. Second, Boaz invokes God's name in greeting his workers...[in the workplace, in] a situation where we might not expect to sense God's presence....Third, Boaz's insistence on enforcing the biblical permission for the poor to glean shows his awareness that his wealth is not his own, but is a loan from God, meant to be shared with those who do not enjoy such wealth. (107)

Don't be like Pharaoh. Be like Boaz.

What Christians Ask Me about Leviticus

In the yearly cycle of reading the Torah, Jews all over the world have just finished reading Vayikra, the middle book of the Five Books, known in the English-speaking world as Leviticus. Over the years, online, Christians and those raised in a Christian culture have posed a lot of questions about this book, often the same questions over and over. As a public service, let me post some answers.

What's a Levite?

Levi was one of the twelve sons of Jacob. Since Jacob was given the additional name Israel by God, the descendants of those twelve sons are called "the Children of Israel" or "Israelites." Each had many descendants, and they became the twelve tribes of Israel. (This is the same family that was earlier called Hebrews and that would later be called Jews. Levites are Jews.)

Why were the Levites special?

In the Torah, the tribe of Levi was put in charge of the portable sanctuary, the Mishkan. Specific families within the tribe had responsibility for different tasks involved in its upkeep (when it was in one place) and in its transportation (when the Israelites were on the move, a/k/a "wandering in the wilderness"). Later, when a stationary Temple was built in Jerusalem, they served there.

What's the difference between a priest and a Levite?

All priests were Levites, but most Levites were temple attendants, not priests. Kohanim, the word we translate as "priest," means Aaron (the brother of Moses and Miriam), his sons, and their descendants. Obviously, they were all member of the tribe of Levi, and the rest of the Levites were their cousins. (Please note that a kohen was not like a Catholic priest: not celibate, not empowered to act on God's behalf, not involved in confession. The kohanim were specialists in sacrificial offerings and in keeping themselves in a state of ritual purity so they could properly make those offerings,)

Why is there a book called Leviticus?

Good question! In Jewish circles, it is called after the first word of the book, Vayikra, "and God called." That's the way all the books of the Torah are named. For instance, Exodus is called Sh'mot, "names," because it begins "These are the names...." (It would be silly to have a book called These!)

English-speakers usually call it Leviticus, from the Latin word that means "Levite stuff." A lot--but by no means all--of the book is instructions to the priest and Levites about how to do their jobs.

Are there still priests and Levites in Judaism today?

Yes, but they do not perform the same function as they used to.

Since the Second Temple was destroyed by the Roman Empire in the year 70 CE, it has been impossible for priests and Levites to maintain a nonexistent building or to offer sacrifices there, and they are not allowed to do it anywhere else. Some Jews fervently hope for the day when the Temple will be rebuilt and the system of sacrifices will be restored. Others would rather not see it happen, because:

1. One of the holiest sites in Islam now occupies part of the Temple Mount, and destroying it would be a terrible thing (and probably lead to war).
2. We don't see any reason for all those cattle, sheep, goats, and birds to get killed in order to praise God.
3. Both of the above.

In many synagogues today, if a kohen is present he (or, in more liberal synagogues, she) will be the first one called up to the Torah during the service. A Levi will be the second one of the seven called up on Shabbat. This is a vestigial reminder of the roles they used to play.

If the Temple is destroyed and the priests and Levites can't offer sacrifices on our behalf, does that mean that all Jews are damned?

No! This is a complete misunderstanding and a self-serving fiction by Christians trying to claim that they have taken the place of Jews. Damnation is not a concept in Judaism. We do not have to be perfect to be loved by God. And animal sacrifices were never the only way to ask God for forgiveness. Already in biblical times, the prophet Hosea wrote:

Take with you words, and come back to the Lord; say to him, Let there be forgiveness for all wrongdoing, so that we may take what is good, and give in payment the fruit of our lips. https://www.biblestudytools.com/hosea/14-2-compare.html

For the last 2000 years or so, we have had synagogue services that exactly correspond to the daily offerings in the Temple: evening, morning, afternoon, and additional offerings on Shabbat and holidays. That is to remind us (and perhaps, depending on your theology, God) that we continue our relationship with God under changed conditions.

So why should anyone study Leviticus today?

Well, I could hedge and say that there is a lot of content in the book that is not a technical manual for Levites. There are laws about social justice, like leaving the corners of your field for the poor and dispossessed to harvest by right, not charity. There is a holiday calendar. There are the basic laws of kashrut, the Jewish dietary laws. (The much-maligned Pharisees, who democratized the idea of holiness so that it didn't apply only to priests and Levites, elaborated on these laws so that the ordinary act of eating a meal could be like offering a daily sacrifice in the Temple.)

But let me say this straight out: it's worth studying Leviticus for its own sake. 

Simply reading it might not be worthwhile. Too many things are puzzling, meaningless, or abhorrent on first glance when we approach the text with a twenty-first century mindset and in the absence of deep, searching commentary. Fortunately, there's a two-thousand-year tradition of wrestling with the text, and when we become part of that tradition (and you don't have to be Jewish to do so!), we gain historical, political, ethical, and spiritual insights that might or might not be available elsewhere.

I am looking forward to reading Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's new commentary, https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/58537835-the-hidden-order-of-intimacy.

Arguing with God is Sacred (Parshat VaYakhel-Pekudei)

In this week's parshah, the first one I ever chanted from the Torah scroll, there are two very different ideas about our dialogue with God. The first: that there are things we cannot figure out for ourselves and can only learn through being divinely inspired. The second: that we have some things to teach God, too.

God Teaches Us 

"And Moses said to the Israelites: See, the Lord has singled out by name Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah. He has endowed him with a divine spirit of skill, ability, and knowledge in every kind of designer's craft...." (Exodus 35: 30-31)

According to Avivah Zornberg, drawing on Rashi's commentary, the Hebrew words used here for "skill" (or "wisdom") and "ability" (or "understanding") are qualities a human being can possess innately or can learn. The word da'at, here translated as "knowledge," goes beyond that. It is an intimate kind of knowledge: in her words (p. 470), "the mystery of a gift that can be explained in no other way than as 'taught by God.'"

So, when Moses says that God has given da'at to Bezalel, it goes beyond conferring legitimacy on Bezalel's direction of the project of building the Mishkan (and let us not forget his assistant, Oholiav, because the #2 is often the person who makes everything work!). Moses allays the people's remaining fear that a building project--like the Golden Calf--that is not supervised moment to moment by Moses himself can lead them away from God, toward plague and death. 

On this, first, reading, human initiatives can be dangerous, and only a "divine spirit" can lead us in the right direction. Our job is to listen.

We (or at least, Moses) Have Something to Teach Too

The link between the Golden Calf and the Mishkan has been implicit throughout the later chapters of Exodus. The midrashic commentary makes the link explicit. 

One commentator marvels that the Israelites can be so generous both for a misguided effort and for a well-guided one. For the building of the Golden Calf, they tore off their gold earrings, and for the Mishkan, they brought so much gold and other gifts that Moses had to call the capital campaign to an end! (Exodus 36:4-7) "The Holy One, Blessed be God then said: 'Let the gold of the Mishkan atone for the gold they brought toward the making of the Golden Calf." (Shemot Rabbah 51: 6)

But did God reach this conclusion by God's self, or did God have a little help? In the midrashic literature, Moses makes a sly argument to drive God toward a position of forgiveness. I quote:

"R. Nehemiah said: When the Israelites committed that sin, Moses began to appease God. He said: 'Master of the universe, they have provided you with help, and You are angry with them! this calf that they have made will help you: You will make the sun rise and it will take care of the moon; You will bring forth the stars and it the planets...'

God answered: 'Moses! Are you, too misled like them! For there is nothing in the idol!' And Moses replied: 'If so, why are you angry with Your children?'"

Moses is saying to God, in effect--what do you have to complain about? We all know the Calf has no power. Given that, what is there to be jealous of?

It is with arguments like these--teasing, cajoling, intimate--that Moses time and again wins God's forgiveness for the people. And Moses is standing in the footsteps of the first father of the Jewish people, Abraham, who tries to save even the people of Sodom and Gomorrah by arguing with God on their behalf. His ultimate failure doesn't take away from the greatness of his example.

On this alternative reading, it would be folly, wickedness, a dereliction of duty for Jews to accept God's instructions passively. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel wrote, God is "in search of Man." God seeks the active partnership of humanity in repairing and perfecting the world. If we make it worse through some of our actions, that is no excuse for not striving to make it better.

With our hands and our craft, or with our hearts and our words, we build the sacred in our lives.

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I've been reading through Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's amazing commentary on the biblical Book of Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture. Each chapter expounds one of the portions we read in the synagogue weekly. It's slow going because it is so rich with insights, and I cannot begin to do it justice. To keep on track, I have been posting at least one insight weekly for the last ten weeks, and (thanks to God and my study partners) I have now finished the book.  If these reflections have been interesting to you, my blog reader, so much the better!

Did Moses Do the Right Thing? (Parshat Ki Tisa)

This past week, I have been coming back over and over again to two images: Mookie throwing the trash can through the pizzeria window, in Do the Right Thing, and Moses smashing the tablets he brought down from Sinai, in the Torah portion Ki Tisa.

Mookie's action comes out of frustration with the continued wrongs being done to his Black community. It expresses his anger boiling over, and it leads to more destruction. Yet as I look at the scene, it seems to me that his violence against property prevents worse violence, against people. 

Moses' action also clearly comes out of frustration with the continued wrongs being done by his own people, the Jews. It expresses his anger, too: they have seen God plague the Egyptians for them, part the waters for them, and speak to them from the mountaintop in lightning and thunder, and they can't stand not hearing from God, through him, for forty days? 

Not only are they worshiping God through a visible symbol (which was expressly forbidden), but they're dancing ecstatically while doing the wrong thing!

Yet as I look at the scene, it seems to me that Moses is also identifying with the people. Perhaps even the apparent violence of smashing the tablet is a wake-up call, to snap them out of their trance. Certainly, whereas Moses used to speak for God to the people, now he starts speaking more to God on behalf of the people. He even tells God, in so many words, that he will stand with the people Israel and live or die with them.

He also seems to be recognizing that the people's sins are partly his own fault. 

"That Man Moses..."

What is the biggest lesson that Moses has been trying to teach the people, ever since Egypt? That God--the invisible One, with the unpronounceable name YHVH--is God.

Pharaoh is not God, even though he claims to be. The Nile is not God, even though it gives Egypt life by making the ground fertile and capable of growing food. The sea is not God, even though Yam, or Sea, is one of the gods worshiped in the Middle East at that time. YHVH, the real God, triumphs over them all.

The most important lesson, however, is that Moses is not God. And they have failed to learn that lesson--which means he has failed to teach it.

"And the people saw that Moses was delayed in coming down from the mountain, and they gathered against Aaron and said to him, 'Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us up from the land of Egypt--we do not know what has happened to him." (Exodus 32:1)

Come again? Who was it that "brought us up from the land of Egypt"?

It may have been some comfort to Moses to know that this people, which did nothing but complain about him for most of the preceding chapters of the story, misses him so much they need to console themselves with a Golden Calf that stands in for him as their channel to God.

But oh, what a dismal realization of failure for Moses to know that they are "idolizing" him!

A New Pedagogical Approach

From that point on, Moses approaches the Jewish people in a different way. No longer is he concerned to overawe them. Instead, he seeks to instruct them.

 * He grinds up the Golden Calf and, diluting it in water, makes them drink it. Thus, they literally internalize the memory of what they did wrong.

* He sets them to work on building the Mishkan, the physical location where they can turn for a sense of God's presence...at appropriate times. And he puts other people, skilled craftsmen Bezalel and Oholiav, in charge. That way, no one can say it only works because of Moses.

* He gives them more instructions about Shabbat, holidays, sacrifices and offerings, what not to worship and what not to eat. This Torah--the word literally means "instruction"--is what they are to study from now on.

Moses the prophet and lawgiver becomes Moshe Rabbeinu, "Moses our teacher." And that is a good thing. You might even say, the right thing. 

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I'm reading through Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's amazing commentary on the biblical Book of Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture. Each chapter expounds one of the portions we read in the synagogue weekly. It's slow going because it is so rich with insights. To keep on track, I will post at least one insight weekly between now and mid-March, when (God willing) I finish the book.

 

 

Quick thoughts on Moses, Aaron, Garments, and Parshat T'zavveh

Last week, my wife and I each worked hefty part-time jobs: figuring out how to place my mom, Faye Fischman, in a skilled nursing facility where she's likely to spend the rest of her life. So, I did not have the time or the brain cells to spare for writing an organized blog post. Here are some thoughts from reading last week's parshah with Zornberg's commentary:

1. I was talking about the parshah with my friend and study partner Lisa Andelman, and I said, "I am so much more like Aaron than Moses, and I'm glad. Moses has to stand up to the full weight of talking with God all the time, making it up as he goes along. It wears on him, and he gets angry with the people he's leading."

"Aaron, as High Priest, has a defined role. He can innovate--there's a lovely midrash that says that every day for Aaron was like his first day on the job, and he approached it with that kind of freshness and enthusiasm! But he innovates within a structure. And Zornberg says the bells on his garments stand for the ecstasy he feels in the Holy of Holies, in direct contract with God, but the pomegranates stand for the fullness and fruitfulness of daily life in the material world. Aaron is the reconciler and the peacemaker."

But Lisa pointed out, "There's a way that I wouldn't want to be like Aaron. His children have to follow in his footsteps, whether or not they're capable of doing so, and regardless of whether it's the right thing for them. As a mother, I wouldn't want to put that on the shoulders of my children."

2. Literally on the shoulders of the priests are the precious stones engraved with the names of the twelve tribes. They're carrying the weight of the nation on their shoulders--and they're carrying other representations of the Jewish people next to their hearts.

Garments are symbolic. When I was a teenager, my mother made a tallit for each of her children, by hand, embroidering on linen. (My father had the steadier hand with a pencil, so he sketched her design on the material and then she worked the needle and thread.) Recently, my beloved wife Rona Fischman repaired it for me, so all the lines look colorful and new.

Because I am the oldest son, like Aaron, and because originally it was the first-born sons and not the tribe of Levi who were supposed to serve in the Mishkan, the design that my mother made for me includes those bells and pomegranates that Aaron wore. But it also includes the tablets that Moses brought, and the Tree of Life to which the Torah is compared. I cherish her wishes for me: leadership, service, life, and study.

3. I envy people who can praise God with the work of their hands, as my mother did.

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I'm reading through Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's amazing commentary on the biblical Book of Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture. Each chapter expounds one of the portions we read in the synagogue weekly. It's slow going because it is so rich with insights. To keep on track, I will post at least one insight weekly between now and mid-March, when (God willing) I finish the book.

Letting God In: Parshat T'rumah

 

 

When you long for God, what's the relationship between failing and succeeding? This past week's parshah, T'rumah, offers an answer.

"And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell [shachanti] among them. Exactly as I show you--the pattern of the Tabernacle and the pattern of all its furnishings--so shall you make it." (Exodus 25: 8-9)

The Mishkan is what often gets called the Tabernacle, which (besides being a swear word in French!) is a wholly inadequate translation of an amazing concept. Mishkan is from the same root as Shekhinah, and that root means to be present, to dwell...even, to be a neighbor. 

The Shekhinah is God's indwelling presence on Earth. The Mishkan is its mailing address.

But the people of Israel sent a letter to the wrong address before!

Golden Calves and Golden Earrings Cannot Mend This Love of Mine

According to Rashi, the great medieval Biblical scholar, the story of the Golden Calf (Exodus 32) is out of chronological order in the text. It actually occurred before this week's instructions on how to build the Mishkan. In some ways, it's a failed attempt to do the same thing.

Why did the Israelites build the Golden Calf? 

Not because they had suddenly become idol worshippers! They didn't think God was the statue, or was captured in the statue. Rather, they build the Calf as a throne for God's presence to descend upon and live among them. 

(Building, as my friends in #ParshaChat on Twitter have pointed out, is what Israelites do. In Egypt, they built entire store cities for Pharaoh. It's tribute, and it's putting their talents into action.)

And why did they need reassurance that God was in their midst?  

Because after Sinai, they had been overawed by God's voice, to the point where they implored Moses to listen to God for them and bring back the message. And at this point in the story, Moses had gone up Mount Sinai and hadn't been seen for forty days and forty nights (the biblical expresssion for "it seemed like forever").

So, on this reading, the Israelites built the Golden Calf out of the same longing for God that would later lead to their building the Mishkan. What's more they build it out of one of the key ingredients called for in this week's parshah: gold, taken out of Egypt. In their eagerness to feel God's presence among them, they rip off their gold earrings and tell Aaron to melt them down to make a place for God.

It doesn't work. It's a disaster. Moses, when he comes back down the mountain, ends up grinding the Golden Calf to powder and making them drink it--like a colonoscopy prep--to flush the impulse out of their system.

No Calf, No Mishkan?

Why does Rashi rearrange the order of the stories? It's not necessary: as Avivah Zornberg points out, other commentators like Nachmanides see the sequence in the text as just right. What's the point of saying that first the Israelites built the Calf and only later the Mishkan?

Sometimes, it seems, it's necessary to try what doesn't work in order to attempt what does.

Sometimes, we aim to slake our longings by having a Lover we can control, who will always be there for us even when we are not ecstatic about them. We build the image of our Lover out of our own imaginings and not what pleases them. But that is self-love, born of fear, and we grow up: we learn better.

A wonderful midrash says that when God commands "And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them," those words among them don't mean in the midst of the camp. The words mean in the midst of each person. 

Building the Mishkan according to instructions means taking the same longing for God and fulfilling it in a way that doesn't try to keep God there, but rather, lets God in.

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I'm reading through Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's amazing commentary on the biblical Book of Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture. Each chapter expounds one of the portions we read in the synagogue weekly. It's slow going because it is so rich with insights. To keep on track, I will post at least one insight weekly between now and mid-March, when (God willing) I finish the book.

Loving Words

 

When the Israelites stand before Mount Sinai, in Parshat Yitro, they are attracted and repelled by God's word.

Attracted

"All the people answered as one, saying, 'All that the Lord has spoken we will do!' And Moses brought back the people's words to the Lord." (Exodus 19:8)

It is very strange that the people are so bold, so willing, so eager to be overcome by God's commandments that they send Moses back to accept God's proposal right away. Previously, they doubted Moses. Previously, even in the face of miraculous displays of power, they doubted God. And they will again. 

But in this moment, the Jewish people as a whole commit themselves: not to the commandments, which they have not heard yet, but to the relationship. "Now then, if you will obey me faithfully [literally: listen, listen to my voice!] and keep my covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples." 

God speaks words of love to us, we listen, and we fall in love with God.

Repelled

But when the Israelites get to the foot of the mountain and they hear God's voice, they cannot stand it.

Literally "cannot stand," according to a couple of midrashic interpretations that Avivah Zornberg cites. 

One midrash says that the sound of God's voice actually kills the Jews, and it is only the words of Torah that revive them. (I wryly note how this is the opposite of Christian teaching: it is the Spirit that kills, and the Letter that brings life.)

Another reading (Rashi on Exodus 20:15), says they cannot stand in place, and "they recoiled twelve miles to the rear--the whole length of their camp--and the ministering angels came and helped to restore them to their place." (Zornberg, p. 263)

Longing and running away

And what is it that overpowers them? Another famous midrash answers: they could not stand to hear the entire Decalogue, because God's voice was too much for them. Hearing God say "I" threw them into an abnormal state. Some say they could not hear the whole word anokhi, "I"--only its first letter, aleph. But the aleph is silent!

God's attention to us is overwhelming. We long for it, and we cannot stand it. We say. "All that the Lord has spoken we will do," but God parts God's lips and we begin to quake.

On this midrashic reading, God speaks to us and we must run away, like in the Song of Songs: "I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had turned away, and was gone. My soul failed me when he spoke."

Loving God's Words

What can we do? From Sinai to the present day, the Jewish people are madly, passionately in love with God, but (except for Moses) we cannot listen directly to God's voice. We cannot live without it. We cannot live with it. What can we do?

We listen to God's words, instead.

The very next week after we read the story of standing at Sinai, in Parshat Yitro, we read the many detailed instructions on how to live, in Parshat Mishpatim. 

 

We turn from what Zornberg would call "rapture" to what she would call "particulars."

We listen to Moses listening to God and telling us the story of what God said.

This is how Judaism as we know it came to be: through a sacred obsession with the meaning of God's words, as written in the rest of the book of Exodus and in Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy, too, until Moses dies. Yes, Judaism has always included mystical experiences as well, but they are not necessary and not desirable for most people, most of the time.

Language is the Jewish love language.

 

 

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I'm reading through Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's amazing commentary on the biblical Book of Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture. Each chapter expounds one of the portions we read in the synagogue weekly. It's slow going because it is so rich with insights. To keep on track, I will post at least one insight weekly between now and mid-March, when (God willing) I finish the book.

"What" is this thing that nourishes us?

 

In this week's Torah portion, Beshalach, there's a key word that repeats over and over: Mah, meaning "What?" Sometimes it means, synonymously, "What for?" (One of the Hebrew words for "Why," which is lamah, literally translates syllable by syllable as "for what?") 

    What for did we let those Israelites go? (Pharaoh and the courtiers ask themselves)

    What for did you bring us out of Egypt if we are going to die in the Sea, or in the wilderness, of hunger. or of thirst? (the Israelites ask Moses)

    What for are you quarreling with me, and testing God? (Moses asks them in return)

And perhaps most puzzling of all: food falls from the sky, and the people ask Mahn hu? "What is it?" (It's from mahn that we get the name for the food from that day until now: manna.)

What is it with all this "what"?

The Torah, the Haggadah, and the Simple Child

Every year in synagogue, we read the story of the Exodus once from the Torah. But every year at home, we read it at least once--in my family, more than once--in the Passover Haggadah. And in the Haggadah, "What" is the hallmark of the Simple Child.

Mah zot? "What is all this," the Simple Child asks? Unlike either the wise or the wicked child, who want to understand the Why, and unlike the child who doesn't even know how to ask a question, the Simple Child is stuck on What.

This week, I learned from reading Aviva Zornberg that certain rabbis thought the Simple Child in the Four Questions was more objectionable than the one who doesn't know how to ask. Those rabbis, she says, interpreted the Simple Child's question, "Mah zot?" (What is this?) as a request for a simple answer that would end the conversation. Those rabbis--and she, and I--think that what God wants is a search for more complex, nuanced answers that continue the conversation. 

 

But I think those rabbis had the Simple Child wrong, and this week's parshah shows where they went astray.

 

Look again at those questions from Parshat Beshalach. 

These are not conversation-enders. They are questions that engage in conversation and carry it further: precisely the kind of conversation we think and Zornberg thinks God wants us to engage in! (and far preferable to holding our feelings in silence)

So, if the "Mah questions" in this week's portions are not a search for what Humpty Dumpty in Alice calls a nice knock-down answer, a once and for all, why on earth should we think the Simple Child is asking for that kind of finality? 

It seems to me that the "Mah" in both this week's portion and in the Haggadah could be an open-ended question, inviting the kind of dialogue that it is not a challenge but more like a caress. It seems to me that it's the kind of word that has a different flavor each time you take it in, like manna.

God bless the simple child who's got his own...question.

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I'm reading through Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg's amazing commentary on the biblical Book of Exodus, The Particulars of Rapture. Each chapter expounds one of the portions we read in the synagogue weekly. It's slow going because it is so rich with insights. To keep on track, I will post at least one insight weekly between now and mid-March, when (God willing) I finish the book.