Swarsensky Memorial Weekend Interactive Torah Study: Curses and Blessings: What Can We Learn from Lech L’cha about Responding to the Longest Hatred? (פרשת לֹך־לך)

Presented at Temple Beth El in Madison, Wisconsin, on Saturday, November 9, 2024.

    Nachman Syrkin, the great theoretician and leader of socialist Zionism, wrote in 1898 that “tension has always existed between the Jews and the world around them. In the modern age this tension has assumed the guise of anti-Semitism.” Syrkin’s contemporary, the German sociologist Max Weber, took this idea a step further and suggested that all religions of salvation, including but not limited to Judaism, come into tension with the world. If pushed far enough, these tensions lead to what Weber called religious rejection or abnegation of the world. World rejection can take one of two forms. Believers may flee from the world, or they may work in the world to master it or change it. Let’s explore some of the religious rejections of the world that appear in this week’s portion.

    Get thee out. Our portion begins with Abraham’s flight from the world of his birth—from his social surroundings, his family, and country. “And the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your land [Get thee out of thy country] and your birthplace [your city] and your father’s house to the land I will show you.’” Drawing on midrashim, Maimonides suggests that Abraham had already rejected this world before he fled from it, and it was precisely his rejection which made the flight necessary. Having “perceived that there was one God,” Maimonides writes, Abraham “began to debate and argue with his neighbors” and smashed their idols. When the king persecuted Abraham and tried to kill him, God instructed Abraham to flee.

    Take and get out! The opening verse sets a pattern for the rest of the portion (and, arguably, for Jewish history: Abraham’s flight from Ur Kasdim prefigures generations of Jews whom persecution has forced to flee their homes). When Abraham is driven by famine to go down to Egypt, he worries that the Egyptians will kill him to take possession of his beautiful wife (Gen. 12:12). So Abraham asks Sarah to pretend that they are not married. A smitten Pharaoh takes Sarah into his house, the Lord afflicts him with plagues, and a now very angry Pharaoh summons Abraham to rebuke him. “Why did you not tell me she was your wife? Now, here is your wife. Take her and get out!” (Gen. 12:18–19). Pharaoh uses the same verb that the Lord used: קַח וָלֵךְ (literally, “Take and go!”). Once again, Abraham takes flight from a hostile and corrupt world.

    Separate yourself. When Abraham returns to Canaan, Abraham asks Lot to part ways with him. This is not exactly a flight from the world, but it is an attempt to avoid conflict by separating himself once again from the world. “And Abram said to Lot, ‘Pray, let there be no contention between you and me, between your herdsmen and mine, for we are kinsmen. Is not all the land before you? Separate thyself, I pray thee, from me’” (Gen. 13:8–9). We might call this Abraham’s partition plan.

What was the source of conflict between Abraham and Lot?
1)    A quarrel over pasturage. Nachmanides explains it this way.
2)    Nehama Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit: “Our sages of old … did not regard the quarrel between the shepherds … as merely an economic or political one. The Torah devotes space to this quarrel for a deeper reason. Their strife symbolized the opposition between the world of Abraham and between one who wished to be a part of it but did not whole-heartedly share the moral principles and outlook of the Patriarch.” As evidence, she points to a verse in next week’s portion: “he may command his children and his household after him, that they may keep the way of the Lord, to do righteousness and justice” (Gen. 18:19). In addition, according to two midrashim, “the shepherds quarreled over the violation of the prohibition against robbery.” Lastly, Leibowitz invokes Rashi’s commentary on the phrase, “And Lot journeyed East (מִקֶּדֶם)” (Gen. 13:11). Rashi writes, “he journeyed away from the Primal Being of the world saying, neither Abraham nor his God!” Rashi reads מִקֶּדֶם as מִקְדַם “from the One who is of old” or “from the One who is first.”

    Circumcision. There is another way in which Abraham separates himself from the world in this week’s portion. The Lord tells him, “This is My covenant, which you shall keep, between Me and you and your seed after you: every male among you must be circumcised” (Gen. 17:10). Abraham follows this instruction to the letter, circumcising himself and every male in his household “on the very day as God had spoken to him” (Gen. 17:23–24). Circumcision, as Sigmund Freud points out, is “among the customs by which the Jews made themselves separate.” Anyone who refused the custom, the Lord tells Abraham, “shall be cut off from his folk” (Gen. 17:14).

    World mastery. Finally, we see a different kind of world-rejection when Lot is taken captive. “When Abram heard that his kinsman had been taken captive, he mustered his retainers, born into his household, numbering three hundred and eighteen, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. At night, he and his servants deployed against them and defeated them; and he pursued them as far as Hobah, which is north of Damascus. He brought back all the possessions; he also brought back his kinsman Lot and his possessions, and the women and the rest of the people” (Gen. 14:14–15, 16). This time, Abraham does not flee or separate himself to avoid conflict, nor does he meekly accept the world’s injustice for granted. Instead, he acts decisively to master and change an unjust world. This kind of struggle is a reaction to the world that Jewish socialists and Zionists also embraced in the modern era.

After Abraham redeems Lot from his captors, the Lord tells Abraham, “Fear not  ... I am your shield” (Gen. 15:1). What did Abraham have to fear at this point? After all, he had just defeated four mighty kings.
1)    Political, realistic considerations. According to one interpretation given in the Talmud, Abraham said: “Perhaps the sons of those kings I slew will gather together an army and make war against me” (Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit, p. 137). Abraham feared, in other words, that the victory itself might contain the germs of the next war.
2)    Ethical motives. In the Talmud, “R. Levi said: It was because Abram was apprehensive and said: Perhaps there was among the people I killed one righteous or God-fearing man.” According to Rashi, Abraham was concerned over all the lives, both the innocent and the wicked. He was troubled by “war itself which necessitated so much bloodshed.”  
3)    Religious motivation. Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit: Abraham was “afraid that the abundance of favors he had received at the hand of God” was out of balance; “he had received more than he was due. “His deeds could never hope to catch up with the bounties showered on him from Above.”

    Particularism and universalism. As different as these examples of world-rejection are—uprooting himself and fleeing Ur Kasdim and Egypt, separating from his nephew Lot, circumcising his household, and setting out to master and change an unjust and threatening world—there is a common theme that unites them. What characterizes them, in the words of the Israeli Bible scholar Nehama Leibowitz, is “an extreme particularism, placing a barrier between Abraham and the rest of the world.” This is consistent with the Lord setting Abraham and his descendants apart for special blessing, reward, and protection. “I will make you a great nation,” the Lord promises Abraham. “And I will bless those who bless you, and those who damn you I will curse” (Gen. 12:2–3). According to a midrash, God bestowed these special blessings on Abraham and his descendants after the failures of other men.

    But world-rejection, whether in the form of flight from the world or mastery of the world, is not the only theme we find in this week’s portion. The portion also contains the theme of a generous and world-affirming universalism: “and in you shall all the families of the earth be blessed” (Gen. 12:3). “In other words,” Nehama Leibowitz comments, “Abraham, as he left for the promised land, was to be considered the only glimmer of light wandering through a world of thick darkness, eventually spreading, illuminating the whole of mankind, enveloping the whole world with its glow.” This “theme of all-embracing blessings,” she adds, recurs no less than five times “in the history of the patriarchs.”

Regarding Abraham: “Abraham shall surely become a great and might nation, and all the nations of the earth shall be blessed in him” (Gen. 18:18).

After the binding of Isaac: “And in your seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed” (Gen. 22:18).

To Isaac: “And in your seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed” (Gen. 26:4).

To Jacob in his dream: “And in you shall all the families of the earth be blessed” (Gen. 28:14).

    Nachman Syrkin invoked these same two themes, particularism and universalism. “From the very beginning of their encounter,” he wrote, “tension has always existed between the Jews and the world around them. In the modern age this tension has assumed the guise of anti-Semitism…. How did the Jews react to the world?” The Jew, he suggested, “possessed … a weekday and a Sabbath soul.” The Jew’s weekday soul, he wrote, moved him to grit his teeth, curse the enemy, and dream of “the vengeance of heaven and earth.” But the Jew’s Sabbath soul raised him to a “higher and more humane” level. “From his crown of pain, glory emanated to the world which cursed him; out of the sensitivity born of suffering, he prayed to his God for the very mankind which cast him out.”

What is the relationship between these two themes of particularism and universalism? How can they be reconciled?

    Leibowitz: “This [all-embracing blessing] … is looking far ahead into the distant future, to the ultimate goal of human history, the first step toward which we see unfolded in this sidra, with the uprooting and separating of Abraham from all that was near and dear.” Particularism is a precondition for universalism—because without it, the Jewish people have no blessings to share and might not even exist to share them—and universalism completes particularism.
    In an address entitled “The Jew in the World,” delivered in 1934, Martin Buber suggested that Abraham’s Covenant with God “summoned” Abraham and his descendants to “enter world history” as the “first real attempt” at ethical community, as a prototype and model for the nations. For this reason, Buber insisted, Jewry must not “disintegrate into small particles” or lose its reality in the world; it is vitally necessary for Israel to preserve and assert itself in the world as a unique community, a “community sui generis.” But it is equally important to understand that self-preservation and self-assertion are means, “mere prerequisites,” to a higher end. To mistake means for ends, Buber argued, is to make “an idol of the people.” The ultimate end is that in and through the people Israel, “all the nations of the earth shall be blessed.”

Swarsensky Memorial Weekend Shabbat Worship: Recognizing the Sources of Antisemitism in Lech L’cha (פרשת לֹך־לך)

Presented at Temple Beth El in Madison, Wisconsin, on Friday, November 8, 2024.

    Shabbat shalom. I am delighted to join you for this weekend of community learning in honor and memory of Rabbi Manfred Swarsensky, the first rabbi of Temple Beth El. When I learned that I would be expected to offer a d’var Torah on Friday night, I admit it made me nervous. After all, I’m just a sociologist, a secular scholar. What insight can I offer when others in this community are more learned in Torah study than me? Pirkei Avot (5:22) tells us to turn the Torah over and over, “for all is therein.” And indeed, fortunately for me, it seems that this week’s Torah portion anticipates the topic of my Sunday keynote lecture, antisemitism, and points to some key sources of the longest hatred—both its manifest sources and what Sigmund Freud called its “secret sources.” I’ll try to persuade you tonight of that reading.

   Let me begin with the mysterious Covenant Between the Parts. According to the portion, Abraham succeeds in rescuing his nephew Lot (לוֹט) from the four kings who captured him—a redemption from captivity that cannot fail to resonate with us when so many hostages remain captive in Gaza tonight. Afterward, the Lord speaks to Abraham in a vision: “Your reward shall be very great” (Gen. 15:1). A son will be born to him, his descendants will become as numerous as the stars, and they will inherit the Land of Canaan. But Abraham is a doubter: “Lord, how shall I know that I shall inherit?” (Gen. 15:8). The Lord assuages Abraham’s doubt with a formal pact which involves taking five animals—a heifer, a female goat, a ram, a turtledove, and a pigeon—and cleaving the first three animals through the middle. The ritual seems bizarre to us, but the Hebrew professor and Bible translator Robert Alter notes that it was not uncommon in this time and place: “Covenants in which the two parties step between cloven animal parts are attested in various places in the ancient Near East as well as in Greece.” Next, the Torah tells us, “as the sun was about to set, a deep slumber fell upon Abram and now a dread, even a great darkness fell upon him. And [the Lord] said to Abram, ‘Know well that your seed shall be strangers in a land not theirs and they shall be enslaved and afflicted four hundred years’” (Gen. 15:13).

    If we understand the prophecy literally, it might refer to the migration of Jacob and his descendants to Egypt to escape famine in Canaan, and the subsequent enslavement and affliction described in שמות (Exodus). But some Jewish commentators have interpreted the prophecy in a figurative or allegorical way. According to the 13th-century Spanish rabbi Nachmanides, the terms used to describe what happens to Abraham—“dread,” darkness,” “great,” and “fell upon him”—correspond to the four epochs or kingdoms into which the rabbis divided human history: Babylon, Persia (or Medea), Greece (the kingdom of Antiochus), and Edom (Rome). In his view, all the vicissitudes of Jewish history in these four epochs are contained in this vision to Abraham (Nehama Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit, p. 149). Likewise, the 13th-century French rabbi David Kimḥi (RaDaK) wrote that “in every generation the nations attempt to exterminate us but the Holy One, blessed be He, delivers us from their hands by the merit of Abraham.”

    Why do others oppress and curse the Jewish nation that originates from Abraham? The many answers that scholars have given to this question can be divided into two broad categories. On the one hand, some scholars have traced antisemitism to conflicting group interests, intergroup competition or rivalry over scarce resources, and the threat that equality for Jews has posed to the advantages of dominant groups. The German-born Jewish sociologist Norbert Elias made this kind of argument in 1929, on the eve of the Nazi rise to power. German antisemitism, he wrote, sprang from the “social position of the German Jews” and “the conflicting economic, intellectual and social interests that, in correspondence to this social positioning, arise between the people of the Jewish community and the members of the other social strata of the German people.”  As the German economy contracted and competition increased, he argued, the Christian middle class grew preoccupied with protecting its position in the prevailing order. “Through their anti-Semitism,” Elias argued, “they are conducting a fight against Jewish competitors … whose interests are in conflict with their own…. And they conduct this struggle as a socially and ideologically based conflict of interests in exactly the same sense in which they conduct their struggle against the socially rising stratum of the proletariat.” From this perspective, antisemitism appears as a “rational” phenomenon in the sense that it stems from the rational pursuit of self-interest.

    On the other hand, an alternative approach emphasizes the nonrational foundations of antisemitism. According to this view, antisemitism is independent of actual group interests. For example, in the 1950s, the American sociologist Gordon Allport described antisemitism as a form of prejudice, defined as faulty and inflexible generalizations. Others, like the French-born Jewish sociologist Émile Durkheim and later the American sociologist Talcott Parsons, suggested that antisemites used Jews as scapegoats, displacing frustration and aggression from the real sources of their distress to a more easily identified and punished minority group. Sigmund Freud, the Jewish founder of psychoanalysis, also emphasized the nonrational foundations of antisemitism. Of the reasons for “the popular hatred of Jews,” he observed in 1939 under the growing shadow of Nazi persecution, some “arise from obvious considerations” that “need no interpretation,” but “others lie deeper and spring from secret sources,” which is to say, from unconscious motives. “The Mosaic religion had been a Father religion,” Freud explained; “Christianity became a Son religion.” This results in the unconscious identification of Jews with the father, whom the child simultaneously loves and fears, and the transference of this ambivalent attitude to the Jews. As the father-surrogate, the Jew is unconsciously the one whom the antisemite fears and the one against whom he would like to rebel. At the same time, the Jew unconsciously represents the antisemite’s own sexual and aggressive drives, which the antisemite learns to repress by internalizing the father’s authority and then (unable to acknowledge those drives in himself) projects onto the Jew.

    This week’s Torah portion, Lech L’cha (Gen. 12:1–17:27), alludes to both kinds of reasons for animosity toward Jews—those that “arise from obvious considerations,” and those that “spring from secret sources.” The implication is that these reasons may not be mutually exclusive. On the one hand, consider how intergroup competition or rivalry over valued persons and goods generates strife for Abraham and his kinsfolk. We see this early in the portion. When Abraham is driven by famine to go down and sojourn in Egypt, he worries that the Egyptians will kill him to take possession of his beautiful wife, Sarah (Gen. 12:12). After Pharaoh drives Abraham out of Egypt, Abraham and his nephew Lot part ways. Just before their separation, the portion declares, “the Canaanite and the Perizzite dwelt then in the land” (Gen. 13:7). “Since both Abraham and Lot were strangers in the country,” Nachmanides comments, “the former was afraid that the Canaanites and the Perizzite, natives of the country, would hear of the large numbers of cattle that were being pastured and would drive them out or smite them with the sword and take away their property and livestock” (Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit, p. 123). After Abraham redeems Lot from his captors, the Lord tells Abraham, “Fear not  ... I am your shield” (Gen. 15:1). What did Abraham have to fear at this point? After all, he had just defeated four mighty kings. According to one interpretation given in the Talmud, Abraham said: “Perhaps the sons of those kings I slew will gather together an army and make war against me” (Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit, p. 137). Abraham feared, in other words, that the victory itself might contain the germs of the next war. In all these examples from Lech L’cha, the obvious and manifest source of hostility to Abraham and his family is envy. Animosity arises from group conflict over the possession of valued persons and things: Abraham’s wife, his wealth and possessions, and the Promised Land itself.

    At this point, it might seem that the Torah sides with rationalist, even materialist explanations of antisemitism that trace it to conflicting group interests. But turn the Torah again, and Freud’s deeper, “secret sources” of antisemitism also become apparent. Freud identified three such sources. First, he suggested that people are jealous of the Jews being the chosen people: “I venture to assert,” he writes, “that jealousy of the people which declared itself the first-born, favorite child of God the Father, has not yet been surmounted among other peoples, even today.” The theme of chosenness is, of course, central to this week’s portion. Abraham and his descendants are singled out for divine blessing, reward, and protection from the beginning. Is this unfair favoritism? “Would it not have been better,” asks the king of the Kazars in Yehuda Halevi’s Kuzari, “had God given His approval to all men alike?” A midrash on a verse in Jeremiah (51:9) suggests that God tried to do just this and only turned to Abraham after all other peoples had failed God. The midrash explains the necessity for selecting one people, but it doesn’t explain why Abraham was selected. Nachmanides suggests that “the Chaldeans had persecuted Abraham for his faith in God,” and it was Abraham’s iconoclasm and even martyrdom that justified his election (Leibowitz, Studies in Bereshit, pp. 116–119).

    A second unconscious motive for antisemitism, Freud suggests, is castration fear. In this week’s portion, Abraham is commanded to circumcise himself and his descendants as a sign of his covenant with God (Genesis 17:10–11). “Among the customs by which the Jews made themselves separate,” Freud writes, “that of circumcision has made a disagreeable, uncanny impression on others. The explanation probably is that it reminds them of the dreaded castration idea.” Lest we be too skeptical to take Freud’s suggestion seriously, we should recall the words of the historian Norman Cohn, author of Warrant for Genocide: “One has only to look at any medieval picture illustrating a ritual murder story,” he wrote, “to recognize the unconscious content of the fantasy. A small boy—it is, significantly, always a boy, never a girl—is surrounded by a group of elderly men with long beards, who are torturing and castrating him and drawing off and collecting his blood.”

    Third, Freud asserts that because Christianity, which derives from Judaism, was historically often imposed on people against their will, antisemitism is, in reality, hostility toward Christianity—a hostility then displaced onto Jews. “We must not forget,” Freud writes, “that all the peoples who now excel in the practice of anti-Semitism became Christians only in relatively recent times, sometimes forced to it by bloody compulsion…. They have not yet overcome their grudge against the new religion which was forced on them, and they have projected it on to the source from which Christianity came to them.” He concludes that “the hatred for Judaism is at bottom hatred for Christianity.” But what explains this hatred? Judaism is a religion of law that represents the ethical regulation of the instinctual drives—regulation that then spreads to other peoples through Judaism’s religious offshoots, Christianity and Islam. Freud suggests that the repression and sublimation of instinctual drives makes the blessings of civilization possible. As God tells Abraham, “all the families of the earth” are in this way “blessed in you” (Genesis 12:3). But the repression of instinctual drives is also a painful process that necessarily generates discontent. Just ask anyone who has fasted all day during Yom Kippur! We might conclude, then, that the repression which makes the blessings of civilization possible is also what engenders the curses directed at the Jewish people.

    How, you may ask, does the Lord’s grim prophecy of exile, enslavement, and affliction assuage Abraham’s doubt that his descendants shall inherit the Land of Canaan? God tells him it won’t last forever. “Weeping may tarry for the night,” as the Psalmist (30:6) says, “but joy cometh in the morning.” When the Lord instructs Abraham at the beginning of the portion to go forth (לֶךְ־לְךָ֛) from the land of his birth to the Land of Canaan, the instruction comes with a promise: “I will bless those who bless you, and the one who curses you I will curse, and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you” (Genesis 12:1–3). In Abraham’s vision during the Covenant Between the Parts, God promises that judgment will be brought upon the oppressors, and Abraham’s descendants will “come forth with great substance” and return to the Promised Land (Gen. 15:14–16). This hope of redemption, for ourselves and all the families of the earth, has sustained the Jewish people for many long centuries. Does the portion give us any guidance for how to respond to the curses of antisemitism in the meantime? For an exploration of that question, I encourage you to come to the Saturday morning Torah study.

Rosh Hashanah 5784

Something I learned this year on Rosh Hashana: The 17th century Rabbi Isaiah Horowitz taught that each group of sounds made by the shofar begins with a tekiah, a whole note and is followed by a shevarim, a broken note, divided into three parts or even to a teru’ah, an entirely fragmented sound. But each broken note is not left in its brokenness; it is followed by another tekiah, a whole sound. Rabbi Horowitz taught that when we hear the shofar, we hear this message: I started off whole, I became broken, even splintered into fragments, but I shall become whole again.”

If, as Stendhal once said, beauty is the promise of happiness, then God is the promise of wholeness, which is to say, redemption.

Why Doesn’t Jacob Reveal the End of Days? (פרשת ויחי)

Some loosely associated thoughts about Parshat Vayechi (פרשת ויחי, Genesis 47:28–50:26), the Torah portion for the week that has just ended.

“Jacob called for his sons and said, ‘Gather and I will tell you what will happen to you at the end of days [באחרית הימים]’” (Gen. 49:1). But in fact, as Rashi points out, while Jacob’s prophecy concerns events in the distant future, it doesn’t actually reach the “end of days.” Why not? Rashi explains: “He attempted to reveal the End [הקץ], but the Shekhinah [divine presence] withdrew from him. So he began to say other things.”

As Rashi would say, another explanation: I couldn't help but think of Walter Benjamin’s Theses on the Philosophy of History, where he writes: “The Messiah breaks history; the Messiah does not come at the end of an evolution.” I suppose that's why the Talmud says that the Messiah, like a found object or a scorpion, comes unawares (Sanhedrin 97a).

To See or Not to See God’s Face?

In last week’s Shabbat Chol Hamoed (חול המועד) Torah reading (Exodus 33:12–34:26), Moses asks about the guidance God will provide to the Jewish people through the wilderness. “You have not made known to me,” he says, “whom You will send with me” (Ex. 33:12).

God replies: “פני [my face or presence] shall go” (Ex. 33:14).

Next, Moses asks God to show him God’s כבד (glory).

God demurs and replies that instead His טוב (goodness) will pass in front of Moses.

When there is no response from the speechless Moses, God adds: “You shall not be able to see My face [פני], for no human can see me and live…. You will see My back [אחרי], but My face [פני] will not be seen” (Ex. 33:23).

Later, however, God tells Moses that on the three biblical pilgrimage festivals—Pesach, Sukkot, and Shavuot—all the men will see God’s face or appear in God’s presence (Ex. 34:23):

 שָׁלֹשׁ פְּעָמִים, בַּשָּׁנָה--יֵרָאֶה, כָּל-זְכוּרְךָ, אֶת-פְּנֵי הָאָדֹן יְהוָה, אֱלֹהֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל

The 1917 and 1962 Jewish Publication Society (JPS) translations of this verse say “appear before the Lord God” or “appear before the Sovereign Lord,” omitting the reference in Hebrew to God’s face or presence. My grandmother’s 1960 Menorah Press translation of the Hebrew Bible similarly omits this reference. But Robert Alter translates the passage more fully and accurately: “Three times in the year all your males shall appear in the presence [פְּנֵי] of the Master, the Lord God of Israel.”

God adds (Ex. 34:24):

וְלֹא-יַחְמֹד אִישׁ, אֶת-אַרְצְךָ, בַּעֲלֹתְךָ לֵרָאוֹת אֶת-פְּנֵי יְהוָה אֱלֹהֶיךָ, שָׁלֹשׁ פְּעָמִים בַּשָּׁנָה.

Again, the JPS translations of this verse omit the reference to God’s face or presence. Robert Alter’s translation: “And no man will covet your land when you go up to appear in the presence [פְּנֵי] of the Lord three times in the year.”

These verses reiterate God’s instructions to Moses in Exodus 23:15 and 17. Robert Alter comments on these verses that “the original form of the Hebrew indicated ‘see My face [or presence],’ but the Masoretes revocalized the verb as a passive, ‘to be seen’ or ‘to appear,’ in order to avoid what looked like excessive anthropomorphism.” The Masoretes were the Jewish scribes and scholars who, from the sixth to the tenth centuries of the Common Era, compiled the recognized text of the Hebrew Bible.

So, we have a puzzle here: God says that Moses cannot see God’s face, because “no human can see me and live.” Yet God also instructs the people (at least the men among them) to see God’s face on the three biblical pilgrimage festivals. How do we explain this seeming inconsistency? And a further question: What is the relationship between God’s face (or presence), goodness, and glory?

A postscript on God’s face or presence: As I note elsewhere, it is possible to read the second of the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20:2) literally as “you will not have other gods to my Face” (לא–יהיה לך ... על–פני).

The Golden Calf as the Anti-Tabernacle (פרשת ויקהל-פקודי)

This week’s double Torah portion, Vayakhel-Pekudei (Exodus 35:1–40:38), brings the Book of Exodus to a fulfilling close with the building of the Mishkan (משכן) or Tabernacle, aptly described by Hebrew Bible translator and commentator Robert Alter as a “perfect earthly abode for God in the midst of the Israelites,” the construction of which had been “traumatically disrupted by the story of the Golden Calf and the shattering of the tablets of the Law.”

As Alter points out, the construction of the Mishkan mirrors or parallels the making of the Golden Calf, which was “conceived as the terrestrial throne or platform for the deity …, having precisely the same function as the cherubim over the Ark,” upon which the Divine Presence (שכינה‎) was to rest. “The Golden Calf,” Alter reasons, “is thus a kind of anti-Tabernacle or anti-Ark, meant for the same end of making the divine dwell among the people but doing it in a prohibited fashion.”

As I’ve noted in another blog post, Alter's reading is similar to the interpretation of the 12th-century Jewish philosopher Judah Halevi. Halevi suggests that the Golden Calf was not an idol but simply a material symbol that the people constructed to facilitate their worship of God. For Halevi, the only difference between the creation of the Golden Calf and the creation of the cherubim is that God did not command the calf. "They themselves had no right to determine the mode of worship and make an altar and sacrifices in accordance with it." In other words, it was not the fashioning of material symbols that was problematic--after all, what were the Ark and the throne of the cherubim if not material symbols?--but the fact that the Golden Calf was not made in accordance with God's wishes. In support of this view, Halevi notes that God says "they have quickly turned from the way I commanded them" (Exodus 32:8), not "they have turned aside from Me."

We know that the Mishkan and the Ark are completed in the proper way in this week’s portion because (as Alter notes) their completion “echoes the report of God’s completion of creation, Genesis 2:1-3, with completion of the work at the beginning and blessing at the end” (Exodus 39:43). In addition, when the work is completed, “the glory of the Lord filled the Tabernacle” (Exodus 40:34). The proof of the rectitude of the building, we might say, is in the dwelling.

In sum, according to Halevi and Alter, what made the Golden Calf an anti-Tabernacle or anti-Ark is that it was constructed in an unauthorized fashion, which is to say, not according to God’s explicit, specific, and detailed instructions. These instructions are repeated in this week’s portion (Exodus 36:8-38; Exodus 37:1-28), as if to underscore this point. As Alter puts it, the significance of the repetition lies in “the fact that the Tabernacle is now faithfully assembled in all its prescribed splendid details.”

Are there any other meaningful differences between the making of the Golden Calf and the construction of the Mishkan that would help to explain why the former merits wrath and the latter a blessing? At least two such differences stand out to me.

One important difference is the manner in which the Golden Calf and the Mishkan are constructed. The donations for the Mishkan come from “every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing” (Exodus 35:21), every willing-hearted person (Exodus 35:22), every wise-hearted woman (Exodus 35:25), and every man or woman “whose heart made them willing” (Exodus 35:29). None of these qualities are mentioned in the Golden Calf episode. Aaron tells the people to bring him their golden rings, and the Torah states laconically that they did (Exodus 32:2-3). As Nehama Leibowitz writes, “gold alone was given to the calf, but gold and a willing heart was given to the Tabernacle.” Malbim infers from this difference that gifts of gold are “not the chief thing in the eyes of God, since it is the heart that the Almighty demands.”

Reinforcing this point, the people bring “too much for the work of the task that the Lord charged to do” (Exodus 36:5). This detail too is lacking in the Golden Calf episode. There is no mention there that the people give more gold to Aaron than he needs. In short, the people are more generous and enthusiastic in their donations for the Mishkan than in their donations for the Golden Calf.

The different manner in which the Mishkan is constructed is also evident from what the portion says about Bezalel, the man upon whom the Lord calls to manage its construction. Bezalel is provided with detailed instructions, but he doesn’t construct the Mishkan by rote. Rather, God filled Bezalel with wisdom (חכמה), understanding (תבונה), and knowledge (דעת); and God “put in his heart that he may teach, both he and and Oholiab” (Exodus 35:31-35). Alter comments: “God has endowed Bezalel, together with his chief assistant Oholiab, not only with the skill to execute all these sundry crafts but also with the capacity to instruct the crews of ordinary craftsmen how to carry out their work.” To borrow from Christopher Wren’s apt story, Bezalel knows he’s building a cathedral, not just laying bricks, and he helps his workers to understand this too. In contrast, the making of the Golden Calf involves no wisdom, understanding, or knowledge (there is no reference to any of these qualities in the story), nor does the maker of the calf, Aaron, instruct others in how to carry out this work. In fact, Aaron describes the making of the Golden Calf as if he himself doesn’t understand what happened: “I flung [gold] into the fire, and there came out this calf” (Exodus 32:24).

Second, this week’s portion emphasizes how the Mishkan, though composed of many parts, “became one whole” (Exodus 36:13, 18). Alter, commenting on a nearly identical phrase in a previous portion (Exodus 26:6), writes that it “leads Abraham ibn Ezra to muse over how unity in the greater world is constituted by an interlocking of constituent parts that became a transcendent whole.” This is presumably an aspect of the construction of the Mishkan that Bezalel’s wisdom (endowed by God) allows him to understand. In contrast, the Golden Calf is made through the literal melting down of its constituent parts. It represents a very different kind of unity, one without differentiated and specialized components, like the sameness of Hegel’s night in which all cows are black.

To conclude, we see that what made the Golden Calf an anti-Tabernacle or anti-Ark is not only that Aaron failed to make it to specification, but also that it was made without heart, and without wisdom, understanding, and knowledge, including an understanding of that complex unity-in-difference represented by the Mishkan.

Rejoice in Your Going Out (פרשת משפטים)

This week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim (משפטים, meaning “ordinances”), begins pointedly, as the Hebrew Bible translator Robert Alter notes, with “the regulation of slavery, addressed in the narrative situation to an audience of newly freed slaves.” A keyword that appears repeatedly in the first few verses (Exodus 21:2-4) caught my attention. That word is יצא (go out).

כִּי תִקְנֶה עֶבֶד עִבְרִי, שֵׁשׁ שָׁנִים יַעֲבֹד; וּבַשְּׁבִעִת--יֵצֵא לַחָפְשִׁי, חִנָּם
If thou buy a Hebrew servant, six years he shall serve; and in the seventh he shall go out free for nothing.

אִם-בְּגַפּוֹ יָבֹא, בְּגַפּוֹ יֵצֵא; אִם-בַּעַל אִשָּׁה הוּא, וְיָצְאָה אִשְׁתּוֹ עִמּוֹ
If he come in by himself, he shall go out by himself; if he be married, then his wife shall go out with him.

 אִם-אֲדֹנָיו יִתֶּן-לוֹ אִשָּׁה, וְיָלְדָה-לוֹ בָנִים אוֹ בָנוֹת--הָאִשָּׁה וִילָדֶיהָ, תִּהְיֶה לַאדֹנֶיהָ, וְהוּא, יֵצֵא בְגַפּוֹ
If his master give him a wife, and she bear him sons or daughters; the wife and her children shall be her master's, and he shall go out by himself.

The word יצא caught my attention because of its appearance in other places. Earlier this week, I led a discussion with my students about Judah Leib Gordon’s 1866 poem הקיצה עמי (“Awake My People”), which includes this famous line:

היה אדם בצאתך ויהודי באהלך
Be a man in the streets [when you go out] and a Jew at home [in your tent]

Translated literally (be a human being when you go out and a Jew in your tent), it alludes to Deuteronomy 33:18, part of the blessing of Moses to the tribes of Israel:

וְלִזְבוּלֻן אָמַר, שְׂמַח זְבוּלֻן בְּצֵאתֶךָ; וְיִשָּׂשכָר, בְּאֹהָלֶיךָ
And of Zebulun he said: Rejoice, Zebulun, in thy going out, and, Issachar, in thy tents.

The great medieval Bible commentator Rashi interpreted the verse this way: “Zebulun and Issachar made a partnership. ‘Zebulun shall dwell by seashores’ [Genesis 49:13] and depart in ships to engage in commerce. He would earn profit, and put into the mouth of [i.e., provide financial support for] Issachar, and [the men of the tribe of Issachar] would sit and engage in [the study of] Torah. That is why [the younger] Zebulun is put ahead of Issachar, for Issachar’s Torah came about through Zebulun.” So Rashi understands the verse to mean “succeed [Zebulun] when you depart for trade,” and “succeed [Issachar] in sitting in your tents for Torah.”

According to Abarim Publications’ Biblical Dictionary:

The verb יצא is one of the most occurring verbs in the Bible. It means to go, and specifically to go out or forth (Genesis 31:33, 2 Samuel 11:8, Micah 4:10). Its opposite is the verb בוא meaning to come. The difference between these two verbs lies not simply in the direction of motion relative to the observer, but rather in a motion relative to either a focal point on one end or a state of dispersal on the other. The verb בוא (to come) is predominantly used to describe a motion away from being all over the place or considering various options, and toward one specific place or one final decision. The verb יצא (to go) is predominantly used to describe a motion away from the focal point (being perhaps a point of origin or pause) and towards the wide blue yonder where everything is possible (Genesis 24:50, 1 Kings 5:13, Isaiah 28:29).

This source adds that יצא is associated with the rising sun, which goes out in Hebrew (as in Psalm 19:6); the east (as in Psalm 75:6), the spatial point of origin from whence the sun goes out; and the past, the temporal point of origin from which one goes forth to the future. I’m reminded here of Werner Sombart’s line about Jewish migration: “Wie die Sonne geht Israel über Europa: wo es hinkommt, spriesst neues Leben empor.” (Israel passes over Europe like the sun: at its coming new life bursts forth.) In the Biblical Creation story, new life is brought forth (תּוֹצֵ֨א), a causative form of the word to go forth (יצא).

So what are we to make of all this? Gordon is clearly urging his readers to do more than go out into the world to earn a living through commerce (Rashi’s interpretation of Zebulun). Gordon’s line is typically understood to mean that Jews should abandon public expressions of Jewishness and instead privatize Judaism in the home. As Karl Marx had put it two decades earlier in his essay “Zur Judenfrage”: “Man emancipates himself politically from religion by expelling it from the sphere of public law to that of private law.” And as Marx went on to argue, this kind of bifurcation divides man against himself. But perhaps the appearance of יצא in this week’s portion, where it is linked to emancipation and freedom, lends the word another meaning in Gordon’s poem. It’s noteworthy that in our portion the Hebrew servant goes out after six years of service—a clear parallel to the seventh day of Creation on which God rested (Genesis 2:2), the seventh year in which the land rested (Leviticus 25:2-4), and the cancellation of debts every seven years (Deuteronomy 15). When Gordon urges the reader to be a human being when he goes out, maybe he is calling on Jews to emancipate themselves from servitude and embrace the wide open possibilities of freedom that he saw (however mistakenly in his time and place) bursting forth like the rising sun.