October 20, 2012

Parashat No•ah, Genesis 6:9–11:32

This week's commentary was written by Rabbi Abigail Treu, Rabbinic Fellow and Director of Donor Relations, JTS.

 

The Windows by Constantine P. Cavafy, Greek poet, 1863–1933

In these darkened rooms, where
I spend oppressive days,
I pace to and fro to find the windows.
When a window opens, it will be a consolation.
But the windows cannot be found, or I cannot find them.
And maybe it is best that I do not find them. Maybe the light will be a new tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will reveal?


Hovering at the edge of the question of what life on the ark was like for Noah is the problem of the window.

But before we get to that: let's agree that the story of Noah and the ark is a parable, rife with symbolism of our own negotiation of transitions and traumas of all kinds. Let's agree that, like Noah, we struggle to understand that the world we once knew is not the world that endures for our entire lifespan. Let's agree that fear of change is the greatest human dread. And let's agree, too, that at some point in our own survival stories, we find a way to cope and begin again—just as Noah, in the end, sets foot on dry land and plants a vineyard there too.

And now, back to the window.

The ark's window bothered the Rabbis. It is a technical problem: in Genesis 8:6, Noah "opened the window (chalon) of the ark that he had made," but in the very thorough account of the construction of the ark earlier in the parashah, no window was ever made. "What window?" the Rabbis wonder. Rashi glosses that the window is the tzohar of 6:16, which is indisputable because no one knows what a tzohar is and the word does not appear again in all of Tanakh. It is translated by the Jewish Publication Society as "daylight," based on the tradition begun in Targum Onkelos, and picked up by the Rabbis, that it was something that illuminated the ark, perhaps a daylight, perhaps a precious glowing gem. The Vulgate—the Latin translation of the Bible, done in the fourth-century AD—translates it as fenestra, meaning "window," and the medieval Rabbis take that up as exemplified by Rashi's gloss: "The window of the ark that he had made: this is the tzohar, and not the opening of the ark made for entering and exiting." But on the peshat, the literal level, a chalon is not necessarily a tzohar (whatever that is), and if it were, wouldn't we find the same word in both places?

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October 13, 2012

Parashat Bereishit, Genesis 1:1–6:8

This week's commentary was written by Dr. Richard Kalmin, Theodore R. Racoosin Chair of Rabbinic Literature, JTS.

I want to share some thoughts about the difference between Adam and Eve before and after they ate of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. To state things up front, my claim is that Adam and Eve did not just undergo a fall, but also a significant rise; to make that claim, I'm going to argue that two of the main characters, the snake and God, have often been misunderstood. The snake has gotten a bum rap, and God has usually gotten off much too easily.

We can't understand the role of the snake in the story by focusing on the character of snakes here and now, since clearly the one in the garden was much different from those in our world, after God's curse. We must start with the Bible's description of the snake via the word arum, translated as "shrewd" in Genesis 3:1. The word arum occurs often in biblical literature. It refers to something respected in some contexts, where it's translated as "prudent" or "clever," but feared or condemned in others, where it's translated as "crafty" or "wily." It can also be an attribute that is respected and feared at the same time.

Shrewdness throughout the Bible is a powerful commodity that can be put to both good and bad uses, but is not inherently good or bad. It's necessary for survival in a hard world, and it is this trait that the snake introduced into the Garden of Eden. In a tremendous play on words, Genesis says that without the snake's arum-ness (shrewdness), Adam and Eve were totally arum (naked and innocent) [2:5]. To be truly human they had to eat the fruit—and it was the snake, who knew exactly what would happen to Eve if she ate, who enabled them to do that. It knew that Eve was wrong when she said that she would die if she ate of the fruit or touched it (3:3), and also knew that God was wrong (or lied) when He said to Adam and Eve that "You must not eat of the fruit, lest you die" (2:17). The serpent responds to Eve, "You are not going to die" (3:4), and of course Adam and Eve don't die when they partake of it. Even afterward, God has to banish them from the Garden, lest they eat from the Tree of Life and live forever (3:22). As far as I can tell, Adam and Eve are no more susceptible to death after they eat the fruit than they were before. It is only when God banishes them from the Garden and they have no more access to the Tree of Life that they are once and for all condemned to mortality.

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October 6, 2012

Parashat Sukkot Day Six

Exodus 33:12–34:26 and Numbers 29:23–31

This week’s commentary was written by Rabbi Ayelet Cohen (RS ’02), Director, The Center for Jewish Living at The JCC in Manhattan.

Immediately on the heels of the intense spiritual work of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Sukkot challenges us to turn our lives inside out again, this time quite literally. The Talmud tells us that for the duration of Sukkot we must leave our permanent dwellings and reside in temporary dwellings (BT Sukkah 2b). By its very nature, the sukkah must feel temporary; we must experience the elements in a way that we do not when we are at home. By leaving the comfort and protection of our homes, making the temporary permanent and the permanent temporary for the duration of the holiday, we are more vulnerable and thus more open. We are able to meet the intention of tze ul’mad from the Passover seder, and, like the Israelites in the wilderness, in that interstitial space have the opportunity to experience revelation.

We are commanded to “rejoice on the festival,” leading us to think of the holidays as a time of family gathering and celebration: our closest friends and families crowded around an overflowing table. But the Rambam challenges us to go further, reframing our interpretation of celebrating the bounty of the holiday. 

When one eats and drinks one must also feed the stranger, the orphan, and the widow, along with all other poor and destitute. But one who locks the gates of one’s courtyard, and eats and drinks with one’s own family but does not feed the poor and disheartened, is not rejoicing in the commandment, rather rejoicing in one’s own belly. (Mishnah Torah Hilchot Yom Tov 6:18)

Especially on Sukkot, when we experience more than at any other time of the year what it means to be vulnerable to the elements, we must push ourselves to share our bounty with those who are disenfranchised and those who have no food or no homes. For far too many people, home is always fragile, and vulnerability is a permanent state. The12th-century scholar Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (Rashbam) believed that Sukkot helped reinforce the fact that our wealth and comfort is a gift from God. 

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