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Joesph could no longer restrain himself in the presence of all who were stationed around him, he called out, “Have everyone leave me!”…Then Joseph said to his brothers: “I am Joseph. Is my father still alive?” (Gen. 45:1,3)

After Joseph revealed his identity to his brothers, he sought to assuage their fear that he would take revenge upon them, with these words: “Now, do not be distressed or reproach yourselves because you sold me hither; it was to save life that God sent me ahead of you … God has sent me ahead of you to insure your survival on earth, and to save your lives in an extraordinary deliverance.” [Gen 45:5,7]

One can list the multiple purposes in Joseph’s assertion: he is confronting his brothers’ sense of surprise and distress, and giving them a measure of safety in a situation that would clearly appear to them as being fraught with peril. Joseph is also articulating what he sees to be a self-evident truth. He is affirming God’s unseen hand in the unfolding of the unexpected events that had taken place since being brought to Egypt. For what other purpose could a lowly, foreign, and imprisoned slave be raised to the second highest office in the land, than to assure the survival of the family whose patriarch, vouchsafed by God, would become a great nation?

One might then ask: at what point did this fact of God’s providential power become clear to Joseph? Did he know it when he was first thrown by his brothers into the pit, or when he was a servant in Potiphar’s household, or when he languished in an Egyptian jail? Perhaps, he knew when he interpreted Pharoah’s dream, or when his brothers first showed up in his court in order to purchase grain. Then again, Joseph might not have recognized God’s intention until just that moment, when reconciliation between his brothers and himself was truly possible. Only then was the unseen hand of God revealed.

The text gives no indication that Joseph realized or understood God’s plan until he blurted out his assertion to his brothers. Rather, as much is indicated in Genesis 45:8: “And now [ve’atah], it was not you [brothers] who sent me here but God …” That is, ‘and now, for the first time, I realize that it was not you, etc.’²

Until the story of Joseph, God’s presence in the narratives of Genesis is explicit and intrinsic. In dreams, visions, voices and messengers, God directly brought to bear the divine will into the lives of all the principle characters. Then, for Joseph and his brothers, God is oddly absent. At the climax of the tale-the dramatic self-revelation-somehow for Joseph, God is revealed as well.

The Bible is not a reflective book in the conventional philosophical sense. In the case of the Joseph tale, however, the text is going beyond a merely incidental theological assertion. Rather, I sense the authors/redactors of the narrative sought to raise and confront the challenging problem of just how does one know of the presence of God.

What is the content of a religious experience? Few questions have been more vexing or more persistent. The Bible is filled with incidents in which God is made manifest in dreams, signs, messengers, or unmistakable interventions into the course of history. Even if we accept faithfully the inerrancy of these accounts, we may still ask where is God now?

The medieval philosopher attempted to prove that the self-evident belief in the existence of a caring and benevolent God, as attested by Scripture and teaching, could also be known through the application of rational thought. In the modern era, the effort was turned on its head: Could anything mediated by self-actuating reason admit to the possibility of a caring and benevolent God?

In each generation, a handful of believers would step up to the challenge, answer ‘yes,’ and proceed in attempting to craft a rational and philosophically cogent expression of the reality of God. Others essentially conceded the issue and set about to reinterpret the idea of God in a fashion conducive to the strictures of philosophical demands. Many simply ignored the issue and professed their faith, but did so at the peril of sacrificing the status of being ‘modern’, ‘educated’, ‘progressive’, ‘with-it’, etc.

Things change. The philosophical challenge though hardly broken has been weakened, as the once “self-evident” presumptions of modern philosophy have themselves been contested. Indeed there is a clear trend in Modern Jewish thought that contemporary liberal Jewish religious expression is dependent first and foremost on the ability to accept the presence of a living God that calls to Israel.³

Thus, we return to the biblical text. The authors/redactors accepted unquestioningly the accounts of the experiences and visions of Abraham, Jacob, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Moses and all those who stood at the base of Mount Sinai. But, the same experience of the divine, given with even a fraction of the clarity and certainty to which they give expression in the text, probably eluded them, as much as it eludes us. Although, they did not grow the carapaces of self-consciousness and skepticism of the modern soul, they nonetheless were capable of asking the same question that animates us now: what constitutes an experience of God?

In offering this analysis, I am trying to present the narrative as p’shat, with as little interpretive overlay as possible. The plain meaning of the text is highlighted, however, when seen in the light of certain relevant midrashim. I sense that the classic rabbis already knew full well what I have only recently discovered.

From the beginning of Par’shat Vayeishev [Gen. 37] to the end of Genesis—except for one instructive instance—God is completely absent as an ‘on-stage’ participant in the narrative. Neither God nor any angel nor messenger of God speak or act throughout the tale. This absence is sharpened by virtue of it being sandwiched between the earlier stories of Genesis and the subsequent Exodus saga, in which God is a major ‘player.’

Prior to the start of the Joseph story, God is a constant actor in the narrative, but note how the rules for God’s presence changes. Let us set aside the primeval history in which God is a constant and pervasive presence in the affairs of humankind, and begin with Abraham. Throughout the Abraham story, God speaks (either directly or by means of divine messengers) to—inter alia—Abraham, Sarah, Hagar and Lot and his family. In the Isaac story, however, God speaks only to Isaac and Rebecca. One might object: the Isaac story is very brief and circumscribed, so that there is little opportunity for God to be present for much of anything. Not quite!

Consider the wife-sister motif. Twice Abraham and once Isaac try to parade their wives as their sisters, and all three times they are caught in their deception. How do the deceived find out? In the first instance [Gen. 12], God showers plagues down on Pharaoh’s household, and then allows the Egyptian king to figure it out for himself. In the second [Gen. 20], perhaps not trusting Abimelech’s powers of reasoning, God informs him directly in a dream. In the third-the Isaac story [Gen. 26]-Abimelech spies Isaac and Rebecca in a compromising position, and figures it out for himself! Divine contact in any fashion on the part of Abimelech has been eliminated. God’s presence is clearly limited to Isaac and Rebecca alone.

Finally, there is the Jacob story. The discipline is broken a bit; God speaks to Laban in order to restrain him as Jacob takes leave of his household [Gen. 31], and God is pictured as determining whether Leah or Rachel may give birth [Gen. 29-30]. Outside of these instances-the latter involves no divine encounter-God is present exclusively for Jacob. Neither his wives nor his children have a theophonic experience. Moreover, when God does make one final appearance in the midst of the Joseph narrative, it is for the purpose of speaking to Jacob alone [Gen. 46]!

From Abraham to Isaac to Jacob, God’s direct involvement in the affairs of humankind is more restricted, until in Joseph’s time God appears to have disappeared altogether. Of course, God has not disappeared, but rather the divine presence is recognized as working throughout the lives of Joseph and his brothers only after most of the story is over; that is, Joseph’s explanation of God’s role as quoted above.

I think this ‘narrowing’ is clearly intended by the authors of the text, and not a matter of aggadic creativity on mine or anyone else’s part. When the biblical accounts are overlaid with midrashic wisdom, then some extraordinary insights are revealed.

Before continuing, let me restate an earlier assertion. The absence of God in the Joseph tale is sandwiched between the patriarchal narratives, and the story of the Exodus and wandering in the wilderness. Starting with the burning bush, God once more returns to center stage. Indeed, God’s active hand in history remains a relatively unbroken staple of the biblical narrative all the way through the story of Elijah. What is going on here? Why are Joseph and his brothers singled out by God’s silence?

A midrash in Tanhuma [Pikudei 6, and again in Naso 16] avers that with the sin of Adam and Eve, the Shekhinah was removed from earth and went to the first level of the heavens. With each succeeding sinful generation, the divine presence moved a step higher in the firmament. When finally on the seventh level, Abraham appeared and God began a stepwise return to earth. The midrash provides an intriguing backdrop to the biblical text. As God comes nearer, the divine presence becomes harder to discern.

This concept is not so obscure. Stand, say, twenty feet from one of Monet’s lovely paintings of the Cathedral at Rouen, and the representation of the church is distinct. Move closer and the painting dissolves into indistinguishable brushstrokes. A midrash makes the same point [Numbers Rabba 14:22]: Commenting on the verse [Ex. 33:20] “No one can see My face and live,” the last word (vahai) is reinterpreted as “the heavenly creature(s),” specifically those who carry the Throne of Glory. They cannot gaze upon God precisely because they are too close.

By overlaying the p’shat [plain meaning] with the d’rash [creative interpretation], a lesson emerges: that God’s explicit presence is necessary precisely when one is distant from the divine. The families of Abraham and Isaac struggled with the radical nature of the God of their parents, and some of the children went their own way. Jacob himself literally struggled with the divine and was aptly renamed Yisrael. Jacob’s children, however, only struggled among themselves. In some fundamental way, they had accepted the covenant of fidelity that God had established with their father. Even when they acted wrongly-Shimon and Levi among the Shechemites, for example-they did so in misplaced loyalty to God.⁴

After the generation of Joseph, the Israelites settled into a routine of isolation and alienation. God became distant again. It would take many generations, and many struggles and rebellions before God could act once more as an invisible yet abiding presence. One more midrash: In Talmud Shabbat 88a, the verse in Exodus [19:17] of the Israelites standing at the foot (tachteet) of the mountain, is imagined as God suspending the mountain over their heads, and then asking if they are prepared to accept the Torah. The gemara then asserts that this coercive condition remained until “the days of Ahasuerus,” when [Est. 9:27] “the Jews understood and irrevocably obligated themselves.” So it is that in the biblical book where the very name of God is absent, Israel finally accepts the divine will.

The modern religious thinker-that is one who wishes to be faithful both to the dictates of modern rational thought and to the duties of the spirit-struggles with the search for God. On the one hand, we have the legacy of the medieval philosophers who sought to reconcile the contradiction of an omnipresent and elusive deity by positing that God’s presence can always be deduced from observation and reason. On the other, we know that all the proofs have failed, and that locating the deity in the rational mind is mostly folly.

By returning to the sources, we may discover from the authors of our sacred literature, that our search becomes successful precisely when we turn aside our quest for the divine, and rather permit ourselves to be aware of the human being before us; when we are like Joseph

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Notes:
¹Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus (Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd, London, 1974) p. 57, No. 5.633.
²The new JPS and other translations simply translate ve’atah as “So” or “So it is that,” thereby perhaps reinforcing a stylistic harmony with verses 5-7. The unmistakable word for “now” is nonetheless present at the beginning of this verse.
³See, for example, the recent works of Eugene Borowitz (Renewing the Covenant: A Theology for the Postmodern Jew, JPS, 1991), Neil Gillman (Sacred Fragments: Recovering Theology for the Modern Jew, JPS, 1990), Arthur Green (Seek My Face, Speak My Name: A Contemporary Jewish Theology, Jason Aronson, 1992) and Lawrence Kushner (God was in this Place & I, i Did Not Know, Jewish Lights, 1991). Despite significant differences in styles and approaches, they all hold to the common assertion that Jewish identity begins with a God who calls upon Israel.
⁴This intense and misplaced fidelity to the God of Israel is a theme carried out later in the Bible in the stories of Elijah and Jonah. While Shimon is apparently absorbed into the other tribes, his name is preserved. Levi, of course, is rehabilitated through Moses and Aaron; as is Elijah through the images of Malachai, the midrash and folklore.
⁵The talmudic sages were concerned about the absence of God’s Name in a canonical text, and therefore proffered explanations for the sacredness of the book of Esther (cf. especially Megilla 7a). A relevant insight is offered in Erubim 139b, where the name ‘Esther’ is connected to the verb ‘haster,’ meaning “hide.” Hence, the hidden role of God in the biblical tale.

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In the 5761 (December 2000), we read the Haftarah to the par’shat Mikketz. This would seem to be an unexceptional statement. Every par’shah is associated with a Haftarah, and that prophetic segment is normally read, unless it is a special Shabbat in which a special Haftarah is appended to the normal par’shah. What are these occasions? They include: the five Sabbaths spread through the six weeks preceding Pesach (Shekalim, Zakhor, Parah, HaHodesh, and HaGadol) and the Sabbath that occurs during Hanukkah.

Given the way the Jewish calendar and cycle of Torah readings work, the par’shah read during the Shabbat of Hanukkah is almost always Mikketz. Thus, one rarely hears the Haftarah for this par’shah. For instance, the last time Mikketz did not fall during Hanukkah was in the Hebrew year 5757 (1996), and the next time will be in 5781 or December 2020! So you can see, an opportunity to discuss the Haftarah to this par’shah does not come along very often.

In reality, the par’shat Mikketz has two Haftarot associated with it. The one that was traditionally assigned to it-from I Kings 3:15-28-and the one assigned to the Shabbat of Hanukkah-Zechariah 2-4-with the latter being the one far more frequently identified with the par’shah. Indeed, the “proper” prophetic passage is virtually a hidden Haftarah. Should we draw any lesson from its infrequency?

Let us first briefly note the Haftarah for Hanukkah. These passages from Zechariah also represent the Haftarah for par’shat B’ha’alotkha (Num. 8:1-12:16). The Torah portion begins with a description of the seven-branch Menorah that the priests would maintain in the Mishkan (the Tabernacle or portable Temple borne through the wilderness). Zechariah depicts a vision of this Menorah as part of a call for the rebuilding of the Temple. This passage in turn resonates both with the rededication of the Temple under the Maccabees, and the centrality of light to the observance of the Festival.

The passage in Zechariah is presented as a vision within a vision. The prophet is given to imagine the High Priest Joshua’s encounter with an angel, and, in turn, the angel sets the apparition of the Temple Menorah before Joshua. This doubling of a dream thus connects the Haftarah with Pharaoh’s double dream in the par’shah. Further, Joshua’s confusion over the meaning of the Menorah vision echoes the inability of Pharaoh’s advisers to interpret his dreams. Thus, the Haftarah, with its strong connection to the images and themes of Hanukkah, also contains a background relationship to its usual par’shah.

The motif in both Haftarot is that of visions and dreams. The passage in I Kings begins: Then Solomon woke: it was a dream! The first word of the Haftarah, vayikatz, establishes an aural connection with the par’shah (vay’hi miketz), but in so doing, it also eliminates the dream itself from the passage. At the beginning of the Haftarah, we read that Solomon had a dream, not we do not necessarily know what that dream is. This comment is not quite accurate. The Rabbis, in choosing the verses that would make up the Haftarah, could very well assume that many listeners in the synagogue would know enough Tanakh to be aware just what dream Solomon had. Rather, the king’s reverie itself is not to be considered germane to the lesson the Rabbis wish to draw.

The passage goes on to tell the familiar story of the two women who claim the same infant. From the king’s judgment we get the notion of a Solomonic decision. Chapter 3 of I Kings ends with the declaration: “When Israel heard of the decision of the king, they held him in awe, seeing that he had within him divine wisdom to do justice.” The Haftarah, however, ends with the first verse of Chapter 4: “Now King Solomon was king over all Israel.”

One should not derive too much from this addition. The breakdown of biblical books into chapters was the work of medieval Christian clerics. A classic Jewish approach to the text would ignore such divisions. This is particularly evident in the case of the par’shiot, which generally do not respect the concept of chapters at all. Indeed, one could suggest that each par’shah represents a rabbinic chapter of the Torah. The chapter divisions nevertheless are hardly arbitrary. I Kings 4 introduces the administration of Solomon as monarch, and thus naturally begins with the general statement that he now ruled as king over Israel. Yet, rather than treating this verse as the introduction to a section of the narrative, the Rabbis suggest that it is the conclusion of a previous passage.

So what do we have? A passage that begins with Solomon waking from a dream, the incident in which he exhibits the quality of his wisdom through judging the two mothers, culminating with the declaration that now Solomon was indeed Israel’s ruler. Now consider what we do not have; what precedes the first verse of the Haftarah.

We can begin with the last part of the last verse of Chapter 2. The first two chapters of I Kings relate the story of succession from David to Solomon over and through another son of the old king. Solomon, with the blessing of his father and the help of Nathan the prophet takes control, and Chapter 2 concludes: Thus the kingdom was secured in Solomon’s hands.

The first half of Chapter 3 describes a dream in which God confronts Solomon asking what divine gift would the new king like to receive. Solomon notes that he is young and inexperienced, and therefore asks in essence for the maturity in which to rule the people with moral insight and good judgment. God is especially pleased that Solomon’s request is not for domination and wealth, and declares: I grant you a wise and discerning mind; there has never been anyone like you before, nor will anyone like you arise again. (I Kings 3:12)

When we take this entire section-from the end of Chapter 2 through the beginning of Chapter 4-we see a mirrored narration: 1. A statement that Solomon has secured control of the kingdom. 2. A dream in which he asks and is granted wisdom. 3. An incident in which he exhibits wisdom in deciding a thorny case. 4. Finally, a statement (once again!) that Solomon is king.

It is reasonably clear that the first declaration of Solomon’s rule states a political fact, the culmination of the maneuvers that had taken place in order to ensure the monarchic succession. (It is worth remembering that Solomon ascension to the throne represents the first instance of an established monarchy in Israel. Saul had been king, but had failed to establish a royal family.) The second declaration, however, states a social-moral fact. Through wisdom and not sheer domination, Solomon is established in the hearts and minds of the people Israel as their ruler.

In cutting out the first half of this narrative segment, the Haftarah accomplishes two things. It undercuts the prophetic nature of Solomon’s night vision. Instead, all we read is that Solomon awoke from a dream; a dream as opposed to reality! Dreams have played an extraordinarily important role in the stories of Jacob and Joseph, from the vision of the heaven-reaching ladder to Pharaoh’s cryptic images. The Haftarah, however, focuses on the reality; not what was envisioned but rather what was actually done. In this Haftarah, we have the source that will be expressed in Theodore Herzl’s oft-repeated statement: Im tirtzu eyn zo ‘agada [If you will it, it is no dream].

The second aspect of the Haftarah is in emphasizing the social-moral aspect of authority over the legal-political. From David through Solomon, a single unbroken dynasty was established over the kingdom of Judah. This can be compared to experience in the break-off Northern Kingdom, whose history is filled with the more familiar succession of usurpations and palace revolts. As the biblical text (though not the Haftarah) portends, successors to Solomon were not necessarily as worthy or capable as he in their administration of the kingdom. Nonetheless, the dynasty held together. The Haftarah suppresses the notion that its success was due in any way to the sheer assertion of power, but rather to the acceptance that the people had in its divinely inspired moral authority. Thus, we sense in the Haftarah the expression that is the climax of the Hanukkah Haftarah: Lo b’khayil, v’lo b’koakh, ki im b’rukhi, amar Adon’ Tz’va’ot [Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit, says the God of heaven’s hosts].

So the regular but infrequently read Haftarah for the par’shat Mikketz, ultimately strikes the same theme as the more common Haftarah for Hanukkah. The former prophetic section, although focusing on the moral source of authority, nonetheless reflects the notion of Israelite sovereignty. The latter, although mentioning Zerubbabel who had a legitimate claim to the throne of David, presents its image of moral authority within the religious context of the Temple and its priesthood. The predominate condition in Jewish history has been a people without sovereignty, for whom power has had to be drawn more from social and religious sources than from military or political force. The Hanukkah Haftarah therefore also predominates.

But the possibility of sovereignty-of political domination-has always existed in Jewish dreams. In the middle of the twentieth century it actually came to be. And with it arises the issue presented by the Haftarah: does one rule by virtue of force, or by virtue of power that can transcend force?

Dedication—Haftarot Hanukah (2002

As one might expect, it is only on infrequent occasions that Hanukah includes two Sabbaths. You might ask what difference does it make, beyond the fact that there are two times in which we have to remember to light the Hanukah candles before the Shabbat candles, rather than the more usual once? The key difference does not take place in the home but at the synagogue. Since the first and last day of Hanukah falls on Shabbat a special Haftarah is read on each of these days. (The Torah portions-Vayeshev and Mikketz-are read as they would be whether it is Shabbat Hanukah or not.)

The appearance this year of the regular Haftarah for the Shabbat of Hanukah, and the much less frequently read Haftarah for a second Shabbat affords us some insights into traditional Jewish thinking about the holiday.

Since every Hanukah includes at least one Shabbat, each year we read the passage from the prophet Zechariah (2:14-4:7) in which he describes a vision of the Temple Menorah and learns from an angel that the vision means: “Not by might nor by power, but by My spirit, says the Eternal.” The section from II Kings (7:40-50), read on a second Shabbat Hanukah, is a brief description of the items made for Solomon’s construction of the first Temple in Jerusalem. When considered side by side, we can see their commonality, but are also struck by their apparent contrasts.

What do they have in common? First, they both relate to conventional themes of the holiday: kindling of the lights of a Menorah, dedication by the Maccabees of the Temple. Indeed both Haftarot focus on the Temple. The passage from Zechariah refers to the early years following the return from Babylonian captivity, when the Jews were having some difficulty organizing in order to rebuild the Temple. The seven-branch Menorah was one of the prominent appurtenances.

At this point, however, the contrasts become clear as well. Zechariah focuses not so much on the Menorah but rather on the lights themselves. Hence, the expression “not by might nor by power, but by My spirit,” a reference to God’s love and protection that is more powerful than any military power. In this Haftarah we have the opportunity to reflect on the notion of creating light at the darkest time of the year.

The second Haftarah, however, has no spiritual qualities, but rather inventories the handsomely made and very expensive articles to be found in the First Temple. Instead of giving us some elevated meaning, it focuses on a building and its furnishings. Going from the first Haftarah to the second feels like lighting the Hanukah candles, reciting the blessings, thinking about miracles, lights, blessings, sacrifice and freedom, and then tearing into the presents!

This can hardly be the intent. What are we to learn from the two Haftarot taken together? I would like to suggest two different approaches to an answer. The first is to be found in looking at the passages themselves. Zechariah speaks about a vision (actually two visions), and Hanukah is a time for thinking about certain basic ideals such as freedom. Indeed, the rabbis remind us that Hanukah differs from Purim in that the latter celebrates the triumph over those who wanted to kill us, but the former recalls our victory over those who wanted to take away our beliefs.

Belief, ideal, vision, light: these are all important and vital concepts. But as ideas they are useless unless they are actually put to use. The Maccabees, we recall in story and song, fought for freedom. It was not just freedom as an idea, but the freedom that was embodied in the form of worship represented by the Temple. The freedom was the Temple itself! Ideas-intellect-must be employed in the service of something tangible and concrete. We light the lights, recite the blessings, sing the songs, and then we give gifts. If we are true to the songs and the blessings, we give not only to those we love, but also to those in need. Solomon’s Temple was not created lavishly for his own pleasure or the pleasure of the Court, but for all the people. It was not just finely wrought pots and columns, but it was a shelter and a warehouse of food and clothing for the poor. By light, we give light. And we resolve to give more.

The second approach is based on the fact these Haftarot are also connected to certain Torah portions. The passage from Zechariah is also read for B’ha’alotekha. In this section from the book of Numbers we first learn about the construction of the Temple Menorah (that, of course, is the direct connection). Then we read about the Levites and their mandated role to provide service on behalf of the tasks of the priests. It is behind-the-scenes work-the priests have all the public ritual responsibilities-but it is absolutely necessary to running of Israelite society. Once again, we are reminded that the gift of light on Hanukah is not just for ourselves. The spiritual freedom we enjoy allows us to confirm material freedom on others.

The passage in II Kings is even more to the point. It is the Haftara for Vayak’hel. The second-to-last par’sha in Exodus recalls an earlier section of the Book. Moses receives instructions from God on building the mishkan, the portable Temple that will be carried through the desert. The material for the building will come from free-will contributions of the Israelites. In Vayak’hel the vision becomes a reality. Moses asks for contributions, and the people actually give! On Hanukah we thank God for divine blessings, and we remind ourselves that the blessing is not complete until we also give.

The story of the origin of Hanukkah is almost as familiar to average Americans as the story of the origin of Christmas. We all know about the single cruise of oil that was supposed to last only one day in the process of dedicating the Temple after the Maccabees’ victory over the wicked Syrians. The oil miraculously lasted eight days, and-voila!-the holiday of Hanukkah. The story is, as you might guess, a story. The First Book of Maccabees, a chronicle of the revolt, describes the re-dedication in this fashion:

Then Judah and his brothers said, “Now that our enemies have been defeated, let us go up to purify the sanctuary and dedicate it.” So they marshaled the whole army, and went up to Mount Zion. (The text then tells of the devastation they found and details the work they did in cleaning, rebuilding and purifying the holy objects.) On the 25th of the ninth month, Kislev, in the year 148 (dating from the conquest of Alexander the Great), they rose at dawn and offered a lawful sacrifice on the new altar which they had made. The altar was dedicated, to the sound of zithers, harps and cymbals, at the same time of year and on the same day on which the pagans had originally profaned it.For eight days they celebrated the dedication of the altar, joyfully offering sacrifices.Judah with his brothers and the whole assembly of Israel, made it a law that the days of the dedication should be celebrated yearly at the proper season, for eight days beginning on the twenty-fifth of Kislev, with rejoicing and gladness. (I Macc. 4)

This is it. No cruise of oil, no miracle is described. We need not stop here. The account suggests that the date of 25 Kislev was picked because it undid the profaning of the Temple that occurred exactly three years earlier. It does not, however, give any reason for an eight-day celebration. There is another account, a Second Book of Maccabees. Unlike I and II Samuels, or I and II Kings, which are a historical narrative and its sequel or continuation, these two books are simply different versions of the same event. Scholars believe that I and II Maccabees were probably written around the same time. The Second Book gives a briefer description of the purification and dedication of the Temple. It adds, however, this sentence: “They kept eight festive days with rejoicing, in the manner of the feast of Tabernacles (Sukkot), remembering how, not long before at the time of the feast of Tabernacles, they had been living in the mountains and caverns like wild beasts.”

The book goes on to say that they performed the dedication in a fashion similar to a Sukkot celebration, and determined to continue to observe the festival each year. Thus, Hanukkah began as a second Sukkot. There is still no mention of oil or miracles. Where, then, did the legend come from? It is recorded in a relatively obscure text called Megillat Ta’anit [The Scroll of Fasts]. The story is then repeated in the Babylonian Talmud (Tractate Shabbat 21a). The Mishna makes only a few references to Hanukkah, with no mention of either Maccabees or miracles. Megillat Ta’anit, a discussion of a number of occasions during the year in which fasting is prohibited, was written in the early part of the second century, C.E. The segment in the Talmud was probably recorded a century or two later. The Maccabean re-dedication of the Temple took place in 165 or 164 B.C.E., and the two Books of the Maccabees were written 50 or 60 years later. The story of the cruise of oil is unknown or ignored by the authors of the Books of the the Maccabees; the circumstances of the re-dedication of the Temple and its putative relationship to Sukkot is unknown or ignored by the Talmudic Sages. What we seem to have is a historic event that has created a mythical celebration.

Confusion upon Confusion

How did history become legend? First, we must note that the ancient rabbis were only vaguely aware of the history in the first place. The Books of the Maccabees were not sacred literature. (They are included in the Catholic canon of the Bible, but that is another story.) As a result, they would have remained outside the interest and purview of the Sages. Indeed, the original Hebrew or Aramaic version of the Books have been completely lost, and they were preserved in their Greek translation. The first century Jewish historian Josephus might have known the Books, and incorporated them into his Antiquities of the Jews. This work was written in Latin, and would also have been ignored by the rabbis.

Why would the history be ignored. The Sages were aware of numerous military victories and defeats on the part of the Jews. The victories were good, the defeats sad, but in the broader scheme of things, few of them were particularly significant. Those few-the exodus from Egypt, the destruction of Solomon’s Temple, and the defeat of Haman-represented a significant expression of God’s will for both Israel and the redemption of humankind. (The last one, the story of Esther, was quite controversial among the rabbis, and only barely rose to have any religious status.) The Maccabees’ victory over the Syrians would have been appreciated by the rabbis, but worthy of no more consideration than the victory of Joshua over the Canaanites.

Hanukkah, despite the lack of rabbinic interest, was an annual holiday, and was observed by the early synagogue. The Mishna records that the normal reading of the Torah was to interrupted during the days of the observance. From this information we can imagine this plausible scenario: The Temple was dedicated and Judah Maccabee proclaimed an annual eight-day festival. For the next number of years, Jews-particularly veterans of the war-would celebrate a dedication holiday (a Hanukkah) in some festive manner. With a revived Temple, however, the holiday of Sukkot was also revived. This was the major celebration at the Temple. The observance of Hanukkah about two months later would become circumscribed and formalized. As long as the Hasmoneans (the royal house established by the Maccabee brothers) remained on the throne, Hanukkah in some form was certain to be retained.

In 66 B.C.E., the Roman general Pompey entered Jerusalem and essentially put an end to an independent Jewish State. By then, however, the holiday had become routine. The Pharisees, in creating a synagogue service, saw to it that

Hanukkah would be acknowledged, if very little else. This scenario (and the Mishna) leaves out any lighting of lights. The brief discussion in the Talmud, however, begins precisely with this practice. It suggests that lamp lighting (candles are a much later development) goes back at least to the days of Hillel and Shammai, the beginning of the Christian Era. So, displaying lights on Hanukkah is an old custom, but one that is apparently an alternative stream of history.

The Talmudic Sages briefly discuss the procedure for lighting the lights, and then ask an intriguingly ambiguous question: “What is Hanukkah?” Are they asking, ‘what is the meaning of the word,’ or ‘what is the purpose of the holiday?’ The answer given is the citation from Megillat Ta’anit about the miracle of the oil, but this does not seem to answer either version of the question. The story explains why a certain practice is done, not what the holiday is.

The discussion in the Talmud leaves us with the distinct impression that the Sages were virtually at a loss to explain what was going on? Here was an annual celebration being observed for no Jewishly compelling reason, and by a thoroughly mysterious ceremony that had no direct relationship with Dedication. (Thus, with an air of desperation, rabbis tried to suggest that ‘Hanukkah’ actually meant “they [the Maccabees] encamped on the 25th [hanu kaf heh],” or “8 [het] lights on the 25th.”)

Distinguishing Fact from Feeling

Let us ask a simple question: where did the lighting of lights on Hanukkah come from? They did not seem to be proclaimed or prescribed, either by the Maccabees or the rabbis. They are derived exegetically from any text in Torah. (The blessing over the lights, containing the expression “Blessed is God, Who commands us,” is however an exegetical interpretation.) We might therefore assume that it is a folk custom. It is something the people just did. But why did they do it? Perhaps it is just as the Talmud says. There was a miraculous cruise of oil that lasted eight days. I think it is more likely that the story of the oil is an explanation for practice that was already occurring. We need to look elsewhere for an answer.

We need not look far. The world is filled with folk customs that involve lighting lights. Most prevalent among them is a solstice ceremony. In the Northern Hemisphere, the November and December days are shorter and shorter as the sun rises each day to a lower point in the sky. We know now that this is a result of a combination of the earth’s tilt and its revolution around the sun. From a more primitive standpoint, it appears each year as if the world is slowly running out of steam; that the days will continue to get shorter until the sun no longer rises at all, and we are plunged into eternal darkness. I have used the term ‘primitive,’ but I do not employ it in a historical fashion. Rather, I want to refer to human feelings unchecked by intellect or knowledge. Most of us get discouraged by the brevity of light and the lengthening nights. In our weaker moments, we might actually think that all is going to go permanently black. In this ‘primitive’ state, we have to principal ways of dealing with our depression. We can either grit our way through it, and then celebrate as the days begin to lengthen once again and the darkness withdraws. Or we can confront the encroaching darkness with light of our own.

Either way has its own value, and I have no interest in promoting one over the other. Both approaches represent a triumph of light over dark, and both, in the ancient world, were celebrated precisely with the lighting of lights. So Jews lit lights at the darkest time of the year. How and when they came upon this practice is lost in the mists of history. It might very have been quite ancient, even something practiced during biblical times, but not in an organized or ritual fashion. It might very have been discouraged by religious leadership as being pagan, idolatrous, or at very least questioning of God’s creative will. The incident of the rededication of the Temple on the winter date of the 25th of Kislev in 165/4 B.C.E., opportunistically provided a framework for turning a practice into a ceremony, and the rabbis, equally opportunistic, gave the ceremony authentic Jewish religious authority.

We readily see the same dynamic at work in the Christian world, as the event of the birth of Jesus (which many biblical scholars suggest must have taken place in the spring) is set in the Church Calendar to coincide with a pagan solstice celebration of light, thus turning the light of the lengthening days into the light of the ‘son of God.’

In God’s Light Do We See Light

If my reading of the sources is correct, then Hanukkah (and Christmas!) was created by the co-opting of a celebration that the people were already doing. I think we can agree that this was politically astute; the old adage regarding leadership is being able to figure out which way the parade is going and then running to take one’s position up front. The rabbis (and the promoters of the early Christian church) saw what the people were doing and turned it into an occasion for the praise of God’s grace and goodness.

Did these leaders of our tradition transform a pagan act into a Jewish one? Or rather, did they see the will of God in the activities of the people and thus translate it into a Jewish idiom? I prefer to believe it was the latter. Throughout rabbinic literature, the heroes of the Book of Genesis are depicted as being scrupulous in their adherence to the laws of Torah. The assertion is plainly anachronistic as those laws were given to the people at Sinai many years later. Why would the rabbis have Abraham, Rebecca, Joseph and others follow commandments revealed well after their death? One reason might be that they recognized that God’s will was not revealed solely at a single place and at a single point of time; that it was revealed, at least in part, in the very majesty of nature. It was written in the stars.

When we celebrate the triumph of faith over power-the story of the Maccabees-by lighting lights in order to dispel the darkness, we are responding to an ancient and powerful urge. It precedes the Hanukkah story, precedes Torah and the people Israel themselves. It responds to God’s creative will, and makes us one with all of humanity who prefer to light a candle rather than to curse the darkness.

May this Hanukkah be one of light and peace, of happiness and fulfillment.

On the Shabbat immediately preceding the holiday of Purim, a difficult and controversial haftara (prophet section) is read. The passage describes King Saul following a commandment from God (relayed through the prophet Samuel) and exterminating the entire people called the Amelekites. Saul, however, spares the King (Agag), and for this reason, God declares that he has forfeited the monarchy. This essay is a discussion of how we might best understand this apparently bloody and pitiless biblical reading.

First, See the Movie

In the climactic chapter of the book of Esther, the Jews, attack their attackers. The book relates that 800 were killed in the capital city of Shushan, and fully 75,000 were slaughtered throughout the balance of the empire. The text adds “but they (the Jews) did not lay their hands on the spoil (Esther 9:15 and again in verse 16).” The action on the part of the Jews, we learn, is vengeance and not exploitation.

Most Megillah readings on Purim soft-pedal the final chapters. Many English renditions, abridged from the biblical book, will focus on Haman’s come-uppence: he and his ten sons being hanged on the same gallows originally set up for Mordechai. The slaughter of the enemies is demurely left for the Hebrew reading. I think it was quite obvious that among a broad spectrum of the Jewish population there is some measure of discomfort with the blood and revenge-filled conclusion of the Esther tale.

The discomfort, however, is mildly curious. The book is, after all, a classic action melodrama. The good guys are virtuous and courageous, and bad guys are sneaky and cruel. In the end – we have seen it in innumerable westerns, cop shows and space adventures – the hero, facing daunting odds, kills the villain. If the show is R-rated, the climax is usually quite bloody and the screen is littered with bodies. The Book of Esther fits snugly in this long and honorable tradition, and yet we are uncomfortable.

This reaction to the reading of the Megillah might not be particularly new. Rabbi Moses Isserles, writing in the sixteenth century, suggested that Jews drink enough on Purim so that they cannot tell the difference between praising Mordechai and cursing Haman. If we follow Isserles’ directive, we certainly would be quite insensitive to the mayhem that takes place at the end of the reading.

I think we can articulate a number of reasons for this discomfort. The Jews have always been a relatively small and weak community. Their military victories have been few: David’s success in expanding and consolidating his kingdom, the Maccabean revolt, and, of course, the more recent creation and defense of the State of Israel. Jewish survival has overwhelmingly depended upon means other than fighting. Even today, with Israel being militarily strong with respect to its hostile neighbors, Jews mostly recognize that the Jewish State remains in peril if military defense remains its only option.

A Double Reading

Our attitude toward the end of the Book of Esther serves as a background for my discussion of the prophetic portion assigned to Shabbat Zakhor, the Sabbath that immediately precedes a celebration of Purim. On four Sabbaths between the beginning of the Hebrew month of Adar (or Adar II in a ‘leap’ year) and the first day of Pesach, there is an extra Torah reading (taking the place of the usual maftir), and an accompanying haftarah that replaces the normal prophetic reading for that week. One can explain each of the special Sabbaths in the context of preparation for the Pesach observance.

The prophetic portion traditionally assigned to Shabbat Zakhor is definitely one of the most challenging one among all the haftarot read throughout the year. The thrust of the text is quite clear. Saul is fiercely criticized by Samuel for deviating from a divine command to exterminate utterly the Amalekites. The message of the haftarah appears to be simple-and disturbing-enough. For a long time, the Reform Movement had sought to avoid the prophetic reading altogether, suggesting sections from Esther instead. [The reading 7:1-10, 8:15-17, relates Esther unmasking Haman’s evil intent, leading to his execution, and the Jews’ celebration.]

In the Haftarah Commentary, edited by Rabbi Gunther Plaut, the traditional passage from I Samuel is restored. Rabbi Plaut provides his own commentary there, seeking to contextualize the passage: “Our position is that the Tanakh is not to be judged but to be read for what it is: a record of our history that withholds little and whitewashes no one. One thing for sure: wars have not become more humane in our day, though we do not associate the killing of innocent people with God’s will.” Plaut suggests, in accord with classic Reform Jewish progressive thought, that earlier times would have been less sensitive to the fierce message of bloody revenge indicated by the text.

The Commentary also includes an excerpt from an article by Martin Buber, one of the most prominent Jewish thinkers of the twentieth century. Buber wrote: “…Man is so created he can understand, but does not have to understand what God says to him. In the very hearing, he already confuses the command of heaven and the statute of earth…Even man’s holy scriptures are not immune, not even the Bible.” He then concludes: “Nothing can make me believe in a God who punishes Saul because he did not murder his enemy. And yet even today I cannot read the passage that tells this otherwise than with fear and trembling…an inescapable tension between the word of God and the word of man.”

Yes, we clearly feel a good measure of discomfort with a passage that recalls all the bloodiness that has occurred in God’s Name. I firmly believe, however, that our discomfort was shared both by the rabbis who chose this passage to be a haftarah read publicly in the synagogue, and by the author of the biblical passage itself. While I think evidence can be drawn from talmudic and biblical texts that would support my belief, this argument is not particular relevant right now. The task I wish to present is to identify the tensions that arise not merely in our contemporary reading of the haftarah, but within the words of the biblical passage itself. Their tension is ours (ours is theirs), and through it, the lesson of the text may begin to arise.

Actually, I have found two interrelated lessons because, in essence there are two texts before us. One is the biblical passage, a narrative from the first book of Samuel, normally attributed to the Deuteronomist author (an individual or school of writing responsible for the six books Joshua, Judges, I & II Samuel, I & II Kings.) The second is the creation of the rabbis some time during the Talmudic period (around the fifth century C.E.), who chose this passage, explicitly connecting it with the forthcoming observance of Purim. The content of the two texts is substantially identical, but their context and therefore the interpretations they tend to yield are different.

What we hear in the synagogue and what we read in Tanakh are not quite the same. Yet, the hearing points us to the reading and both lessons arise. I am going to begin with the reading, the confrontation between Saul and Samuel that is presented in the text.

The Biblical Reading

Samuel and Saul

Chapter 15 of I Samuel represents the climax of a narrative arc dealing with Samuel and Saul. At the end of the chapter, the two go off in their own directions, never meeting again (at least until Saul calls for the spirit of the dead Samuel out of the grave [Chap. 28]). The story begins with Samuel, having established himself as a strong, popular and fair Judge over Israel, now growing old. His own children, likely successors to his leadership, turn out to be weak and corrupt. The populace calls for a king.

Samuel is resistant; is not God the sole Ruler of Israel? The people persist, and God speaks to Samuel, “heed their demands and appoint a king for them (8:22).” Thus, Samuel, through the agency of divine inspiration, finds a tall, handsome young man from the central tribe of Benjamin, to anoint. Samuel’s reticence regarding the establishment of the monarchy is matched by Saul’s reluctance to be Israel’s first king. When the land is attacked by the Ammonites, Saul proves himself to be a strong and resourceful military leader. Samuel thereupon gives a valedictory speech (Chap. 12), and appears to retire from public life.

As we approach Chapter 15, the narrative has created a rich and complex relationship between the old Judge and the younger King. Both are reluctant to assume the roles assigned to them. They are thrust together by the will of God. Samuel has been sorely disappointed by the moral shallowness of his own sons, and attracted to both the physical and spiritual uprightness of the young man from Benjamin. In essence, Saul becomes Samuel’s surrogate son. We also become aware that Saul is not quite stable. He is capable of rash judgments and unpredictable mood swings.

At the behest of God, Samuel directs Saul to eradicate the Amalekites. The king amasses a huge army and quickly dispatches of every Amalekite man, woman and child, save the King, Agag, and a portion of their livestock. Samuel is then informed by God, that Saul, for his disobedience, will be dethroned. The old prophet is greatly distressed, pleads through the night with God, but then dutifully informs the king of the divine will. Saul initially attempts to make an excuse for his actions, then apologizes and begs that the strict decree be rescinded. At first, Samuel declares “the Glory of Israel does not dissemble nor have a change of mind (15:29),” then relents somewhat by following Saul as they returned from the south (Amalek was destroyed in the Sinai Peninsula), and permitting Saul to act as a triumphant king before the people. In the end, Samuel himself executes the Amalekite king, and the chapter ends with the words, “Samuel never saw Saul again until the day of his death, but Samuel grieved over Saul…”

Justice, Justice Shall You Pursue…

When Chapter 15 is read in the context of the larger narrative, it fits into a drama that involves Saul, Samuel and God as the principal characters. The story line continuously loops back on itself, and its dominant mood is that of irony. When the people first clamor for a king, God informs Samuel, “it is not you that they have rejected; it is Me…(8:7).” Now, God in turn, rejects Saul as the king (15:25). At the beginning of the chapter, Samuel tells Saul to “listen to the voice of God’s command.” When they meet again, Saul claims that he had indeed fulfilled God’s word, but the voice Samuel hears is that of bleating sheep (15:14). Samuel insists that God never has a change of mind (15:29), yet God had informed the prophet of the divine regret over having made Saul a king (15:11). Saul relents on the strict decree to wipe out Amalek by sparing the king, and then Samuel relents on the strict decree to reject Saul as king by accompanying him as he gives public worship before God (15:31).

This last twist bookends what I find to be the most intriguing, and perhaps important verse in the chapter. In v. 11, when Samuel learns that Saul has forfeited the monarchy by his action, “Samuel was distressed and pleaded with God through the night.” The narrative does not indicate what Samuel said to God that night, but we readers are able to take a reasonable guess.

Arguing with God is not particularly unusual in the Bible. Abraham, Moses, Elijah, Jeremiah, Jonah and Job all confronted the Eternal, challenging the divine will. (We ought to add Jacob as well, who wrestled with God.) There are certainly striking differences among all these confrontations, and yet there is one equally striking similarity. In every instance, the challenger is questioning God regarding divine justice.

Tzedek-justice-is an elusive term. In contemporary everyday language, we use the word to refer to redress. When we call for justice, we tend to expect a guilty party to be punished and the victim repaid financially or otherwise. Justice, therefore, conventionally connotes something punitive. This meaning hardly comports with its use in biblical Hebrew.

Think of the related terms: tzadik-a righteous person and tzedaka-charity. Further, the verb l’hatzdik means ‘to declare innocent.’ Tzedek is judgment all right, but at its core is judgment rendered with compassion. Justice is the willingness to punish, and the willingness to forgive.

The arguments with God thus sought to determine the extent to which punishment would be leavened with mercy, or-particularly in the case of Jonah-whether forgiveness would eradicate the consequences of sin. In the case of this biblical passage, we can imagine Samuel, like Abraham learning of the destruction of Sodom and Gemorrah, pleading with God to clarify the justice in the stern and irrevocable judgment being rendered on both Saul and Amalek.

Will the innocent be punished for the sins of the wicked? So, Abraham challenged God (Genesis 19). God’s response satisfied Abraham, and he went on his way. Moreover, he was so confident in God’s justice that he did not feel the need to challenge once more when called upon to sacrifice his own son. Are we, the readers of the encounter, as satisfied? Abraham began his argument by wishing to know if the cities would be destroyed if there were as many as fifty righteous inhabitants among them. He gets down to ten, and after receiving assurances that the cities would be spared for the sake of the ten, the argument ends. Thus, Abraham was willing in his own mind to tolerate the destruction of nine innocent people along with the wicked of Sodom.

Abraham was satisfied with the outcome of his dialogue, I think, because he recognized that in human communities, justice is messy. Wickedness fairly entails harm being perpetrated on the innocent. Moreover, evil persists because, at least in the short run, it works! The prophet Jeremiah recognized this rip in a moral universe as he turned to God and complained, “Why does the way of the wicked prosper? Why are the workers of treachery at ease?” (Jer. 12:1). Innocents do suffer. Justice serves to respond to the wrong of wickedness; it cannot, however, eliminate the suffering that called for justice in the first place.

We are left only with our imagination as to the content of Samuel’s pleading before God, but it is most reasonable to believe that he followed other personage’s in seeking to understand the divine way in matters of justice, and particularly the stern judgment that had been passed in this case. When the night was over, the argument ended as well. And just as Abraham walked away from the divine presence prepared to accept a definition of justice that might entail the killing of innocents, Samuel arose confident in the measure of divine justice, and prepared to carry out God’s will.

The entire chapter takes on an interesting and instructive symmetry. At the beginning, God gives a clear command to have all of the Amalekites destroyed, but Saul modifies the full force of the decree. At the end, God declares that Saul is no longer king, then relents. Saul remains king, but the House of Saul has come to an end. In the center, serving as a pivot is that nightlong encounter between Samuel and God. At the heart of the biblical tale is the challenging notion of justice.

Two judgments are given: the destruction of Amalek and the dethroning of the king. Saul chose to relent somewhat from the order given him. And God chose to relent somewhat from the strictness of the decree Samuel delivered in God’s name. We can tell that Saul has not so much disobeyed God’s command (need we believe that divine commands given to prophets are so clear and explicit?), as he acted according to his own needs. God, on the other hand, determines that the initial judgment was too strict. Thus, God tempered judgment with mercy-God executed justice-while Saul tempered judgment with indulgence.

The Haftarah

Connections

The prophetic reading that is delivered in the synagogue is almost always logically connected to the Torah reading. There are exceptions. The haftarot recited on the Shabbat before Pesach (Shabbat ha-Gadol), on Sabbaths that fall on the first and last day of a Hebrew (Shabbat Rosh Hodesh and Mahar Hodesh), and on the two Sabbaths following the 17th day of Tammuz (that is, leading up to Tisha b’Av), are made up of prophetic readings who directly connect with the observances of the Jewish calendar. We can fit Shabbat Zakhor into this group as well, although as in the case of the other special Sabbaths preceding Pesach, a maftir (concluding ‘aliyah from the Torah) is appended that draws a connection to the haftarah (more below).

The section from I Samuel can be directly related to the Book of Esther. In Chapter 2:5, Mordechai is introduced as a direct descendant of the Benjaminite Kish, the father of Saul (I Sam. 9: 1-2). Haman, of course, is described as an Agagite. Thus, the Purim story unfolds as a recapitulation Saul’s war against Amalek. In this case, however, Mordechai (Saul) disposes of Haman (Agag) first, before his followers are put to rout. A number of scholars, particularly Michael Fishbane in Biblical Interpretation in Ancient Israel, have asserted that this connection predates any rabbinic exegesis, and rather was established by the author of Esther.

In the rabbinic construct, the prophetic reading is the relevant background to the recital of the Megillah later in the week. Indeed, through the act of Mordechai, Saul’s failure is finally rectified. This interpretation also provides an insight into the well-known Talmudic story (T. B. Shabbat 88a) in the Mt. Sinai hovers threateningly over the Israelites as they were about to receive the revelation, and remains that way until Esther and Mordechai’s triumph.

Who are These Guys

When read in the context of the narrative that forms the first part of I Samuel, chapter 15 deals principally with Saul, Samuel and the idea of divine justice. The rabbis, in fashioning the haftarah, change the focus in a very important way. The background of the saga is moved to the front. This shift in emphasis is signaled by the special maftir.*

Remember [Zakhor] what Amalek did to you on your journey…how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary…Therefore, when the Eternal your God grants you safety…in the land…you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! [Deut. 25:17-19]

The passage, as read in the synagogue, points back (“Remember”) to another passage, Exodus 17. It also points forward to the prophetic reading, in which Saul is ordered to fulfill the command found here in the Torah: you shall blot out Amalek.

Just who is Amalek? The Bible establishes them as a people who dwell in the Sinai region. The name Amalek is first provided in Genesis 36, in which he is listed as a child of Esau’s son, born to him by a concubine. Although, I Samuel 15 suggests that Saul eliminated the Amalekites (and Samuel executed their king), the people do show up in subsequent passages of the Bible. In I Samuel 30, David needs to rescue the inhabitants of the city of Ziklag-including two of David’s wives-from a pogrom-like raid by the Amalekites (his victory is alluded to in II Samuel 8). According to II Samuel 1, it was an Amalekite who assisted Saul in his suicide rather than being captured by Philistines. According to a verse in I Chronicles 4, the Amalekites continued to exist until the days of Hezekiah-about 200 years after Saul and David-when a troop from the tribe of Shimon finished them off. Finally, however, there is the relevant reference to Agag (the name of Amalek’s king) as an ancestor of Haman in the book of Esther.

These are the significant biblical references to the Amalekites. They are not mentioned in any other literary source, nor are there definitive archeological remains. Histories of the biblical era nonetheless accept the existence of such a people. Certainly, the classic Sages, who were responsible for the haftarah, would have accepted unquestioningly that there were a people called Amalek. Yet, it is not the historical Amalek that concerned the rabbis, nor should they concern us. It is only a few passages, but we have a comprehensive image of a particular archetype; a form of humankind we can label “Amalek.”

Now, as we return to the haftarah, let us think about the Amalekites as the rabbis would have. The people are first introduced, once again, by establishing their line as coming from Esau, and not by a wife, but rather a concubine! Esau himself, who is a hapless and semi-tragic character in the Genesis narrative, is transformed into a symbol of oppressive power by the rabbis. Amalek’s provenance thus announces something sinister about the people themselves.

Then Amalek came and fought with Israel at Rephidim (Ex. 17:8). The Israelites had just crossed the Sea, and were beginning the trek, first to Sinai, then on to the Land God promised them. The attack is sudden and unprovoked, and the Israelites were in no way prepared. Even before they left Egypt, the text relates that God determined that they should take a less direct route, since “the people may have a change of heart when they see war, and return to Egypt (13:17).” The Amalekites, however, attacked from the rear (cf. Deuteronomy), thus cutting off any possible escape back to Egypt.

A fighting force was organized under the direction of Joshua, but they could not hold off the attackers. The text makes clear that God needed to fight on their behalf, through the agency of Moses’ uplifted arms. “Whenever Moses raised his hand, Israel could prevail; whenever he let his hand down, Amalek would prevail (17:11).” Finally, Israel beat the attackers back, and the passage concludes: “the Eternal will be at war with Amalek throughout the generations (17:16).”

And so it is. Although the haftarah rather clearly implies that Amalek was eliminated in the days of Saul, they are beaten back by David, destroyed once more in the days of Hezekiah, and continue to exist in the person of Haman. At the end of the book of Esther, when Haman and all his sons are hanged, we can hardly be sanguine that Amalek is truly at an end. Like countless pulp fiction evil monsters, the enemy can be shot, stabbed, beheaded, poisoned and burned to cinders, yet somehow keeps coming back.

The Bible is not pulp fiction, and the persistence of Amalek is not some F/X monster. There is something more real and palpable about this otherwise fictional construct. The haftarah indicates as much when it gives this unusual piece of information: “Saul said to the Kenites: Go away…pull out from among the Amalekites, or I will destroy you along with them, although you acted kindly to all the people of Israel…So the Kenites withdrew from Amalek (15:6).”

The Kenites are listed in the book of Genesis (Chapter 15) as among the aboriginal peoples of Canaan. In Judges (Chapters 1 and 4), they are associated with Moses’ father-in-law [one medieval commentator identifies Jethro as a Kenite], and include Jael, the young woman who kills the fleeing general Sisera, after his defeat at the hands of Deborah and Barak. How curious, then, that this people can live among the Amalekites!

I would imagine that Saul’s address to the Kenites is placed in the text in order to make it more explicit that the campaign was waged exclusively against Amalek. Yet, it also makes the Amalekites less cardboard-like. They are human, and thus God’s stern command regarding their elimination becomes quite challenging.

We Have Met the Enemy, and He is Us

Three times-in Exodus 17, Deuteronomy 25 and I Samuel 15-God declares an interest in eliminating Amalek. Before concerning ourselves with the form of punishment, we must consider whether Amalek should be punished at all. From Israel’s point of view, the answer must be yes. The people were attacked in an unprovoked and malicious fashion upon their leaving Egypt, and the Bible then records incident of continued enmity through to the ‘Amalekite’ Haman.

The question then moves to just how much punishment does Amalek deserve? How does anyone know when the punishment actually fits the crime? In a few places in Torah (Ex. 21, Lev. 24, Deut. 19), the concept of lex talionis [the law of exchange] is promoted: an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, etc. What could be a more fundamental and logical notion of finding the proper level of punishment? So, the persistent efforts on the part of Amalek to eradicate Israel are met with eradication itself!

A simple yet disturbing equation! The classical rabbis themselves were sensitive to the brutal violence inherent in lex talionis. They make clear in the Talmud that ‘an eye for an eye’ is to be interpreted properly as ‘the value of an eye for an eye.’ Violence is not to be met with violence, but rather with compensation. The chain of revenge must come to an end. Yet, if this is indeed the rabbinic position, what purpose is served by promoting this clearly contradictory biblical narrative as a haftarah?

I think the answer is to be found in a recognition that as disturbing as the notion of “an eye for an eye” (as one wit put it, a solution that would leave the world populated by blind toothless people), is the notion of the “value of an eye for an eye.” Consider the exchange: money for permanent disfigurement. The wealthy person could therefore maim with impunity!

The twentieth century French-Jewish philosopher, Emmanuel Levinas, concluded a commentary on the relevant passage in Leviticus with this thought (found in a collection of his Jewish writings, Difficult Freedom):

The Bible speeds up the movement that brings us a world without violence, but if money or excuses could repair everything and leave us with a free conscience, the movement would be given a misinterpretation. Yes, eye for eye. Neither all eternity, nor all the money in the world, can heal the outrage done to man. It is a disfigurement or wound that bleeds for all time, as though it required a parallel suffering to staunch this eternal hemorrhage.

Thus, we return to the central question raised in my analysis of the biblical passage, the issue of justice. The justice of human legal courts can-and must-incorporate both judgment and mercy. What, however, is justice in the case of some entity whose very existence seems to be dedicated to the genocidal elimination of a people? How can, in this situation, the overriding rabbinic concern of staunching the cycle of violence actually be achieved?

But, we must ask, is there really such an Amalek? Is there really a nation who, while content to dwell in peace with one people (such as the Kenites), is eternally dedicated to the destruction of another? While the Nazis come to mind, the key word in this question is “eternally.” Is there not always the possibility of sincere repentance and forgiveness? The great High Holy Day prayer, Un’taneh tokef, recited on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, repeats these words (drawn from the Book of Ezekiel): “it is not the death of sinners You seek, God, but that they should turn from their ways and live.” In the Amalekites, we are supposed to imagine a people, who generation after generation, never turn from their ways.

We end by pondering once more, who are the Amalekites? The fierce desert people of the time of Samuel and Saul might have really existed, but they were clearly no more when the rabbis were promulgating this haftarah. We are nonetheless admonished to remember them. So, who is Amalek, not of history, but rather of the rabbis?

More than one commentator has pointed to the narrative that immediately precedes the critical passage in Exodus. Ex. 17:1-7 relates that the Israelites, having journeyed away from the Sea, encamp at a site near Sinai called Rephidim, and discover they have no water. They complain with a refrain that is going to be repeated throughout the Torah: have we been led out of Egypt in order to die in the wilderness? (Ironically, the answer is literally yes, but that is another story!) Moses is directed by God to strike a rock with his staff, and water flows out. The site is thus renamed Masa u’Meriva [rebellious quarreling], because, the passage concludes, they cried out, “Is or is not the Eternal among us?” The next line is “Amalek came and fought with Israel.”

Midrash and mystic sources connect the two sentences-which are otherwise separated by a space in the Torah scroll-by asserting that Amalek comes precisely whenever Israel questions God’s presence.

Who is Amalek? It is the malevolent enemy; an enemy that might appear to exist externally among the peoples who have sought Israel’s destruction. But the eternal people among whom Israel dwells is Israel itself! Amalek is a projection of our own insecurities and dark thoughts.

We turn one last time to the maftir, the passage in Deuteronomy that characterizes the Sabbath before Purim as Shabbat Zakhor: …Therefore, when the Eternal your God grants you safety…in the land…you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget! In the midst of the remembering and forgetting of the passage is the qualification that the disposition regarding Amalek will take place only when Israel has safety. Such security, we know, is the result of the dual requirements of the lack of a real external threat, and the inward feeling of peace of mind. Flesh-and-blood enemies can be kept at bay. The gnawing insecurities within us are far harder to defeat. If we remember just who Amalek really is, we might truly blot the name from the face of the earth.

Afterword

Martin Buber’s comment, quoted above, that he refused to believe God would punish Saul for not murdering, touches on the fundamental challenge of reading Scripture. Occasionally, one’s own sensibility – the sense of what is right and what wrong – seems so at odds with the plain meaning of the biblical text. In which case, the faithful person asks: who is right and who wrong.

Yet, where does one’s own sensibility arise? How do we come to believe something is morally wrong when our sacred literature and religious tradition appears to say otherwise? The question I have been raising in this essay is: do the texts and tradition actually say otherwise? The answer I have been providing is ‘no,’ but a qualified no.

When the Scripture seems to promote something that we find objectionable – a blanket condemnation of homosexuality, the belittlement of women, a tolerance of genocide – we often choose to disregard the text altogether, or strive mightily to give an interpretation that actually fits our sensibilities. I am opposed to both options, because they make the text itself disappear. When we ignore it or demand that it say what we want it to say, then it no longer has the capacity to teach or guide us; it is no longer Torah!

Our sensibilities, on the other hand, do change a plain meaning and understanding of the text. The classic rabbis were wise in asserting that there are 70 gates to the Torah – that is, a wide variety of ways of interpreting what Scripture is telling us. But, we must also be open to hearing that the text is indeed telling us something. (I use the word “hearing” as that is what we do when we sit in the synagogue during the service of reading Torah.) Often, it is precisely because the lesson of Scripture is neither completely adverse nor completely in accord with our attitudes, it can truly be a lesson.

My father, zikhrono liv’rakha [may his memory be for blessing], once said that no one dies anymore. We were probably watching some old movie at the time. He was simply noting that with film, video and audiotapes, people are preserved in eternity as living animate beings. Since the beginning of the twentieth century and the advent of the moving image, the concept of death has been subtly and irrevocably changed.

One result of this change has been an increasing interest in one’s personal experience after death. When I worked at the University of Buffalo, I could observe that courses in Thanotology (Death and Dying) were enormously popular. To this day, I rarely go more than a few months before someone (not necessarily Jewish) asks me what is the Jewish concept of life after death. Indeed, this essay is being written in response to a number of recent inquiries. So, what does Jewish thought have to say about afterlife?

Before proceeding, let me encourage you to read Neil Gillman’s The Death of Death [Jewish Lights, 1997]. In addition to being a recipient of the National Jewish Book Award, it is a clear, organized and very readable description of Jewish attitudes regarding afterlife from the Bible to his own very contemporary opinion. These comments at best provide some supplementary thoughts to Prof. Gillman’s fine work.

Jewish thinking on the post-death experience is muddy, and I think it is deliberately so. My comments will therefore point to just what Judaism says about afterlife, and perhaps why it says it in such an ambivalent and contradictory manner.

You Can Only Imagine…

What can we say about the afterlife? First ask: what can we say about this life? All statements in order to be considered true or false, right or wrong (or some elements of both) must be subjected to some method of evaluation. Normally, this method begins with perception. Here, I am using this term in the widest possible way. It is not only sense perception – what you can see, hear, touch, etc. – but also what fits rules of logic (actually often an extension of sense perception), or arises from intuition, gut feeling, mystical vision or the like. Where does afterlife fit in all these?

I think we can rule out sense perception. Not only has there not been anything that any of us have actually seen or heard that we reliably call the afterlife, but interestingly, we have no particularly reliable reports of the ‘great beyond’ either. Believers might object, with Hindus pointing to the doctrine of reincarnation, and Christians, of course, asserting the resurrection of Jesus. Reincarnation, however, provides no sense data that confirms an afterlife experience. As for Jesus, the resurrection would be a description of something post-death, if Jesus were merely human. What does it mean for the concrete incarnation of God to die and then rise?

There is nothing in the normal sensory world, either of our own direct experiences, or of sensory reports that we take to be reliable, that leads conclusively to the opinion that there is some continuity of personal existence after death. Although nobody can or has be able to point to anything and say, aha!, there is an indication of life after death, we nonetheless have numerous reports of its existence. Where do they come from?

The source is undoubtedly the unique capacity of human beings to perceive things through means other than our senses. In this case, I think, we use the faculty of imagination. First, we imagine a future. As children, we pictured what we were going to be when we grew up. As adults, we often make business or social decisions based on how we picture the way we want certain things to turn out. And at any age, we might imagine how things will be sometime in the unspecified future, but a future that is after our natural expectation of our own life span. We literally picture ourselves viewing events that will take place after our deaths.

Imagination, you can see, is an important – perhaps critical – component in our assertion of life after death. There is more to note about this faculty, however. First, it is perfectly natural. At least, it is an inextricable part of the fabric of the human mind. Second, it is by no means irrational, or even non-rational. In the case of decision-making, it is a fundamental, and a fundamentally reasonable way of making practical and ethical judgments. One more thing: there is some relationship, but hardly a direct corresponding relation, between imagination and truth. When we employ imagining a near-term future as part of our making judgments about how to proceed, we act accordingly and our image becomes truth.

Life after death, perceived as it is by imagination, therefore occupies a strange and elusive place in our picture of reality. It is, or it can be, rational. It may be, but it hardly must be, the truth. Let us move to Jewish thoughts about afterlife.

A Brief History of an Idea

All of Jewish thought begins with Torah. In traditional thought the Torah expresses directly the will of God as revealed to Moses. We need not evaluate this contention in order to assert that belief in the divine truth of the Torah is the basis for Jewish ideas and attitudes to this day. Thus, in the Torah we have the basic representation of a Jewish afterlife. It is given to us in two ways. One is “being gathered to one’s kin.” [As in Gen. 25:8 or 35:29] The other is going down to Sheol. [e.g. Gen. 37:35]

From these two expressions, we may learn that the afterlife is probably social; one is not alone in death. Second, the location of the post-death experience is down, somewhere below the earth, in a place that has been given the name Sheol. At first glance, this conception is thoroughly unexceptional. The universe is pictured as triple-decker: Heaven – the abode of God and the heavenly host – above, earth in the middle, and the abode of the dead below. In this fashion, Torah describes a system that is in accord with virtually all ancient cosmologies.

We can add one more feature of afterlife. In Genesis 35:20, upon Rachel’s death in childbirth, “over her grave, Jacob set up a pillar.” The person dies, but a memory survives. In setting up a gravestone, one assures that the memory might even survive those who had direct experience of the deceased. Once more, surviving death in memory is hardly a biblical innovation. The pyramids, mausoleums, books of the dead, and other similar marks have been employed by many ancient (and modern) cultures.

Overall, the Torah seems to borrow the familiar and well-established features of afterlife that had existed long before Abraham. Yet, the Torah is nothing in its outlook and conception of both cosmology and human life like other contemporary cultures. The material world, the Torah attests, is not eternal – always having existed and will continue to exist – but rather the creation of one God. Further, this creation is not like you and me making a clock or an automobile whose basic characteristics and purpose never change. God’s creation is unfolding. It had a beginning, and it is working in – an often-mysterious way – toward an end. Life, particularly human life, is therefore not just a sojourn on earth. It is, in the words of a familiar poem by Rabbi Alvin Fine, “a sacred journey.”

The tripartite model of the cosmos – heaven, earth and abode of the dead – however, is a static system. Heaven is reserved exclusively for God and the Heavenly Host. Earth is for the living. And the abode of the dead is for the dead: all of them: great and minor, saintly and wicked, short life spans and long. The veils between these three realms are thick but not completely impenetrable. If nothing else, one’s imagination (or should we use the term ‘insight’) allows for a general picture of Heaven (as in Isaiah 6) or Sheol (see Psalm 6), conversely, one might be visited by God or an angel, or even, as in the story of King Saul and the witch of En-dor (I Samuel 28) by the spirits of the dead. Yet, no one persists in any realm that is not their own. How, then, does this static system comport with the dynamic vision of God’s will?

If one reads through the Hebrew Bible in the order in which the Books are arranged, one can sense that for the first two-thirds (that is, the two sections Torah and Nevi’im [Prophets]) this question simply does not arise. For the most part, the fate of the individual is, if not quite ignored, set aside in favor of the community. The Torah, particularly Deuteronomy, promotes and the prophets confirm that, if Israel keeps God’s commandments they will reap the reward of national stability and material wealth. If they defy God’s will, they will pay the punishment of poverty, defeat at the hands of their enemies and exile. Reward and punishment are exclusively of this earth, and apparently are not experienced in either way once someone dies. Individual righteousness might not be enough to stem the punishment that will come to Israel if the nation as a whole acts wickedly. Thus, the prophets themselves had to endure exile.

Then, something changes with the last section of the Bible, K’tuvim [Writings]. From the start, in the Book of Psalms, the righteousness and wickedness of a single person is considered. While the nation may prosper due to its obedience to God’s will, what is to be said to the individual who acts in accord with Torah, yet struggles in poverty and deprivation? Over and again, the Psalmist cries out to God to relieve him from his pain.

The fate of individuals is then taken up most forthrightly in the Book of Job. From the first verse of the Book, we learn that Job was a wholly righteous person. In the course of the introductory chapters, however, he is stripped of his possessions, children and health. The story therefore lays out a set of choices for Job to make. He could follow the advice of comforters who suggest that his sudden turn of fortune must be due to sin, and that he should repent. Or he could, in the words of his wife, “curse God and die,” thus reject altogether that God has a benevolent will. Or, as he himself indicates, expect reward for a righteous life to come in the afterlife. He rejects all three, and at the end of the book, his health and material well-being are restored. Through this description of Job’s fate, the Book itself sought to press the theological point that 1) the travails of the righteous are not due to their sinfulness, 2) God’s benevolence and judgment cannot be challenged, and 3) there is no reward (or punishment, for that matter) in one’s experience after death. In the final analysis, God’s ways are thoroughly mysterious within the context of limited human understanding.

In the Book of Job, a debate is joined. On one side is the traditional cosmology, the unchanging Heaven, earth and Sheol. On the other, is the contention that God’s unfolding plan for Israel and humankind cannot be contained in such a static system. Job itself is a last gasp defense of the tradition. The challenge presented by Job – that personal righteousness must count for something, even if it is not during one’s lifetime – is made to be overwhelmed by the enormous and unbridgeable gap between human and divine.

The Bible, in its plain meaning, therefore resists the idea of a dynamic afterlife that would reflect the reward and punishment of God’s will. Yet, at the same time, the text creates a countercurrent, by which a reader might conclude that its intent is not quite the same as what it appears to say. By the last century before the Christian era, the Pharisees had made just that conclusion. The post-death experience of a righteous person, they determined, cannot possibly be the same as that of an unrepentant sinner. The otherwise innocuous expression, ‘world-to-come,’ an expression indicating no more than the future, was transformed into the reward for a righteous life. When the Pharisees became the dominant school of Jewish thought, and had developed into the classic rabbinic tradition, they formalized their position with this statement from the Mishna:

All Israelites have a share in the age to come, as it is said: [Isa. 60:21] “Your people also shall be all righteous, they shall inherit the land forever; the branch of my planting, the work of my hands, that I may be glorified [emphasis added].” But these are the ones who have no portion: The one who says, ‘the resurrection of the dead is a teaching not derived from Torah,’ or ‘the Torah does not come from heaven,’ or an Epicurean. [Sanhedrin 10:1; more on this passage below.]

Crossing Over into…What

For two thousand years, Jewish thought has included a concept of a post-death experience that is related to the moral quality of one’s life. Concepts of an ethically attuned afterlife are found throughout modern religions. They usually fall into three distinct categories.

1. There is Heaven and Hell. When a person dies, one is transported instantly to a new place. Clearly, this is not a material move – the deceased body remains lying there before us – and the place one goes is not located on a map or chart. It is nevertheless someplace other than anywhere on this earth. If one merits it, the place one goes is a paradise. If not, then one is consigned to some form of eternal punishment. The ‘relocation’ might not be immediate. One might first go to a neutral area while some process determines whether Heaven or Hell will be one’s final destination.

2. Reincarnation. The soul or animating spirit of one’s life is placed upon death in the embryonic body of another. Depending on the merit of one’s life, the new body is either of a higher, lower or the same order as the old.

3. Resurrection. The experience of life after death does not take place immediately in some other location, but rather at a time in the future. The afterlife takes place on earth and in a material body form. One is either worthy of resurrection, or death is permanent.

The categories are not mutually exclusive. Some religious systems combine elements of them. Islam, for instance, posits that Heaven and Hell are themselves way-stations, representing the rewards and punishments of one’s life, but that God’s ultimate grace and judgment is reserved for resurrection at the end of days. Some who have been enjoying the benefits of paradise will be doomed, while others who have been enduring the vicissitudes of damnation will be elevated to life eternal.

What is the position of Jewish thought? In rabbinic, folklore and kabbalistic (mystical) writing, we can find all conceptions depicted. Heaven and Hell are normally characterized as gan ‘eden and ge-hinom, the primordial Garden of Eden and the Valley of Hinnom. The latter is derived from an actual place. Garbage from Jerusalem was dumped into a valley south of the city. The prophet Jeremiah makes reference to the constant plumes of smoke that arises from the burning trash. Before receiving one’s reward or punishment, the soul of the recently deceased goes before a Heavenly Court, where a prosecuting angel recounts the person’s sins, and a defending angel counters with one’s good deeds. This concept is reflected in the traditional Jewish practice of reciting a daily Kaddish for a loved one for only eleven months following death. The mourner’s prayer is supposed to provide korat ruah [spiritual comfort] for the deceased while he or she endures the heavenly trial. This trial, the tradition suggests, can last up to a year. We would prefer not to believe that it would take the entire year for the Court to decide on our loved one’s place in the Garden, so we stop our recitation a month early.

Reincarnation is expressed in Jewish thought as gilgul ha-nefashot, the recycling of souls. The notion is found mostly in mystical literature (kabbalah) and complementary folklore. There are only a limited number of souls fashioned on the sixth day of Creation. When a person dies, the soul returns to Heaven (that is, God’s abode) in order to be placed in a newborn child. Why do we not remember past lives? Just before birth, one is struck in the mouth by an administering angel, knocking all memory out of the head, and leaving that cleft we all have between our nose and lips. The memory-wipe is not always complete, so that occasionally one is able to retain the image of a past life. And sometimes a soul breaks free in order to lodge in body of a grown person; the instance of a dybbuk.

Finally, there is resurrection. As implied in the statement from the Mishna given above, it is a doctrine favored and promoted by the classic rabbis. The idea that all who will merit it will experience bodily resurrection at some future time, has been firmly established in traditional Jewish liturgy. The second blessing of the ‘Amida (the central sets of prayers of every daily worship service) begins: You are eternally powerful, Lord, the restorer of life to the dead through the greatness of Your salvation. The prayer ends: Blessed is the Eternal, Restorer of life to the dead.

That and Fifty cents Gets You a Cup of Coffee

Resurrection is therefore the “official” Jewish position on afterlife, and yet the concepts of reincarnation and abodes for the dead persist in Jewish literature. Jewish thought is decentralized and non-hierarchical. The classic rabbis might have sought to establish a specific understanding of what comprises life after death, but had neither the power nor the interest to stifle alternative visions. There are, however, two further serious reasons for the variety of Jewish concepts.

First, the reality of the afterlife remains fully shrouded. When it comes to talking about the experience following death, the rabbis can only resort to hints provided by the sacred text. There is no other perception of it. I will discuss the notion of faith in a world-to-come a little later.

Second, we must ask about the relative importance of the afterlife. A story is told about the Baal Shem Tov, founder of the Hasidic Movement. At the Shabbat afternoon meal, as he was engaged in teaching a lesson to his students, the Baal Shem Tov suddenly stopped, pondered a thought for a moment and then broke out in laughter. He then composed himself, and continued his lesson. When the Sabbath was over, the students asked him why he had laughed. The rebbe reported that he was seized by a vision in which the heavens opened up to reveal the Heavenly Court, and pronouncement was made that the place reserved in the world-to-come for Rabbi Israel, the Baal Shem Tov, had been assigned to someone else. The students were confused. Why was losing one’s place in the world-to-come an occasion for laughter? Don’t you see, the rebbe explained, now I know that all the mitzvahs I do are purely for the sake of God’s Name.

The story bespeaks a fundamental ambivalence regarding afterlife in Jewish thought. The possibility of meriting reward in the world-to-come is affirmed, and yet, at the same time the value of knowing this information is questioned. Judaism, as one of my teachers would often say, is a life-affirming religion. One is taught to seek fulfillment, satisfaction and peace of mind through one’s attitude and deeds on earth.

The medieval philosopher, Moses ben Maimon (Maimonides) might have described the Jewish position best. First, he affirmed as a matter of faith and belief, the truth of a world-to-come for those who merit it. He then, however, suggested, that we must frame our understanding of that world as a carrot. In the spirit of the contemporary adage that the difference between a boy and a man is the price of his toys, he noted that as small children we might have been enticed to do the right thing with the reward of a cookie. As we became older, however, the inducement tended to get more elaborate. As adults, no material reward might be enough, and doing good required the reward of the next life. Yes, Maimonides concluded, the world-to-come exists, but clearly subordinate to this world.

The Afterlife and the Modern Jew

Just what are we to make of the concept of a life after death today? How should we deal with conventional Jewish thought and tradition in determining our own attitude? Let us recap briefly. Formally, Judaism affirms the concept of bodily resurrection; that the world-to-come will consist of one’s revival on this earth at some point of time in the future. Ideas of heaven (gan eden), hell (ge-hinom) or reincarnation (gilgul nefashot) are to be found in Jewish thought. They probably fulfill certain human needs, not the least of which is that of immediate gratification. The afterlife experience begins right after death. They are nonetheless secondary to resurrection.

The primacy of resurrection is due to a number of considerations. First, Jewish thought resists a complete break between body and soul. The soul is clearly not material, but one can ask the question whether it can have an existence independent of a material source. The soul is not just the animating spirit of a human being, it is the self-animating spirit. It is self-awareness, imagination, consciousness. Can there be consciousness without being aware of some material thing? For Jews, this condition can only exist within God, Who might be described as pure spiritual consciousness. For human beings, such awareness is necessarily attached to a material existence. Resurrection maintains the connection between body and soul while the other concepts do not.

Resurrection further reinforces the connection between this world and the next. In essence, they are one and the same, distinguished not in space, but rather in time. A central focus in Jewish thought, from biblical times to this day, has been the redemption of the world. The redeemed world is, indeed, gan eden, and the merit of a good life is that one will have the opportunity to live in just such a paradise. Judaism is therefore not just life-affirming, but world-affirming as well. Engaging in good stewardship of the earth, and participating in acts of social justice are more than points one racks up on the cosmic salvation scale. These are the ways in which this world is prepared in order to become the world-to-come.

Afterlife as bodily resurrection in a world-to-come is thus fully consistent with traditional Jewish thought. The principal question that one asks today is: is it consistent with what we know and believe as modern human beings? Belief in an afterlife-any sort of afterlife-does not appear to be warranted within the context of modern scientific thought.

Modernity, in our minds, is associated with scientific accuracy. We choose not to assert anything regarding the material world that does not comport with the claims of science. The body, for instance, has been examined down to the sub-atomic level. There is no function connected with it-both involuntary and voluntary functions, such as thought, will, and feelings-for which a material (biological) explanation is not possible, or at least pointed to. In modern scientific terms, there simply is no room for the soul. Thus, upon death there is simply nothing left that can survive.

Modernity has also increased a natural human trait toward doubt and skepticism. Take the concept of resurrection. The body decomposes over time, particularly, as is central to Jewish practice, when there is no effort at embalming. (“From dust to dust.”) Moreover, some people die violent deaths with parts of their bodies ripped away. And if you have the blessing of a long life, then at death, your body is much weaker and infirmed when compared to your youth. Just, at what age, in what condition, and-perhaps most important-through what process of reassembly does resurrection occur? We can ask pertinent and difficult questions regarding all of the concepts of afterlife. In doing so, none of them appear to make sense.

Finally, I think there is a fundamental modern discomfort with afterlife. It is just too supernatural, too romantic, and too much in accord with what we might wish, rather than what we can know. Acquiescing to a belief in the world-to-come seems to us as being soft-headed, leading with our hearts rather than our heads.

There are modern philosophical, if not scientific, arguments that counter these objections. Before presenting some of them, let us return to the statement from the Mishna quoted before. “All Israelites have a share in the age to come…But these are the ones who have no portion: The one who says, ‘the resurrection of the dead is a teaching not derived from Torah,’ or ‘the Torah does not come from heaven,’ or an Epicurean.” There are two components to this teaching. First, by virtue of their basic acceptance of God’s will, Jews are presumed to merit the reward of afterlife. There are, however, exceptions. Three seem to be given, but in reality, they are one. All three are different ways by which Jews might assert that they do not believe in a world-to-come. The first two-that resurrection is not taught in Torah or that the Torah is not divine-represents a straightforward denial that God’s will includes the reward of afterlife. The third-being an Epicurean-refers to holding a philosophic position that would make afterlife logically impossible.

Examining the teaching further, we realize that it really is not teaching us anything. The mishna seems to be an adjuration, a declaration that certain people will be punished by not receiving a share in the world-to-come. What, however, is the force of punishment when one is denied something they do not want or expect in the first place? In the final analysis, the mishna states that a place in the world-to-come is only a possibility for those who actually believe in it. You are obligated to believe, but, of course, in denying its existence you also forfeit any share in it. Thus, today, you can accommodate yourself to arguments in favor of the concept of an afterlife, or not.

Now, I will continue. If we wish to assert the existence of an afterlife, we have to be able to solve at least two fundamental problems. They are: the persistence of some sort of existence after death, and the issue of identity. Let me take up the latter first. The question of identity can be posed this way: Jane Roe dies. Her body is buried, cremated or entombed. How can whatever it is that survives, know itself to be and be recognized by others as Jane Roe?

The nub of this question is whether there is anything that establishes identity outside of the material elements of one’s body? How do we recognize anybody? It is either the physical features, usually of the face, or the peculiarities of the voice. We know that if you are really good at a disguise, you can become literally unidentifiable. So, what is left to recognize once one is bereft of one’s body? I frankly do not know what it is, but I am confident that the identification can be made.

Consider a commuter rail line, such as Metro North from Poughkeepsie to New York. The train schedule lists the 6:03, weekday train to Grand Central. If you live, as I do, close enough to the tracks that you can hear trains pass by, then you can know the 6:03. But, by what? Over time, every car, the engineer, conductors and all the passengers could change completely, and yet we will still know that the train is the 6:03. Identity can indeed be established without a single element of material continuity. (I could have done the same exercise with Vassar Temple, for whom even its principal name has changed, and yet we have little trouble identifying the congregation as the one first established in 1848.) The elements of identity might not be obvious, but they can be discerned, if not immediately, then over time.

The first problem raised-what can persist after death-must be answered in the same way. We cannot know what it is that persists, but rather must ask, can it make any meaningful sense in modern times to talk about it. Here, an appropriate answer is: it depends. It depends on what you want to believe about yourself and the world about you.

Let me ask what appears to be a dumb question: How do we (you or I) know there is a world? There is, after all, the philosophical concept of solipsism; all that I can be certain about is that I exist. All I know is I, and thus, everything-absolutely everything-else is simply a projection out of the working of my own mind. (“Merrily, merrily, merrily/Life is but a dream!”)

Now, let me turn the question on its head: What does it mean when one employs the term “I?” Perhaps, with proper scientific investigation and analysis, every element of what I consider makes up me-my thoughts, memories, emotions, aspirations, etc.-is replaced by electronic chips to such an extent that no one (including myself) can tell the difference. If this is possible-certainly not with today’s technology, but in some conceivable future-then “I” is completely replicable from bits of material; that is, from the world. “I” therefore would not exist apart from the material world.

Here we have the two logical extremes: either I exist and the world does not, or the world exists and I do not. The third choice is, of course, that both the world and I, as something independent of the material world, exist. I know of no compelling argument that would force an individual to feel obligated to choose any one of these three stances. The choice is totally up to ourselves. Now, if only “I” exist, then with my own demise, the so-call ‘world’ dies as well. Afterlife becomes meaningless. If only the world exists, then afterlife is impossible. If, however, both exist, afterlife becomes probable.

Why Believe?

Briefly summarized, both traditional Jewish thought and modern philosophical analysis suggest that acceptance of afterlife as a reward for a meritorious life is Scripturally grounded and logically possible. Judaism prefers to imagine afterlife as resurrection in the world-to-come, and yet, while it promotes this concept, it does not press very hard to assert that afterlife is an obligatory belief. Indeed, there is a hint of embarrassment in having to discuss the matter at all. With these notions in mind, why should we, as modern scientifically inclined individuals, believe in some form of life after death?

I can give two answers. Neither of them, I will readily admit, is conclusive. Ultimately, the choice of believing or rejecting is up to each of us. One answer is to concede that the word ‘believe,’ is too strong. I am not religiously or philosophically constrained from asserting the possibility of being able to survive my own death. Given that there are people I love, for whom the span of a single lifetime together seems arbitrarily short, I prefer to trust in the world-to-come. It eases pain, and provides hope.

The second answer actually rises up to belief. Believing in something, I think, implies that the object of one’s belief can have a real effect on your decision-making and actions. By believing that the brakes on my car are in good working order, I do not hesitate to drive down a steep hill. Thus, the issue at hand is whether believing in a world-to-come will change one’s choices in life.

Some believers would therefore say that by asserting the possibility of reward after death they are pressed into acting more ethically in their lives. This is a very weak source of belief. Neither historic Jewish thought (consider, in particular, the Bible where reward in afterlife is substantially denied) nor contemporary ideas on morality would suggest that doing the right thing should be based on one’s place in the world-to-come. A more compelling assertion of belief, however, would be that the world-to-come may only be attained-not only for oneself, but for anyone-by proper stewardship of the world in which we live.

Speaking for myself, I trust and prefer to believe in a world-to-come. The reason for this is no reason at all. I feel I am not constrained by scientific insight to deny the possibility of continued experience after death, and the belief both lessens my fears and reinforces my sense of purpose in life. In the final analysis, I believe because I see no reason why not. And if I am wrong, just what has been lost by my belief?

The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and no hurt shall befall them.

In the eyes of the foolish they seem to have died, and their departure is regarded as misfortune, their going from us as destruction.

But they are at peace, and their hope is full of immortality.

Having been chastened a little, they shall receive great good, for God has tested them and found them worthy of divine favor.

Those who trust in God will understand the truth, and the faithful shall abide with God in love, for God’s chosen shall have grace and mercy.

May it be God’s will.

I was about to take up the duties of a congregational rabbi for the first time. An older colleague invited me out to lunch shortly after I arrived. In the back and forth of conversation, I asked him what he did in order to pull his head out of the nearly endless affairs of the synagogue. He responded that he made a point every Saturday afternoon, following morning services, of getting in a game of racquetball at a local health club. He added that he did this ‘religiously.’

How is one supposed to react to such a comment? You might think that I should been aghast. How can a rabbi, of all people, violate the Sabbath in such a fashion, and even call it religious! But, why should I be aghast? Was my friend actually violating Shabbat? Perhaps he was honoring it with his ritual racquetball game. How can one tell the difference?

Shabbat is an extraordinary institution. Abraham J. Heschel, whose book, The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man, is a seminal work on the subject, noted that Shabbat is so basic that its name is not translated; only modified when it enters other languages. It absolutely defines the seven-day week. In Hebrew parlance, there are no names for the days of the week, such as Sunday, Monday, etc. The days are simply referred to by number. Wednesday, for instance, is yom rivi’i [the ‘fourth day’]. This is the case for every day except the seventh, which is called Shabbat. Oh yes, sometimes the sixth day is given a name as well: ‘Erev Shabbat [Sabbath eve]. In this context, I am mostly going to employ the Hebrew usage, “Shabbat,” rather than “Sabbath” throughout this essay.

Only Jews and Judaism preserve the seventh day as Shabbat. Christianity nonetheless continues to acknowledge the sabbath as the seventh day. Just look at any calendar and take note of which day is on the far right. Islam, by the way, also acknowledges Shabbat with something of a backhanded slap. In the Sura (Chapter) 16, called ‘The Bee:’ “Then We revealed to you, ‘follow the creed of Abraham, a man of pure faith and no idolater.’ The sabbath was only appointed for those who were at variance with this.” For Christians and Moslems, then, Shabbat is indeed the seventh day, yet a day established-for better, or mostly for worse-for the Jews alone.

Shabbat thus defines the seven-day week, and also defines the Jews. Ahad Ha-am was an important Jewish thinker and essayist at the turn of the twentieth century, particularly influential in articulating and promoting Zionism. Although not religious in a conventional sense, he nevertheless greatly appreciated certain elements of Jewish practice. In this context, he wrote: “even as Israel has kept Shabbat, so has Shabbat kept Israel.” The point of the comment was Ahad Ha-am’s concern for Jewish distinctiveness, an aspect of Judaism he felt essential for survival. ‘Why are Jews Jews?’ he might have asked. The answer, in no small part, would have been their insistence on keeping Shabbat.

An answer to the question, “Why Shabbat?” can therefore be given in terms of Jewish survival. I think this answer is compelling, both in the context of Jewish history, and with respect to contemporary Jewish reality. Through history, Shabbat was the blessing and burden of the Jewish people; the burden being specifically that aspect of Jewish life-along with the dietary laws, kashrut-that publicly distinguished and separated the community. So today, I believe Jews engage in some form of observance of Shabbat-perhaps no more than lighting candles or making a point of having a family dinner-as an expression of one’s Jewishness.

But is this what we are asking when we say, Why Shabbat? Shabbat is certainly not simply an ID tag proclaiming that one is a Jew. Shabbat is also something else, and this is what I want to meditate upon. As noted, Shabbat is a blessing and a burden. At the beginning of Chapter 2 of the Mishna tractate, Avot, or “Sayings of the Fathers,” R. Judah ha-Nasi states, a propos to our concern: “Compute the loss in doing a commandment against its reward, and the benefit of a transgression against what will be lost.” We need to discern whether the blessing of Shabbat is worthy of the bother, or conversely whether the burden is so great as to negate any benefit. Of course, R. Judah would press for the former, as he concludes his thought with “Think deeplyR30;and you will never be gripped by the desire to commit a transgression.” Let us think deeply about Shabbat, and see if indeed the blessing is worth it.

An Ancient Day

The Torah begins with a description of Creation. After six days of creative work, God “ceased [vayishbot] on the seventh day from all the work God had done. God blessed the seventh day and declared it holy (Gen 2:2-3).” This text suggests a number of things. For one, it indicates that, from the point of view of the biblical authors, Shabbat is very old. It precedes Sinai. It even comes before Abraham. Shabbat was not invented by the Jews, or even for the Jews. Thus, it should not come as a surprise that there are indicators in ancient societies of practices that appear to be similar to Shabbat, or that other cultures might have a word like ‘shabbat’ in their vocabulary. The biblical authors themselves would have been aware of such practices and terms.

In his book, Ancient Israel, the French archeologist and biblical scholar Fr. Roland de Vaux, describes some of these terms and practices. The Babylonians, for example, cautioned that the days of the month that were a multiple of seven were days dominated by evil spirits, so that people needed to restrict their activities. The more ancient Mesopotamian culture of the Akkadians, however, observed the middle day (full moon) of a month, which they called shapattu, as a propitious day of celebration. Akkadians also contribute from their language, shabittu, as the word for ‘seven.’ One can see the connection with shapattu, coming twice-seven days into the month, as well as with the Hebrew Shabbat.

Both the Catholic de Vaux and his contemporary Jewish scholar, Yehezkiel Kaufman, among others, caution coming to any firm conclusions from this and other connections. The Babylonian practice took place on the 7th, 14th, 21st and 28th days of a month, but this does not imply the concept of a week. Lunar months are 29 or 30 days in length. There would therefore be a break of eight or nine days between the last observance of one month and the first of the next. Shapattu, for that matter, would come either on the fourteenth or fifteenth day. Yes, we can see some connection in these observances with the number seven, but we should not conclude any conception of a week, a concept that is ultimately is uncoupled from the lunar calendar.

On the other hand, there were practices that took place according to a fixed cycle of days. De Vaux mentions two: a Roman feast held every ninth day, and a Southwest Chinese prohibition on sewing and washing every sixth day. Through the anthropologist James Frazer, best known for his work, The Golden Baugh, we could add a fascinating practice in dividing of milk and meat by the Masai of equatorial Africa. They would eat only meat products for ten days, then only milk products for the next ten days. Everywhere in the ancient world, one would encounter practices observed on a fixed cycle that was independent of the natural cycles of sun and moon.

Let us imagine the biblical authors for a moment. First, they would have been aware of the Israelite understanding of an observance that took place every seven days. Further, they would have known of other cultures that had regular observances, some of which involved taboos on certain activities, others that included feasts and celebrations. They would also have been aware that other societies placed importance in the number seven, even though it might not involve a regular seven-day practice. What might they conclude? I think it is reasonable to suggest that they accepted that Shabbat was a divine invention, reaching back to the very origins of humankind, but over the generations its practice and understanding was corrupted. Only with the revelation to Israel was Shabbat restored to its original form and purpose.

Why seven? Again, an answer would reach back into pre-biblical history. The Book of Genesis contains two parallel stories regarding the northern Negev settlement of Beersheva, whose name was initially derived from the site being an oasis (Be’er meaning “well”) dedicated to a local deity Sheva. In both stories, a Philistine king Avimelekh (Abimelech in most translations) and a Patriarch have a dispute over water rights. Chapter 21 depicts Abraham giving the Philistine seven (sheva’) lambs in return for the wells. Chapter 26 has Isaac and Avimelekh uncovering the wells after they had been filled in, and then agreeing with an oath (shiv’a) on their division. The stories are designed to bury the original name, but they preserve a sense of veneration for a location so identified with the beginnings of the people.

Sheva is an ancient deity, but this information only moves the question back in time: Why seven? While I have not come across directly any explanation for the sanctification of the number, I think it is logical to relate it to the seven heavenly objects-Sun, moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn-that could be seen wandering (not in a fixed relation with each other as is the case with the stars) in the sky.

A Difficult Day

Although its history is older than Israel, in the time of the Bible, Shabbat is established as a practice uniquely observed by the Jews. Just what practice is that? Many scholars have contended that the role and significance of Shabbat developed through the biblical period. The Babylonian exile was something of a watershed. Without the benefit of the Temple and its sacrifices, the exiled Israelite community needed to turn to other rituals in order to maintain their integrity as God’s covenanted people. Among these rituals would have been b’rit milah, the circumcision of an eight-day boy, and the observance of Shabbat.

Thus, one points to the appeal made by the prophet known as the Second Isaiah: “If you refrain from trampling the sabbath, from pursuing your affairs on My holy day. If you call Shabbat ‘delight,’ the Eternal’s holy day ‘honored.’ And if you honor it and go not your ways nor look to your affairs, or strike bargains-then you can seek the favor of the Eternal.” [Isa 58:13-14] The importance of Shabbat was then carried on with the return to the land, as attested by Nehemiah: “R30;I saw men in Judah treading winepresses on the sabbath, and other bringing heaps of grain and loading them onto asses, also wine, grapes, figs and all sorts of goods, and bringing them into Jerusalem on the sabbath. I admonished them there and then for selling provisions.” [Neh. 13:15]

I think the conventional critical argument is sound, yet might miss the point. There are indeed few references to Shabbat or its observance in the Bible after the first five books (Torah), until one gets to Ezekiel, who was a prophet of the Babylonian exile. Both the texts and a modicum of common sense indicate an intensifying of focus on the importance of Shabbat in the later biblical period. The Torah, however, was substantially committed to writing prior to the fall of Solomon’s Temple. If Shabbat was not treated as strictly at an earlier time, the outline of its practice and the rationale for its observance had nevertheless been established.

Much more to the point in my estimation, is the clear gap between teaching and practice. Let us accept as true the conventional wisdom that Shabbat observance became far more important in the years during and following the exile. Just the same, Nehemiah was chagrined over the way Jews treated the day as just another opportunity to buy and sell. I would conclude that throughout the Bible, from its early to its later strata, Shabbat is presented as an idea that is powerful, vital, transcendent, and yet challenging and difficult for the average Jew to accept. We can therefore read the text with a very contemporary eye. In the days of the Bible, Jews struggled to establish some appropriate level of observance for Shabbat. So, what else is new!

What Does God Want?

What does God want from us with respect to Shabbat? What do we want for ourselves? Obviously, these are two different questions. They are however, easily conflated. Within a religious context, we might argue that, since God is All-Good, what God wants from us is what is good for us, and therefore should be what we want for ourselves. The contention is both logically too simple and emotionally naïve. It is far too easy to rationalize to ourselves that what we crave for in hearts is just what God wishes for us. God’s will is elusive, and our needs are complex. Thus, I return to the two questions as separate concerns.

Let us begin with what God wants, or more properly, what we have come to believe that God wants. What we want will be treated much later. So, we return to the sacred literature, but I want to look initially at the biblical references to Shabbat outside of Torah. This portion of the Bible permits us to relate to a specific person, whom the tradition accords as laboring under divine inspiration, and yet who is responding to the needs and concerns of a particular time. Shabbat is therefore not simply some component of the divine commandments, but is related as a vital element in the lives and fortunes of the people.

To start, we will return to the two passages already cited. In the first-Isaiah, Chapter 58-the prophet asserts that God wishes us to declare Shabbat a delight; that is, it is God’s intent that we derive pleasure from the seventh day. Nehemiah’s concern seems quite the opposite. As Judean governor he seeks to restrain commercial activity on Shabbat, and warns: (13:18) “This is just what your ancestors did, and for it God brought all this misfortune on this city; and now you give cause for further wrath against Israel by profaning the Sabbath!” In Nehemiah’s estimation, God requires restriction of activity on Shabbat, whether that activity gives pleasure or not.

The prophets Jeremiah, Amos and Ezekiel help to fill out our understanding. Living through the last years of the Judean monarchy, Jeremiah held out Shabbat as a form of promise for God’s protection. Like Nehemiah a century later, the prophet equated Shabbat observance with a cessation from commercial activity: “If you obey Me-declares the Eternal-and do not bring in wares through the gates of this city on the Sabbath day, but hallow the Sabbath day and do no work on it, then through the gates of this city shall enter kings who sit upon the throne of DavidR30;and this city shall be inhabited for all time (17:24,25).” Jeremiah employed both the carrot and the stick: “But if you do not obey My command to hallow the Sabbath dayR30;then I will set fire to its gates; it shall consume the fortresses of Jerusalem and it shall not be extinguished (17:27).”

The prophet Amos, who lived nearly two centuries before Jeremiah, sought to make the same point. He warned (Chapter 8): “I will turn your festivals into mourning and your songs into dirgesR30;(v. 10)” Amos, however, depicted a community that actually observed the prohibition of commercial activity on Shabbat! He nevertheless asserted that their observance was hypocritical and hallow: “Listen to this, you who devour the needy, annihilating the poor of the land, saying, ‘If only the new moon were overR30;the sabbath (as well) so that we could offer wheat for sale, using an ephah that is too small, and a shekel that is too bigR30;(vv. 4-5).”

What are we to make of the fact that Jeremiah and Nehemiah need to rail against a transgression of Shabbat that appears to have been observed in Amos’ time? We need to revisit this concern later.

Ezekiel lived roughly a generation after Jeremiah, during the exile in Babylonia. God’s punishment has already befallen Israel. When he first speaks about Shabbat, it is in the form of chastisement: “I brought them out of the land of EgyptR30;I gave them My lawsR30;Moreover, I gave them My sabbaths to serve as sign between Me and them, that they may know that it is I the Eternal who sanctify themR30;But the House of Israel rebelled against MeR30;and they grossly desecrated My sabbaths (20:10-13).” Ezekiel does not explain just what he has in mind by desecration. Rashi and the other traditional commentators suggest that he is referring to the initial Shabbat in the wilderness when the Israelites went out to gather in manna, although a double portion had been given to them on the day before just so they would not have gather in their food on the seventh day (Ex. 16).

The commentary seems narrow, but reinforces what I think was Ezekiel’s point. Principally, for the prophet, Shabbat is the sign of the covenant. Its observance is the method by which Israel signals its faith in God and obedience to divine rule. Thus, the desecration on that fateful first Shabbat in the wilderness was not in the ‘work’ of going out to gather manna (indeed, there was no work to be done!), but rather in the disobedience and lack of faith that accompanied the Israelite’s ignoring that they had already received their Shabbat portion. Later in the book of Ezekiel, the prophet depicts Israel restored to its land with a rebuilt Temple. When he refers to Shabbat, it is specifically in the context of the celebration and sacrifices that would take place there. Ezekiel’s focus is on Shabbat as sacred ritual.

Most of the references to Shabbat are in the form of chastisement. They picture an Israelite community that is not observing the day, or, to be more accurate, not observing it properly. There are two types of transgressions suggested. One is being involved in commercial activity. The second is not paying appropriate homage, or showing proper faith in God, through the celebration of the day. It is particularly noteworthy that the prophets Jeremiah and Ezekiel considered these lapses in the observance of Shabbat as critical elements in the loss of the Land and the kingdom, and that Nehemiah was sufficiently nervous about it to fear that God’s anger would flare again.

The Torah of Shabbat

When we first encountered the Hebrew root sh-b-t, it was as a verb: Vayishbot Elohim mikol m’lakhtoR30;[God ‘rested’ or ‘ceased’ from all the work God had done]. From the onset, Shabbat contains a meaning that connotes a respite from work. Shabbat means ‘rest,’ yet the concerns expressed in the biblical passages we have looked at do not seem to deal with resting. When we are called upon to ‘keep Shabbat,’ are we being invited to rest, to take off from work, every seventh day, or is God expecting something else from us? The Bible suggests it is the latter.

Now we will look at Torah, but specifically in the context of the passages we have already read. Normally, we frame the prophets in light of commandments found in Torah. Here, we are going to frame the Torah as based on the declarations of the prophets.

I believe we can justify this approach in a number of ways. For one, there is classic rabbinic reasoning, embodied in the principle Eyn mukdam um’uhar baTorah [there is no early or late in the Torah]. The rabbis lifted the sacred texts out of time, as God and God’s inspiration is timeless. Thus, although the narrative timeline places Sinai well before the prophets, the assertions of both can be treated as if they are contemporaneous. Modern biblical scholarship also asserts that the written text of Torah, particularly in the form we have today, is no earlier than the prophets. Jeremiah, for instance, is associated with the school of thought that produced Deuteronomy, and Ezekiel with the authors of the so-called priestly documents, such as the Book of Leviticus, and the creation narrative at the beginning of Genesis.

Let me suggest one other approach. Torah is difficult, but not in a physical or intellectual sense. As Moses says in Deuteronomy (Chapter 29), God’s commandments are neither in heaven nor across the seas; they do not require mental acuity or physical dexterity in order to be performed. They are, however, difficult in the emotional sense. They are like the child consigned to stay indoors and finish his homework, while all his friends are outside playing. The value or the rightness of God’s will as presented in the Mitzvot is not immediately discernible. Not only do people want to do something else, they feel they can make a pretty good argument that they are justified in their wants.

The Torah is difficult, and moreover, it knows it. Torah is therefore a teaching document, and not a catechism. It does not declaim or demand, but rather unfolds, attempting to move individuals into accepting the position it espouses. I find the Torah’s approach to Shabbat one of the best examples. Shabbat is difficult. It is conceptually elusive; what does it mean to mark consistently every seventh day, regardless of the phases of the moon or the cycle of seasons?

And it is religiously demanding, bidding a people to do (or refrain from doing) something when no one else is. The prophets threatened and cajoled Israel regarding their misplaced practices on Shabbat, but we should not read this as an indictment of a wicked people. It is rather a reflection of just what challenge the Torah, as a teaching instrument, has set before it, getting Jews to do what they are supposed to do.

We are now ready to track Shabbat through the Torah. We follow the references in order, just as we would encounter them in synagogue reading of the scroll.

Shabbat of Genesis

The passage at the beginning of Chapter 2 has already been cited. God finished the work of Creation, ceased from work on the seventh day, and blessed the day “because on it God ceased from all the work of creation (Gen. 2:3).”

Before analyzing this section further, we should note that this is the only reference to Shabbat in the entire book. There is no mention of Adam, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob or his children ever observing the day. Indeed, with one highly ambiguous exception-Laban’s requirement that Jacob wait a full seven days after being tricked into marrying Leah before he weds Rachel (Chapter 29)-there is no reference to a week! Arguments from silence-concluding something did not exist or was unknown because it is not mentioned in a text-are very weak assertions. Did the personalities of Genesis know of Shabbat? We can only conclude that the issue of a Shabbat observance of any kind was too marginal to the narrative to warrant notice. It was not a definitive or even significant feature of the covenant that God was forging with Abraham and his progeny.

Returning to the reference in Chapter 2, God’s Shabbat is presented as specific and unique. God created the universe in six days, and rested (ceased) on the seventh. This particular Shabbat is not repeated, just as Creation itself was not repeated. God’s attitude toward this day was nonetheless special. At the conclusion of each of the first six days, God evaluates the work completed and pronounces it good. The seventh day, however, is not evaluated-it is not merely ‘good’ or even ‘very good’-rather it is blessed. Work can be rated, but rest is simply blessed.

Shabbat is introduced as an artifact from the past; a piece of data that has no discernible effect on humanity.

The First Shabbat

The book of Genesis passes into Exodus: Israel in Egypt, the appearance of Moses, plagues, Red Sea and liberation into the wilderness. In this first section of the Book, once more no mention of Shabbat is to be found. The number seven, however, shows up. The first plague-the Nile turning to blood-lasts for seven days (Ex. 7:25). The festival of Pesach (Chapter 12) is to be observed over seven days. Neither of these citations, of course, suggests a week.

Shabbat makes its first appearance in Chapter 16. The Israelites have crossed the Sea and are rid of Pharaoh’s army. Within a month, however, they are thirsty, hungry and grumpy. They complain to Moses. God, in turn, decides to provide for their needs. Each day, a sweet and nourishing paste, manna, will appear. The Israelites can go and gather it, eating their fill each day. The manna only lasts a day. Any left over is filled with maggots by morning.

On the sixth day following the first appearance of the manna, the Israelites find double the amount of the previous days. When they inquire, Moses tells them: “This is what the Eternal meant. Tomorrow is a day of rest, a holy shabbat of the Eternal. Bake what you would bake and boil what you would boil; and all that is left put aside to be kept until morning (16:23).” The uneaten portion did not spoil when left over night. Moses then continued: “Eat it today, for today is a shabbat of the Eternal; you will not find it today on the plain. Six days you shall gather it; on the seventh day, the shabbat, there will be none (16:25-26).”

The people are now introduced to Shabbat. It is still however God’s Shabbat, and not Israel’s. God is the only one working, by providing the daily manna. Further, it is God who is taking a day off, actually planning for this day by doing its work on the day before. Thus, it is not so much Shabbat that is being introduced, as it is the concept of a seven-day cycle.

Shabbat is brought into human life, to be acknowledged as matter of respect for the God Who has saves and sustains the people.

The Decalogue

Shabbat next appears shortly afterward, in Chapter 20. The context is important. Up to this point in the Book of Exodus, God has been manifest in the plagues rained down on Egypt, in the crossing of the Red Sea, and in the providing of food and water to the Israelites as the begin the journey across the wilderness. God has communicated verbally as well to Israel, but exclusively through Moses. Now, as Israel stands at the base of a mountain, God speaks to the entire community: “I am the Eternal, your God Who took you out of Egyptian bondageR30;”

The Decalogue (a more literal translation of ‘aseret hadibrut than Ten Commandments) describes fundamental relationships between God and the people (There are no other gods; make no graven images), and among the people themselves (Honor of one’s parents, no killing, stealing or coveting). In the midst of these statements, Shabbat is presented: “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of the Eternal your God; you shall not do any work-you, your son or daughter, your male or female slave, your cattle, or the stranger who is within your settlements (20:8-10).”

The cessation from labor that God has engaged in with the providing of manna, is now extended to Israel as well. The idleness, moreover, must be complete. Not only are the people enjoined from working on the seventh day, they are also not permitted to compel anyone else to work. God gives a reason for this prohibition: “For in six days the Eternal made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and then rested on the seventh day; therefore the Eternal blessed the sabbath day, sanctifying it (20:11).”

The explication is two-fold. It is the basis by which God’s Shabbat becomes Israel’s as well. Moreover, it explains to the people why God has been following this strange seven-day pattern in the first place. The first word of the statement is curious; what does it mean for Israel to remember Shabbat? The answer to this question is two-fold as well. First, it calls attention to the seven-day cycle already established, as in “remember how you have that extra amount of manna, so you do not have to go out and gather it on the seventh day?” Second, just as God’s Shabbat becomes Israel’s, so do the people Israel acquire God’s memory of Creation and make it their own.

God demands Israel to rest, if for no other reason than as a measure of obedience to God.

On Mt. Sinai

The Torah next refers to observance of Shabbat as part of Moses’ forty-day stay on the top of Sinai. Again, the context is important. The text (Exodus, Chapters 25-30) provides an extended and highly detailed description of the construction of a mishkan [normally translated as ‘tabernacle,’ the portable sanctuary that the priests and levites will carry through the wilderness], its sacred objects and the apparel of the priests who will administer to it. At the beginning of Chapter 31, God summarizes the entire project, and then adds: “Nevertheless, you must keep My sabbaths, for this is a sign between Me and you throughout the ages (31:13).”

The implication regarding Shabbat seems clear. Even as the Israelites begin to busy themselves in the task of building God’s sanctuary, they must not violate the prohibition on work that has been enjoined on them for every seven days. Sacred rest is more important that sacred work. The overriding significance of Shabbat is reinforced: “He who profanes it shall be put to death; whoever does work on it, that person shall be cut off from among his kinR30;whoever does work on the sabbath day shall be put to death (31:14-15).”

The sanction described here is confusing. First, we are led to understand that desecrating Shabbat (whatever that exactly entails), is a capital offense, while working on the seventh day only merits exile. Then, we are told that working is a capital offense as well. Is “cut off from among one’s kin,” actually an expression that means execution? Are we reading a passage that combines two textual traditions? We might add a more troubling question: Was there really a time in Israel’s history when people were executed for working on Shabbat? I do not want to attempt to untangle these verses, either in terms of classic rabbinic thought or contemporary biblical scholarship. Let me suggest that, at very least, working on Shabbat represents a death of the spirit, a form of isolation not only from the people Israel and their traditions, but also from God. The passage wants to make it unmistakably clear that Shabbat must be taken very seriously.

The passage repeats from the Decalogue that Shabbat is derived from the six days of Creation. It adds, however, two new concepts. The first, indicated already, is that Shabbat is a sign of the covenant between God and Israel: “The Israelite people shall keep shabbat, observing shabbat throughout the ages as a covenant for all time (31:16).” Shabbat is therefore a mark of distinction, one of the identifiers of the Jews among all peoples.

The second addition is more subtle, yet more telling in terms of the evolving understanding of this day of rest. Exodus 31:15 begins with the statement: “Six days may work be done, but on the seventh day there shall be a sabbath of complete restR30;” Compare with the Decalogue cited above: “Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh is the sabbath of the Eternal your God.” The text has moved the emphasis from the worker to the work.

“Six days you shall labor.” Six days of the week are set aside for you to work, and you can do your work on any or all of them. You, the toiler, may choose or be compelled to work, but you must not work on the seventh day. “Six days may work be done,” however, shifts the focus to the work itself. Is the work ever done? When you finish plowing, you must sow. When you complete sowing, you must tend, water and weed. When the crops are ready, you must harvest. When the harvest is complete, you prepare, store and ship the produce, and then you must tend to the land, preparing and restoring it until you are prepared to plow again. When you think about it, the work is continuous and unceasing. When you sleep, eat, spend time with the family, and otherwise get away from the labor, the work is still there. There is always something pressing; there is always more to do.

In the Decalogue, Shabbat is an obligation. In this communication to Moses on the mountain, Shabbat becomes a form of permission: go ahead, take the time off; the work will wait.

There are two subsequent and closely related references to Shabbat in the book of Exodus. Following the incident of the golden calf and the smashing of the first tablets of stone, God calls upon Moses to prepare new tablets, and begins once more to dictate the commandments to be inscribed on them. Included among them: “Six days you shall work, but on the seventh day you shall cease from labor; you shall cease from labor even at plowing and harvest time (34:21).” The language reverts to emphasis on the worker, but the principal focus is on reinforcing that Shabbat takes precedence over any pressing responsibilities, such as plowing and harvesting.

Finally, Moses returns from the mountain, and gathers the people in order to explain the project of building the mishkan. While God had placed concern about Shabbat at the end of the description, Moses leads with it: “These are the things the Eternal has commanded you to do. On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you have a shabbat of complete rest, holy to the Eternal; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death (35:1-2).” The Israelites are about to engage in constructing the place in which God’s presence can dwell among them. It is holy work, activity performed solely for the sake of honoring God; no element of the effort directly benefits the people. Yet, the labor will stop every seventh day. Note once more that the focus is on the work, not the workers.

In promulgating the commandment regarding Shabbat, Moses makes no mention of the works of Creation. There appears, however, an indirect reference, as Moses added: “You shall kindle no fire throughout your settlements on the sabbath day (35:3).” What could be a more fundamental act of creation than to produce light!

The rest demanded on Shabbat not only pertains to obedience, but also to faith in God and God’s prospects for the people. Covenant is two-way, and thus God also assures the people that no harm will occur by a cessation of the work.

The Incident in the Wilderness (a Detour)

We should add one last related passage, found in the Book of Numbers (15:32-36), even though it breaks the order. A person is found gathering wood on Shabbat. He is taken into custody, but no one knows what to do next. God is consulted and the directive is given that he should be stoned to death. The people gather and carry out the execution.

Perhaps not too much should be made of the setting, but the incident follows a discussion of inadvertent and intentional transgressions. The question is apparently raised, what should be done with this wood-gatherer? Is this because there is an issue regarding whether the transgression is inadvertent? The traditional commentary does not jump to this conclusion, and neither should we. We should have no doubt that the only reason a person is gathering wood on Shabbat is in order to build a fire. There can be no mistake about his intentions.

The section immediately preceding the relating of the incident cites that a person’s intentional sin must be borne as the person’s own. (Num 15:31: “R30;that person shall be cut off-he bears his own guilt.”) The guilty man preparing a fire for Shabbat, we might imagine, was not doing this solely for himself. His family is cold, or is clamoring for a hot meal, or wishes to offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to God, and thus have urged him to start a fire. He is taken into custody and insists that he is only acting on behalf of the wishes or needs of others. The injunction is now made clear, a cardinal transgression cannot be mitigated because it has been done on behalf of others, “he bears his own guilt.”

The traditional commentaries suggest the issue that delayed punishment was not determining whether a transgression occurred, but rather which sort of execution ought to be applied. Stoning is chosen, thus the community is necessarily involved in carrying out the sentence; the transgressor is truly cut off from his kin, as the kin (the community) is obligated in participating in cutting him off.

Did the incident-or something similar-actually happen? I think not. Although violations of Shabbat observance are catalogued in the later books of the Bible, there is no indication that capital punishment was exercised. I believe that the authors of the text before us rather present a romantic memory of the experience in the wilderness, where the upholding of community values, especially the value of Shabbat, engaged the entire people. “So the whole community took him outside the camp and stoned him to death-as the Eternal commanded Moses (15:36).”

The very fabric of society is deeply impacted by the observance or violation of Shabbat.

The Festival

The most extensive reference to Shabbat in Torah is found in the Book of Exodus. With the exception of the passage just discussed, the Books of Leviticus and Numbers represent a subtle shift in focus.

Both books cite Shabbat in the context of a listing of all the festivals. The section in Leviticus (Chapter 23) begins: “These are My fixed times [mo’ed], the fixed times of the Eternal, which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions [mikra’ei kodesh] (23:2).” The Torah then commences with a listing of the ‘fixed times,’ commencing with Shabbat, then Pesach (called here ‘the feast of Matzah’), Shavuot (unnamed), Rosh Hashanah (also unnamed), Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. There is a subtle and telling distinction made in the text between Shabbat and the rest of the Festivals: the difference between the artificial seven-day cycle and the natural cycle of lunar months. We already know, however, that Shabbat is computed differently, and therefore let us focus on the entire list.

Certain familiar activities are described with respect to each of the festivals: avoiding leavened bread during Pesach, blowing a shofar on Rosh Hashana, ‘afflicting the soul’ (later understood to be fasting) on Yom Kippur, etc. Of particular interest, however, each festival involves a ‘shabbat,’ a cessation from work. We may note that the directive to rest on Shabbat follows the rhetoric we encountered in Exodus: “Six days work may be done, but the seventh day shall be a sabbath of complete rest (23:3).” The festivals have one other element in common; they are occasion for special sacrifices to God. “These are the set times of the Eternal, which you shall celebrate as sacred occasions by bringing offerings by fire to the EternalR30;on each day what is proper to it (23:37).”

Some of the offerings are described here, but the detailed list is given in the Book of Numbers (Chapters 28 & 29). This section begins with the components of the offering that must be presented every day (“two yearling lambs without blemishR30;a tenth of an ephah of flour with a quarter of a hin of oil mixed inR30;”). The text then lays out the additional offering to be given on certain special days through the year. These days include: Shabbat, the new moon (first day of a Hebrew month), and each of the annual festivals listed in Leviticus.

The primary focus of the section is the details of the proper offering to be given on each day of the year. The passage, however, also repeats the commandments found in Leviticus regarding ceasing from work on the festival days. The command does not extend to new moons, and curiously, it is not mentioned with respect to Shabbat either. Perhaps by the Book of Numbers, the identification of the weekly Shabbat with rest has been well established. From Leviticus we learn there is a little bit of Shabbat in every festival, and from Numbers, that Shabbat (along with the new moon) is indeed a festival.

Shabbat is not a restriction but rather an opportunity to connect with God.

The Decalogue Again

Shabbat is mentioned one more time, in Moses’ retelling of the Decalogue in Deuteronomy (Chapter 5). For the most part, the words of the Ten Commandments are identical in Exodus and Deuteronomy. The most significant changes, however, occur in the presentation of the statement on Shabbat. I will interlace the two versions: The passage from Exodus (20:8-11) is in bold print; changes in Deuteronomy (5:12-15) will be shown in italics and in parentheses, and the words that are common to both will be in normal font.

Remember (Observe) the sabbath day and keep it holy (as the Eternal your God has commanded you.) Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of the Eternal your God: you shall not do any work-you, your son or daughter, your male or female slave, or your cattle (your ox, your ass or any of your cattle), or the stranger in your settlements, (so that your male and female slave may rest as you do). For in six days the Eternal made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day; therefore the Eternal blessed the sabbath day and hallowed it. (Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Eternal your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Eternal your God has commanded you to observe the sabbath day.)

In the Decalogue of Deuteronomy, delivered by Moses as Israel stood on the bank of the Jordan River, we are no longer required to remember God’s Shabbat through our cessation from work, but rather to remember the days in which, by virtue of our servitude in Egypt, rest was an impossible dream. With this restatement of the commandment, the Torah concludes its discussion of Shabbat.

God’s wishes that the people rest on Shabbat is not merely for God’s sake alone, but it is also for the sake of human liberation and fulfillment.

Discontents

I. Seven Days. As you can see, Shabbat unfolds in the Torah. Its incremental development, I suggest, is a response to the real challenge posed for anyone in keeping Shabbat. What is that challenge? You can probably answer as well as I, but let me lay out the issues specifically in the context of the passages both presented in the Torah and highlighted in the subsequent biblical material.

So, what is the problem? I would identify two basic concerns. One is the restriction of rest which actually encompasses a manifold of problems. The first problem, however, is idea of the week.

While, as already noted, many ancient cultures around the world adhered to a regular cycle of days, we recognize that there is nothing natural about it. The significance of the number seven is completely wrapped in mystery. If, as good anthropologists and paleohistorians, we attempt to come up with a reason for creating the notion of a seven-day week, looking for sociological, psychological or political factors that would determine the phenomenon, we are at a loss. For this reason, the arch-rationalist Maimonides concluded that Shabbat could not have any source other than as a revelation from God.

This is exactly the nub of the problem. A seven-day cycle is something that can be important to God, but it hardly follows that it should also be important to humankind. The Torah responds by first indicating to us, the readers, that a seventh day is indeed important to God. It is so important that it is worthy of God’s blessing. We can construct a rationale for God’s concern for this day-both classic rabbinic midrash and contemporary philosophical inquiry do so-but in the final analysis it is immaterial. God chose to create the world in six days and to valorize the seventh.

The Torah then informs Israel of God’s will regarding a seven-day cycle. Nothing is expected of the people except to respect God’s wishes and set aside half of the double portion of manna given on the sixth day for eating on the seventh. All that is required is that they realize that every seventh day is significant to the God Who just freed them from Egyptian bondage. No other inference is made or expected.

II. Rest. The seven-day cycle is thus established; we now move on to the problem of work. The challenge here exists on many levels, as it does to this day. Set the issue of Shabbat aside in your mind. What do you think about work? Do you enjoy it? Do you look forward to it being over? Do you savor a life of leisure, or only think of yourself as alive, fulfilled or human when you are working? And what do we mean by work in the first place? All of these concerns are encompassed in the concept of Shabbat. The Torah does not tackle the problems immediately. It simply demands that the people not work on the seventh day.

We should read two subtexts into the Decalogue of Exodus, where we are first commanded regarding Shabbat rest. First, the ‘divine’ Pharaoh has been replaced by the divine Eternal God of Israel. The enslaving taskmaster has been replaced by a Master who does not require constant work. We do not want to work all the time, but sometimes we do not have control over this circumstance. External forces, particularly a boss, or a master or a client, will place an irrepressible demand on our time. We work whether we want to or not. In calling upon the people to rest every seventh day, Israel learns that it has a master who will not always compel them to work.

While the Master does not demand constant labor, however, God instead compels rest. Refuse to refrain from work, even as minor a task as gathering wood, and you are liable for death! We need to read a second subtext as well. To a great extent, we are what we do. We are defined in society, in our communities and to ourselves by our jobs. Not working does not come easily, and thus it is often hard to grasp any reason behind a demand that we stop. The explanation therefore is left out; it adds nothing. God says do not work, we do not work.

Why? Because God says so! The circumstance parallels the demands a parent makes upon young children: Do not cross the street! Eat your vegetables before having dessert! Finish your homework in long division! Why? Because I am your mother! At heart here is not that there are no good reasons for engaging or refraining from the activities as commanded. It is rather that the children are too young to be reasoned with. Any explanation operates outside of their experience, and thus outside any context that would make an explanation compelling. Do as I say now, because I am your parent. When you are older, you will understand and appreciate what I am telling you to do right now.

III. Work. Israel does get older, and needs to understand. What we need to grasp, however, is not the concept of rest, but rather of work! There is an old saying that work is the activity you are engaged in when you would rather be doing something else. There are therefore at least two types of work: that which is ultimately oppressive (when you would really rather be doing something else), and that which is ultimately fulfilling (and to think they actually pay me to do this!). The two often intermix. We alternately-and sometimes concurrently-feel oppressed and fulfilled by the tasks that define our work.

For the most part, work is oppressive. Throughout history, labor has been arduous, physically demanding, highly repetitive and mind-numbing. Nothing could be more pleasurable, more liberating, than to be relieved of such work.

At the same time, this work can oppress in other ways. It can consume us, becoming the very definition of our existence. We are what we do! It can become insistent. The work must be done. The cows have to be milked. The inventory must be finished. Sure, you can walk away, relieved from the physical effort and mental anguish that you are put through by your tasks, but like a siren the tasks keep calling: You cannot walk away! I need you! And it feels so good, through the pain and the drudgery, to be needed!

In order to be liberated from the oppression of work, it is not enough merely to be permitted to refrain from work; we must also be assured that it is all right-that the world as we know it will not disintegrate-if we actually turn our back on the tasks that call out to us. In the former, the Master is relieving us of the external compulsion, the whip of the taskmaster. In the latter, we are also being cured of an internal compulsion, the addiction to the task itself. Six days the work will be done, but on the seventh is a Shabbat of complete restR30;

To find relief from physically demanding and/or spiritually draining toil is easy. Shabbat is not only a relief but also a release. To find relief from one’s own demons is much harder. We should note once again that the later biblical material-Amos, Jeremiah and Nehemiah in particular-do not challenge the people regarding physical work on Shabbat. It is well within our rights to imagine that they did not need to do so. They rather called into question commercial activity: buying and selling. We can imagine here that the people did not even think of it as ‘work.’ It was not leisure, either.

Let us picture an argument between Jeremiah and a merchant. Jeremiah declares: “do not bring in wares through the gates of this city on the Sabbath day, but hallow the Sabbath day and do no work on it.” The merchant protests: “Why do you claim that God makes such a demand. God commands that I refrain from work on Shabbat, and I am not working. I am not plowing, sowing or harvesting. I am not building or molding. I am not engaged in any labor, but I do have to make a living!”

“This is precisely the point I am making,” Jeremiah replies. “You are so deeply immersed in your work, that when you cease from the physical toil, you think that you are engaged in rest! Nothing good will come of you or the people if you do not free yourself from this illusion.”

The conversation might continue, but I think the discussion has ended. Maybe the merchant sees Jeremiah’s point, but probably not. The merchant’s position is fundamentally analogous to our situation today. Virtually all of us are engaged in work that is neither physically exhausting nor intellectually numbing. We are not out on the farm or in a factory assembly line, or hunched over a table sewing clothing or mending shoes. Although our jobs are occasionally monotonous, dull, anxiety-provoking, or even somewhat oppressive, they generally reflect just what we would like to do. The commandment to refrain from work on Shabbat no longer appears to us to be a release, but rather has become a restriction, a form of oppression in and of itself. We simply cannot feel-either in our minds or our souls-the liberation of Shabbat.

From Slavery to Freedom

Shabbat is first mentioned in the Creation story of Genesis, but it is not revealed to Israel until they are in the wilderness and are harvesting the manna. As a ritual observance, Shabbat is therefore preceded by Pesach, the preparations the Israelites had to undergo in order to withstand the final plague. The ritual is an elaborate ceremony of selecting a lamb on one particular date, segregating it from the flock for a few days, then slaughtering it, placing blood on the lintel of the house, roasting-but not boiling!-the meat, eating, and then burying the remains.

We read about the ritual today with detached bemusement. If someone came up to you or me and said you must engage in this procedure (or something similar), we would probably laugh them off. Somehow, we think that ancient people were more accepting of being placed under such demands. Let me suggest that this is not the case. (I will concede that I do not know for sure, but if the sacred literature has a timeless quality, as I have been contending all along, then it is very valuable to imagine that the ancient Israelites had pretty much the same attitude toward inexplicable demands as we do.) So, thinking about ourselves today, is there any reasonable circumstance that might make us engage in this ritual?

How about if our condition was so desperate and oppressive, and we had been given evidence that there is indeed a force out there that has the power to alleviate our pain, but wants us to do this ‘mumbo-jumbo’ first? I would guess that most of us might conclude, what have we got to lose? Such was the case. The Israelites were reeling from the pain of slavery. They had seen evidence in the plagues that had already occurred-plagues that did not affect them as much as the Egyptians-that something was out there that could free them. What did they have to lose?

The text and the tradition suggest that the Israelites endured many hundred of years of slavery before they were liberated. Why did God delay so long in coming to their rescue? The text hints, and the rabbis explain, that for a long time the Israelites simply became inured to their servitude. They did not see the oppressiveness of their situation. They were so deeply embedded in their labor, they were not even aware of the possibility of liberation. The pressure then grew too great. They cried out in their pain. God took note, and then opened their awareness even further to the idea of freedom. The ritual of the slaughtering of the lamb, for all its strangeness, came easily when there was a chance (How good? How slight? Does it make a difference?) for liberation.

All of this is given us in the narrative of the exodus from Egypt, before we are introduced to the practice of Shabbat. The parallel should not be lost. Shabbat is a form of liberation. This, after all, is the way the Torah ultimately presents its observance to us in its deuteronomic restatement of the Decalogue. Liberation, however, makes no sense if you are not aware that you are being oppressed. The blessing of Shabbat rest is thoroughly lost when one is not aware of the curse of work.

The Torah’s presentation of Shabbat attempts to deal with this problem. Just as we eat the matzah, so that we should know the taste of freedom, before we eat the maror of slavery, we need to know the liberation brought about by Shabbat rest before we recognize the oppression of work. Thus, the text begins with the commandment to observe Shabbat as something enjoined by God: just do it! The Torah then hopes that we will understand that Shabbat is kept not merely for the sake of God, but also for our own sake.

Shabbat Kodesh

The Torah’s message, I think, is clear. Shabbat begins in obedience and ends in liberation. Liberation, further, is connected to celebration. Shabbat as an occasion for festivity is indicated in the passages in Leviticus and Numbers, where the focus is not specifically on rest but rather on the offerings made to God. The prophet known as the second Isaiah specifically connects liberation and celebration. In an oft-quoted passage from Chapter 58 (verses 13-14), we read the liberation theme: “If you refrain from trampling shabbat, from pursuing your affairs on My holy dayR30;and not go your ways nor look to your affairs, nor strike bargains.” In the midst, there is the celebration: “If you call shabbath ‘delight,’ if you call the Eternal’s holy day ‘honored,’R30; Then you can seek the favor of the Eternal. I will set you astride the heights of the earth, and let you enjoy the heritage of your father JacobR30;”

This, I believe is the lesson of the Torah, as explicated in its passages and amplified by the prophets. I want to raise the question of how we may absorb this lesson today, but before doing so, we should take a look at the post-biblical sources. After all, when we think about Shabbat observance in its most traditional sense, it is not the Torah or Bible that is brought to bear. We know longer offer sacrifices, but light candles, raise a cup of wine in a kiddush, and break Hallah. Further, our sense of what is and is not work is drawn from the post-biblical sources.

The tractate Shabbat is one of the longer segments of the Mishna (the early third-century C.E. compilation of the Oral Torah), and forms a comprehensive rabbinic vision on the day. Here (in Chapter 2), one finds the pharisaic innovation of kindling lights for Shabbat. Here, as well, one finds a detailed list of prohibited work. Curiously, this list (described in the text as “forty minus one principal categories”) does not appear until Chapter 7.

The list is intriguing, and provides the foundation for all subsequent rabbinic discussion as to what is or is not ‘work’ on Shabbat. One insightful student of rabbinic literature takes issue with the conventional contention, as elaborated in the Talmud, that the list was generated by those tasks required to build the mishkan, the portable sanctuary carried by the Israelites through the wilderness. He noted that the prohibitions have to do with activities concerned with food, clothing and shelter: the basic material elements of living. He concludes that the rabbis wanted Jews to refrain, not from holy work as implied by the mishkan, but rather from mundane work on Shabbat.

I think this is a key element about the Sages’ attitude toward Shabbat. The tractate on Shabbat, and its companion tractate, ‘Eruvim, which deals with Shabbat and festival boundaries, are filled with the minutiae of permitted and prohibited tasks, and yet virtually none of it has anything to do with what could reasonably be called ‘work.’ Shabbat in rabbinic eyes is not so much about avoiding work as it is about avoiding the mundane. The critical and overriding issue is that Shabbat is holy!

Most of the dictates in the Mishna are obscure. One scholar has suggested that many of its regulations arise from the Sages’ prayer and hope for the imminent rebuilding of the Temple, and therefore reflect a particular image of a restored normative Jewish life in the land of Israel, with Jerusalem at the center. As one moves from Mishna to Talmud, a more recognizable practice emerges, but the overriding emphasis on the holiness of Shabbat is preserved. Let me give two examples from the beginning and the end of the day.

Shabbat Candles. A central point of contention between the Pharisees and Sadducees in the century before the Christian Era, had been over the lighting of lights in order to usher in the Shabbat. Sadducees opposed the use of fire under any circumstance. Pharisees agreed that a fire could not be lit, but insisted that lights be kindled at the onset of the seventh day-just before sunset-and permitted to remain lit into the evening. They even reinforced the practice by pronouncing a blessing that said the lighting was a response to God’s own commandment.

One might assume that this insistence on providing light for the eve of Shabbat was born out of practicality. Why should Shabbat, of all days, be the only one that had to be entered in cold and darkness, the principal purposes for which a fire is lit? Yet, the Sages had also argued that a fire in a stove or fireplace lit before sundown on Friday, may continue to burn. The lights that are blessed at the beginning of the day were not for light and heat. They are solely and exclusively the light of Shabbat itself. Warmth and illumination are transformed into mitzvah and blessing.

The Third Meal. Jews are supposed to have three meals on Shabbat: one on Friday night (usually after the evening service), a second midday on Saturday, following the morning worship, and a final meal as the sun sets on the day. We contemporary middle-class Jews might take three meals-a-day for granted, but throughout most of Jewish history, food was not necessarily so plentiful or available. One might literally have to fast during the week in order to make sure that one could fulfill the obligation of three meals on Shabbat.

Tradition mandates that the Friday evening and Saturday midday meals be feasts. Jews should eat their fill, and no one should rise from the table hungry. The practical result is that, by the time one sits down for the third meal, you no longer feel much need to eat. Food usually two serves two related purposes: it slakes hunger and provides vital sustenance. At the Shabbat’s third meal [se’udat shlishit], food itself loses its normal function, and eating is solely for the sake of God. Sustenance and freedom from hunger are transformed into mitzvah and blessing.

The Shabbat of the Torah meditates on liberation from work. The Shabbat of the rabbis is an entry into holiness. What is the Shabbat of the modern Jew?

What Do We Want?

The best known effort of articulating a compelling understanding of Shabbat for the modern individual is Abraham Joshua Heschel’s The Shabbat, which he subtitled “Its Meaning for Modern Man.” In the first chapter, Heschel set out his thesis expressed in the title, A Palace in Time. Shabbat, Heschel argued, forms a divine palace, not of stones and walls, but rather carved out of time itself. From sundown on the seventh day until sundown the next night, one is in a ‘place’ of special, direct and holy relationship to God.

You can see that Heschel has brought the rabbis’ message into modern terms. The Mishna might have imagined a time in which the Temple in Jerusalem would be restored, but the later Sages recognized that the rebuilding of God’s palace in a holy location in Zion had been indefinitely delayed. That feeling of being in the divine presence was therefore transferred from place to time. The holiness of Shabbat needed to be protected and preserved every bit as much as the holy objects of the Temple required utmost care. In the days of the Temple, every Jewish heart and soul pointed toward Jerusalem. In these days, every soul points toward Shabbat. Thus Heschel noted right from the onset that the seventh day did not so much serve as a release from the labors of the first six days, as the six days served as a prologue to the spiritual tranquility of the seventh.

What was Heschel trying to do? We can see that he was moving the focus of Shabbat away from the issue of work and rest, and toward using the day to reinforce a relationship with God. Not only is this part and parcel of his overall approach to Jewish life and thought, but it also reflects what he considered necessary to preserve Shabbat practice. Modernity had radically altered the nature of work. Technological development, particularly the widespread availability of the automobile and electric devises, has thoroughly blurred the distinctions between the traditional prohibitions on Shabbat and modern leisure activity. How could a family drive in the country on a Saturday afternoon be a violation of Shabbat?

It is undeniable that Shabbat can and ought to represent an opportunity to reach out for holiness in a God-starved world. Emotionally and practically, however, the concept of the ‘palace in time’ tends to fail. Imagine for a moment actually having the chance to enter Solomon’s Temple. I know I, and I believe you would too, find it to be a powerful spiritual experience; we would quite literally feel as if we were standing before God. I have no doubt of it, as the occasion would combine both our expectations and the reinforcing reality of a physical structure for which every stone, every curtain, every object points to the divine presence. Our attitude and the place would create the holiness of the moment-but for how long? I sense that it would not be indefinitely. My spirituality is reasonably acute, but my stamina is not all that great. At some point in time, the kodesh would turn to hol [the holiness would become profane], and lest I disturb the sanctity of the space, I would leave.

Note that you and I can leave a space. We cannot however leave a portion of time. From sundown Friday to sundown Saturday, not only are we in the holy palace that is Shabbat, we are imprisoned in it! Of course, as long as we maintain the attitude of being in God’s presence, as long as we feel the awe and splendor of the divine palace, we will not feel the restraint of time. Quite the opposite! We will wish that the time be extended. This expectation might be laudable, and it is possible with sufficient practice (with ‘spiritual calisthenics’), we could develop an ability to remain in the ‘palace in time’ without a feeling of restraint for the entire Shabbat. It is nice, but is it necessary?

Shabbat is holy, yes, but I do not think it is all about holiness. Holiness was, after all, the focus primarily for the classic Sages. The Bible, as we have seen, is more concerned about liberation. Shabbat is the time when we are given permission-give ourselves permission!-to withdraw from the demands of work. This element is the aspect of Shabbat where we are not drawn up, or outward, toward the divine, but rather inward toward ourselves.

What do we want from Shabbat? I maintain that there are three interrelated wishes. I have already mentioned all of them. First, we want an opportunity to feel closer to the divine. Shabbat Kodesh. The grammar of this expression is instructive. Kodesh is not the adjective (‘holy’) modifying Shabbat, but rather another noun (‘holiness’). Shabbat is not ‘holy,’ but rather contains ‘holiness.’ By entering into the day of Shabbat, we do truly enter into a palace. We are given an opportunity to feel closer to God. Perhaps, we cannot sustain it for the whole day, but if there is any time during the week in which our spiritual needs can be filled, it is Shabbat.

Second, we need to get away from work. As I have noted, this is easier said than done. Our work has penetrated into us. It is not simply a matter of going to the office. Even when we are at home, watching television, playing with the kids, going out with friends, some piece of the work-what has been left undone, what there is left to do-sticks with us, weighs down upon us. Shabbat gives us a chance to wriggle free. It is the opportunity presented to us once each week to be something other than a worker, to be a cog in the machinery of Creation. Shabbat Shalom. The expression is parallel to Shabbat Kodesh. Shalom is also a noun, a quality contained with Shabbat. Its multilevel meaning connotes ‘wholeness,’ the personal integrity of being completely oneself and not ‘owned’ by another person or institution; of ‘well-being,’ the satisfaction that is drawn from achieving such wholeness; and therefore ‘peace.’

The third wish is that we continue to be Jews. This brings us back to the beginning: As Israel has kept Shabbat, so has Shabbat preserved Israel. The idea of Shabbat is paradoxical. Its themes are holiness and liberation, both universal concepts that could and should be the objects of desire of all humanity. And yet, Shabbat is uniquely Jewish! Consider the institution of the shabbos goy. A non-Jew can be employed to perform activities on Shabbat, particularly maintain fires for heating, that Jews are constrained from doing. Inherent in this notion is that it is perfectly all right for non-Jews to ignore Shabbat. But if Shabbat is a creation of God that embodies qualities beneficial to all humankind, why should Gentiles be exempt from its observance? Why is it not part of the Noahide Laws that Jewish thought considered as extending to everyone?

Let me suggest that holiness and liberation are indeed qualities desired by all peoples, but only Israel strives for them through the idea of Shabbat. Holiness, liberation and many other universal values can be achieved through a variety of means. Shabbat contains them for Jews specifically and uniquely because they are presented to Israel within the context of its own history and experience. That experience is having been slaves in Egypt, and having been set free.

Return to the Torah. Rest and holiness are there from the beginning: GodR30; ceased from work on the seventh day, and blessed the day. These values, residing in the divine will, are then introduced to Israel immediately following their liberation from Egyptian bondage. The people have known slavery and oppression, and now know what it means to be free. First, it is the ‘negative’ freedom, the sheer release from servitude. In time-the first step is Sinai-they will also understand ‘positive’ freedom, the opportunity to be more than who they are, to reach for transcendence, to become holy.

I cannot emphasize this point more. Values are fragile, and are made all the more fragile when they remain in the abstract. They are only platitudes; pious hopes easily expressed but rarely actually acted upon. So, we crave liberation, but liberation from what? We desire holiness, but holiness in what? (In this case, the ‘we’ is not just Jews, but humanity. Clearly, it is not just Israel that seeks holiness and freedom.) The abstract, in order to achieve some level of practical reality, must be rooted in the concrete. The value must be more than merely repeated; it must be experienced so that it does indeed become real! Shabbat is therefore Israel’s exclusive vehicle for achieving these values, because the Exodus is Israel’s exclusive experience.

Let me return to Christianity again. Christian Scripture includes the Hebrew Bible, and therefore the narrative of the Exodus and of the revelation of Sinai are every bit as much part of their tradition. For Christians, however, these are stories to be pondered and taught. For Jews, they are our stories to be relived. Liberation from Egypt is a Christian parable, but not a Christian experience. Shabbat, for Christians, is not, nor can it be, a day that expresses such liberation. Thus, in the story of gathering grain on the seventh day, repeated in the Books of Matthew, Mark and Luke, Christianity effectively eliminates Shabbat. Liberation and holiness are certainly fundamental values in Christianity. They simply must be acquired through some means other than Shabbat.

Jews observe Shabbat in order to experience a little bit of holiness, in order to get away from the work that so defines and dominates our lives, and, perhaps at the root of it all, to a Jew.

Making Shabbat

The analysis is over; we have meditated long enough. It is all right to think about Shabbat, but now we must also do something about it. In the language of our Eastern European grandparents, we must talk about making Shabbos.

Making! This is actually a corruption of the Yiddish-German machen, ‘to do.’ One “does Shabbat.” Whether we ‘make’ or ‘do,’ however, we are not quite talking about ‘keeping’ or ‘observing.’ The language is constructive, rather than responsive. Shabbat is an activity of our own making, as long we understand that the word ‘our’ refers to the historic Jewish community reaching back to biblical Israel. We do not-in another traditional expression-“make Shabbos for ourselves.”

So, how do we construct the activity we call Shabbat? All the materials are at our disposal. There are the rituals: candles, wine, hallah [bread], blessing the children, worship, study, and havdala-the ceremony of concluding Shabbat-at the end of the day. And there is rest, the cessation from everyday work. These are the ingredients. Making Shabbat is the amounts and the ways we combine them together, and this effort comes, I believe, from just what sort of Shabbat we wish to make.

A rabbinic colleague once told me that if you have a particular vision, creating the program to approach that vision pretty much automatically follows. In the case of Shabbat, I would suggest that the vision is created by how you answer these questions:

1. What does it mean to you to be a Jew? How deeply are you engaged in an identity that not only carries an association with a certain people (who may or may not engage in certain ‘Jewish’ acts) today, but also with a history and heritage that goes back to our origins.

Think about it this way. If you are American, you have little trouble considering George Washington as ‘the father of our country,’ or of forming an opinion over why the Civil War was fought, and whether your side won. This is, after all, your country and your history, even though it is quite probable that your family was nowhere near these shores at the time of the American Revolution or the Civil War. Being an American makes the arguments of Jefferson and Hamilton over the meaning and purpose of the U.S. Constitution a matter of personal importance.

And so it is with being a Jew, whether you think you can track your ancestry back to Abraham, or whether you are a more recent arrival into the fold of the people. The Nazi Holocaust and expulsion from Spain, the writing of the Talmud and the Bar Kokhba revolt, Solomon’s Temple, standing at the base of Sinai and suffering under the Egyptian taskmaster’s whip; they are all your history.

2. How much do you want to rest? Really rest! That is, not just giving one’s fingers a rest from the keyboard, or putting down the phone, or staying away from the office, classroom, clinic, or wherever it is that you get paid to be! How much do you actually want to get away from that which you call work?

3. Finally, how close do wish to be to God? This is probably the most elusive question, and I do not want to elaborate too much beyond asking you to ask this question for yourself. For me, the question mostly has to do with how far I wish to go to get away from ‘business as usual.’ This is not just the business in which I engage as a career, but also the business of everyday, banal life. How much do I want to transcend the ordinary.

Work through answers to these questions, and you will know how to make the Shabbat you wish (need) to keep.

Final Word: Shabbat and Discontent

Let us return for a moment, once more, to the first commandment in Torah requiring us to observe Shabbat. It is the one found in the Decalogue: “Remember the sabbath day in order to keep it holy.” When I first discussed it above, I suggested that we were expected to acquire God’s memory. We can see at this point, however, that ‘remember’ also refers to our memory, or more specifically, our Jewish memory.

Shabbat comes down to the three interrelated themes of Liberation, Holiness, and Jewish identity. I think I have made the connections among the three reasonably clear. Interrelated, yes, but not without tension! The elements each move you in different directions. Jewish identity pushes you into a community; holiness toward God; and liberation toward yourself.

If we take Shabbat seriously-truly seriously-we discover that we want to move in three directions at once. Of course, we can solve the problem by simply ignoring, or at least repressing, one these fundamental themes. We can strive for holiness in Shabbat by creating a highly restrictive and programmed form of observance upon ourselves; an approach to God through greater denial of liberation to ourselves. Or we can enjoy the fruits of our personal freedom by choosing to do whatever we wish on Friday night and Saturday, substantially independent from either God or the Jewish people. There are many strategies that Jews employ, usually involving denial of one of the gifts that Shabbat offers. We want to move in three directions at once, and we cannot. Shabbat has its discontents because Shabbat-the ideal of Shabbat-is discontent itself.

Must this be the case? I do not think it is necessarily so. The movements toward God, community and oneself are not mutually contradictory. One can think of them as being the x, y and z-axes on a three-dimensional graph.

Can the true fundamental purpose of Shabbat be fulfilled? Perhaps, but hardly easily, and made all the more difficult by a world that challenges us at every step: We find it hard to assert our Jewishness in a society that treats Jews with either hostility or indifference. We struggle with reaching out to a God who is so elusive in our overwhelmingly secular culture. We struggle even more with the concept of liberation in lives that seem so free, and yet weighed down so heavily with responsibility at the same time.

It is all found in our Shabbat: connection and separation, possibility and stark reality, God’s presence and our all-too prosaic lives. Sweetness and discontent. Just as we somehow perceive a God who remains tantalizingly just beyond the borders of our conscious perception, Shabbat presents us with visions that are tantalizingly just beyond our practical existence. Shabbat is both Shalom and discontent.

The possibility of a real Shabbat remains, and hence the prayer, one of the most poignant in all our liturgy, recited following each meal on that day: May the Merciful One bless (us) with a Shabbat that never ends, and with it the soul-satisfying rest for all time.