STANDING AT THE EDGE OF THE UNKNOWN
In this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim, Moses comes down from the Mountain and calls out to the People waiting below: “will you take upon yourselves this Covenant?” They exclaim in one voice: na’aseh ve-nishma, “we will do it and we will hear it.” (Exodus 24:7) The Rabbis ask: why do they put forth: “we will do it” before “we will hear it?” Shouldn’t it be the other way around: “first, we’ll hear it, and then, if we like what we hear, we’ll do it?” For the Rabbis, na’aseh ve-nishma becomes the paradigm for bold commitment, for stepping into the unknown, for agreeing to the terms without actually knowing what the terms entail.
I often point out the lesson of na’aseh ve-nishma when I stand in front of the bride and groom under the Chuppah. They may imagine their future “in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health”—of course, we Jews don’t actually say those words—but does the young couple know what the declaration really entails? Those of you here who have been married for decades, think back to your wedding day, and consider all the twists and turns that have led to today. Isn’t the journey beyond your wildest dreams? Indeed, the Rabbinic mind often depicts the moment of Revelation as a wedding ceremony between people of Israel and their God. The Chuppah is Mount Sinai, and the Ketubah is the Torah itself. However, marriage is only one of many examples of a profound life transition—embarking upon a new career, starting a new enterprise, acquiring a new home, moving to a new location, coming to terms with a new diagnosis, God forbid, adjusting to a new life after the death of a beloved family member, God forbid.
Any significant change can be terrifying. At moments like these, we stand at the edge of the unknown. We peer into the abyss, groping for any familiar landmark to guide us. No matter how hard we try, we cannot pierce the veil of the future. As we step off the edge into the darkness, to what can we cling that will give us some measure of comfort, some degree of assurance?
Let’s take a closer look at na’aseh venishma, which the Talmud discusses at length. Here’s one piece of the Talmudic discussion: “Rabbi Elazar said: at the moment when Israel put forth ‘we will do’ before ‘we will hear,’ a voice rang out from Heaven, crying: ‘who revealed to My children the secret of the angels?’” (bShabbat 88a) Now, in order to understand Rabbi Elazar’s statement, we need to appreciate some characteristic differences between angels and human beings. For one thing, angels are immortal, but we are not. More importantly, angels lack free will. “Ever obedient to do God’s bidding,” (Psalm 103:20) they have no choice but to carry out whatever God demands of them. We, of course, are not compelled to follow God’s commandments. So, when Rabbi Elazar reports that the Israelites have learned “the secret of the angels,” he means that they have acquired unquestioning allegiance at the expense of free will.
Rabbi Elazar’s praise of the Israelites is undercut by the prevailing negative bias against blind obedience throughout the rest of Rabbinic literature. In the Midrash, God usually favors human beings more than angels. For example, a little later on in the Talmud, the angels complain to God: “why are you sullying the Torah by giving it to human beings? We are perfect. Give it to us!” God replies to the angels: “Do you murder? Do you commit adultery? Do you steal? They need the Torah; you do not.” (bShabbat 88b) It is the very fact of our human fallibility that endears us to God. The English rendering of Psalm 8 that we read earlier this evening derives originally from the King James Bible: “What are we, that You are mindful of us, mere mortals, that You take account of us? Yet You have made us but little lower than the angels, and have crowned us with glory and honor.” (Psalm 8:5-6) However, “angels” is a mistranslation of the Hebrew word Elohim, causing the entire English passage to convey not only the wrong meaning but the opposite meaning of what the psalm actually intends. The correct translation is: “You have made us but little lower than God.”
We human beings are not lower but higher than the angels. We were created betzelem Elohim, in the image of God; they were not. We are more God-like than the angels, because we have freedom of choice. God wants us to stumble from time to time. God loves us when we harbor doubts. Why? Because then it means something to Him when we turn back to Him and turn back to faith. To put it another way, angels merely act. We human beings act, but we also think about our actions. Na’aseh ve-nishma, to do before completely understanding what we are doing, is praiseworthy. But na’aseh without nishma, to do without attempting to understand at all, would rob us of our humanity.
The Talmud continues with another interpretation of na’aseh ve-nishma: “Rabbi Chama son of Rabbi Chanina said: in the Song of Songs, God says to Israel, ‘you are like an apple tree among the trees of the forest.’ (Song of Songs 2:3) Why is Israel compared to an apple tree? Because just as the apple precedes its leaves, so Israel put forth ‘we will do’ before ‘we will hear.’” (bShabbat 88b) Now, in order to understand Rabbi Chama’s statement, we need to first figure out the meaning of the phrase: “the apple precedes its leaves.” When I was studying this passage yesterday afternoon with my colleague Rabbi Karen Silberman, she suggested that the apple hangs lower on the tree than the leaves that surround it—it’s more visible, it’s more prominent—and that’s what Rabbi Chama means when he says “the apple precedes its leaves.” Rashi, who, in addition to being the greatest Talmudic commentator of all time, was also a horticulturist, takes a similar tack. In contrast to other fruit, says Rashi, the apple ripens earlier than its surrounding leaves mature. (I confess, I’ve never noticed the phenomenon on the apple tree in my backyard, but I’ll take Rashi’s word for it.) So, when Rabbi Chama reports that the Israelites put forth ‘we will do’ before ‘we will hear’ just as the apple precedes its leaves, he means, if we align Rabbi Silberman’s and Rashi’s interpretations, that doing is a more prominent, more visible, riper, more mature way of responding to the world than understanding what we are doing. In Halachic terms, performing a Mitzvah is more important than studying it. Talmud Torah ke-neged kulam, “the study of Torah is equivalent to all the commandments,” only if it leads to the performance of the commandments.
Perhaps because recently, I have been reading a book on ecology, a different interpretation has occurred to me. What separate biological purposes, after all, do leaves and fruit serve on the apple tree? Leaves nourish the tree; they transform sunlight into food through the process of photosynthesis. In contrast, the apple falls to the ground and eventually produces baby apple trees. Furthermore, in the forest, the apple provides nourishment for animals—for the deer, and, frankly, for us. The function of leaves is essentially self-serving—they feed the tree, but nothing else. The function of the apple is the opposite of self-serving—it serves the next generation of apple trees, and it serves other species entirely.
Armed with this botanical observation, now, what does Rabbi Chama mean when he says that the Children of Israel put forth “we will do” before “we will hear” just as “the apple precedes its leaves?” I think that he is pointing out that when we study and learn, the activity benefits ourselves exclusively, but when we perform deeds for others, for the next generation, or for all life, then the activity has ultimate worth. Here, the emphasis is not so much on action over understanding, but on the enduring joy that stems from service beyond oneself.
If na’aseh ve-nishma is the prime Rabbinic paradigm for courageously stepping into the unknown, what does our brief survey of the Talmudic discussion on na’aseh ve-nishma teach us? All change can be terrifying. It is our terror that is most endearing to God. God expects fear from us—that’s what makes us human and not angels. More than expecting us to be afraid, God wants us to be afraid. There is something elevated, something noble, something divine, about confronting our fears with courage and not running from them.
What gives us the courage to exclaim “we will do it” before “we will hear it?” Maybe simply this: at a certain moment in our growth, we finally come to realize that we taste the sweetest fruit in life not by serving ourselves but by nourishing others—and, in so doing, we ensure our immortality. “Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?/ Tell me, what is it you plan to do/ With your one wild and precious life?” (Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”)
Today, you and I stand at the edge of the unknown. We peer across the edge, trying to imagine what our lives may be like next year, five years from now—what JCOGS will be like with a new spiritual leader. No matter how hard we try, we cannot pierce the veil of the future. Someday, we will turn around, look back at this transition point, and see how it fits into the grand narrative of our lives and into the long-range story of JCOGS—but not yet. As we step off the edge, may the nobility of our own courage to confront our fears inspire us to pursue the only enduring goal in life, which is service outside ourselves. Na’aseh ve-nishma! Let us do, now, and someday, may we come to understand.
No comments:
Post a Comment