Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel

When one considers the countless thousands of works that have been written on the book of Genesis alone, I often hear people ask: “Who am I to disagree with the greater scholars of the past?” or, “Haven’t enough commentaries been written about Genesis? Why write one more?”

A number of years ago, I had the opportunity to briefly chat with the Presbyterian biblical scholar Walter Brueggemann about possibly writing an endorsement to my new Genesis commentary. One of the first comments he expressed to me was, “What can you possibly add in a Genesis commentary that someone hasn’t said before?” I answered him that, “Every person—regardless of one’s personal status or academic background—has the ability to add new interpretive insights that the earlier generations might not have considered.”

While it is important to honor and understand the great luminaries of the past, one is strongly encouraged to test the veracity of any idea—regardless if the originator of an exegetical thought happens to be Rashi or Maimonides. How much more so does this truth apply to questioning and interrogating the insights of any contemporary scholar—even noted biblical scholars, whose insights we shall creatively engage and challenge throughout this work. In the arena of ideas, there can be no hegemony for elitist attitudes or narrow-minded opinions.

Rashi’s own grandson, Rabbi Samuel ben Meir (a.k.a., “Rashbam,”), writes about his formative years growing up with his grandfather, Rashi—the most famous rabbinical commentator, whose works are still studied today throughout the Jewish world. As a young man, Rashbam recalls how he often had face-to-face arguments with his grandfather over his scriptural commentary. Relentless in pursuit of the truth, Rashbam writes that his grandfather finally conceded that had he more time, he would have revised his earlier commentaries.[1]

Rashi’s concession is important for he admitted that no commentator is immune to critical thought and revision. In the commonwealth of ideas, old thoughts will be supplanted by new thoughts, much as Hegel defined in his famous dialectical method of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis—a concept that also resonates throughout the enormous corpus of rabbinical literature. Ideas must always be subject to a process of trial and error.

One 16^th century rabbinic scholar, Rabbi Eliezer Ashkenazi, exhibited integrity transcending the parochial world he inhabited, and called upon his readers to show an independence of thought that challenged the theological correctness of his era. His prescription for honesty and intellectual truthfulness can certainly apply to our own generation as well:

• Neither should we be concerned about the logic of others—even if they preceded us—preventing our own individual investigation. Much to the contrary, just as [our forbearers] did not wish to indiscriminately accept the truth from those who preceded them, and that which they did not choose [to accept] they rejected, so it is fitting for us to do. Only on the basis of gathering many different opinions will the truth be tested. . . . Do not be dismayed by the names of the great personalities when you find them in disagreement with your beliefs; you must investigate and interpret, because for this purpose were you created, and wisdom was granted you from Above, and this will benefit you.[2]

From R. Ashkenazi’s opinion, one may surmise that the truth can always stand up to scrutiny. All the various approaches concerning the origin and redaction of the Pentateuch have much value and wisdom to impart. Early rabbinic exegetes deserve considerable credit for pointing out many textual anomalies that require clarification. Granted, many of the Midrashic answers given may not be grounded in a realistic understanding of the text, but the questions they raise regarding the text’s meaning are important.

Conflicting interpretations—especially in a dialogical setting—frequently draw attention to nuances and ideas that one participant or interpreter may have overlooked or failed to take adequately into account. However, they also expand the text and force each participant to re-articulate earlier stated ideas that take into account the criticisms of the other side. In the midst of a discussion, one party may see truth in an oppositional point of view. In the final analysis, if the Torah is truly a spiritual guide, then there will always be room for new interpretive insights that speak to each new generation of spiritual seekers.

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Psychologists and anthropologists point out how the sundry biblical images of God exert an influence on all of one’s relationships. Toxic metaphors of God that are hostile and anti-life tend to produce people who are intolerant of the Other. One may worship such a Deity with fear, but one cannot develop a healthy sense of relatedness, love or respect.

Understandably, many Holocaust survivors rejected this punitive view of God, which the ancients uncritically accepted. The death of God movements of the 1960s rejected the traditional biblical notions of a capricious God who does as He pleases, much like He did in the days of the Flood, Sodomites and Egyptians. In light of the phenomena of religious terrorism that we are witnessing in the world today, one must ask: Has a punitive concept of God contributed toward the ascendency of evil and suffering we are witnessing today?

The answer ought to be obvious: Yes!

There was a time when our ancestors conceived of God as the Supreme Potentate, whose word exerted a firm grip on human history. Every event, whether great or small, served as a direct manifestation of God’s inscrutable will and reality. Such a deity was not answerable to human beings’ gripes and criticisms; God did essentially as He pleased. The image of God as tyrant is clear in the story of the Flood narrative, where the narrator describes God as going “postal” on account of stubborn human beings.

Religious leaders from numerous faiths ascribed a variety of reasons as to why Hurricane Katrina was so devastating. Some leaders blamed the licentious life-style of New Orleans[1], while others claimed it was divine retribution for the United States’ support of the removal of Jewish settlers in the Gaza Strip.[2] Buddhist and Hindu scholars blamed it on karma, while Muslim across the globe imams proclaimed in unison, “The Terrorist Katrina is one of the Soldiers of Allah…”[3]

Without going into too much detail for now, the 19^th century German philosopher Georg Hegel explains how each civilization is defined by its relationship to the Divine Spirit, which awakens human consciousness. Every civilization undergoes a dialectical clash with its predecessor and serves to reshape and redefine aspects the next civilization’s values and ethos. No civilization lives in isolation.

According to Hegel, history reflects this evolutionary pathway toward self-knowledge and self-actualization. It is only in the creative enfoldment of history, does the Divine plan become clearer to the human mind. If one understands history, one can glimpse into the mind of God. Through this ceaseless dialectical tension and clash of civilizations, God’s providential plan becomes easier to discern. This knowledge ultimately leads to a clearer sense of self and one relationship toward God, self, neighbor, and the world. Hegel’s evolutionary model of faith serves in many ways as an excellent template for the interpretations we shall introduce in the chapters ahead. This new commentary will on some level attempt to bring some clarity to the questions we have raised thus far.

Various other biblical books portray a more benign deity. The images of God in the Tanakh vary from book to book. God, whom the Psalms describe as the “healer of broken hearts” in the Psalms, in Genesis 6-8 emerges as a mass murderer in the Flood narrative. Such contrasts must create some degree of cognitive dissonance even for the most sincere believer. How does one reconcile these contrasting depictions of God? If we are honest with ourselves, we must admit that the Flood story in particular portrays a dark side of God that even the biblical narrators found frightening about the Divine personality.

The theological problem posed by the Flood story is not necessarily unique to this narrative per se. Several other biblical stories seem to celebrate God’s destructive power over His foes. There are other metaphors in the Tanakh that continue this particular stream of consciousness. For example, Moses praises God as a “Master of war,” who can “toss horse and rider amidst the sea” (Exod. 14:30). With respect to the Flood narrative, what did infants do to deserve being destroyed by the Flood? Surely the children should not have to die for the sins of the parents? Yet this enlightened passage is contradicted by numerous other passages (1 Sam. 15:2; 2 Sam. 24:1, passim) where God punishes whole families and communities! Continue Reading

• Once the Baal Shem Tov stopped on the threshold of a House of Prayer and refused to go in. “I cannot go in,” he said. “ It is crowded with teachings and prayers from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling. How could there be room for me?” And when he saw those around him were staring at him and did not know what he meant, he added: “The words from the lips of those whose teaching and praying do not come from hearts lifted to heaven cannot rise; they fill the heart from wall to wall and from floor to ceiling.”[1]

Prayer continues to be contemporary spiritual challenge.

Since antiquity people have grappled with its meaning and significance. As we pray, we come face-to-face with our deepest beliefs, feelings and convictions. Perhaps this is where the God of traditional theology can learn a lot from the mystics. The mystics experience prayer, while the theologians only talk about prayer.

There are other factors that diminish our soul’s capacity to expand its spiritual vision of Ultimate Reality.

The situation has hardly changed over the centuries—despite our sophistication and modernity. The prophet Isaiah also commented about the perfunctory manner people prayed in his generation:

These people make a big show of saying the right thing,

but their hearts aren’t in it.

Because they act like they’re worshiping me

but they don’t mean it,

I’m going to step in and shock them awake,

astonish them, stand them on their ears.

The wise ones who had it all figured out

will be exposed as fools.

The smart people who thought they knew everything

will turn out to know nothing.”

Isaiah 29:13

The same may be said about today’s times as well. Spiritual leadership does not know or understand how to articulate prayer to its followers. As young people flock elsewhere for spiritual nourishment, it is obvious something is missing.

Let’s be honest: As rabbis, many of us are intimidated by prayer. We are part of the problem.

The Synagogue lights are on but nobody is home.

Isaiah’s words still resonates in the present; the worship of God has become “a human commandment, learned by rote.” It is one thing to talk about God at least in a theological or philosophical context, but once we begin to pray, our God-talk is no longer intellectual; faith becomes experiential.

What we experience during prayer speaks volumes about our beliefs and relationship with God. If we believe that God is attentive to us, then prayer can have meaning. Conversely, if we experience God only in the third person, then we have transformed the Creator into an indifferent bystander, who ignores the pleas of the human heart.

Without “You,” we might just as well be dictating a memo, “To whom it may concern . . .” But that’s not prayer! Addressing God directly as “You!” is very different indeed, for by speaking out to God as “You,” our personal pronouns introduce and imply relationship.

When the ancient psalmists gazed into the heavens, they did not behold an endless abyss of cosmic nothingness; rather, they beheld a God with whom they could audaciously and personally address as “You.” All these sundry personal pronouns and anthropomorphic metaphors serve to convey something profound about the mystery of God’s Presence and closeness to the world, without which God could not be known. It is this closeness that inspires prayer.

How does one really practically experience prayer?

There are many ways. The Shabbat liturgy offers a pathway provided we walk through it mindfully and not mindlessly.

So much of Jewish prayer—especially on Shabbat—centers on song. At my services here in TBS, I stress this point every week. When God created the world, the only thing lacking in the celestial universe was the song of man. Not only do we sing with musical instruments on the Shabbat, we dance and dance. Prayer is more than an exercise done with the lips, you’ve got to move your shoulders and hips as well—and that’s exactly what my congregants do every Shabbat. People don’t look at their watches; they forget about time and just savor the music.

The four letter name of God, YHWH, in Hebrew resembles the human body. Bodily movement with ecstatic prayer can really invigorate how you feel when you go to synagogue. Don’t settle for anything less.

In our Siddurim, we discover that angels never speak discursively. They speak through song. If you pay attention to your Shabbat prayer book, notice how many times the word, “song,” or “sing” appears. The world is full of song, but are we willing to take the time to listen? On Shabbat, that is exactly the activity we must do—stop and listen! Smell the roses, and listen to nature’s song!’

One of the most beautiful works of Late Antiquity is the Perek Shira — The Chapter of Song, which contains numerous animals and flora that participate in Creation’s songs. In the beginning of this 1^st century work, the writer tells a story how an unclean frog once taught King David a lesson in humility.

• David exclaimed to God, “Master of the universe, is there any other creature in Your world that utters more songs and paeans of praise than I? In that instant a frog appears and meets him. The frog then says to David, “Don’t act so boastfully. I utter more songs and paeans of praise than you.”

Mystics of all faiths teach that, if the soul could sense what the birds feel when singing in the forest at dawn, man would know that their prayer is even more exalted than his own, for it is more natural.

If you choose not to attend Shul on Shabbat, then set some time for a pleasant Shabbat walk by yourself or with your beloved—especially early in the morning. In the stillness of the forest or a garden, one can discover the Presence of God that calls out from each blade of grass!

Philo of Alexandria believed that urban life is not conducive for spirituality—God never speaks in the city, but in the wilderness and desert—places that are known for their simplicity and innocence.

The time has come to rediscover that innocence. Shabbat is as good of a time to begin as any.

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Notes:

[1] Martin Buber—Early Masters