Rabbi Michael Samuel

Rediscovering the Sensuous Language of Biblical Encounter

Despite the ban on images found in Exodus 20:2‑5, the Tanakh contains a wealth of metaphors depicting the anthropomorphic nature of God. Unlike the ancient Greek philosophers and poets, the ancients of Judea did not perceive God as a philosophical construct, nor as a static timeless being, nor as an impersonal cosmic process, energy, force or intelligence and not as a sentimentalized ethical ideal, nor did they apologize for using human language in describing God. There was nothing epistemic or dogmatic about their faith. The biblical writers never hesitates utilizing human language whenever depicting the mystery and presence of the Divine. The human drama means something to the Heart of the Divine—even despite humankind’s conscious rejection of Him. God is paradoxically bound up to human history—and even limits His freedom in how He interacts with it (cf. Gen. 6:6).

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. Martin Buber notes that in addition, anthropomorphic language reflects:

Our need to preserve the concrete quality is evidenced in the encounter. . . .It is in the encounter itself that we are confronted with something compellingly anthropomorphic, something demanding reciprocity, a primary Thou. This is true of those moments of our daily life in which we become aware of the reality that is absolutely independent of us, whether it be as power or as glory, no less than of the hours of great revelation of which only a halting record has been handed down to us. [1]

This same idea runs like a current throughout the literature of the Psalms. In keeping with his ancestors’ religious experience, the psalmist never tires of exclaiming how the God Who creates the heavens and the earth, is still very much still accessible to the prayers of the most ordinary human being. Clearly, “God is close to all who call upon Him, all who call upon Him in truth.” Theologian Leonardo Boff cuts through the chase and remarks, “The psalms reveal the consciousness of this divine proximity.” The visceral language of the Psalms accentuates this closeness, “Praise the LORD, my soul all my inmost being, and praise his holy name (Psa. 103:1). From the innermost depths of one’s physical being, one can encounter God’s Presence and Being.

God’s accessibility paradoxically defies the human effort or tendency to want to localize the Creator. Although the Temple occupied a central place in the life of the ancient Israelites, the psalmist delights in knowing that God’s Presence is not at all limited to just the spatial confines of the Sanctuary. Young King Solomon understood the paradox of God’s Presence and exclaimed:

“Can it indeed be that God dwells among men on earth? If the heavens and the highest heavens cannot contain you, how much less this temple which I have built! ^Look kindly on the prayer and petition of your servant, O LORD, my God, and listen to the cry of supplication which I, your servant, utter before you this day.

1 Kgs. 8:27-28

Biblical personalism is thus the bedrock of Israel’s spirituality. First and foremost, God communicates with mortals; Creation itself exists only because God desires to enter into a relationship with its life-forms and inhabitants. Ancient biblical story-tellers asserted that the God of Israel is a “Living God,” who loves and is literally in search of humanity—endowed with personality and sentience. YHWH is transcendent (Wholly Other), yet wholly immanent and related to the world—He is the supreme God of encounter. The Scripture’s use of anthropomorphic language conveys the reality of God’s Presence in the lives of its believers. When viewed from this perspective, the Scriptures bears witness to Divine/Human encounters that have move people to speech. The psalmist feels a special intimacy with God and speaks of God belonging to him. Note the kind of personal pronouns found in the Scriptures: “He is my Rock,” (2 Sam. 22:2-3); “my Shepherd,” (Psa. 23:1); “my Light,” (Psa. 27:1); “my Love,” (Song. 1:9), and so on. Biblical metaphors about God boldly exemplify familiarity and intimacy bearing witness to the personhood of God. Within the limits of human language, our ancestors expressed the inexpressible imaginatively and metaphorically. One would never find such bold audacity of speak of God in such personal terms in the writings of Plato or Aristotle.

One of the most spirited defenses of anthropomorphism comes from the theologian Ludwig Köhler, who concludes:

One realizes at this point the function of the anthropomorphisms. Their intention is not in the least to reduce God to a rank similar to that of man. To describe God in terms of human characteristics is not to humanize him. That has never happened except in unreasonable polemic. Rather the purpose of anthropomorphisms is to make God accessible to man. They hold open the door for encounter and controversy between God’s will and man’s will. They represent God as person. They avoid the error of presenting God as a careless and soulless abstract Idea or a fixed Principle standing over against man like a strong silent battlement. God is personal. He has a will, he exists in controversy ready to communicate himself, offended at men’s sins yet with a ready ear for their supplication and compassion for their confessions of guilt: in a word, God is a living God. Through the anthropomorphisms of the Old Testament God stands before man as the personal and living God, who meets him with will and with works, who directs his will and his words towards men and draws near to men. God is the living God (Jer. 10:10).[2]

The Scriptures describe the Presence of the Divine in tangible human‑like terms. Divine encounters with mortals are frequently depicted in graphic and physical detail. For the ancients, God is not only experienced with their minds, but also with their physical senses. To the Israelites who crossed the Sea of Reeds, God appears like a “Mighty man of war” (Exod. 15:3). The Torah’s depiction of “God’s glory” mesmerizes and dazzles the attention of the observer and witness.[3] To the Israelite standing at Sinai, YHWH is not a philosophical abstraction, but a compelling reality. Therefore, whenever the Tanakh speaks of God’s glory, it always connotes the intensification and concentration of God’s Presence. Rudolf Otto identifies this phenomenon in his classic, The Idea of the Holy, which he describes as the numinous. What words can possibly express such an experience? According to Otto, words like, “awe,” “terror,” “dread,” “mystery,” “mystical,” “fascination,” “astonishment,” and “wonderment” convey a glimpse of this close encounter.[4] An experience of the numinous leaves one in a state of humility. Thus when Jerusalem was destroyed, God’s numinous Presence (Kavod) was in a state of exile. Yearning for return of the Divine Presence, like the deer yearns for water in a parched land, the Psalmist experienced God not as an “It,” but as the “Eternal You.” Martin Buber points out in his classic I and Thou:

Men have addressed their eternal You by many names. When they sang of what they had thus named, they still meant You: the first myths were hymns of praise. Then the names entered into the It‑language; men felt impelled more and more to think of and to talk about the Eternal You as an It. But all names of God remained hallowed ‑ because they had been used not only to speak of God but also speak to Him[5] (emphasis added).

What we can we do to bring civility back to faith, and remove its thorn of toxicity? Decades ahead of his time, the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber argued that one of the great spiritual challenges of our time is the process of purging our faith of all imagery that portrays the Divine as either vindictive or abusive. In his short but insightful autobiographical book, Meetings, Buber describes a meeting he had with a very pious and learned observant Jew. They had a conversation about the biblical story of King Saul and the war of genocide waged against Israel’s ancient enemy, Amalek. After Saul captures King Agag of Amalek, Saul does not kill him. The prophet Samuel becomes enraged at Saul, who places the onus of the blame on the people rather than himself. Perhaps he cannot kill his enemies with such reckless abandon, but Samuel will not hear of it; he personally hacks Agag to death. Afterward Samuel tells Saul to abdicate the throne, but Saul refuses. Buber tells the man sitting opposite him, that as a child, he always found this story horrifying. Buber recounts:

I told him how already at that time it horrified me to read or to remember how the heathen king went to the prophet with the words on his lips, “Surely the bitterness of death is past,” and was hewn to pieces by him. I said to my partner: “I have never been able to believe that this is a message of God. I do not believe it.” With wrinkled forehead and contracted brows, the man sat opposite me and his glance flamed into my eyes. He remained silent, began to speak, and became silent again. “So?” he broke forth at last, “so? You do not believe it?” “No,” I answered, “I do not believe it.” “So? so?” he repeated almost threateningly. “You do not believe it?” And once again: “No.”

“What. What”—he thrust the words before him one after the other—“What do you believe then?” “I believe,” without reflecting, “that Samuel has misunderstood God.” And he, again slowly, but more softly than before: “So? You believe that?” and I: “Yes.” Then we were both silent. But now something happened the like of which I have rarely seen before or since in this my long life. The angry countenance opposite me became transformed as if a hand had passed over it soothing it. It lightened, cleared, was now turned toward me bright and clear. “Well,” said the man with a positively gentle tender clarity, “I think so too.” And again we became silent, for a good while.[1]

Buber in the end of this anecdote mentioned how people often confuse the words of God with the words of man. To speak of God as “abusive,” is to speak of a man‑made caricature of God. Buber was well aware of the power such imagery has over people in the formation of their own personal relationships.

As the 11^th century Jewish philosopher Judah HaLevi observed in his Kuzari, the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, is intimately concerned about the life of humankind.

When Moses first spoke to Pharaoh, he informed him: “The God of the Hebrews sent me unto you,” i.e., the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. For Abraham was well known to the nations, who also knew that the divine spirit was in contact with the patriarchs, cared for them, and performed miracles for them. Moses never said to Pharaoh, “The God of heaven and earth,” nor did he refer to God as, “Our Creator sent me to you . . .” By the same token, when God gave the Israelites the Decalogue, the words of the Divine oracles began with the words, “I am the God (whom you worship,) Who has taken you out of the land of Egypt . . . ” Note that God did not say, “I am the Creator of the world and your Creator. . . .” This is an appropriate answer to not only you, but also to the people Israel, who have long believed in such a faith based upon their self-authenticated personal experience. Moreover, this belief is something that has been confirmed through an uninterrupted tradition, which is no less significant . . .”

Many of the more theistic-minded Greek philosophers like Plato or Aristotle never had a personal name for the One God, whom they regarded as the Prime Mover of the cosmos. To the Greek imagination, it is inconceivable that God could have any interest in the affairs of mortals, much less have an ethical relationship with humankind.[1]

But for HaLevi, God is more than a Creator; He is also a Liberator who takes interest in the needs of all His Creation. Although Maimonides tried to merge Greek and Judaic thought together much like Philo of Alexandria attempted to do in the 1st century, even Maimonides discovered that such a new symbiosis had its challenges. To his credit, Maimonides’s critique of God‑talk reveals that the mystery of God’s reality transcends all analogies. Furthermore, Maimonides stresses that when we construct a theology about God, we must be careful not to take our metaphors and categories of faith too literally. Maimonides himself did acknowledge the importance of analogical language and its importance as a model for emulating God’s ethical conduct (Imitatio Dei). Contemplation of the Divine can only reveal to us God’s behavior (but not His essence) and relationship to the world. Contemplation alone, however, only produces a flawed understanding of God. To know God is to follow God’s moral ways (Exod. 33:13). Maimonides observes:

We are commanded to follow these intermediate paths—and they are the good and decent paths alluded to in the Torah: “And you shall walk in His ways” (Deut. 28:9): The Sages define this precept in the following manner: Just as He is called “Gracious,” so shall you be gracious. Just as He is “Merciful,” so shall you be merciful. Just as He is called “Holy,” so shall you be holy. In a similar manner, the prophets called God by other titles: “Slow to anger,” “Abundant in kindness,” “Righteous,” “Just,” “Perfect,” “Almighty,” etc. These metaphors serve to inform us that these are good and worthy paths. A person is obligated to accustom himself to these paths and emulate Him to the extent of his ability.[2] Read more…

Rather than focus on the explosive religious issues of the day, I thought I would write about the importance of providing pastoral care. Often times, we hear that providing such care is usually the “job” of the professional clergy. Nothing can be farther from the truth! Mirroring God’s love and compassion is a responsibility we all share. I personally know of a number of clergy and non-clergy who find this particular precept difficult because it often forces us to confront and face our own insecure sense of mortality. However, such a self-awareness is necessary if we are going to make our contribution toward bettering the world we live in. Like Abraham, we must learn to respond to the problem of human suffering with the word: hineni – Here I am. . . . How can I help? God calls upon us all to behave as shepherds toward one another.

According to rabbinic tradition, the entire book of Job is a parable about pastoral care. For many years, I have personally find this insight very illuminating—especially if we interpret the Jobian drama in light of the principles found in Psalm 23.

In terms of providing care that is pastoral, the story about Job’s suffering (or any human being), represents a spiritual challenge to the family, friends, and community. The Bible does not subscribe to a belief in fatalism. The existence of the poor and needy is a spiritual problem for any just community. The way we respond to suffering defines and reveals the depth of our own spirituality and faith. The imagery of Psalm 23 provides a spiritual way good people can respond to the problem of suffering in their communities. Here are several ways how the pastoral imagery of Psalm 23 might serve as a praxis for how helping caregivers can become shepherds to those who are experiencing loss and a sense of abandonment. In the Jobian story, the pastoral imagery of Psalm 23 was absent in the way Job’s caregivers related to him. Read more…

Sometime in the last week of April, 230 cosignatories sent a petition to Yad Vashem, requesting that they give special recognition to two particular families, the Hollebrands and the Egginks, who hid three children from the Sanders family, which had converted to Christianity before World War II.

In this tragic WWII story, the father registered the family as Jewish and sent the children into hiding with the Hollebrands and Egginks. The Gestapo arrested the father in 1943 and tortured him into divulging their whereabouts. In the end, he, his wife and children—Eline, 10, Egbert, 8 and Marie Lena, 6—were murdered that year.

Yad Vashem’s Commission for the Recognition of the Righteous among the Nations decided that the Hollebrands and the Egginks were ineligible for the title since the honor is reserved for non-Jews who risked their lives to save Jews in the Holocaust; since the children were not Jewish, they could not receive the award.

How would Jewish tradition and ethics respond to this kind of case? Was the Yad Vashem acting properly?

When I came across this article, I decided to look up the Shulchan Aruch, which is the authoritative Code of Jewish Law that has governed Jewish life for many centuries. The law is clear: an Israelite who has embraced another religious identity still remains an Israelite; should he get married to a Jewish woman, the act of marriage still remains intact even though he has retracted his Jewish faith. [1] Moreover, this same principle also applies to any person who officially converted to Judaism from another faith, who later relinquishes his Judaic faith-that individual is still considered a Jew [2] — contrary to the views espoused by today’s Haredi rabbinical community in Israel.

Moreover, if that wayward Israelite ritually slaughters an animal and someone attests that his knife was adequately sharpened, the meat from the animal may be eaten [3]. There are literally hundreds of other cases in rabbinic literature that stress this point: Jewish identity does not disappear just because that person rejects his heritage. The door is always open for the possibility that he might repent and return to his ancestral faith.

That being said, in the case of the Sander children, we do not know all the facts regarding this case. It is possible the father had the family converted in order to avoid persecution by the Nazis. Such conversions gave the Jewish person(s) extra protection from the Church, but not always. Conversions under duress are nothing new in Jewish tradition and the Halacha—especially as interpreted by Maimonides—tends to be fairly liberal and compassionate. Indeed, Maimonides ought to have known, because he himself was forcibly converted to Islam in his youth.

In short, the Sander children were truly and halachically תינוק שנשבה בין הנכרים — the tragic victims of circumstances that were beyond their conscious control and as a result certainly need to be viewed with the utmost of compassion. Even though they were converted to Christianity, they still died as Jews. The two families who risked their own lives and the lives of their families deserve recognition.

Read more…