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What’s the word?

By Sarah Rudolph As Parshat Lech Lecha begins, it looks very much, at least on a superficial reading,  like the story of Avraham (then called Avram); his wife Sarah (then Sarai) is simply “taken” (12:5) along for the ride.

Sarah Takes the Stage

Only as they approach Egypt, looking to escape a famine in Canaan, does Sarah become a central character – and even then, she seems remarkably passive:

And Avram went down to Egypt… And when he approached to come to Egypt, he said to Sarai his wife, “Behold, now I have known that you are a beautiful woman. And it will be, when the Egyptians see you…they will kill me and leave you alive [to take you for themselves]. Say, please, you are my sister…” And it was, when Avram came to Egypt and the Egyptians saw…the woman was taken to the house of Pharaoh. (Bereishit 12:10-15)

There are no verbs connected with Sarah in this passage – not even a reaction to Avraham’s plan. She is spoken of and “taken” – and not even “they took her,” but “she was taken,” as if to emphasize passivity and powerlessness. On the other hand, we certainly see later that Sarah knows how to speak up when necessary, as when she suggests that Avraham marry Hagar and when she later insists that Hagar and Yishmael be cast out. And indeed, perhaps even in Egypt, Sarah is more active than she seems.

Here’s the Thing About Words

The Torah tells us that God struck Pharaoh and his household with “great plagues, al dvar Sarai eshet Avram” (12:17). The Hebrew word davar has two common translations: “thing/matter” and “word.” These lead to multiple possible translations of this verse, offering very different portrayals of our damsel in distress – or, should I rather say, our heroine. Biblical translators often assume the first meaning of davar here: “God struck Pharaoh on the matter of Sarai, the wife of Avram.” In other words, something was happening regarding Sarah, and God decided to take action because of it. (Note that the phrase “the wife of Avram” could be understood in a number of ways, offering further nuances that are sadly beyond the scope of this dvar Torah.) If we understand dvar as “word,” however, that would change everything: it would indicate that Sarah spoke words – and not only that she spoke words, but that they were effective. “God struck Pharaoh on the word of Sarai, the wife of Avram”: God did not simply initiate the rescue of a damsel in distress; rather, the heroine of her own story spoke up to save herself. But to whom did she speak up, and how did it help?

Sarah’s Word

Rav Hirsch suggests that Sarai spoke to Pharaoh, admitting that she was Avram’s wife – and by doing so, “forced God’s hand,” as it were, to step in and save her: Pharaoh would no longer try to gain her “brother’s” permission for marriage, and would simply kill Avram and keep her; thus, the danger became immediate and Hashem had to intervene. Alternatively, Midrash Bereishit Rabbah (41:2) suggests two possible non-physical addressees. First – God himself; it was Sarah’s words of prayer (a remarkably bold prayer; see midrashic text) that moved God to step in when He did. And second: “Rabbi Levi said: All that night, an angel stood with a whip in his hand. He would say to her, ‘If you say strike, I will strike…’ And why all this? Because she was saying to him [Pharaoh] ‘I am a married woman!’ and he was not stopping.” It is Rabbi Levi’s interpretation that I find most fascinating. Here, the “word of Sarai” was two-fold: she spoke to Pharaoh and told him the truth (as in Rav Hirsch) – and when he didn’t listen, God sent an angel to make him listen, precisely in accordance with Sarah’s decision and spoken instructions. At the very depth of her powerlessness – God doesn’t just save Sarah, but empowers her to use her voice to save herself.

Broadening the Message

Part of building an active, personal spiritual identity and mission – for both spouses in this partnership –  is developing a balanced relationship between faith in God (bitachon) and personal efforts (hishtadlut). It is not simply about using one’s voice, or about trusting that God will step in, but about finding and using our God-given abilities to the greatest effect.

Light in the Darkness of the Flood By Sarah Rudolph

What are the important features on a survival ark?

At the beginning of this week’s parsha, God informs Noach of His plan to destroy the world because of the chamas (violent robbery, at least according to some explanations) that has filled the world. Noach alone has been selected for survival (along with his wife and children and a careful sampling of the animal kingdom), and God instructs him to build an ark. The instructions for this ark are quite detailed: God tells him what wood to use, how to waterproof it, the specific dimensions, and more. Among these details is the specification that Noach should make a tzohar for the ark (6:16).

What is a tzohar and what was its purpose in the ark?

Many commentaries relate the word to either tzaharayim, meaning afternoon (when the sun is bright; see Sanhedrin 108b) or zahir, meaning shining or radiant – either way, it is understood that the tzohar was some sort of light source. Rashi famously offers two possibilities, from midrash: “some say a window, and some say a precious stone that provided light for them.” Brandon Sanderson fans might wonder if this is an indication that pre-flood earth resembled Roshar, a fantasy world where gemstones provide illumination and in fact are recharged by severe rainstorms; if this midrash wasn’t Sanderson’s inspiration, it certainly could have been. Alternatively, the Ben Ish Chai (in his commentary Ben Yehoyada on Sanhedrin 108b) offers an understanding of how gems could provide illumination that is more in line with what we know of our world: perhaps the gems didn’t actually provide light, but reflected and thus magnified the light provided by candles. Other commentaries seem less sure whether candles were part of the plan; for instance, Gur Aryeh (the Maharal’s commentary on Rashi) notes that the use of candles was up to Noach’s personal discretion, while the tzohar itself was a matter of divine command. But why was the tzohar so important? Was it simply as a practical matter, or did God make it a command for some deeper reason?

The importance of light

According to the Talmud Yerushalmi (Pesachim 1:1), the tzohar wasn’t intended simply to provide illumination, but to somehow indicate when it was daytime and when it was nighttime – which was important for the sake of knowing when to feed various nocturnal and diurnal animals. Interestingly, the Yerushalmi seems to ignore the possibility that keeping track of day and night would be important for the humans; perhaps this is because of a sense that animals, driven by instinct, have a greater need to follow their regular routines, while the humans on board would understand the situation and have a greater ability to adapt without physical distress. The Ben Ish Chai, in his comments on the Bavli, suggests a symbolic purpose to his understanding of the radiance the tzohar provided: he notes that light represents the deeds of the righteous, while darkness represents the deeds of the wicked (seen Bereishit Rabbah 3:8) – and since the ark’s inhabitants (human and otherwise) were all righteous, God wanted abundant light to represent that, both day and night. Returning to the Gur Aryeh, his own explanation for God’s command of the tzohar is that it was part of His overall desire to make the ark emulate the world itself: following his kabbalistic inclinations, he suggests that the three levels of the ark imitated the three “worlds”, and that illuminating gemstones were necessary to take the place of the sun, moon, and stars. Though he doesn’t elaborate on the reason these parallels were important, perhaps we might suggest that God was indeed also looking out for the comfort of the humans on the ark, using the force of a command to design the ark as a microcosm of the world they were accustomed to.

Well, this is weird

By Sarah Rudolph Among the most difficult verses in the Torah’s account of the earliest generations of humanity (which, of course, has no shortage of puzzling verses to puzzle over), Bereishit 6:3 states: “And Hashem said, My spirit will not judge Man forever, in that he is [also?] flesh (b’shagam hu basar), and his days will be 120 years.” What does He mean by “spirit”? What has this spirit been judging, and why will it not continue? Which “forever”; is this a statement about misbehavior of the times that must be stopped, or is God making a statement about the future of humankind? Is the 120-year time limit a matter of how long God will give the current populace to repent before facing a flood of destruction, or is it a proclamation that no human will ever live to test God’s patience longer than 120 years? What does b’shagam even mean, and what does human fleshiness have to do with anything? Et cetera. Multiple commentators frame their thoughts on this verse in the context of its difficulty. Ohr Hachaim, for instance, opens with “This text requires someone to explain [lit. tell] it. Our Sages, of blessed memory, derived many interpretations about it, but the straightforward meaning of the text is not known.” After that lengthy introduction about complexity and difficulty, we have little space left for insights into the meaning of the verse – but as it happens, one might suggest that complexity and difficulty are precisely the point.

Is God indecisive? (I’m not sure)

Rashi explains the first part of the verse, “My spirit will not judge man forever,” as a reflection on what sounds (somewhat shockingly) like indecision on God’s part:  “My Spirit has been contending within Me whether to destroy or to have mercy; this deliberation will not be in My Spirit forever – i.e., for a long time.” As a fairly indecisive individual, I can relate to this portrayal of internal debate, as well as to its potential to continue indefinitely. People struggling with indecision are often reminded that failure to make a decision is itself a decision; if nothing is decided, nothing will be done, thus a decision has been made toward inaction. If God continues to struggle, as it were, over how to respond to the sins of mankind – He will be essentially taking the path of least resistance toward the side of mercy. Better to make that choice actively than leave the decision in limbo forever, when perhaps they really should have been punished. It might seem strange to portray this type of struggle on God’s part (though there is much discussion in midrashic tradition about God’s different attributes pushing toward different actions), but perhaps we can gain insight through a deeper consideration of the verse and, more generally, what it means to make decisions. Based on Seforno’s commentary, I would suggest that the verse alludes not to an internal conflict between different aspects or opinions of God, but an external conflict between different facts about humanity. On one hand, humans were created in the image of God; they have incredible potential and capabilities, and should be held strictly accountable for misbehavior. On the other hand, “for he is also flesh” (see Rashi for an explanation of the word b’shagam): humans are not only like the divine, but are also drawn by their physicality to sin, and therefore it is appropriate to extend mercy to them for failures to rise above that challenge.

Mutually exclusive truths?

How is it possible for there to be a conflict within God about any decision? Because there is a conflict within the reality about which He must decide. Because the world, and the humans, that He created are legitimately complex. It is true that they deserve punishment, and it is also true that they deserve mercy. How is a God of truth to decide between two things that are true? As a fairly indecisive individual, I can relate. People who struggle with indecision do so because they see the truth of both sides; because things are complicated. And so what is God, or a simple human, to do? Perhaps the only thing we can do is look for a balance, some way to meet both truths: “His days will be 120 years,” a deservedly merciful opportunity to improve and meet some divine potential, and after that – justice. And we can take comfort in the idea that we’re not alone, that even God faces tough decisions sometimes. Because truth is complex, and the struggle is real.