Not in Heaven

Dear Brandeis community,

 

Like many of you, I imagine, I have not spent a great deal of my life studying Torah. There was a long stretch, in fact, between my involvement in post–bar mitzvah education as part of Midrasha and my first adult engagement with the weekly Torah portion as part of a poetry project I undertook in my late 20s. It has been one of the pleasures of being part of the Brandeis community, then, that it offers many opportunities to engage with Torah and the interpretive tradition in Jewish practice of reading, thinking, and discussing. Our board meetings, and many of our board committee meetings, begin with a d’var Torah, a brief drash (interpretation) on the weekly portion. It’s always fascinating to ask the question of how the stories, the laws, and the ethical quandaries presented resonate with the moments we are living. This week, I had the good fortune of being asked to share a “speed d’var” at two different committee meetings, and so I thought I would share with all of you what I’ve studied, thought about, and discovered.

 

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This week’s parshah (portion) is Nitzavim-Vayelech—the end of Moses’s parting words to the Israelites before they enter the promised land. It contains many famous dictums (“...life and death I have set before you, the blessing and the curse,” Deut. 30:19) and some core principles about Jewish practice. In this speed d’var I want to focus on the power of free will and the interpretive tradition. In Nitzavim, Moses presents the idea that the mitzvot or commandments are “not hidden,” or “far off,” that they are “not in heaven,” or “beyond the sea,” but rather “very near” to us,” in our mouths and in our hearts.

 

In the Talmud, there is a story that Rabbi Eliezer was in disagreement with some other rabbis about some kind of oven, and he went to very dramatic lengths to prove that he was right. He said, If I’m right, that tree there will be uprooted, or the water in that aqueduct will flow backwards, or the walls of the beit midrash will fall. In each case these things happened, but the other rabbis responded, Eh, one cannot prove anything from an aqueduct, or a tree—what right do walls have to intervene in arguments over Torah? So, Eliezer says, “If the law is as I say, may it be proven from heaven!” and a heavenly voice proclaims, “The law is as he says.” But Rabbi Joshua, one of the other rabbis, says, “The Torah is not in heaven—we take no notice of heavenly voices.” At which, according to the Talmud, God smiled and said, “My children have triumphed over me.”

 

I think this story is pretty incredible. The Talmud was written in the fifth and sixth centuries C.E.—to think that Jewish leaders were privileging direct interpretation over heavenly voices 1500 years ago is astonishing. It speaks to the depth of our tradition of wrestling with ideas, and with notions of God. And it speaks as well to the work we are doing here at Brandeis to empower children to construct meaning for themselves—because the power of this tradition is not in heaven, but in their mouths and hearts.

 

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Wishing you all weekends full of making meaning, my friends.

 

Warmly,

 

Dan