Noah (Midrash)

Afterthoughts on Bereshit

A few more comments on the androgynous vs. “du-partzufin” or Siamese-twin model, for the gender nature of the first human being. (This midrash, incidentally, echoes legends and motifs known from classical Greece and other ancient cultures.) Discussing this at our table on Shabbat Bereshit, one of our guests, Elana Friedman, suggested that this be read less as a model for the actual origin of the two sexes, than as a metaphor for process of inner integration of the individual person. Each person contains divergent elements within him/herself, which may be read as masculine and feminine: receptive vs. assertive; nurturing vs. conquering; intuitive vs. logical. And, I would add, the two “Adams” typified in Rav Soloveitchik’s great essay, “The Lonely Man of Faith” which is an extended midrash on the first two chapters of Genesis, can be read in this fashion: Adam the First, “Majestic Man,” is closer to the stereotypically masculine, while Adam the Second, “Existential Man,” may be read as more feminine.

In any event, the androgynous model may be read as a model for acceptance and integration of the diverse inner selves, whereas the Janus-faced model, in which the two are severed apart, symbolizes a more conflict-ridden model, in which the two aspects are split apart, at war with one another.

She also cited an interesting idea from Tikkunei Zohar, that Kabbalistic midrash in which the opening word of the Torah, Bereshit, is presented, quite literally, in seventy faces—seventy permutations of its letters. Two of these are related: ta’av shir, “He desired song” and ta’av yashar, “He desired straightness.” The two may be read as different ways of relating to God: the poetic, lyrical mode of song; and the ethical, even strict and puritanical one, of “straightness,” honesty, uprightness. Or: it may be read in relation to time: linear vs. the cyclical understanding of song (all musical themes ultimately return to their beginning), and the linear understanding, in which time is as straight as a ruler. The moon and the sun; woman and man.

Of course, the midrash may be understood on the literal level as well, as relating to the relation of the sexes. We would then have optimistic vs. pessimistic views of marriage: marriage as an integration of the two partners, in which real partnership is possible; or marriage as an eternal power struggle, a “War of the Sexes,” in which there is at best an uneasy truce, the two partners alternatively rent asunder and seeking each other for a momentary unifying embrace. Or, as another Hazal has it, based on a clever letter-play: “Man and woman (ish / isha): If there is peace between them, the Divine presence (Yah) dwells between them; if not, fire (eish) consumes them.”

On the Evil Urge

The generation on whose account God found it necessary to send the great Flood is commonly seen as the very epitome of wickedness and evil, prompting dour reflections on the nature of the human propensity to evil, as shown in the following passage from Genesis Rabbah 34.10:

“For the impulse of man’s heart is evil.” [Gen 8:21]. Rabbi Hiyya said: Miserable is the dough, whose baker testifies that it is bad. “For the impulse of man’s heart is evil from his youth.” Abba Yossi the Torti said: Miserable is the leaven, of whom he that fermented it testifies that it is bad, as is said, “For He knows our impulse, He remembers that we are dust” [Ps 103:14]. The Rabbis said: Miserable is the sapling, that he who planted it testifies that it is bad. As is said, “And the Lord of Hosts who planted you, has spoken evil against [or: of] you” [Jer 11:17].

The midrashic author was struck by the fact that the Torah shows God as openly acknowledging the evil of man’s urge from earliest life, since it is the nature of every artist or creator to admire his own handiwork, and to be reluctant to admit its faults. Surely, if God announces that man’s impulse is evil, things must be very bad indeed! This theme is developed in three separate images: flour, leavening or yeast, and a sapling.

Antoninus asked Our Rabbi [i.e., Rabbi Judah the Prince]: “From when is the Evil Urge planted within man? After he leaves his mother’s womb or before he leaves his mother’s womb?” He answered him: “Before he leaves his mother’s womb.” To which he replied: “No! For were it placed within him while he is yet in his mother’s womb, he would poke and dig at her innards and escape.” And Our Rabbi agreed with him, for his view concurred with that of Scripture, as is said: “for the impulse of man’s heart is evil from his youth.”

R. Yudan said: it is written “from his shaking” [a fanciful word-play deriving ne’urav from the root n’ar; the same letters as the word for youth, na’ar, or the abstract noun ne’urav]: from the moment that he shakes himself to leave his mothers womb.

The image of the unborn fetus, clawing its way furiously out of the womb upon recognizing the depravation of the Evil Urge, is astounding! But beyond that, the problem at hand here is a major theological issue, closely related to the issue of “Original Sin” in Christianity: namely, how deeply is the impulse toward evil innate to the human makeup. Liberal Jewish apologetics has constantly hammered at the difference between Judaism and Christianity regarding this point. So why does our midrash emphasize this and why, especially, does it bring the introduction of the Yetzer Hara forward to the moment of birth, or possibly intra utero—against what seems to be the simple meaning of our verse? Evidently, because they were convinced of the stubbornness of the human predisposition toward wrongdoing.

What then, is nevertheless the difference? In classical Pauline Christianity, Original Sin is the major defining factor in human nature; hence there is need for an outside force to redeem man, from which follows the whole drama of the Incarnation, the Crucifixion, and the vicarious atonement brought in its wake. Here, evil is one of two factors warring within the human breast; there is also an impulse toward the good, albeit it is not mentioned here, precisely because it is so much less problematic; it is, after all, the source of the good, of all that is “sweetness and light” in human life. In any event, for Hazal all of life might be defined as milhemet hayetzer—a struggle to determine which of man’s impulses shall gain the upper hand.

The frame story, of the conversation between Antoninus and Rabbi Judah the Prince, is interesting. Some of the most interesting questions in Rabbinic literature involve dialogues between the Sages and various non-Jewish interlocutors. These two, specifically, are portrayed as two of the wealthiest and most learned men of their day, and as occasional intellectual sparring partners. Scholars identify Antoninus with one of the emperors of the Severius dynasty, that followed that of Flavius, or possibly with Marcus Aurelius. (Or again, he may be a fictional character.)

Antoninus asked further of Our Rabbi: “When does the soul enter man? Once he has left his mother’s womb or before he leaves the womb?” He replied to him: “Once he left the womb.” To which he replied in turn: “No! This may be compared to one who leaves meat for three days without salt, when it turns rancid. [Incidentally, this presumption is the source of the well-known halakha that unsalted meat must be hosed with water every three days to qualify for subsequent kashering; this rule is at the crux of the contemporary halakhic controversy as to whether or not one may deep freeze unkashered meat.] And Rabbi agreed with him, for his view concurred with that of Scripture, as is said: “You have granted me life and steadfast love; and your care has preserved my spirit” [Job 10:12]. From whence did You give me my soul? From the moment you watched over me.

This debate concerning what the Medievals called “ensoulment” involves an important theological principle: namely, to what extent is human existence possible without the spark of the Divine inherent within the physical body. Once again, Antoninus carries the day; Our Rabbi is forced to affirm the indispensable nature of the soul, hence its presence even before birth.

The Tower of Babylon

As many comparisons have been made since September 11 [Note: this piece was wrtten in October 2001] between the Twin Towers in New York City and the Tower of Babylon, it seems particularly timely to bring one of the lengthier midrashim on this subject. Genesis Rabbah 38.6:

“Now all the land was one language and but a few words.” R. Eleazar and Rabbi Yohanan: R. Eleazar said: devarim ahadim—hidden things [from the Aramaic; see Onkelos to Gen 19:10]. The incident of the Generation of the Flood was explicated, the incident of the Generation of the Split was not explicated.

This midrash, like the previous one, has no petihta, but goes directly into exposition of the Torah verse at hand. In this, it fulfills one of the most basic functions of the midrash; to interpret and explain that which is left vague and ambiguous in the peshat of the biblical text. The exegetical problem here was a simple one: what was the sin of the makers of the Tower of Babylon, anyway? The Torah text does not state any explicit reason for their being punished, so the midrash needs to elaborate them.

R. Yohanan says: devarim ahadim [things having to with “one”]: that they uttered sharp things against “the Lord our God the Lord is one” [Deut 6:4] and against “Abraham was one” [Ezek 33:24]. They said: Abraham is a sterile mule who cannot procreate.

The exegesis here is again based on word play: breaking the word ahadim down into two components parts: “a,” the initial letter aleph, which signifies “one”; and hadim—sharp. What is interesting here is that the singularity and uniqueness of God and that of his prophet/ friend/ missionizer, Abraham, are mentioned here in the same breath. The idea is that insulting Abraham, the founder of the faith, is tantamount to attacking God. Moreover, the accusation leveled against him is on the lowest, coarsest possible level: not an intellectual refutation of his ideas, of his monotheistic faith, of his practice of universal kindness-- but rather an assault upon his virility, his masculinity, perhaps questioning his paternity of Isaac.

And concerning God they said: Did He not decide by Himself to take for Himself the upper worlds, and to give us the lower ones? Let us go and make a tower, and place an idol at its top, and place a sword in its hand so that it will seem as if he is making war with him!

The impulse here was Promethean: a show of rebellion against God; a sin of hubris, of breaking boundaries, of storming heaven, combined with pagan symbolism. Another thing. “And singular things”—unified things. That which is on the hand of one, was is in the hand of the other; and that which was in the hand of the other, was in the hand of the first one.

There was a kind of primitive socialism, which the midrashic author seems to have disliked. But note the following comparisons between the generation of the Flood and that of the Tower (known as dor haflagah; the generation of the “Split”):

The Rabbis said; “and one language.” This may be compare to one who had a cellar full of wine: he opened the first vat, and found it fermented; he opened the second vat, and found it ferment; opened the third, and found it fermented. It stands to reason that they are all bad.

R. Eleazar said: Which is worse: one who says to the king, either you or I will [sit] in the palace? Or the one who says: I shall be in the palace, and not you? Certainly the latter one is worse, who says: I shall in the palace, and not you! Thus, the generation of the flood said: “Who is the Almighty that we should serve him? And what does it profit if we pray to him?” [Job 21:15]. The generation of the Split said: Did He not decide by Himself to take for Himself the upper worlds, and to give us the lower ones? Let us go and make a tower, and place an idol at its top, and place a sword in its hand so that it will seem as if he is making war with him! Hence, the generation of the Flood did not leave any remnant, while those of the generation of the Split left a remnant!

Because the generation of the Flood were steeped in theft, as is said: “Men remove landmarks; they seize flocks and pasture them” [Job 24:2], therefore no remnant was left of them. But the latter [i.e., the generation of the Split], because they loved one another, as is said, ”Now all the world was one language,” a remnant of them was left.

In the first section, the midrash draws a comparison between the Flood and the Tower generation assuming that both were guilt of idolatry, of rebellion against God, but that the former was more extreme. It then turns to the social level: theft and social disorder are worse than idolatry; social cohesion and brotherhood can cover for many sins.

Rabbi [Judah the Prince] said: Great is peace, for even if Israel worships idols but there is peace among them, the Omnipresent says, so to speak, I cannot dominate [i.e., punish] them, because there is peace among them, as is said “Ephraim is joined to idols; let him alone” [Hosea 4:17]. But once they are divided, what does he say: “Their heart is false; now they must bear their guilt” [Hos 10:2]. From this you learn that great is peace, and hateful is controversy. Hence, “and hidden things” [returning to the original reading of this phrase]. The incident of the Flood is explained, and that of the Split is not.

Was our author speaking here out of the bitter experience of the generation after the Destruction of the Temple? It is well-known that Hazal, after attributing the destruction of the First Temple to the worst possible sins—bloodshed, sexual licentiousness, and idolatry—added that in the Second Temple, they were “righteous” (pious?), but there was causeless hatred and dissent among them.

In recent years, there has been much talk in Israeli society about the need for “unity.” The problem is, of course, what exactly is meant by these proponents of “unity”‘? Too often, there is a suspicion that the unity suggested is either artificial window- dressing, or else one side foregoing their ideals and view-points on the burning issues of the day. The only unity that can bring true peace is based upon genuine acceptance of the other in all his otherness, despite the differences. This week provided an instructive lesson in this regard, in the aftermath of the assassination of Minister Rehav’am Ze’evi (Gandhi), generally considered the most extreme right-wing politician in Israel—but also a member of the Palmah generation, and among the builders of Israel’s army in its early years. There was a long line of public figures interviewed on TV who said something like: we were ideological opponents, but there was real friendship and respect between us on the human level (thus Yossi Sarid and others). Admittedly, there is a certain element of artifice and “bon ton” in these posthumous reminiscences; nevertheless, there was also a certain genuine sense, for at least a day or two around the funeral, of the familial feeling that supposedly prevailed in the early years of the State, that somehow atones for the sharp differences of opinion in the present situation.

Finally, the concluding section of the Midrash portrays them providing a clever, practical rationalization for their action:

Another thing: “and few things.” That they said sharp things. They said, every 1656 years the sky falls. Let us make it supports: one in the north, one in the south, one in the west, and the one here will support it from the East. Of this is it written: “and the whole earth was one language and sharp things.”