This week, it began again: the old story, the ever-renewing story, the story of beginnings, one of the most significant pieces of imaginative literature in human history. Jews throughout the world began to read the Torah, the so-called Five Books of Moses, from the beginning of the book of Genesis. There are pieces of religious literature that are older – Indian Sanskrit texts for example – but the chapters of the Torah that we read at the beginning of our annual cycle are woven deep into Western culture, secular and religious. The faith traditions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all use the images and motifs of these stories in Genesis to create structures of meaning for believers to live within.
These narratives
offer myths to live by, stories which structure our lives – even the most
devoutly secular believe in, live inside, a seven day week, for example. Even the most ardent atheist telling a story
to their children will begin ‘Once upon a time…’ This is what the Book of
Genesis does when it starts ‘In the
beginning…’ The Biblical world view can
still structure our thinking without us even being aware of it. The repetition
of the same texts allows us to live within cyclical time while the content of
Genesis and what follows tells us we live within chronological time, where
events unfold with a linear, forward momentum.
The
storytellers of the Hebrew Bible were poets, literary artists, mythographers,
weavers of words aspiring to craft a narrative in which the Israelite community
could find where they belonged and why they existed and what their purpose was
within the community of nations. To get their national story going they started
in pre-history, with universal questions about origins, and found a narrative
mode, a mythic language of symbols and images and characters, that offered meaning
but also waited to be interpreted.
The need for
interpretation was a necessity once they committed themselves to choosing words
to build sentences. Every writer knows this. That whatever words they choose people
will impose their own understanding onto them. Writers can’t control what
readers will do with their words – for good or ill. (I will come back to this
later).
In the first
chapter of Genesis those ancient storytellers conceived of a Conceiver – they
gave birth to the idea of a divine energy that gave birth to the world and
everything in it, a creative force bringing into being the heavens and the
earth and all of the life that it contains, including us. And they conceived of
this Conceiver in their own image, as a creative force that used language,
words, to bring things into being: “And God said ‘Let there be light’ –
and there was light” (Genesis 1: 3). Within their mythic thinking, God speaks
the universe into being.
They, the
storytellers of the Hebrew Bible, only had language, words, to create something
out of nothing – to create a masterpiece of narrative that would last forever –
and in that act of radical imaginative daring they fashioned a God who also spoke
– spoke the world into being, stage by stage, “and God said…And God said…And
God said…” culminating in humanity, us, who – in a deft twist of poetic paradox
– they described as being “created in the image of God” (Genesis1:27).
‘Humanity
created in the image of God’ is a piece of thinking foundational to the Torah -
although we might now feel the freedom to say that it works the other way round
too: that we created God in our own image. The Torah is full of that: a God of
compassion, kindness, mercy, but also anger, jealousy, destructiveness. The
storytellers’ multidimensional image of
the divine, of God, was a mirror of who they were.
So: those inspired
weavers of words, creating language worlds for people to live in, projected
that language-generating gift onto the
God of Genesis. It is an inspired piece
of collective storytelling, a piece of literature in which every word counts,
every word is part of an elaborate structure and pattern – words appear three
times, seven times – it is all woven into a magnificent tapestry in which the
final act of creation is human beings. The narrators’ artistry created a
sublime portrait of divine artistry. All of nature matters: sun, moon and
stars, land and seas, plants and animals, birds and fish – and humanity, with
its special role, the responsibility of stewardship.
So in six bejewelled
paragraphs the architecture of creation is laid out, stage by majestic stage, but
the forward momentum of the narrative contains as its destination something
beyond humanity. In the seventh paragraph, something radically different is
described – not activity but rest. A time for the breath of all life to breathe
out.
And this rest,
this act of ‘shabbat’, is not just blessed like other aspects of
creation but something else is added: this rest, the capacity to rest, is made
sacred, kadosh, holy : the word appears here for the first time in the
Torah (Genesis 2:3). We often talk about life being sacred, but this opening
narrative doesn’t actually say that – what is says is that the ability to stop
activity, the necessity to stop speaking worlds into being, the capacity for
silence – this is sacred. Within the creation myth, it is stopping that is
sacred. In other parts of the Torah it is activity that is sacred, but the
story begins quite differently: the sacred is what happens after all the
activity has stopped.
And then the
whole story of creation is given to us from another perspective, juxtaposed
with the first, like a Cubist portrait. Genesis 2:4 tells us “This is the tale
of the heavens and the earth when they were created…” ele toldot hashamayim ve’ha’aretz b’hibaram… And we get the whole story told
from underneath as it were. The first seven paragraphs were seamless: each
sentence is constructed in a continuous flow from the last, with the letter vav
(‘v’) joining them up – the letter means ‘and’ - so it reads ‘and this, and
then this, and then this’ .
But that unstoppable
stream of narrative stops in verse 4 of Chapter 2, and the eighth paragraph of
the Torah is a new beginning: ele toldot hashamayim ve’ha’aretz b’hibaram
– “This is the story of the heavens and the earth when they were created” – and
yes, we hear the echo of the first line of the Torah (the words ‘heavens,
earth, created’ are repeated from Genesis 1:1) but in a different order; as if
the storytellers are saying, okay we are going to tell you about this another
way round now, not in terms of grand divine choreography but as a story told
from a human perspective.
And the key
word from the human perspective is that word ‘toldot’ – which means
literally, ‘generations, begettings, acts of giving birth’, and this word ‘toldot’
takes on the meaning of ‘story’ and ‘history’.
One generation’s narrative merges into the stories of the next generation and
it adds up over the generations to become history.
So in this second
telling of beginnings we find many images of fertility: a lush garden, four
rivers, two mysterious trees offering knowledge and life, the imagery is
grounded in water and the earth; and then, from the earth, an ‘earthling’ is
formed – the play on words is in the Hebrew (adama, adam) – and the only
characteristic of this creature that the storytellers choose to describe is its
capacity for language: it names the creatures around it – this is the divine
gift bestowed on humanity, the ability to find the words that matter.
Our Torah
storytellers were besotted with language, obsessed with language, both what it
could do and the relationships it can build - but also the trouble it can cause
when it fails, or fails to be honest and becomes manipulative. In the Garden of
Eden everyone is suddenly talking, Adam, Eve, God, even the snake and its
slippery dialogue with Eve. Dialogue becomes a generator of the story, but the
absence of dialogue is also generative: Cain’s absence of words to describe his
anger leads to the murder of his brother (4:8) – the text says that he speaks,
but there is then a hiatus, a gap, and instead of words there is the murderous
act.
You see in
these early chapters of Genesis the storytellers wrestling with the power of
words: too many words, the wrong words, the wrong kind of conversations, lead
to the Tower of Babel. ‘This is what happens when everyone speaks the same
language’ the narrators have their God say, ‘they think they can do anything’
(Genesis 11:6). The narrators are sensing here the shadow side of language -
the way it can easily create a false consensus, a belief that whatever one says
must be right because everyone else is saying it.
At Babel you
see the storytellers describing the problematic nature of believing there is
only one way of talking, one way of thinking, one way of using words; they show
the hubris of that. So languages – plural - enter the Torah’s story. And once
there exists this confusion of tongues, words needed to be translated,
interpreted, and there’s not only one way to describe reality. And not only one
way to reach heaven.
This is how the
Hebrew storytellers generated the tradition Jews belong to – one where words
don’t only have one meaning, where words are plastic and stretch in multiple
directions, where you the reader have to do some of the work, maybe a lot of
the work, to wrestle meaning out of the texts, recognising that there is no
single interpretation, no final interpretation to any Biblical text, or
midrashic text, or Talmudic text. Actually, to any literary text.
The process
of commentary and interpretation is the lifeblood of the people, this tradition
has kept the Jewish people alive for millennia, because we have not reduced
texts to single meanings, we have refused to read literally, or hardly ever literally,
but we have also learned to read metaphorically, and homiletically, and
symbolically, and in multiple other ways of responding with our creativity and
imagination to the texts we are presented with. The greatness of Judaic culture
is that it has taught the virtues of ‘on the one hand’ and ‘on the other hand’
– interpretation is polymorphous and endless; an antidote to the totalitarianism
of certainty. It enlarges and enriches
us, it broadens our horizons, it lets in more life, more light. Only dictators,
fascists and authoritarians believe there is only one truth.
I feel
humbled to belong to a tradition that has this relationship with words: what they can do (when used carefully), what
they can suggest, what they can create, how they can inspire - and how they can
manipulate; how they can move the heart and how they can chill the heart. I
enjoy trying to build words into sentences that help us think more deeply into
subjects: they might challenge, entertain, stimulate, but they are always
fuelled by a sense that I derive from Torah and Jewish tradition that language
is a divine creation (so to speak) that we can borrow and play with and, on a
good day, mould into something new. And the aim is always to enrich our
experience, to give us more room to breathe in, to think with.
In the end
though I know that whatever I say, everyone will hear it slightly differently,
or will interpret it somewhat differently. Each of us listens through the prism
of their own thoughts, beliefs, ideas, prejudices – we all do this all the time,
even when we talk to each other (maybe especially when we talk to one another).
And if you read something I have
written you will – I hope - have your own thoughts about it, you will project
your own meanings onto it, your own associations to the words I use, sometimes
you will hear it through your own preconceptions. Listening and reading is
deeply subjective – ‘I thought he said this’, ’I thought he meant that’. I am
not in control, ever, of how my words are heard, or read. And that is how it
should be. Interpretation is always subjective and personal and usually that is fine but sometimes, of
course, it can be problematic.
I want to
share with you something that happened after Yom Kippur this year because it
both illustrates what I am talking about and is, I hope, instructive. I gave a
sermon on Yom Kippur – it was a long day, we had the time – in which I spoke
about a film I had found both thought-provoking and inspirational, Jonathan
Glazer’s multiple Oscar-winning ‘The Zone of Interest’. And I used it in part
to make certain points about our human capacity for denial and not wanting to
see what is painful. This is a human, universal, psychological process, and we
all do it. I made that clear – or thought I had made it clear. But someone who
read my text online afterwards was deeply upset (and angry) about it. They felt
it was ‘laced with the language of hate’, that it was ‘antisemitic’, that it ‘elevate[d]
anti-Zionism to a moral imperative’, that it ‘posit[ed] that Jews have an
inherent badness that must be purged’.
As someone
who has spent a good part of his professional life speaking about, and working
on, the benign, creative and life-affirming dimensions of Judaic culture - which
has included speaking about the ways in which our vision can go into eclipse - this
came as rather a surprise.
People who
spoke to me afterwards – and people who read it afterwards - were rather grateful
about how I’d opened up the themes I was exploring. But – self-evidently – not everyone
felt that way. I don’t mind dissent, I belong to an argumentative tradition and
people, and I am not in the business of putting thoughts into words with the
expectation that everyone will agree with – or, God-forbid, submit to - my way
of thinking.
But what I am
learning is just how differently different folk can read texts. As they saw it,
they reckoned that this Yom Kippur the ‘threat’ to Jews – their language - was
coming not from outside the community but ‘from inside’. (The idea that the Jew
is ‘the enemy within’ is of course an antisemitic trope – it began in the early
Middle Ages - but I will let that pass. That’s just how their words struck me, my
subjective association to the language they used to describe me).
So it is all
about interpretation. Sermons and blogs are just another text. One person’s
inspiration can be another person’s horror show. On the whole – there are
exceptions - when I read the narratives of Torah I can feel inspired, enlivened,
challenged, stimulated: they can fertilise my thinking and my imagination. When
Richard Dawkins reads those same texts he is appalled, dismissive, scornful,
sickened to the heart. We all read texts through the prism of our own story,
our own personal ‘toldot’, history.
This
experience has been sobering. As Jews begin a new cycle of Torah readings this
year, I am hoping for an uplifting, inspiring, illuminating journey through the
texts of my tradition, a journey which can help us glimpse new dimensions to
the texts we’ve inherited and how they inform the texts of our own lives. I am going to try not to let the prism through
which I see this heritage become a prison: I don’t want to feel trapped into only
seeing what I have already seen before. “Let there be light” spoke new hope
into the darkness; who would want the darkness to stifle new ways of seeing?
[loosely
based on thoughts shared at Finchley Reform Synagogue, October 26th, 2024]