August 15th: Eikev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
There are two opinions regarding ancient memory and the way that traditions were passed down from one generation to another. One opinion says that the ancients were very exacting in their memorized teachings, with each teller repeating what he/she received without any deviations or editorial comments. The other opinion doubts this and questions how literal the ancients were in their stories and transmissions.
Feeding these doubts is the fact that almost all ancient texts have different versions—with differences in names, in numbers, in terminology, and in other details in “copies” of the same text. This is true for The Iliad and The Odessey, and this is true for the books of the Bible, the Talmud, and the New Testament. Are these variances the result of scribal or oral errors—like the game of “Telephone,” where a message passed around the room changes? Or could the notion of an original and authoritative version be a false assumption—a misunderstanding of the thinking the ancients brought to Tradition and how it is to be transmitted?
First, let us consider the notion of accurate and complete reporting. When an event or conversation takes place, reporters inevitably choose which details to include, and which details are unnecessary or extraneous. We do not know, for example, what color socks Abraham Lincoln wore when he visited Gettysburg. Nor do we know what kind of sandals Moses took off when he beheld the burning bush. We do not know, and, according to those who reported the events, such details are unnecessary. Already and inevitably, there is a certain degree of editorial discretion. The idea of a total rendition of an event or a conversation is unrealistic.
Second, there is the fact that reporters, composers, or writers often tell their stories differently as time goes on. It is not uncommon to find variant manuscripts of famous compositions or literary works—all in the hand of the originator. Sometimes Bach played his Minuet in A Minor one way, another times (and in other manuscripts), he added ornamentation or changed notes. The same can be said for Liszt who apparently performed his Hungarian Rhapsody #2 differently every time he did a concert. Add to this the proclivity of artists—like Vladimir Horowitz—who have their own preferences and feel empowered to “adjust” the arrangements of the famous pieces they perform. (For fun, check out the various versions of the Liszt classic on YouTube. There is a lot of variety, and the notion of a “real” version becomes elusive.)
My lesson in this compositional flexibility came several years ago when I attempted to learn a hauntingly beautiful Avinu Malkaynu I had heard on a CD of traditional Spanish Jewish Music. When I could not locate sheet music, I consulted two well-known musicologists of Jewish Music. Both were kind, but both dismissed my search. The Tradition, they explained, was that every chazan between Constantinople and Casablanca had his own version of the piece, and that the most “traditional” thing I could do was to listen to the recording and then sing my own version. (This is the setting with which we open our High Holy Day prayers.)
In other words, the notion of an authoritative version of almost any text turns out to be a conceit. Actual history shows multiple versions of pretty much every text, and this is significantly true for our sacred literature (Bible, Talmud, Midrash) as well.
One variant shows up in this week’s Torah portion, in Moses’ recounting of Israel’s history. In Deuteronomy 10, he talks about the second set of the Ten Commandments—the set that replaces the first set that he destroys in front of the Golden Calf. In the Exodus 34 version of the story (the “original?”), we read God’s instructions: “Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and I will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first set that you shattered.” There is no mention of an Ark to hold the tablets—presumably because the elaborate gold-covered Ark of the Covenant is being prepared by Bezalel and other artisans.
However, when Moses retells the story in Deuteronomy 10, there is a change: “The Lord said to me, ‘Carve out two tablets of stone like the first, and come up to Me on the mountain, and make an ark of wood.’” Moses does so and goes up the mountain. After God carves the second set with the same words as the first set, Moses remembers, “I went down from the mountain, and I deposited the tablets in the ark that I had made—where they still are, as the Lord commanded me.” (Deuteronomy 10.1-5) Still there? What about the elaborate Ark of the Covenant—which the Torah describes in great detail, and which presumably holds the tablets?
The Bible has dozens of such inconsistencies—what Rashi calls koshis, and what we do with them is fascinating. The Sages use them to create Midrash, stories that comment on all sorts of peripherally/tangentially related subjects. Skeptics and heretics see them as proof that the Bible is untrue. Modern Biblical scholars use such inconsistencies to prove that the Torah is not a single work written by a single Writer/writer at a single time—that it is a composite text, woven together from several ancient scrolls.
However, another way of looking at the inconsistencies is to reconfigure the way we understand the ancient practice of telling stories. Are the details important in and of themselves, or are they just settings for larger lessons? As I understand it, many of our ancient stories may be similar to the way modern jokes are created and transmitted. I am talking about those in which three people encounter a situation and respond in different ways. The first two always have conventional responses, but it is the third one who provides the amusement/the punch line. The identities of the first two are arbitrary—an Irishman, and Italian, a Cajun, etc. The key is the identity of the third person, whose amusing response somehow springs from his/her ethnic or professional identity. In such stories, the first two are merely set-ups for the third person, and their identifications can be changed without materially affecting the point of punch-line. The point is the punch line, not the details of the set-up.
So, when we see two different Creation Stories in Genesis, or three versions of the Noah and the Ark story, focusing on the differences/discrepances may be beside the point—may be looking inappropriately at stories unconcerned about historicity. The point of the stories are theological and ethical lessons—how admirable people encounter the challenges of life and figure out their best responses. Wisdom is the goal, not a recitation of the details. In other words, inerrancy and literalism should be off the table in considering ancient texts, and we should look at texts like Deuteronomy not as false (or true) narratives but as literary meditations on our relationship possibilities with God and our fellow humans.