Monday morning when I got into my car and headed to minyan, I noticed that a small warning light was blinking on my dashboard. I had seen that light a few months before during the winter, and recognized it as the “Low Tire Pressure” signal. When I first saw that light go on a few months ago, I quickly put some air into the tires, was pleased at the disappearance of the light, and then puzzled when I discovered that the light went back on a couple of days later. I sensed a pattern developing. The light goes on, I fill the tire with air, the light goes off, and a few days later it goes back on again. So I took it into Benny’s on North Main St. Turns out, I had run over a screw and my tire was slowly leaking air. No worries, a plug and fifteen dollars later, good as new.
That is, until Monday morning. So after I got back from minyan I decided to call the dealership and see if they had some time in the afternoon to take a look at the car, and besides we were in need of an oil change anyway. The appointment was scheduled for 2 p.m., and knowing it can take a while, I brought my book along. Three hours later, I was nearly two-hundred pages deeper into my book, and still no car. Finally, a woman came out to tell me that the tire had to be replaced and I could go home shortly only having lost two hundred dollars and three hours of my life.
I know it might be hard to picture, but your rabbi was not in his best mood of all time. I was boiling with anger and frustration.
I barely had time to get back to Providence before needing to be at shul for Mincha and Ma’ariv. I davened, I had a thought, and my anger disappeared. I haven’t lost a moment of my life to anger or frustration since. What was the thought? Well, I’ll tell you, but first a little Torah.
Just moments ago, we read from the Torah the miraculous account of the Splitting of the Red Sea and the subsequent praiseful poem which follows in the text. This ancient poem, Chapter 15 of the Book of Exodus, is known as Shirat HaYam, the Song at the Sea and is well known to many of us from our yearly Torah reading cycle and our daily morning liturgy. Its famous opening line serves as both an attribution and a title to the famous song. It reads as follows:
אָז יָֽשִׁיר מֹשֶׁה וּבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת הַשִּׁירָה הַזֹּאת לַֽיהֹוָה וַיֹּֽאמְרוּ לֵאמֹר
The New Translation of the Jewish Publication Society translates the beginning of this verse:
“Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song to the Lord. Saying:”
But like with most things that deal with translation, it may not be so simpleas it seems. You see, a lot depends on how you translate that word “Az.” A quick glance at a Biblical dictionary reveals that “Az” can be translated as ‘when, then, at that time, in that case, therefore or thereupon.” In other words, it can either be translated as expressing some logical sequence as in the sentence: “‘x’ happened, so “Az”, ‘y’ occurred.” Or it can be translated strictly temporally, a word denoting the passing of time, as in the sentence ‘So there I was walking down the street and “Az”, a piano fell on my head.” So how can we be certain which meaning is intended here in our Torah: is it a ‘therefore’, or a ‘then’?
So we glance at the Traditional commentators for some help on this matter and we see that Rashi, Rabbi Shlomo ben Yitzhak of Eleventh Century France, clearly understands the word “Az” as denoting some logical sequence of events, a cause and then an effect. He comments:
“Az, k’sh’ra’ah et ha nes, alah b’libo sh’yashir shira,”
“When he (Moses) saw the great miracle that occurred, it arose in his mind to sing a song to God.”
After all, the verses preceding the poem in the Torah describe in detail how Moses held his arm out over the sea, the Lord turned the sea into dry ground, allowing for the Israelites’ safe passage. If you were there and saw a giant miracle like that in person, and witnessed God’s awesome, supernatural might, you might be moved to sing a song of praise as well! God performs a mighty miracle, “Az Yashir Moshe u’vnei Yisrael,” so therefore Moses and the children of Israel sang.
But the always grammatical Abraham Ibn Ezra, of twelfth century Spain, North Africa, Israel and London (the guy moved around quite a bit) has quite a different take on this little word “Az”. He explains that the “Az” we find here has nothing to do with cause and effect, but rather it is simply the way Biblical Hebrew expresses the present tense. He explains that saying “Az Yashir Moshe” is like saying “And Moses sings a song.” Instead of being a result of something that comes before, it is merely the way to express something that happens extemporaneously, out of the blue. Moses sang a song. “I was walking down the street, and ‘Az’, a piano fell on my head.”
So why does this matter? What could be the possible lesson for us as modern Jews found in the grammatical musings based upon a single word in the Torah of two men long since dead? Well I for one believe that this disagreement has nothing to do with a simple word in the Torah, but rather it has everything to do with our theology and how we look for God in this world. Allow me to explain.
I believe there are two ways you can approach the question of God in our world. You can either be a Rashi or an Ibn Ezra. A Rashi, you see, is one who looks for God in this world through the eyes of cause and effect. This person is seeking those instances where the presence of God in their lives becomes real, immanent and tangible. In those moments of intense spiritual experience, for lack of a better word let’s call them moments of ‘proof’; a Rashi is left with no other choice but to sing a song of praise unto God. God is the maker of moments of meaning in my life and so therefore I am obligated to acknowledge God’s presence during those experiences of God’s immanence.
On the other hand, we have our Ibn Ezras. Ibn Ezras are not concerned with moments of immanence or intimacy; they are not concerned with questions of cause or effect. Rather they are prone to seek out the presence of God regardless of a given event or a particular occurrence. Ibn Ezras seek knowledge of a God who is transcendent. A God who is not felt most acutely in those rare moments of ‘proof’, but rather in the common occurrence of doubt; a God whose presence is not to be found merely in the miraculous, but also in the mundane, the benign. During these quiet moments of questioning, from within the recognition of the regular, the Ibn Ezra feels God’s closeness, and is compelled to cry out in song.
This distinction, between the Rashis of the world and the Ibn Ezras of the world also appears, albeit not by these terms, in the writings of Abraham Joshua Heschel. Heschel speaks both of living a ‘life of wonder’ as well as a ‘life of Radical Amazement’. For years I assumed those two phrases were synonymous, that experiencing wonder meant being radically amazed. That is until a crucial nuance within Heschel’s philosophy was pointed out to me by my very brilliant friend Rabbi Shai Held during a class of his that I had the privilege of attending in the fall. This nuance can be explained by means of a mashal, a parable:
Imagine you are standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon on a bright, sunny day. To experience wonder, is to stand there and think: “This is simply a miracle! That the seemingly uneventful act of a river flowing, cutting through endless miles of rock over millions of years could create such a stunning sight. Surely this is proof of God’s amazing work. Az Yashir Moshe, and they are moved to sing.” However, one who feels the depths of Radical Amazement experiences the very same view in a remarkably different way: standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon on a bright sunny day, the one who is radically amazed remarks with an overwhelming sigh, “This is simply a miracle! I can see!” And in that moment of utter amazement, when they experience what Heschel describes as the “inconceivable surprise of living,” ‘Az Yashir Moshe’, they suddenly begin to sing.
To live your life in wonder is to live according to the perush, the explanation of Rashi, which is to experience God’s presence in this world during overwhelming moments of wonder caused by miraculous events. However, to live your life according to the perush of Ibn Ezra, is to understand God as being present even, and perhaps especially, in the common moments of benignity.
This of course brings me back to the problem of my interminable oil change. There I was, in minyan, ripe with anger and frustration over an afternoon of wasted time, davening the Amidah half-heartedly when a sudden and intensely calming thought occurred to me: I am grateful for the miraculous monotony of life. I am grateful that I could read that book that I was reading. I am grateful for the presence of community, who gathers together each day in our chapel and prays, regardless of our familiarity with the prayers or even our belief in their efficacy. I am grateful for this breath, as well as for the next. And most of all I am grateful for the ever-growing, ever-moving, ever-learning collection of cells, sinews and tissues which tosses and turns inside the belly of my wife. And with this thought, with this intense recognition of the profundity of being, Az Yashir Moshe, I was suddenly moved to sing.
Hag Sameach.
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