PARSHA
By Mendel Kalmenson, Chabad.org
It has been said that there is no word for history in the Hebrew language. (The modern Hebrew equivalent, historia, is a word-lift from the English history, which was pinched from the Greek historia. What goes around, comes around . . . )
The absence of a word as central to any nation as “history” is striking. It’s probably because there’s no such thing as “history” in Judaism. Zikaron (memory), however, a distant cousin of history, features prominently in biblical language and thought.
It goes far beyond semantics, cutting straight to the core of Judaism’s perception of the past. You see, “history” is his-story, not mine. The first two letters of “memory,” however, spell me. Without me there is no memory. Memory is a part of me, and history, apart from me.
Put differently: History is made up of objective facts, and memory of subjective experience. As you might have guessed, Judaism is less interested in dry facts than in breathing experiences.
It is for this reason that much of Jewish tradition and ritual draws on reenactment. We don’t just commemorate, we remember. We don’t just recount someone else’s story, we relive our own.
A few examples:
Much of the Seder curriculum aims to stimulate feelings of slavery and bitterness (e.g., the salt water, bitter herbs, poor man’s bread—a.k.a. matzah, and so on), as well as royalty and liberty (four cups of wine, leaning on cushions, and the like).
In fact, in certain Jewish communities, the seventh night of Passover (the night the sea split for the Jews) finds many walking through pails of water to recreate that event.
On Shavuot we stay up the entire night in anticipation of the giving of the Torah on the morrow, and children are brought to synagogue to hear the Ten Commandments from G d.
In fact, Judaism teaches that, in soul, we were all present at Sinai; each one of us personally encountered G d. Consequently, G d is not just the G d of our ancestors; He is our G d. He’s not just the G d we heard about, but the G d we heard from.
The divine revelation at Sinai thus distinguishes itself from any other revelation described in other religious traditions. Central to other religions is the belief that G d never shows Himself to the masses, to a community of commoners. He speaks only to the prophet, who alone is worthy of divine communion. It’s for the flock to trust implicitly in their shepherd’s account of revelation. Not so in Judaism, which maintains that, indeed, the greatest divine revelation of all time was made accessible to maidservant and Moses alike.
Moreover, even as He spoke to a nation of millions, G d addressed each one of them personally. As our sages teach, in His opening words at Sinai, “I am G d, your G d,” He chose to use the singular form of “your” (elokecha)—the “thy” of vintage English—over the plural possessive (elokeichem).
This was one of the greatest gifts that G d bequeathed our people, to include all of us in the Sinaitic display, for it turned our nation’s most seminal event into a living memory, as opposed to a lifeless lesson in history.
Moving along to the ninth of Av, the day the Holy Temple was destroyed thousands of years ago, and a national day of mourning—its customs include eating eggs dipped in ash (just prior to the fast), sitting on low stools, wearing slippers, fasting, and lamenting like it happened only yesterday.
Come Sukkot, and we move into huts for a week to recall the booths we lived in throughout our desert trek. Like a figurative time machine, the sukkah transports us to that distant and formative road trip.
And the list goes on. The point is, remembering is big in our tradition. The following discussion seeks to highlight just how big.
The Finale
“Today I am one hundred and twenty years old,” begins Moses’ last homily. “I am no longer able to lead you . . .” The end is near, or here. “Be strong and courageous . . . Do not be afraid . . . for G d is going with you . . .”
These moving snippets, and the time in which they were spoken, help set the scene and mood of the last public address given by a selfless leader to his (less-than-selfless) congregation. And these are the words with which he leaves them:
At the end of seven years . . . during the festival on the holiday of Sukkot, when all Israel comes to appear before G d, in the place that He will choose, the king should read the Torah before all of Israel. Assemble the people, the men, the women and the minors, and the convert in your cities, in order that they will hear and in order that they will learn, and they shall fear G d . . .
