Ever since I stumbled upon the discovery that, in several parashot, a key word or combination from the opening of the parashah recurs at or toward its end, in a manner which transforms and enriches its meaning, it's been a preoccupation of mine to seek out such structures in other parashiyot. A classic example of this phenomenon is in Parashat Shelach Lecha: it begins with Hashem saying to Moshe: Shlach l'cha anashim v'yaturu et ha'aretz. (Send they men and they shall scout out the land). The word v'yaturu, or words derived from its root, occur infrequently in the Torah, so imagine our surprise when, at the end of the parashah, in presenting the reason for the mitzvah of tzitzit, we read: v'lo taturu acharei levavchem v'acharei eynechem. (Do not go investigatingly astray after your hearts and after your eyes). Accident? Hardly. But exploring the implications of this pairing will have to wait a few months. This week, we'll explore an astonished pairing in this week's parasha, Beshalach.
Notice the following: The parashat opens with a reference to war: Lest the people regret upon seeing war and return to Egypt. It closes with the same key word: God makes war upon Amalek in every generation. Now the word for war, milchamah, is (unfortunately, perhaps) not such an uncommon word in the Torah. But consider the following: The noun for war – MiLCHaMaH (CH will represent the Hebrew letter "chet") or the verb root from which it is derived, L-CH-M, occurs four times in the first half of the parashah, up to and including the Song of the Sea, sung by the grateful, victorious people, and again, at the very end of the parashat, within the span of but a few verses, precisely four times.
And what separates the equally divided eight usages of the noun and verb for war? The stories of a frantic, seemingly ungrateful people's demands for water and food in the desert. The longest and most important of these stories is the story of the provision of the man, bread from the heavens. The Hebrew word for bread is LeCheM, made up of the same consonants which comprise the verb noted above, to make war. The folk etymology connects the two words in a straightforward way. To quote The Who: "I fight for my meals". I'd like to suggest a common conceptual original for both terms: "to mix it up". Anyone who has seen any of the great battle scenes produced by Hollywood can testify that they resemble nothing so much as a mixing bowl. Everyone turning everyone else topsy-turvy. Similarly in bread-making – a host of separate agents are blended and kneaded together. The difference, however, between bread and war, is that while the ingredients brought together to form bread relinquish their individual identities and dough emerges, expands and rises, displaying a whole host of new properties, in war, no one gives any ground, each side insists that the other annihilate its own claims and identity and affirm the sole sovereignty of its opponent.
So WHAT is the difference between bread and war. Precisely. In Abbott and Costello fashion, WHAT, or MaH, is the difference. The word for war is the word for bread, with the letters mem and hey sandwiching them from either side. Mah is the question/exclamation asked by the person whose outlook on relationship, to used the Buberian term, is I-it. There is no recognition of the personhood of the other. When, in the story of the man, Moshe and Aharon counter the complaints of the hungry people, they say, v'nachnu mah – and what are we? The implication – we are nothing of substance, your complaint is against Hashem and not us.
The opposite of the question word MaH is MI. Who? This is an I-Thou question, one which, in recognizing the other as subject and not as object, alters the very nature of the encounter.
Hashem teaches Moshe this lesson at Marah. When the people cry out because the waters there are bitter, it says Vayoreyhu Sham Etz – He (Hashem) taught him (Moshe) a tree. He didn't merely show him a tree, he taught him a tree. The midrash says that the way of man is to sweeten the bitter with bitter, but Hashem sweetens the bitter with sweet. Humans tend to mask the bitter instead of encountering, discovering, engaging. But Hashem taught Moshe that there's a deeper level to our natures. Acids and bases neutralize each other, precipitate out of solution leaving the water clear and sweet, and if you're looking for a naturalistic explanation at Marah, that works. But the image of the tree is even more powerful: it unites heaven and earth, it turns the waste product of our respiration (carbon dioxide) into the fresh, oxygen, life-giving breath. It sends its fingers down into the soil, and stretches out its palms to the sun.
Moshe and Aharon say to the people (and indirectly, to Hashem) MaH NaCHNu, and Hashem says to Moshe at the critical moment by the sea, MaH TiTZ'aK ELaY? What you yell at Me? That is, you're yelling "WHAT" at Me? Don't you understand? Speak to the people and let them travel forth! It seems impossible? The raging waves of the sea oppose the very nature of man, who craves the stability of dry land? Nevertheless, GO!
These lessons are but first installments. There is need for many others, lots of practices and quite a few stumblings along the way, but already by the end of the parashah, it seems that the people begin to understand what will be asked of them for the next few thousand years in the war against Amalek.
Let's first note the differences between the wars of the beginning and end of the parashah: The opening war is initiated by Egypt for a "just" cause: these slaves have violated the terms of their furlough and have fled; the war is fought by Hashem, for Yisrael is incapable of doing so. Hashem expresses concern even before this that Yisrael should not encounter war first-hand, lest they return to Egypt (presumably this refers to a war for the possession of the Land of Yisrael). The closing war is almost exactly the opposite: it is a war initiated by Amalek for NO cause; the war is fought solely by the people, led not by Moshe but by a new character, Yehoshua, and Hashem invokes in its wake an eternal battle cry to ever rally Yisrael against its enemy.
What has converted the skittish band of newly-freed slaves, each subgroup of which (according to the midrash) pulling in a different direction by the sea, into a solidified fighting force to be reckoned with? It is the LeCHeM, the bread from heaven which in every aspect of its supply and nature, insists that the people take the transcendent and its transforming possibilities into every aspect of their everyday life.
And how many times does the word LeCHeM occur in the story of the man? You guessed it: eight times.
The number eight is extremely significant in Jewish associative thought. If seven is the number that signifies the completeness of the physical realm, eight is the number that points beyond it.
It was to that beyond that Am Yisael gazed when Moshe raised his tired arms with the help of Aharon and Hur. The farthest-sighted amongst them presumably understood that the Amalek, the "anti-particle" of Am Yisrael, has no place only BENEATH the heavens, as Rav Kook insists in Midot Ra'ayah, but beyond the heavens, by a process of purification (which, I understand, primarily takes place within us even as we fight), finds its roots in the supernal good on high.
Meanwhile, down here, we eat our heavenly sustenance encased in a sandwich of struggle on many levels. May we learn to knead our lives well, letting them rise and punching them down with complete confidence that we will rise again even higher, struggling paradoxically to transcend struggle and sing our souls out like at the sea once again.
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