When Words Won't Work

Parsha Teztaveh: Expressing the inexpressible

What does it mean to have a relationship with God? For modern man, the very premise that a person could experience such a thing appears to border on the absurd. For many, the concept of God is abstract and intangible, making it difficult to envision what a relationship with Him would entail.

And yet claims of transcendent revelation are more common than one would initially think. While Marx may have claimed that religion was a mere opiate of the masses, it appears that faith will not simply disappear under the crush of modernity. Polls show fifty per cent of people, including atheists, have had some spiritual encounter. Neurological research into spiritual experience has demonstrated that there is more to religion than merely a cognitive belief. For the feeble mind, human experience appears too complex to be entirely confined to the physical. A realisation that prompts one to seek a more profound form of understanding.

If religion were a football team, Karl Marx would not be a fan.

While the realness of religious experience can be almost impossible to convey in words, for me, Rabbi Shlomo ibn Gabirol’s Adon Oilam is the most powerfully poetic attempt in the Jewish written corpus. I find myself consistently moved by the compelling method in which he draws out the inherent paradox of our relationship with God—first, describing the incompressible transcendent nature of an all-powerful creator before considering the profoundly personal connection we share with him. Somehow a God who is ‘without beginning, and without end’ is also 'my rock of affliction in times of suffering'. The soaring emotions induced by such contemplation cannot be adequately expressed in words.

But why does it have to be this way? How can it be that the most authentic experience we may ever have can also remain indescribable? Standing as an encounter beyond the boundaries of language itself. Certainly, there are many philosophical approaches to answering this query. I am neither the first nor the last to grapple with such a dilemma. However, coming across an idea from this week's Parsha opened up a fresh angle for me.

Famously the Bal Haturim points out that Parsha's Tetzaveh is the only parsha in the Torah since Moshe's birth in which his name does not appear (other than Devarim, which is primarily a first-person narrative). The reason he gives for this noted omission is that after the Jews worshipped the golden calf, Moshe beseeched God with the following words:

"If You do not [forgive the Israelites], erase me from the book You have written."

{Shemos 32:31}

Following the axiom that God makes sure that the words of the righteous always come to pass, Moshe's demand came true in our parsha. His name is entirely absent from the text.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe expounds on Moshe's apparent absenteeism in a way that provides a fruitful analogy for our relationship with God. Although he is not named in Parshas Teztaveh, Moshe himself prominently features throughout its narrative. How so? The entire parshah consists of God's instructions to Moshe! In fact, the parshah opens with the word ve’atah, “and you”—the 'you' is a direct address to Moshe. The Lubavitcher Rebbe explains that on a certain level, the use of 'you' is a far fuller revelation of an individual's essence than even his name. 'You' connotes its subject's very self, while a person's name is merely an immediate reflection of his personality. This means that Moshe's essence is more present in our Parshah than any statement of his name could adequately convey.

What we have said here is consistent with the Baal HaTurim’s earlier explanation. Moshe was ready to sacrifice the inclusion of his name in the Torah for the sake of his people. As a result, the Torah preserved his fundamental self forever, immune to capture by name. Specifically, Moshe's nameless presence expresses his purest level of self.

If you are wondering at this point what all this has to do with our original inquiry, I don't blame you. But sit tight because here it is. What we see from the idea of the Lubavitcher Rebbe is that often, it is precisely that which is most real that transcends all description. Fundamental truths of existence are intangible and beyond human utterance. Consciousness is an excellent example of this truism. We have absolutely no idea what conscious thought is. It is totally beyond the bounds of scientific measurement or investigation. And yet it is the most fundamental aspect of our being. It is the medium through which we experience everything else and is, logically speaking, the only thing we know of that cannot be an illusion.

Rarely are we allowed to enunciate any of the names of God. They are by their very nature ineffable. Despite this, we refer to him as atah 'you' at least a hundred times daily:

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God’s name is too sacred to mention, yet paradoxically we address him directly.

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In my mind, this halachic reality beautifully captures our relationship with the divine. When we experience inexpressible moments of awe, we encounter God most fully. And during times of suffering, circumstances where God should feel so remote, we unexpectedly discover him nearby. It is on these occasions, when we cannot articulate our own thoughts, that we truly recognise His presence and understand the power of His calling. We fleetingly glimpse the divine and connect in ways that are beyond words. Where God is nameless, where God transcends all classification, that is where we meet him.

Good Shabbos, and Keep Pondering