Shabbat Yitro: Silence

The Still, Small Voice

This week our parashat hashavua narrates a – literally – peak moment in the Israelite story: the revelation at Mt Sinai. It’s a moment that our ancestors assumed was full of intensity and the resultant stress. One midrash goes so far as to aver that our ancestors died when they heard the voice of HaShem, and had to be revived by a phalanx of angels that hurriedly bopped each of us on the nose to bring us back to life (or whatever angels do). The roots of the apprehension sensed by the midrash derive from this Torah verse:

וַיֹּֽאמְרוּ֙ אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֔ה דַּבֵּר־אַתָּ֥ה עִמָּ֖נוּ וְנִשְׁמָ֑עָה וְאַל־יְדַבֵּ֥ר עִמָּ֛נוּ אֱלֹהִ֖ים פֶּן־נָמֽוּת׃ 

“You speak to us,” they said to Moses, “and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.” (Ex. 20.16)

Jewish mystics have long disagreed on the impact on a human being of actually encountering the Holy. The 20th century scholar Rudolph Otto called the sense of being in HaShem’s presence the mysterium tremendum, an overwhelm that cannot be expressed in human terms by human senses. The mystics describe it as if you are a drop of water, and HaShem is an endless watery abyss; you are a reflection of HaShem, yes, as a drop of water is to all drops of water, yet once submerged in the ocean, you cease to exist as a separate entity. Thus, they came to the same conclusion; contact between human and HaShem would mean only the end of the human’s consciousness, and even, perhaps, actual physical death. For (maybe only the most meshugge) the mystics, that is an end to be awaited with great anticipation.

At the other end of the same spectrum, another midrash speculates upon what we experienced at Sinai wonders about the content of the revelation: what did our ancestors hear? Was it all ten of the Aseret HaDibrot (“ten utterances”)? Or was that really necessary, since we ought to be able to extrapolate from principles, just as we do in halakhah. Suggesting that the key is in another Torah verse, some (mystically inclined, of course) went so far as to say that we heard nothing at all:

“It is possible that at Sinai we heard nothing from the mouth of G*d other than the letter alef of the first utterance ‘Anochi Ad-nai Elo-echem, I am HaShem your G*d.’ As we read in Exodus 20:15, “And all of the people saw the thunder.” In other words, they saw what is normally heard! At Sinai we saw the letter אevoking the name and presence of G*d…” (Zera Hakodesh – Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Horowitz 19th Cent)

A third approach reminds us that at times, it is silence itself which is most loud for us; a pregnant silence, perhaps, or the silence which descends with a thick blanket of snow. It is within that silence, perhaps, that the most important things can be heard:

Said Rabbi Abbahu in the name of Rabbi Yochanan: When the Holy One gave the Torah, no bird screeched, no fowl flew, no ox mooed, none of the ophanim (angels) flapped a wing, nor did the seraphim (burning celestial beings) chant “Kadosh Kadosh Kadosh (Holy, Holy, Holy!)” The sea did not roar, and none of the creatures uttered a sound. Throughout the entire world there was only a deafening silence as the Divine Voice went forth speaking: Anochi Ad-nai Elo-echa (I am HaShem your G*d)” (Midrash Exodus Rabbah)

What to do with this snow, how to manage the interruptions to normal routines and expectations that it brings? In the midst of the scramble to adjust and adapt, don’t forget to notice it, and to listen. What does this sudden change – this current blast of overwhelm, either in decibels or creepily quiet – what might it allow us to hear, if rather than avoiding, anticipating, or dreading, we stop. And pay attention to it. 

May this Shabbat remind you that we all need a regular moment of quiet, and that we are created with this need, and that to respect that, in defiance of the business of the current cultural moment, is the most important, most subversive message Shabbat can offer.