name as vulgar and unsophisticated.
But Hebrew, as a language, works in a particularly interesting way. Words are composed of three-letter roots, which have altered meanings based on suffixes, prefixes, and vowels stuck in between.The root of
Deborah
consists of the Hebrew equivalents for
D
,
B
, and
R
. This is the root word for speech. The Hebrew version of
H
, tacked on to the end of an action word, usually denotes feminine gender. Therefore,
DeBoRaH
would literally deconstruct as “she speaks.”
These sorts of language gymnastics are a beloved sport of Talmudic rabbis. They spend countless pages indulging in a game called
gematria
, in which they use a code that assigns numerical values to Hebrew letters to draw connections between different words by showing their sums to be equal. The acrobatics involved to draw these complex conclusions are necessary because too frequently they are cited as the only evidence to support a rabbi’s claim. Hasidic Jews still donate to charity in multiples of eighteen because that is the numerical value for the word
chai
,
or life. In this way, they feel that their generosity will buy them life, because it is in the right numerical form.
Hebrew is certainly a language that invites the obsessive code-cracker. It is very layered, packing meaning upon meaning. Words often have dual or triple uses. The poetic nature of Hebrew scripture has allowed for centuries of conjecture and deconstruction not unlike that which I experienced in a poetry class in college. The difference is that all of us in that class knew that no matter how many assumptions we made about the meaning, and how cogently we supported our theses, we were never granted any certainty about the true intent of the poet, or the message behind his or her words. Ultimately, the poem remained unsolved.
My grandfather understood this concept. He often warned me that, although we were living our lives according to a strict rabbinical interpretation of the Torah, there was a distinct possibility that we had a lot of it wrong. He was the first person to explain theconcept of a metaphor to me. That’s the thing about the Hebrew language, he said. You never know if you’ve picked the right meaning. It could be literal or figurative. The language could be deliberately obscure, designed to cloak a meaning that only someone with the right code could access. And codes can go wrong. You could be using the wrong key to crack it and get an entirely mixed-up result.
Deborah = Bee.
Deborah = She who speaks.
Deborah = Woman of fire.
My grandfather was confident in his rabbi nonetheless. He reminded me that faith in the righteous was our insurance against error. If we had the right intentions in hand, it was ensured that God would modify his wishes to align with those of the saints leading us. Such reverence was there in heaven for our holy rabbis. The same holy rabbis who had mocked Deborah, who had been chosen by God to lead the Jewish nation to extraordinary victory, who had been blessed with a reign of unparalleled peace and prosperity, and most important, who had been beloved by her subjects and fondly remembered by them.
The author of the book of Deborah was clearly of a very different mind than the fastidious group who chronicled their highly subjective opinions in the Talmud.
“And Deborah rose, a mother in Israel, and spoke.”
This is how Deborah is introduced. Why a mother if she was childless? Could there be a more loving description of her? She was a mother to a nation. She rose to power not as a woman who abandoned her femininity but as one who harnessed its most glorious qualities to lead her people to triumph. Reading this reminds me that, unlike what was taught to me, there is room forrule breaking in the Jewish tradition. God approves of a little feminism once in a while.
In the story of Deborah came my first opportunity to find a positive reflection in the Judaic mirror. In those early years after leaving, everywhere
But Hebrew, as a language, works in a particularly interesting way. Words are composed of three-letter roots, which have altered meanings based on suffixes, prefixes, and vowels stuck in between.The root of
Deborah
consists of the Hebrew equivalents for
D
,
B
, and
R
. This is the root word for speech. The Hebrew version of
H
, tacked on to the end of an action word, usually denotes feminine gender. Therefore,
DeBoRaH
would literally deconstruct as “she speaks.”
These sorts of language gymnastics are a beloved sport of Talmudic rabbis. They spend countless pages indulging in a game called
gematria
, in which they use a code that assigns numerical values to Hebrew letters to draw connections between different words by showing their sums to be equal. The acrobatics involved to draw these complex conclusions are necessary because too frequently they are cited as the only evidence to support a rabbi’s claim. Hasidic Jews still donate to charity in multiples of eighteen because that is the numerical value for the word
chai
,
or life. In this way, they feel that their generosity will buy them life, because it is in the right numerical form.
Hebrew is certainly a language that invites the obsessive code-cracker. It is very layered, packing meaning upon meaning. Words often have dual or triple uses. The poetic nature of Hebrew scripture has allowed for centuries of conjecture and deconstruction not unlike that which I experienced in a poetry class in college. The difference is that all of us in that class knew that no matter how many assumptions we made about the meaning, and how cogently we supported our theses, we were never granted any certainty about the true intent of the poet, or the message behind his or her words. Ultimately, the poem remained unsolved.
My grandfather understood this concept. He often warned me that, although we were living our lives according to a strict rabbinical interpretation of the Torah, there was a distinct possibility that we had a lot of it wrong. He was the first person to explain theconcept of a metaphor to me. That’s the thing about the Hebrew language, he said. You never know if you’ve picked the right meaning. It could be literal or figurative. The language could be deliberately obscure, designed to cloak a meaning that only someone with the right code could access. And codes can go wrong. You could be using the wrong key to crack it and get an entirely mixed-up result.
Deborah = Bee.
Deborah = She who speaks.
Deborah = Woman of fire.
My grandfather was confident in his rabbi nonetheless. He reminded me that faith in the righteous was our insurance against error. If we had the right intentions in hand, it was ensured that God would modify his wishes to align with those of the saints leading us. Such reverence was there in heaven for our holy rabbis. The same holy rabbis who had mocked Deborah, who had been chosen by God to lead the Jewish nation to extraordinary victory, who had been blessed with a reign of unparalleled peace and prosperity, and most important, who had been beloved by her subjects and fondly remembered by them.
The author of the book of Deborah was clearly of a very different mind than the fastidious group who chronicled their highly subjective opinions in the Talmud.
“And Deborah rose, a mother in Israel, and spoke.”
This is how Deborah is introduced. Why a mother if she was childless? Could there be a more loving description of her? She was a mother to a nation. She rose to power not as a woman who abandoned her femininity but as one who harnessed its most glorious qualities to lead her people to triumph. Reading this reminds me that, unlike what was taught to me, there is room forrule breaking in the Jewish tradition. God approves of a little feminism once in a while.
In the story of Deborah came my first opportunity to find a positive reflection in the Judaic mirror. In those early years after leaving, everywhere
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