Rosh Chodesh Sivan Torah Essay

 

During the month of Sivan we celebrate Shavuot, the festival that marks the giving of the Torah. Midrashim about the revelation at Sinai include two opposing descriptions: some describe the giving of the Torah as a wedding day, a great moment of love and chesed, in which the nation willingly and intentionally enters a covenant with God: “Go out, daughters of Zion, and see King Shlomo, in the crown created by his mother on his wedding day, on the day his heart rejoices” (Song 3:11) – according to the midrash this describes the giving of the Torah at Sinai. Other midrashim characterize this momentous event as one of divine coercion, bereft of human volition, as articulated in the Mekhilta:

“And they stood at the foot of the mountain”—this teaches us that the Holy One, blessed be He, overturned the mountain on them like a vessel, declaring: ‘If you accept the Torah upon yourselves, it is well; if not, here shall be your burial place.’ At that moment, they all cried out and poured out their hearts like water in repentance, and said: “All that the Lord has spoken we will do and we will hear.”

The Holy One, Blessed be He, said: ‘I need guarantors.’ They said: ‘Behold, heaven and earth will be our guarantors.’ He said to them: ‘They are temporary.’ They said: ‘Our forefathers will be our guarantors.’ He said to them: ‘They are occupied [with their own matters].’ They said: ‘Our children will be our guarantors.’ He said: ‘Behold, these are good guarantors.’ And thus it says: “Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings You have established strength,” and it says: “And you forgot the Torah of your God, I too will forget your children.”

(The Mekhilta of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, Ex. 19:17)

This portrayal reveals that not only was the Sinaitic revelation enacted under duress, but all subsequent generations are born as inherent guarantors, bound to this covenant even before their birth.

In the course of human existence, we navigate two fundamental categories of relational bonds: elective relationships—those connections we consciously choose, such as intimate friendships and the sacred covenant between husband and wife—and non-elective relationships that exist independent of our will and choice, such as the bonds between siblings or parents and children.

Elective relationships possess inherent vitality, volition, and love; yet by their very definition, they remain conditional. As long as both parties maintain their desire and commitment, the relationship endures. However, the alternative possibility perpetually lurks beneath the surface.

If we were to characterize the relationship between God and the people of Israel as purely elective, we would inevitably confront the destabilizing question: What transpires should we choose differently at some juncture? Should we transgress, Heaven forbid, would the covenant be nullified? Should a generation arise declaring their disinterest in this covenant, could it be dissolved? Such unsettling considerations have served as instruments in the hands of our adversaries among the nations throughout the long corridors of history.

Conversely, non-elective relationships, exemplified by familial bonds, possess an eternal quality. One can never divorce oneself from a sibling, a parent, or a child. While the grace of love may not perpetually illuminate such relationships—indeed, these connections sometimes encompass complexity, anger, and even estrangement—nevertheless, one remains inexorably bound to those ‘coerced’ relations.

The dual portrayal of the Sinaitic experience encompasses both dimensions of the relationship. On the one hand, we encounter a description of coercive bonding, a non-elective connection. “He overturned the mountain on them like a vessel”—perhaps not the manner in which we would prefer to envision our moment of Torah reception. Yet this description bears witness to the essential nature of the giving of the Torah, which transcends the question of our desire or lack thereof, and precisely because of this, it also transcends the question of whether we might sin and provoke anger. This constitutes an eternal bond, and therein lies its strength and security. This does not guarantee perpetual love, but it ensures perpetual connection.

Nevertheless, we aspire to more than mere compulsion. We seek choice within this framework. We desire love—that we should find desire in one another: Israel in the Torah and the Torah in Israel, Israel in the Holy One blessed be He, and the Holy One blessed be He in Israel. We yearn for love to dwell within us as we study and fulfill the Torah. This aspiration finds expression in the beautiful midrashim that liken the giving of the Torah to a wedding canopy where bride and groom approach each other through mutual desire and longing, love and grace.

Thus, we can understand the rabbinic homilies regarding the Book of Esther: “That generation accepted it in the days of Ahasuerus”—there was a moment in history when we willingly and freely accepted what we had previously received under compulsion without choice. We desire both dimensions.

This dual aspect of choice and necessity manifests equally in the question of David’s lineage within the megillah. The book of Ruth presents us with a dual account of David’s birth. One narrative—lengthy and tender, replete with feminine figures who, through pain, absence, and loss, perform acts of loving-kindness and respond to such kindness—through their conscious and devoted choices, bring about the birth of a son to Ruth, she who would become the progenitor of royalty.

Following this entire narrative, we encounter several verses serving as a summary, containing an orderly masculine genealogical list that makes no reference to the story we have just read in the megillah. This list begins in the distant past, many generations before our story: father begot son, who became father and begot son. “Perez begot Hezron, and Hezron begot Ram… and Boaz begot Obed, and Obed begot Jesse, and Jesse begot David.”

The story of David’s birth is indeed dual. Ruth’s story is a narrative of choice and love, containing decisions that are not at all compelled. At every step and crossroads, we wonder what will occur and whether it will occur. At any moment, one could have turned away and retreated, like Orpah. This portrays a relationship of love suffused with grace. It possesses passion and power, which is the source of its strength. The verse “For wherever you go, I will go, and wherever you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God” represents the essence of the voluntary acceptance of Torah.

Yet another story concludes the megillah: a narrative of relationship independent of choice, one that is assured. While less inspiring and devoid of choice, it is strong precisely because of this quality—like the bond between siblings, like the birth connection between parent and child. From this perspective, David’s arrival was inevitable, independent of human choices.

For if we remained solely with the megillah’s narrative, we might contemplate: What if Ruth had chosen to return? What if Boaz had chosen not to redeem? Would David not have been born?

The megillah’s response is that David would have been born regardless. His arrival was necessary as the embodiment of Israel’s monarchy. It is as though the concluding verses states, “David, King of Israel, lives and endures.”

However, the protagonists of the story—Ruth, Naomi, and Boaz—all stood at crossroads and chose, through free will and desire, to become part of the redemptive process, both personal and national. In this, the Book of Ruth echoes its sister-scroll, the Book of Esther. Esther too faces an extraordinarily difficult choice, yet she is told at that precise moment that this is her choice—whether to become part of the redemption process for her people. But even should she choose not to participate, “relief and deliverance will arise for the Jews from another place.” This represents the synthesis between the necessity of divine providence in the world and its integration with the choice presented to each individual—whether to become part of the story.

Esther chooses to become the conduit through which redemption arrives. Ruth likewise chooses and merits becoming the progenitor of royalty.

The giving of the Torah encompasses a dimension of necessity. We are all born into this covenant, born as ‘guarantors.’ This is powerful but hardly captivating. No one desires to marry someone they have not chosen through free will. Yet this description contains the security of eternity—a covenant passed from father to son, even when, regrettably, there is no desire, even when strength fails, even when we might wish to distance ourselves, there exists no genuine possibility of separation from our people or from our Torah.

Simultaneously, each and every one of us is faced with the perpetual choice to become part of the grand narrative of that covenant, whether to enter it through will and love.

We petition that alongside the necessity of Torah, the day of Torah-giving should be likened to a day of a divine wedding and a day of divine joy. Like Ruth’s choice and her cleaving to Naomi, to the people of Israel, to its Torah and its God: “Your people shall be my people, and your God my God.” That there should be love and grace even between those who are bound to us by necessity—between the people and their God, between parents and children, between siblings.

Between us as well. Even at home.