Walk Through the Parsha by Rabbi David Walk

A Love Story
Peasch 5768
April 15, 2008
Traditionally the term tragedy implies a story with a sad or unfortunate ending.  Unbelievably, the meaning of the expression in its original Greek is the song (or poem) of the goat (ya just can’t make this stuff up).  I guess goats didn’t have it so good in ancient Greece.  I wonder if the medieval author of our Seder song Chad Gadya (one goat) knew this etymology.  That metaphorical description of Jewish history indeed is an account of continuous calamity.  However, I’m not
interested in that poem this year.  I’m more concerned with a disturbing phenomenon.  How come all the great love stories are tragedies?  It really seems that before Hollywood and Broadway, no love poem, story or play ever ended with and they lived happily ever after, usually one or both were dying.  To help me in this literary endeavor, I’m enlisting Judaism’s greatest expression of love, namely Shir Hashirim, The Song of Songs, attributed to King Solomon.

The custom is to read this series of love poems during Pesach.  It is universal to read it in synagogue on the Shabbat of Pesach, and many (not me, I’m much too tired) have the custom to recite it at the end of the Seder.  The poem’s connection to the season is clear.  We fell in love with God at Pesach, and we want to renew the ardor of that passion every year in the romantic springtime.  So, my real question is:  Is Shir Hashirim a tragedy or comedy?  Just to set the record straight the original use of the word comedy meant a play with a happy ending, whether you laughed or not.

Well then, it seems that the place to begin is the end.  The last few verses of Shir Hashirim go like this: I am a wall, and my breasts are like towers, then I was in his eyes as one who finds peace. Solomon had a vineyard in Baal-Hamon; he gave the vineyard to the keepers; each one brought for the fruit thereof one thousand pieces of silver. My vineyard, which is mine, is before me; you, O Solomon, shall have the thousand, and those who watch its fruit, two hundred. You, who sit in the gardens the friends hearken to your voice; let me hear [it]. Flee, my beloved, and liken yourself to a gazelle or to a fawn of the hinds on the spice mountains (Song of Songs 8:10-14)."  As you can well imagine there is a lot of Midrashic literature explaining all the allusions in these verses.  The plain meaning seems to be that the place of our romantic rendezvous, the vineyard (representing beauty and fertility), is walled and guarded by powerful strangers.  Since the place we seek is dangerous, we implore our beloved to flee as swiftly as possible.  We end the poem watching the back of our beloved as it disappears over the horizon.  Sounds pretty sad to me.

As you can guess this picture is interpreted by most traditional commentaries in a
more upbeat manner.  Rashi (1040-1105) explains the wall and guards as describing the Jews commitment to keep out non-Jewish influences and to marry within the fold.  The vineyard is where we live together with God.  Finally, the reference to the fleeing beloved is a reference to God leading us back to Israel from our exile.  The Netziv (Reb Naftali Yehudah Zvi Berlin, 1817-1993) explains the fleeing gazelle as God running away from the insincere prayers of the gentiles.  It would be odd to end on a note about anyone beside the lovers.

I have a different take on it.  This scenario, I believe, is the counterpoint to what is for our generation, perhaps, the most famous image in the poem.  On Yom Ha’atzma’ut in 1956 Rabbi Yosef Dov Halevi Soloveitchik (1903-1994) gave one of his most dramatic speeches.  Referencing the second verse in the fifth chapter of Shir Hashiriim, the Rav described the modern re-emergence of a Jewish state in our ancient homeland as the ‘knock of my Beloved (Kol Dodi Dofek).’  He went on to list six knocks with which God has graced our generation.  All of them are related to Israel.  In the verse the lover claims to asleep, although the heart is awake.  This is a metaphor for the lively spirituality that was beating within the dormant national entity of Israel throughout the past two millennia.  Then in the midst of this semi-slumber, God the Beloved bangs on the door.  But what is the response of the lover (us) to God’s overture?  I’ve already gotten undressed; I’ve taken off my shoes; I’m mostly asleep.  God continues to beat on the door, but by
time we respond to the incessant rapping.  The Beloved Deity has gone.  This
is the really sad part of the poem.  We’re given the chance to reunite with God in our precious homeland and we’re too lethargic to answer the call of God, the call to greatness.

I think every generation and every Jew hears this summons by God, albeit not as
obviously as in 1948.  Generally speaking most of us, don’t respond.  When you
teach middle school, as I do, you quickly realize how good we are at excuses.  There are always reasonable explanations for why we don’t make the spiritual commitment.  However, true love isn’t about being reasonable.  Love is about being moved by the emotion; stirred by the infatuation; swept up by the passion.  Zeal is extinguished by inertia.  That’s why so few American Jews have made aliya (only about 60,000 over the years).

Now let’s jump back to the end of the poem.  We tell the Divine Beloved to flee, because we intend to follow.  I will follow you.  Follow you wherever you may go.  There isn't an ocean too deep.  A mountain so high it can keep; keep me away,
away from my love.  The intent is to produce a happy ending.  However, whether
the poem is tragedy or comedy is up to us.  The verdict of history awaits each Jew’s decision.  It’s critical during this season of love to renew our vows of love to our Beloved, God.  Chag Kasher V’Sameach, a happy, healthy, holy holiday to us all!