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Exile and Return in Jewish Teaching and Tradition
David Patterson
In one way or another, nearly every Jewish observance of a holy day is tied to issues of exile and dwelling. A dwelling place is most fundamentally defined by the table where food is arranged for family and guests; that is the true Shulchan Arukh, the âordered table,â prepared for sharing bread with another and for affirming the relationship with the Holy One. Thus, dwelling is associated with eating, that is, with offering others something to eat. Indeed, the Talmudic sages remind us that, since the destruction of the Temple, the table where we sit with guests in our home and offer others something to eat takes the place of the altar (Chagigah 27a). The Temple itself is known as a house or home: the Temple Mount is the Har HaBayit or the âMount of the Dwelling Place.â
Similarly, the Fast of Tisha BâAv, held in remembrance of the destruction of the Dwelling Place on the Har HaBayit, is an expression of the loss of an altar that defines a dwelling place. The destruction of the First Temple was followed by the Babylonian Exile, and the destruction of the Second Temple led to the current exile, the Diaspora. If the condition of exile is expressed through fasts, it is because exile is a certain kind of hunger. Fasts, moreover, are often part of a process of purification that may, in turn, enable us to initiate a movement of return to the dwelling place. Because the Jewish people are currently in exile, the matter of how we understand that condition is of particular importance to any movement of return. How, then, does Jewish thought, as informed by the Hebrew language, regard the condition of exile?
Inasmuch as a home is characterized by human relation, exile is a condition of isolation. Or better: it is a state of being lost in isolation, infinitely distant from both the holy and the human. And what comprises that distance? According to the Hasidic master Yehiel Michal of Zlotchov, it is the ani or âegoâ (Buber, Tales of the Hasidim 149). Lost in the illusion of our ani, we cry out in the âlamentationâ or aniyah that announces our exile: âWhere do we go from here?ââanah? Our entrenchment in our ani is our sorrow and our lamentation, our aniyah. Underlying our cry of anahââWhere to?ââis the fear that there is no place to go. Waiting for a message that does not come, we do not live: we merely hope to live. We do not dwell: we languish. And we know that it is not good.
One understands why Martin Buber declares that â âGoodâ is the movement in the direction of homeâ (Buber, Between Man and Man 78). Life is the movement in the direction of home, which is a movement toward the âsourceâ or the âorigin,â toward what in Hebrew is called the makor. Which direction is the direction homeward? Inward. And upward. Hence, we do not âgoâ to our homeland Israel; no, we âascend,â alah, to Israel, and within Israel we âascendâ to Jerusalemânot simply because it is nestled among the Judean hills but because it is the soulâs source of life. Jewish thought, therefore, views the spiritual death that is exile as a disconnection, and not as a fallen condition. The key to overcoming that exile lies in the mitzvah, or âcommandment,â which is derived from the Aramaic word tzavta, meaning âconnection.â And yet even in exile the very longing for a connection announces the connection. For the reality of the Holy One is manifest in our infinite longing for holiness from the depths of a reeling unreality. This means even in exile there is revelation. Or perhaps better: only in exile there is revelation.
Exile and Revelation
The Revelation at Mount Sinai took place not in the Holy Land, but bamidbar, âin the wilderness.â It cannot be otherwise. Inasmuch as the Holy Land is itself part of the Revelation, there is no revelation in the Holy Land; only in the wilderness of our exile is revelation an issue. For in the midst of the âwilderness,â of the midbar, arises the davar, the âword,â that we seek. To be sure, another meaning of midbar is âspeech.â Just as there is no speech without silence, there is no word without a wilderness, no davar without midbar.
The Hebrew word for âexileâ is galut, a noun derived from the verb galah, meaning to âwanderâ or to âgo into exile.â It also means to âdiscoverâ or to ârevealâ and is a cognate of the noun gilui. As stated by Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger, the true meaning of galut is hitgalut or ârevelation,â so âthat the glory of Godâs kingdom [may] be revealed in every placeâ (Alter 86). Revelation is not just a word that we receiveâit is a condition in which we live, the condition that makes life possible, inasmuch as it makes possible the movement homeward. To the extent that we are aware of our exiled condition, we come to a certain realization about the need to emerge from that condition: living in the galut, we do not simply live somewhere elseâwe live away from home. In that realization lie the seeds of redemption.
âWhat is the difference between golah and geulah, exile and redemption?â asks Rabbi Benjamin Blech. And he answers: âThe letter alef of Anokhi, the One representing Godâ (Blech 213), who is the source of revelationâwhose utterance of Anokhi, or âIâ (Exodus 20:2)âthe first utterance at Mount Sinaiâis the Revelation. For geulah is formed by inserting the letter alefâthe first letter in Anokhi and a signifier of the Holy Oneâinto the midst of the word golah. Blind to our exile, we are deaf to the revelation that reverberates from within the depths of that exile, deaf to the davar in the midst of the midbar. In such a state the I-saying of the ego eclipses the divine I-saying, the Anokhi, of the Holy One. In this eclipse we slip into the most insidious exile, where our eyes grow so used to the dark that we no longer notice the darkness.
The paradigm for exile is, of course, the Egyptian Exile. Examining the Hebrew word for âEgypt,â Mitzraim, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz notes that it is a cognate of metzar, which means ânarrownessâ or âanguish.â Rabbi Steinsaltz says,
Egypt symbolizes narrow-mindedness. Ancient Egypt and its paganism are the model for the individual who fabricates an entire system to refute real knowledge. The system upholds its false reality in the face of Divine reality. Egypt is the prototype of a world that proclaims itself to be autonomous and announces that it owes nothing to others because it is self-sufficient.
(Steinsaltz, On Being Free 126)
On both a societal and a personal level, exile is the illusion of freedom and the dream of autonomy, a dream that characterizes our postmodern world, where anyone can be replaced by any other, and everyone is expendable. In this confusion the soul in exile is broken.
The Broken Soul
Exile is a pirtzah or a âbreachâ in our being. Hence, the phrase pirtzah shel galut, which is the âcalamity of exile,â the calamity of a broken soul. The ramifications of this calamity become clear when we consider some additional meanings of paratz. This verb, for instance, can mean to âdemolish,â as well as to âentreat,â to âbeg,â or to âplead.â One who is cast into exile is demolished inasmuch as he or she is reduced to a state of begging; therefore, the Messiah, whom we keep in exile as long as we keep ourselves from Torah, is often disguised as a beggar.
In our own exile, however, a beggarâs rags are often disguised as three-piece suits. It is obvious enough that for one who is forced to wander in a wilderness, homeless and destitute, exile is indeed a calamity. What is not so obvious is the crushing nature of our spiritual exile, where we hold to our breast the very âviperââthe efeh, which is the efah or ânothingnessââthat preys upon us. In this homelessness that passes for home, we enjoy an affluent life but are incapable of rejoicing. We weigh, measure, and count all that we have, and yet we are beggared by our abundance. Hence, the intricate connection between kesef and kosef, between âmoneyâ and âyearning.â As the two intersect in our confusion between being and having, we wake up one day to find that the world and the people around us have suddenly grown strange.
Here the first reaction of the soul broken by exile is often to rebel; exile is a realm of corruption, and the rebel insists on purity where purity is impossible. Here rebellion for the sake of the world turns into a vengeance against it; that is, when a person may become pritz or âviolentâ; pritz also means âtyrantâ or âoppressor.â Here the exiled soul, the broken soul, dreams the dream of Western ontological thought, which is both totalizing and totalitarian. The exile that breaks the soul is precisely such a state of tyranny and of tyrannizing thought, which is the contrary of Jewish thought. For its highest aim, as modern history has shown, is to think the Holy One into exile and out of the picture, so that a counterfeit self may reign supreme in the dangerous illusion of its autonomy.
In the condition of exile, then, Godâs authority and sanctity as revealed in Torah are in exile. The home of the people of Israel is not just the Land of Israel, although that thin strip of land is indeed its holy home and haven. Beyond the matter of geographical borders, however, Israelâs home is Torah, which is the Name of the Nameless One, as Nachmanides teaches (Nachmanides 1:112). In exile the letters of the Name unravel, until we lose our own name; they unravel because we have lost our own name, having changed our name into an Egyptian name. Assuming Egyptian namesâidentifying ourselves by Egyptian standards of prestige, popularity, and powerâwe slip into the desolation that characterizes exile.
Desolation
The Hebrew word for âdesolationâ is shemamah; it also means âhorror.â The desolate horror of exile is not that there is so much evil in the world; on the contrary, the horror is that there is no evil in the world. Nor is there any good in the world; the world is simply there, mute, neutral, and indifferent. The desolation and horror of exile lie in this state of being empty of all value, all substance, all meaning. In exile there is a loss not only of oneâs bearings but also of oneâs sense of reality, of oneâs senses as such. In exile we go mad.
Hence, we have another cognate of shamam, the adjective shimem, which means âcrazy,â âdemented,â or âinsane.â How many times has any one of us looked upon the world and taken it to be insanity? The insanity of exile, like all insanity, lies in mistaking the unreal for the real, the darkness for light, desolation for abundance, good for evil, and evil for good. What is most insane about the exilic insanity is that it passes for the calm of normalcy, yet it is a calm haunted by an underlying panic. Thus, the horror and insanity, the shemamah and shimem, of exile seethe in a state of behalah, which is âfright,â âpanic,â or âconfusion.â This is where we collide with what modern philosophy calls âthe absurd.â
The verb nivhalâto âbe terrifiedâ or âdisturbedââapplies very well to this state of not-so-quiet desperation. In this state we are constantly bahul, that is, âworriedâ or âpuzzled.â Another word for âworriedâ or âtroubledâ perfectly articulates this exilic condition. It is mutrad, which also means âbanished,â from the verb tarad, meaning to âdrive outâ or âexpel.â In exile we are mutrad and bahul, worried and banished, so we suffer lapses of memory, as when we turn around and cannot recall where all the years went because they went for naught. Unable to look back, we plunge headlong into emptiness, forever âin a hurry,â which is another meaning of bahul. Like Alice and the Red Queen, we frantically run in place, from place to place, just to stay in the same place. Following every fashion and fad, we pretend to be more than we are and in doing so become less and less. For in our hustling and bustling, we become estranged from ourselves, so a stranger gazes back at us from the unreal reflection in the mirror. And for a moment we are paralyzed.
If life is manifested through movement, exile is revea...