‘A Shepherd’s Song’ analyzes Psalm 23′s metaphor

Posted on 01 May 2014. 

A Shepherd’s Song: Psalm 23 and the Shepherd Metaphor in Jewish Thought by Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel, Kodesh Press, New York, NY;  ISBN 978-0-61599-132-0 ©2014, $22.95, p. 360, plus Notes and Index

By Fred Reiss, Ed.D.

 
Fred Reiss, Ed.D
Rabbi Michael Leo Samuel


WINCHESTER, California — Psalm 23 is arguably the most well known of the one hundred fifty psalms. Its opening line, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” presents a powerful image of the most awesome entity in the universe providing you a comfortable place to rest, all you can eat and drink, and even protection from your enemies. How bad is that? To get these, all you have to be is ……… a sheep.

Being a sheep is by and large not a good thing. The word sheep generally describes those who blindly follow others regardless of consequences. It also conjures up phrases like, “a sheep being led to the slaughter.” Likewise, I cannot possibly imagine today’s Jewish mother kevelling as she tells others that her son is becoming a shepherd.

Indeed, a shepherd has been a pejorative term going back almost two thousand years. In a Midrash to the Book of Psalms, the third century Rabbi Yosi bar Hanina noted that there is no occupation more degrading than that of a shepherd who walks around like a beggar holding a staff and bag in hand. Yet, Jacob applied this epithet to God (Gen. 48:15) and King David said, “The Lord is my shepherd” (Ps. 23:1).

We now have a conundrum. How can it be that such negative images combine to offer a commanding and enduring picture? Michael Samuel, Rabbi of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California, tackles Psalm 23’s influential metaphor of shepherd and sheep in his latest book A Shepherd’s Song.  Samuel recognizes these inherent problems in the shepherd/sheep metaphor and asks, for example, how Jews can still recognize a personal relationship with God in light of the Holocaust.  Additionally, he notes that our age of science and technology gives the illusion that we are self-sufficient; thereby reducing our “spiritual sensitivity,” which further separates the sheep from the shepherd.

A Shepherd’s Song invites the reader to look deeply into the message of Psalm 23, particularly as it applies to the shepherd, which Samuel calls a “root metaphor,” a symbol of the “community’s beliefs, values and behavior.” By this he means that the answer that Judaism gives to the shepherd metaphor carves out one facet of how the religion acknowledges important universal events, such as birth, life, marriage, and death, as well as engages collective mysteries: Is God personal or aloof? Who gets to heaven? How does the individual affect the collective? Samuel tells us that “metaphors of God function as the template for all human behavior.” Judaism’s answers to universal questions would be much different if the psalmist could have legitimately written, “The Force is with me, I shall not want,” or “To Whom It May Concern, I have all that I need.”

We are treated to the general topic of metaphors as seen through the eyes of Greek philosophers, Talmudic rabbi, Jewish scholars of the Middle Ages, and modern sources. As for the Hebrew Bible, metaphor becomes a synonym for anthropomorphism, the attribution of human forms to God, such as: “the hand of God” (Job 19:21), “you may see My back, but not My face” (Ex. 23:33), and “the sound of God walking in the garden, (Gen. 3:8),” etc. The rabbis understood that the Bible is written “in the language of the people,” nonetheless, they often employed these figurative descriptions without emphasizing that God has no image and therefore cannot have physical features.

Samuel relates the disapprobation that Maimonides held with regard to any terms that give visualizations of God and the strong condemnation he held for past and contemporary rabbis for the continued use of terms he felt were the equivalent of idolatry. Maimonides concluded, as did Philo of Alexandria a thousand years earlier, that one cannot say what God is, only what God is not. So how is it that we can say, “The Lord is my shepherd”?

Being caught up in the technological breakthroughs of the modern era, these philosophical debates over anthropomorphisms and biblical metaphors seem to have little meaning for modern synagogue worshipers, and perhaps even the rabbis who lead them. With a loss of metaphor, there is a loss of a personal relationship with God, and a concomitant failure to communicate with God through prayer.

There are deep metaphysical messages about life in Psalm 23, according to Samuel, which he connects to such things as leadership and personal presence. He draws on examples from the Hebrew Bible, particularly notable personages in the Book of Genesis who exhibit both good and bad shepherd-like traits, such as Adam, who is given dominion over the animals; Cain, who abandons his brotherly responsibility; and Joseph when “he literally shepherds to safety his brothers and the people whose welfare God entrusted to him;” along with others, including Moses and King David.

Samuel takes special note of the prophet Ezekiel, who attacks the numerous pre-Babylonian Exile kings of Judea for failing to act as proper shepherds towards their people as a reason for Judea’s defeat. A later prophet, Isaiah II, refers to the Persian king Cyrus, the monarch who allowed the Jews to return to their homeland and rebuild the Temple, as “My shepherd” and “His anointed one.” Pointing out that while referring to a non-Jew as a messiah-like figure seems shocking to the Jewish mindset, Samuel stresses that this assertion places at the forefront the idea that God will choose whomever he wants to fulfill His plan for His flock.

The thorny question of whether or not Psalm 23 can have any meaning in a post-Holocaust world is also tackled in A Shepherd’s Song. Samuel answers that it is historically false to believe that all Holocaust-era rabbis “always acted in the best interests of their flocks,” and he further observes that the Holocaust has given us “a grim reminder that there is no redemption without human actors.” His discussion on the Holocaust ends with a number of moving Holocaust-era stories that portray some or all of his proposed seven qualities of “good shepherding.” Among these are: encouragement, commitment to remain with the community, assistance, and self-sacrifice.

Samuel provides a line-by-line rabbinic, pastoral, and interpretive exegesis of and commentary on Psalm 23, giving us multiple perspectives of this ancient poem: imagery of a shepherd (verses 1-2), a wanderer (verses 3-4), and a host (verses 5-end).  The concluding chapters of A Shepherd’s Song focus on ways to increase one’s spirituality through the psalms, especially Psalm 23. Samuel’s preferred method is known as lectio divina, which is regularly setting aside time for the purpose of reading the Hebrew Bible as contemplation and meditation, rather than, say, as a history book or a book of stories, in order to draw closer to God.

In the two appendices, which Samuel titles Excursus 1 and 2, he presents Psalm 23 through the eyes of the great sixteenth century Safed mystic, Isaac Luria, who made Psalm 23 part of the Sabbath meal liturgy, and more extensively through the hapless biblical character  Job.

With today’s wireless technology: anklets, collars, ID tags, cameras, and the ubiquitous GPS systems, it is not hard to accept that the job of shepherd may become less valuable and consequently marginalized in places where it now thrives. However, A Shepherd’s Song does a remarkable job clearly and definitively establishing that the messages contained in Psalm 23’s metaphor, which include proper stewardship, alert attendance, caring companionship, guided nurturing, and unconditional love, are as valuable to society today as when the poet uttered the words that became Psalm 23 more than twenty-five hundred years ago.

*
Dr. Fred Reiss is a retired publicand Hebrew school teacher and administrator. He is the author of The Standard Guide to the Jewish and Civil Calendars;Ancient Secrets of Creation: Sepher Yetzira, the Book that Started Kabbalah, Revealed; and a fiction book, Reclaiming the Messiah. The author can be reachedvia fred.reiss@sdjewishworld.com.


You can order the book at: 
http://www.amazon.com/Shepherds-Song-Shepherd-Metaphor-Thought/dp/0615991327/ref=sr_1_fkmr1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1395697932&sr=8-1-fkmr1&keywords=Jewish+thought+A+Shepherd%27s+Song+Psalm+23

The language of empathy is hardwired into the consciousness of many higher mammals.  Human beings share the capacity to experience empathy for others. Of course, human beings are different in one basic respect from the animal kingdom. Whereas empathy is something that is instinctual in the animal kingdom, human beings possess the unique ability to reprogram their psyche and deny their basic empathic feelings.

The hardened heart is a familiar metaphor in the Bible. Pharaoh, as we know, suffered from a hardened heart. The metaphor of the hardened heart describes how Pharaoh denied his humanity. The heart in the Bible represents the core of our personhood—the wellspring of our humanity. It takes an act of will to deny its tender feelings. Conversely, it takes an act of will to allow the feelings that make us human, come alive.

Remarkably, the face of human suffering does have the ability to make even hard-hearted people to open their hearts.

When we think about the challenges that face Israelis and Palestinians, the status quo is determined to maintain the current state of conflict. Indeed, nothing can be more threatening than someone who is willing to step outside of his or her platonic caves and behold a different reality—a world suffused with light and endless new possibilities.

A brave Palestinian professor named Professor Mohammed S. Dajani did something that most of us probably never thought was possible: He took about thirty students on a visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp.

The West-bank professor upset the Al-Quds University administration; they denounced Dajani as a traitor and collaborator—accusations that usually inspire death threats and imprisonment. Like the man of Plato’s cave, he went beyond the cave’s walls and discovered an alternative world. Just as the man was later threatened by other cave-dwellers, so too Dajani now must face the wrath of his own people, whom he has dedicated himself to helping.

The German Research Foundation promoted and underwrote this educational project; it was part of a joint program on conflict resolution entitled, “Hearts of Flesh—Not Stone.” The Israeli students from Ben-Gurion University visited the Dheishe Refugee Camp in Bethlehem as part of the same project.

The term Hearts of Flesh—not Stone is a powerful name, obviously inspired by the famous biblical passage in the Book of Ezekiel:

• I will give you a new heart, and a new spirit I will put within you. I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh. (Ezekiel 36:26)

The Palestinian professor who led his students in conflict resolution on a historic visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau has responded to his critics, declaring that he will not be silenced and, if given the chance, he would do it again.

“The trip went well as planned,” Prof Dajani told the Jersulaem Post when he returned home. “It helped to explore what lessons would be learnt, and to instill commitment to alleviate human misery by not being a bystander.”

• The students learnt a lot from this visit about human suffering,” he said. “The visit gave them an in-depth understanding of the various aspects of the Holocaust. They now have answers for those who deny the Holocaust. ‘I was there. I saw what happened. I walked on the ground where it happened.’ I find it difficult to understand why anyone would oppose such a visit since students learnt much more than they would sitting in a classroom.”
• Such atrocities should not be repeated anywhere and for any reason,” he said. “They were committed by zealots and extremists and they can be prevented from happening in the future by spreading a culture of moderation, tolerance, and acceptance of the fact we do not need to be copies of each other to exist together and live with one another.”
• “I will go to Ramallah, I will go to the university, I will put my photos of the visit on Facebook, and I do not regret for one second what I did. As a matter of fact, I will do it again if given the opportunity. I will not hide, I will not deny. I will not be silent. I will not remain a bystander even if the victims of the suffering I show empathy for are my occupiers. And this is my final statement on this issue.”

When we think about the cure for the world’s most intractable problems, the language of empathy offers us the most humane means through which we can heal the world of what ails it. Let us pray that the Palestinian students’ lives will someday give birth to a new Palestinian and Israeli reality. Political solutions devoid of humanity are condemned to fail; but if we learn to understand the language of suffering—perhaps we can triumph over our collective and individual despair and create a new tomorrow.

A Light unto the nations

Printed in Kehilla Magazine

Hanukkah celebrates the first triumph for religious freedom in the ancient history of late antiquity. Although the holiday celebrates the military victory of the Maccabees back in the latter half of the second century B.C.E., rabbinic tradition redefined its significance by stressing the spiritual dimension of the revolt. Military battles may come and go, but it is the triumph of the human spirit that matters most when it comes to the spiritual evolution of humankind. The rabbis, by and large, viewed the militaristic tendencies of the State with grave suspicion. Hence, Hanukkah had to signify something other than just military prowess.

The prophetic verse from the Bible underscores this thought—“Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, says the Lord of hosts” (Zechariah 4:6). When the forces of war and impatience demand a punishing response, it is all the more important that sober minds demand a calmer and more thoughtful approach. The Chinese military general and philosopher Sun Tzu (544-496 B.C.E.) in his famous book, “The Art of War,” writes,

“The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.”

The metaphor of light captures the essence of Zechariah’s and Sun Tzu’s related thoughts. Since ancient times, light has long been the symbol of life, happiness, prosperity, a realm of perfect being. Light’s appearance toward the end of the night is breathtaking; we never cease to be in awe of light’s gradual ascendance, peacefully dispelling darkness with its illuminating power. One little candle gently creates much light without fanfare or self-righteous arrogance.  Each Hanukah candle teaches us to walk in the spirit of peacefulness. By creating light, we all help build an earthly home of God’s reality that celebrates and enhances life in all of its splendorous forms.

The relevance of Hanukkah is especially relevant for today’s challenges we all face. Hanukkah reminds us that the real battlefields are the hearts and souls of people. No military force—regardless of its size or strength—can conquer the spirit. This thought offers a practical prescription for our leaders to consider before sending our young people to fight in yet another unpredictable war. In our battle against religious terrorism, it is important to remember that wars must be fought not only with weapons, but with ideas. Physically destroying an enemy may have negligible value, but fighting backward ideas with progressive ideas that champion the dignity of all people will ultimately yield a victory everyone can savor—and with much less bloodshed.

Lastly, the routine use of religious coercion by the religious parties in Israel continues to exacerbate the tensions between the Haredi and non-Haredi denominations of Israel. This past year, not even a Modern Orthodox rabbi could perform a marriage for a couple without Haredi rabbinical approval. The fight for gender rights, equal rights for Modern Orthodox, Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist Jews is a continuous clash of worldviews. Yet, the olive never yields its oil without a struggle, and by the same token all of us who wish to preserve the democratic makeup of Israel must do everything to prevent it from becoming a theocracy. Democratic and pluralistic values are not antithetical to Judaism. This is a battle we have yet to win…

The holiday of Hanukkah offers a simple reminder that the forces of light and enlightenment can eventually triumph provided we start fighting on a more conceptual and spiritual plane.

There is a lovely story about a king who had three sons. Before he was going to turn over the leadership of his empire over, he wanted to see which son was truly wise to manage his kingdom. He put this problem before them, “Only one of you is going to be qualified to be king. There are three identical rooms on the first floor of this palace. I want each of you to fill a room so that every nook and corner is filled. You may use any commodity you like, but the room must be filled by midnight.” One son tried using straw, which he thought would pack very nicely. Another son thought sand could fill the room completely. Both sons failed to finish before the midnight hour. The third son waited until about five minutes before midnight, and he called his father to step into the room.

He took out a candle and filled the entire room with its radiant light. His father was pleased and said, “You, my wise son, have shown yourself worthy to inherit the throne of my kingdom.”

The parable serves as a reminder that sometimes the most thoughtful response can achieve infinitely more than a thoughtless approach to life’s many social and international political problems.

 Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel