Writing the Waves

To listen to Rabbi Scott's blog, click HERE.

(Read to the end and you’ll find the afikomen I’ve hidden for you—but suffice it to
say, Martin Cominsky has joined the “band” for tonight.)

One of the great religious debates—no matter the tradition—is the question of divine
authority. If a faith is built around a written text, the questions are inevitable: Who wrote it? Who gave it? What happens when sincere people disagree about what it means?

Judaism, of course, has its own rich meta-story about the giving of Torah. Was it the entire Torah? Just the Ten Commandments? A raw articulation of the Divine voice that required human shaping? Jews have been debating these questions—and many more—for generations. It’s often said that “Orthodox” Jews believe the Torah comes literally and fully from Sinai, while “Liberals” emphasize personal autonomy and an evolving understanding of revelation. But years ago, it occurred to me that our very meta-story offers something far more interesting: a powerful counterbalance to absolutism in all its forms.

We can neither say with confidence that Torah was fully revealed in a single, frozen moment at Sinai, nor can we dismiss it as mere myth or legend. Judaism refuses both extremes—and that refusal matters.

Think about it this way. Monotheism is not only the belief that there is one God, one
creator of the universe. It is also the conviction that there is a single source of divine energy, and that all symbols, stories, and sacred practices are meant to draw us back toward that source. At the same time, monotheism insists that God is not corporeal—not a being of shape, form, or substance.

So when we say that Torah emerges from this infinite, cosmically grand source, we must accept a paradox: anything that comes from infinity into human life must be, by definition, derivative. Perhaps Torah “exists” in the mind of God in some limitless way—but that is not how we encounter it. For us to receive divine wisdom, it must take form: letters, words, phrases, stories. And all of these are symbols—limited, shaped, translated so that human beings can actually grasp them.

As I often teach, this means that something is always lost in translation. And I believe
this loss is not a flaw of monotheism, but one of its greatest safeguards. It is the divine bulwark against fundamentalism.

Yes, revelation may involve loss—compression, distortion, ambiguity. But it also makes
possible discovery, creativity, and relationship. So much is found precisely because revelation comes to us incomplete, requiring interpretation, conversation, and humility.

If you’ve read this far, you’ll know that tonight I’ve invited Martin Cominsky to join me in teaching Torah in a most unusual way. With Martin playing the role of Moses and me playing the role of God, we’ll explore the conversation at the Burning Bush—not as a fixed script, but as a living exchange. Then we’ll invite your questions, reflections, and meditations—questions you might want to ask Moses or God themselves.

Together, we’ll see how Torah continues to speak, not despite its translation into human language, but because of it. After all, the font of Torah’s wisdom is limited only by our certitude.

Please join us.