Key word: hermeneutics
About 700 words or 1½ pages
Decades
ago, when I was a young worker at the YMCA in Jerusalem, I had the duty to take
small tour groups around parts of the Holy Land. These groups were a mixed bag of Jews,
Christians, agnostics and general run-of-the-mill folks. They toured the usual sites, attended a
lecture or two on politics and religion, and toward the end went out with me to
a local dinner in a small village, and I’d then take them out into the desert
after sunset.
“I hear
in your lecture today you talked about hermeneutics,” I said to the group of
four or five as we bounced down the highway at night. They were tired but relaxed, having just finished
our celebratory dinner on the last night of their tour. I heard grumbles, and one asked what was
hermeneutics anyway.
“Ah,
hermeneutics, the ancient art of interpreting and understanding what’s really
meant by and what’s behind the text. I
hope to show you something of this in a moment,” I said.
After a
time of driving straight into the rocky, barren hills--the van’s headlights
barely lighting far enough ahead to see the way---I pulled off onto a dusty
side road and stopped. I ushered them
out of the van, down the road to a clearing about 50 yards from the van, using my
trusty flashlight to light the trail.
I
gathered them in front of me, facing away from the hills, and they were already
looking up at the night sky. Thousands
upon thousands of stars shone, and the Milky Way formed a nebulous but visible
streak.
“Who
reads Hebrew?” I asked. One guy half way
raised his hand.
“I’m
not a practicing Jew or anything, but I was bar mitzvahed and was a pretty good
student. I can still read Hebrew although
I’m not sure what I’m saying,” said the man, Michael. I slipped my hand into my pocket and fished
out a small Tanach--the Old Testament in Hebrew. I handed it to Michael, and I asked him to
read the first few lines of Genesis, where I had put a sticky note to mark the spot. He
opened the book left to right out of habit, and then remembered and opened it
right to left.
“Ba-reshit
barah Elohim et ha shemaiyim…” he began, and I translated for the group, “In the beginning created God the heavens,”
and I stopped, and we all gazed up into the sky. I nodded for him to continue.
“…Va ha
Eretz hiyatah tahu va vahu…” he read, and I said, “and the earth was without form and empty. Listen to the wind,” I
said, “Formless and void: tahuuuu,
vahuuu,” And the wind cooperated by softly whistling huuuu.
“Va
ruach Elohim marhevit,” Michael continued, and I said, “The wind of God gently turned about.
The Hebrew word for spirit or wind is Ru-ach.”
“Go ahead, and gently turn about and face the mountains,” I said to all of them. I stood behind them now. “Hear it?” I said over their shoulders, “the
wind changes sound and becomes Ru-achhh or spirit.” I heard an un-huh or two from our small
crowd above the soft achhhhh of the
wind. Michael, however, did not look up,
his head down strictly on his task.
“Va
amar Elohim, ye-hiyeh ohr,” he read, and I translated, “and God said, let there be light,” and they looked around and saw
that my flashlight had been extinguished.
Their eyes had had time to adjust to the darkness. Scotopic vision—night vision-- is a wonderful
thing; it is all about black and white and can detect even the slightest motion
from the corner of the eye. I had done this
exercise a few times, and night vision always seemed to fully kick in about the
time we get to the verse where light first appears.
“Look
at the page, there is light,” I said.
And he saw that it was now softly reflective, and the words could be read
by starlight. Michael stopped reading. He got the point. It was beginning to get chilly, so I motioned
for us to head back.
“I’d
like to keep this copy,” said Michael while holding the book, “I’ve..um..gotten a tear drop on it. Let me buy it from you.”
“Please
just consider it the gift of hermeneutics,” I said, and we walked dutifully
back to the van; I put the flashlight back in my pocket. We seemed to be able to see the path even in
the darkness.
©Copyright 2019 by
John P. Harrison. All rights reserved.
