Bamidbar / Shavuos 5784
I own a fascinating book that attempts to solve the mystery of where exactly Har Sinai is. Is it indeed located in the Sinai Peninsula, or perhaps elsewhere, even as far east as Saudi Arabia? Tracing the path of the Exodus from Egypt to Sinai is challenging in part because the actual terrain is nondescript. Had Sinai been in the middle of a densely-populated ancient city, some remains of the even would no doubt have been left behind to be discovered later in history. But the Torah wasn’t given in the middle of a metropolis; it was given in the Midbar. And that is exactly the point.
וַיְדַבֵּר ה’ אֶל משֶׁה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי. לָמָּה בְּמִדְבַּר סִינַי, מִכָּאן שָׁנוּ חֲכָמִים בִּשְׁלשָׁה דְבָרִים נִתְּנָה הַתּוֹרָה, בָּאֵשׁ, וּבַמַּיִם, וּבַמִּדְבָּר.
(מדרש במדבר רבה א)
“And Hashem spoke to Moshe in the Wilderness of Sinai.” Why is it specifically referred to as the Wilderness of Sinai? The Sages taught that the Torah was given with three qualities: fire, water, and wilderness.
(Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah 1)
It is no coincidence that Bamidbar is the parsha read immediately before Shavuos. As the above Midrash notes, the events of this next book of the Torah are reported as occuring not only in the wilderness, but the Wilderness of Sinai, emphasizing that the giving of the Torah was in fact given in the wilderness. Interestingly, this is not the only motif the Midrash speaks of in the context of the giving of the Torah, but mentions fire and water as well, citing scriptural allusions for these qualities afterward.
What does each of these features represent, and why are they spoken of all in the same breath?
Fire and water are opposing forces. Depending on the given interaction, water may well extinguish fire, or fire will turn water into vaporized nothingness. This is likewise true in terms of the direction they travel in. Fire is a form of energy that surges upward, flames rising from the fuel that sustains them. Water, on the other hand, moves perpetually downward, snaking through any cracks and crevices it encounters to find the lowest possible place to reside in.
Torah can well take on either form, depending on the person or life circumstance.
Torah can be fire, propelling us forward, motivating us to move beyond our present selves. Baalei Teshuva know well the feeling of spiritual jet fuel that Torah infused them with, setting on a course towards new levels of observance. Torah as fire is the form it takes on when we are motivated to ascend, to climb higher than where we presently find ourselves.
Yet Torah can also be water, finding us in our lowest place and offering us comfort and solace in the depths of despair. Torah binds us to Hashem and reminds us that there is meaning in suffering and reason in tragedy, even if we can’t viscerally feel it.
Whether in an instance of fire or water—whether Torah is spurring us towards new growth or offering comfort when we’re down—we possess a palpable sense of the Torah’s value and import in our lives. We understand acutely how lost we’d be without it, how critically we depend on its guidance and instruction.
But what happens when it’s neither? When—at least largely—life is set, predictable, and rather static? No great spiritual overhaul on the horizon, nor great catastrophe looming over us. What happens to our relationship with Torah during these times? When we need neither jet fuel nor solace?
To this, the Midrash reminds us of the Midbar, the wilderness. A bleak, unadorned landscape. The Midbar is plain. The Midbar is boring. The Midbar is Torah.
Our relationship with Hashem, in many respects, is a relationship like any other. There are times that it may feel novel, fresh, and exhilarating—when the relationship is on fire. And there are times when we’re so very grateful to have someone who will hold our hand through challenging times, providing comfort when we’ve arrived at a low point.
But what happens when we feel neither? It is here that the Midrash makes the point that Torah is not only fire and water, but a Midbar as well. Like any human being we are close with, the majority of time spent in one another’s company is filled with the uneventful, pedestrian routines that comprise the vast majority of life. The Midrash reminds us that there is nothing wrong with us—or the relationship—for feeling that things are humdrum or commonplace. If every relationship ended when thing became bland, no marriage could successfully survive the sorts of basic chores and errands that are so critical to a properly productive life.
It is in those moments that we demonstrate our greatest commitment to the other. The bulk of a marriage is marked by neither the fire of Sheva Brachos, nor the descending water of a crisis that makes companionship necessary. It is marked instead by laundry and finances and meal plans. And it is in those moments that a successful couple shows that they are dedicated to the relationship nonetheless.
Were we to always feel exhilarated by each mitzvah or relieved by the stability that Judaism offers in difficult times, would our relationship with Hashem truly be a relationship at all? Or would it be little more than self-indulgence, responding to our own needs and impulses, rather than to the wants and needs of our Beloved? Most of life is a Midbar—marked by neither highs nor lows. It is precisely there that the Torah was given and precisely there where we must constantly renew our commitment.