The evil urgeâthe devil insideâis the simple desire for a straightforward story. It lurks behind the page, tempting us with tested and approved interpretations. It adores certitude and hates ambiguity. It tells us that the structural patterns of Genesis 1 are superfluous repetitions that complicate the creation narrative for no good reason. It tells us that the alphabetical constraints of Lamentations are extravagant gimmicks that threaten to obscure the content of the book. It tells us that the stylistic preference that Luke shows for literary ornamentation prevents him from offering a no-nonsense account of the birth of Jesus. Against the express wish of God, it seduces us with the easily accessible fruit of a second-rate tree.
Atomic Priesthood
When it became clear that radioactive substances were likely to remain hazardous for more than ten thousand years, government agencies began to consider alternative warning systems that would remain operational and effective long after established methods of communication, including currently known languages, ceased to be understood. Considering the fact that no civilization in history has survived for ten thousand years, the fear was that with the passage of time, knowledge about the meaning and danger of nuclear waste repositories would inevitably be lost. One of the proposed solutions was to design olfactory devices that would emit fetid odors to repel future trespassers. Another proposal, perhaps the most controversial one, was to establish periodic rituals based on legend and superstition rather than the transmission of accurate information. An elite group of expertsâan atomic priesthood, so to speakâwould be exclusively acquainted with the truth behind the myth, the danger behind the site, the possibility of radiation and its implications. The rest of the populationâthe uninitiatedâwould simply follow a tradition.1
Some protested against the notion of keeping millions in ignorance millennium after millennium, arguing that the concept of an atomic priesthood is based on secrecy, manipulation, and deceit.2 Others, impressed as they may have been with the ingenuity of the idea, voiced similar reservations about the ability of occult practices to transmit important knowledge from generation to generation.3 None of these critical voices, however, seemed uncomfortable with the fundamental distrust of language embedded in this proposition: the implied claim that human modes of communication are insufficient models for sign relations. More than a mere preference for embodied rather than verbal or written communication, the idea of an atomic priesthood suggests that biosemiotics is the answer to the so-called anthropocentric fallacy.4 Those who subscribe to this model argue that sign actionâsemiosisâdoes not necessarily involve a mental process and must therefore extend to complex communication systems that include animals, plants, and inanimate substances.5 Life, according to this model, is a primarily nonhuman experience, and culture must learn to accept its subordinate position as a marginal element in a mind-independent reality.6
Against the threat to dwarf human language, theological models describe creation as a linguistic process that consists of ten verbal events.7 The beginning of time is marked by an act of speech, as is the divine promise to humanity. At the end of time, the resurrection of the dead will also be the result of a divine utterance.8 Reality itselfâthe past, the present, and the futureâcannot exist without the text that actualizes it. To see God in nonlinguistic things, or to claim that God is to be found in nature, would be blasphemous. God is not acknowledged byâor known toâanimals, plants, or inanimate objects. God, according to rabbinic thought, is known only to human beings. God does not have a presence outside of human perception, human cognition, or human language. In other words, God is made of words. As an active component in a complex network of linguistic signs, God creates humanity in the form of other dynamic signsâspeakers and listeners, readers and writers, commentators and interpretersâwho, in turn, assert the divine through perpetual sign action. In theological terms, the divinity is helpless without the verbal system that allows it to command the world into existence. Asserting itself as the very tool of creation, language generates thought, produces action, and enables life. In other words, being presupposes language.
The same unapologetically logocentric approach is restated in the opening statement of the Gospel of John. True to the Jewish tradition, and closer in essence to rabbinic semiotics than Greek philosophy, this version of creation champions language as a precondition for nature, not as a species-specific extension of nature.9 The Word that marks the beginning, the thing that predates all things, is the equivalent of the first verbal imperative of Genesis: let there be light. Articulated before the birth of the universe, it establishes the text itself as the source of meaning. Without the textâor, in Jewish terms, without the Torah and its interpretive extensionsâthe cosmos would not be comprehensible.
Essentially immanent, these theological models, which identify meaning as a product of the text, are committed to a careful consideration of every linguistic component: the individual unit that relies on systematic functions to distinguish it from other units, determine its actuality, and give it its value. God, like language, exists in a symbolic realm. God cannot be represented by iconic or indexical signs. It would be an oversimplification of the divine to suggest that it rains and therefore God exists, or that it rains too much and therefore God is angry. God has promised Noah that too much rain would never be a sign of divine anger again.10 Consequently, future floodsâor any natural phenomenaâmust not be attributed to God. God has no body, shape, or image. In other words, God is not a substance. God, like language, is made of relations.
The biosemiotic model, on the other hand, rejects the centrality of the text for the sake of an alleged truth that transcends language. Needless to say, this type of transcendent approachâwith its preference for empirical, referential, or utilitarian thinkingâis quite popular. A thematic session at the 2013 annual conference of the American Comparative Literature Association, for example, invited participants to consider literary texts as global positioning systems, each providing contemporary readers or later scholars with tools to navigate cultural, political, and economic situations within the period of its composition. From a logical standpoint, the idea that literature reflects external frames of reference is based on deductive reasoning. It begins with the general supposition that texts can function as navigational instruments, proceeds to identify a series of relevant cases, and concludes with an argument about the reliability or accuracy of particular texts. In contrast, an inductive approach would begin with a series of observations on the actual components of a text in order to draw conclusions about its totality. It would then observe a series of textual totalitiesâa sufficient number of narrativesâin order to establish a set of propositions about the nature of textuality itself. Those who approach sacred literature with transcendent or deductive tools tend to see the text as a reincarnation of the referential world. The act of reading, according to this approach, entails a reconstruction of an encoded reality: an attempt to penetrate the invisible world behind the text. In other words, the text is a document that functions as a sign. As such, it mediates between the referential realm and the process of interpretation.11
To view the Bible as a sign is to treat it as an auxiliary apparatus whose functional value is measured by its ability to reflect objects of greater actuality and magnitude. According to this view, linguistic attributesâform, structure, style, point of view, and other vital features that call attention to the textuality of the textâinterfere with the decoding process and obscure the signified: the transcendent meaning that predates and supersedes the reality of the written word. Readers who espouse this view are often eager to treat the Bible as a mere representation of divine intentions, historical truths, important lessons, or other concepts that, for various reasons, are perceived as much more valuable than Scripture itself. Scripture, in this case, becomes a strange type of gratuitous ornamentation that compromises the clarity and purity of a transcendent reality. Like a good scientific paper, Scripture, according to this view, should lend itself to some kind of efficient recapitulation and allow readers to reach the signifiedâthe content, the substance, the message, the purposeâwithout devoting too much time to the signifier: the actual text.
Expansive Midrash
One of the most radical endeavors of rabbinic hermeneutics is the self-conscious attempt to eliminate the distinction between source material and subsequent retellings. As soon as the Oral Law is articulated, transcribed, and made available to the public, it becomes one with the Torah. Rather than auxiliary documents designed to explain the canon, new interpretations are treated as canonical elements that invite an endless chain of additional commentaries. Each commentary grows into an organic part of the text with which it interacts, broadening its scope and extending its meaning. Observant readers who immerse themselves in the rabbinic tradition embrace the notion that there is no fundamental difference between the Written Law and the Oral Law. Both are integral portions of the same Torah, both have been with God since the creation of the world, and both were given to Moses and the people at Mount Sinai. The fact that rabbinic literature is a development of biblical literature, or that new interpretations continue to emerge, does not mean that earlier texts are perceived as original or that later ones are considered by-products. Scripture includes all its future expansions. It foresees all possible interpretations, incorporates them into its textual system, and grants them the status of sacred books.
Such is the case of the Mishnah, the Tosefta, and the Talmud: major texts that collect rabbinic literature from the early Second Temple period to the end of the fifth century. Broadly known as midrash, these works of biblical commentary, like biblical literature itself, display a wide range of thematic concerns and literary styles. Large parts of the Mishnah, for example, consist of legal debates: pointed discussions of the commandments, observances, and rituals collectively referred to as halakhah. Typical of the Talmud is a more liberal use of narrative extensionsâstories, parables, and anecdotesâcommonly referred to as aggadah. The tension between the meticulous attention to legal matters and the playful qualities of the aggadic sections is one of the most significant hallmarks of the Talmud. Other midrashic texts abandon statutory concerns and focus solely on narrative, often employing literary techniques that are considerably more elaborate than the highly imaginative yet altogether economical approach of the Talmud. The frequently anthologized Midrash on the Death of Moses, with its ornamented descriptions, nuances of dialogue, and clever manipulation of time, is a good example. Moses, who ascends to the heavenly palace, enters into a long and fascinating conversation with God, protesting against his imminent death. The actual debate between God and Moses is very Talmudic, each side supporting his arguments with biblical quotes and references. Other aspects of this midrash, however, are closer in genre and aesthetics to apocalyptic literature or the books of the palaces and the chariot. Curiously, some of the rejoinders that Moses offers are more powerful than the arguments that God submits. For instance, when God explains that he cannot allow Moses to live any longer for fear that the people might deify him, Moses reminds God that he was the one who eliminated the golden calf and saved the people from idolatry. At some point, God, who accuses Moses of murder, says, âDid I tell you to kill the Egyptian taskmaster?â And Moses replies, âYou killed every Egyptian firstborn.â12
The emergence of the Kabbalah in the late Middle Ages presents a more momentous departure from Talmudic literature and mainstream midrash. Committed to enhancing conventional modes of interpretation, the Kabbalah offers an experimental approach to biblical commentary that causes certain elements in traditional Jewish thought to treat it with suspicion, apprehension, or ridicule. More specifically, the quintessential works of thirteenth-century kabbalistic literature, the Zohar and Tikkunei Zohar, reimagine midrash as a remarkably complex network of intersecting narratives. Amplifying the meaning of Scripture and the Oral Law in innovative, poetic, often astounding ways, the Kabbalah introduces a new sign system that reveals hitherto unrealized connections between seemingly unrelated elements. For example, the biblical law that warns against the removal of eggs or hatchlings in the presence of the mother bird should be understood, according to Tikkunei Zohar, as the story of the Shekhinah: the female aspect of the divinity.13 Similarly, biblical sections that list slavery laws are translated by the Kabbalah into the story of the human soul.14 According to the Zohar, the various categories of slaves and maidservants signify the different parts and levels of the soul, which indwell the human body and embark on a long journey from imperfection to repair. The divinity itself, according to the Kabbalah, is a narrative-based structure of supernal spheres and divine names, at which every letter of the Hebrew Bible hints. In other words, readers who approach kabbalistic texts are invited to acquire a new language and employ it in the exploration of unfamiliar hermeneutical avenues.
The vast corpus of sixteenth-century Lurianic Kabbalah marks another major turn in hermeneutical practices. Expanding the semiotic possibilities of biblical, midrashic, and earlier kabbalistic narratives, Isaac Luria and his disciples develop an extraordinarily intricate theology with far-reaching historical, sociological, and psychological implications. The ten supernal spheres, for example, are transformed into five divine configurations: three male and two female. The older male configuration corresponds to the highest sphere: Crown. The intermediate male and female configurations correspond to the next two spheres: Wisdom and Understanding. Also known as Father and Mother, they are responsible for the growth and development of the younger divine configurations. The younger male configuration corresponds to the next six spheres, collectively known as Beauty. The younger female configurationâalso known as the Shekhinah, the heavenly queenâcorresponds to the last sphere: Monarchy. Based on a unique interpretation of certain textual elements in the Song of Songs and Daniel, the younger divine configurations are portrayed as a tempestuous redheaded female and a hot-tempered male with raven black hair. The intermediate divine configurations function as their parents, while the older male divine configuration is the equivalent of a patient grandfather with snow-white hair.15 When away from her male counterpart, the younger female divine configuration is unsatisfied, irritable, and quick to condemn her children. When close to him, her needs are fulfilled, and her critical nature gives way to compassion. We, her children, must guarantee her blissful union with her male counterpart. We do so with prayer, observance, good deeds, and Torah study, especially Kabbalah study. It is then that her fiery temper is mitigated and sweetenedâthat is, her judgmental tendencies are rectifiedâjust as the judgmental nature of her male counterpart is rectified by Father, Mother, and the older male divine configuration.
This structure generates multiple subplots that portray the divinity as an endlessly dynamic concept. Theologically, the narrative of the configurations expresses the tension between two types of divine governance: one based on punishment and reward, the other on unconditional mercy. Certain developments of this narrative introduce further subdivisions of divine elements. For example, the Ancient of Days appears in some cases as a sixth configuration. Higher than the older male configuration and partially unknown, he is rooted in the last c...
