A Divine Kiss
From the wilderness of Sin the whole Israelite community continued by stages as the Lord would command (al pi Hashem). (Exodus 17:1)
And [the blasphemer] was placed in custody, until the decision of the Lord (al pi Hashem) should be made clear to them. (Leviticus 24:12)
So Moses the servant of the Lord died there, in the land of Moab, at the command of the Lord (Deuteronomy 34:5).
על פי ה׳ BY THE COMMAND (lit., MOUTH) OF THE LORD — by the Divine kiss. (Rashi, Moed Kattan 28a)
"Moses died there…." The Torah emphasizes that Moses only died there, whereas he lives on in more sacred regions. (Or HaChaim)
Af al pi, meaning “even though,” is one of the most common phrases in rabbinic and modern Hebrew. Yet the Biblical phrase “al pi Hashem”—at the mouth of God, or, by the command of God, or, by means of God, occurs infrequently. God acts. The Torah fittingly depicts God in the active voice. Rarely do we find God in an awkward, passive construction. We don’t say, “The world was created by means of God,” but rather, “God created heaven and earth…” We don’t say, “There was light, by means of God.” We say, “God said, ‘let there be light.’ God speaks, carries, directs, sends. But the phrase al pi Hashem suggests a God who is only indirectly responsible. Al pi Hashem: We don’t get to behold the mechanics of God’s command to Moses, “Thou shalt now exit, stage left.” Just as we don’t know where Moses was buried, we don’t know the exact nature of his death. Moses fades with an asterisk.
Syntactically, the phrase al pi Hashem places the emphasis on the event (Moses died), not the cause (God). Rashi exploits this oddity by suggesting we translate the text literally: Moses died by a divine kiss. Al pi describes the mode in which he passes from this world. In making this suggestion, Rashi transforms the divine mouth from a vehicle of order and distant speech to an organ of intimacy and proximity. We are familiar with God’s speech. We are not familiar with God’s kiss. If divine speech does not bother our sense of anthropomorphism, divine kisses require more deliberate metpahorization. God spends 5 books speaking. God spends one sentence, if we follow Rashi, kissing. A word is rational (logos), a kiss before and beyond reason. A kiss is a gesture, a form of infancy. As the Torah ends, and its prophet-editor breathes his last, God’s language reverts to the pre-linguistic.
Two other appearances of al pi Hashem in Chumash add color to the meaning of the phrase. In Exodus, the people journey from place to place at the divine command (al pi Hashem). That is, they don’t have a pre-set itinerary. God makes it up as they go along. The timing of their staying and going is a situational matter, the velocity of their zig-zag, is not one that can be anticipated from first principles. God is responsive to the people’s needs. Al pi Hashem suggests improvisation. It is also a phrase connected to travel and camping. Could the parallel suggest that Moses has reached another camping station? Or HaChaim takes it this way: Moses, the man, concludes his journey, overlooking the Promised Land, but Moses the figure carries on. Al pi Hashem connotes temporariness, which is the condition of life, and also the the fundamental theme of Sukkot, which we celebrate at the same time that we read of Mose’s end. The Israelites first encamped in Sukkot in the desert, after leaving Egypt. Their whole tour through the desert is one extended Sukkot, contrasting with the relatively permanent settling in the Land. Of course, we know that Diaspora is a chronic condition. Hut dwelling, inverting the stable and regular, is the Jewish condition.
A divine commandment or law is intended to have a long shelf life. A divine kiss is only for the moment. We experience time in the rhythmic play between that which we expect to hold true for all time and that which we expect to go away any minute now. Hegel describes one of the first stages of consciousness as the realization that I can turn my back on an object and have it vanish. We move from place to place—and this is the connection between the encamping of the Israelites, the death of Moses, and the Holiday of Sukkot—by “deletion.” Every time I enter a new room, I forget the previous one. Active memory, the attempt to hold on, or convert ephemeral presence into something I can take with me, this is Zikaron, the core commandment of the Torah: Remember Shabbat, Remember the Exodus, Remember that you were strangers in a strange land. Rosh Hashana is referred to as Yom HaZikaron, a day of Remembrance. Each stop along the itinerary creates distinction, which enables memory. 40 years in the same place would be harder to remember. It’s as if we move just so we can remember. The telos of vacation is the production of memories. A divine kiss is one for the books.
The blasphemer—who uses his mouth to degrade and cheapen reality—is also treated al pi Hashem. If we wanted to be radically ironic, we’d say that he, too, receives a divine kiss. Only a divine kiss, only an experience of immediacy, might quell his impulse to mouth off. But we could also say, more literally, that the blasphemer simply stands in limbo, as his case is an emergent one. He lives in the between as nobody knows how to handle him. His speech creates a new challenge for the law. His deformation is also an innovation and a forcing function for more divine speech. As Moses dies, cases like the blasphemers will multiply. We’ll find that the law requires responsiveness as much, if not more, than mere technical prowess. We’ll often have to deal with the application of Torah as we treat a long and difficult journey—looking for the best place to camp amongst a variety of challenging options, not the ideal place to camp in Dr. Pangloss’s “best of all possible worlds.” As the Talmudic saying goes, “The Torah was not given to ministering angels.” The angels can receive the divine word, only a being of flesh and blood can receive the divine kiss. The life of Torah is a life of movement, and Moses, even as he dies, shows us that the journey must continue, in one form or another. “This is the blessing.” No, “This is the blessing.” The poignant title of the final parasha suggests both singularity and restlessness. Our lives are a series of saying “This is it.” On Sukkot we dwell with joy and gratitude in that “this,” while loosening our need to hold on.
We may not have full clarity or conviction in all our decisions—nor will we ever know, in retrospect, just how risky those decisions were—but we must try to make the best of the decisions we make, and to treat our path, retrospectively, as one that came about al pi Hashem, at the mouth of God. Perhaps, if nothing else, to enable us to receive God’s kiss.
Moadim L’Simcha, Chazak Chazak V’nitchazek
Zohar Atkins
Just beautiful! Yasher koach.