A Part and Apart

The Double-Bind of Holiness

יְהֹוָ֖ה אִ֣ישׁ מִלְחָמָ֑ה יְהֹוָ֖ה שְׁמֽוֹ׃

YHWH, the Man of War—
YHWH is God’s name! (Exodus 15:3)

However, this ‘Everything is equal!’ and ‘Everything returns!’ can be said only at the point in which the extremity of difference is reached. A single and same voice for the whole thousand-voiced multiple, a single and same Ocean for all the drops, a single clamour of Being for all beings: on the condition that each being, each drop, and each voice has reached the state of excess – in other words, the difference which displaces and disguises them and, in turning upon the mobile cusp, causes them to return.” (Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition)

As the Israelites walk through a parted sea—leaving Egyptian bondage for an unknown freedom—they sing. The God to whom they offer praise is profoundly and literally anthropomorphic. Their God is a “Man of War” (ish milchama).

Perhaps this is not so astonishing. Of course, the newly freed slaves relate to God as a warrior, seeing as their most significant life event is that of vanquishing a powerful army. Yet the Biblical language is odd. All this hostility to the idolatry of the Egyptians only to conclude that God is a man, a general? The people leave Egypt to worship a new God, a new conception of God, a monotheistic God, and yet the terms in which they speak of God do not sound categorically different than how a pagan might speak. Is the only thing that differentiates “the Lord” from the Egyptian deities that YHWH enjoys a military advantage? Such a position hardly seems revolutionary. And yet it is perhaps emblematic of how most revolutions end, when the new regime ends up resembling that which it vociferously opposed.

In attempting to soften the shocking possibility that the Biblical God is basically just an Egyptian God with better military technology, classical commentators read the Israelite lyric in the following way:

“Even though God at times appears as the איש מלחמה, the “Man” of war who destroys God’s foes by invoking the attribute of Justice, God is yet predominantly “YHWH,” the God Who practices mercy.” (Seforno)

In the hands of the Seforno, the point is not that God is human, but, critically, that God is humane. God’s destructive capacities are reigned in by a love of Creation, even of those elements which are, as it were, saboteurs. Don’t focus on the Ish Milchama part, focus on the YHWH part.

I am less interested in the specific solutions offered by classical commentators than I am in the fact that they all emphasize the way the poetic line sung by the Israelites balances the divine name YHWH, with the phrase “Man of War.” The point isn’t that God is ish milchama, but that God is-and-isn’t an ish milchama. Their claim is that the text isn’t saying God is a warrior, but rather that, in spite of the fact that God appears in human experience as a warrior, God is God.

While the resonance of this strange verse may be difficult for the modern reader, how we relate to it has deep implications for how we relate to the task of being human, being Jewish, and above all, being ourselves. This ancient verse about God doubles as a poem about human nature. To understand why, we have to go down some metaphysical alleys.

There are two different ways to think about God, according to medieval philosophers. Either God is the best being there is, the most excellent being there is, or God is categorically other than a being, transcending the spectrum of human imagination and measurement. The former view is best encapsulated by Thomas Aquinas; the latter by Maimonides. In the model put forward by Aquinas, God is the best, but God is still part of the same world of everything else, outshining “the competition.” The Maimonidean God, by contrast, doesn’t compete, but operates on a different plane altogether. To put this in terms that risk a kind of heresy: Is God a “market leader,” like Walmart—the best grocery store amongst many—or is God a monopoly, or “category king,” like Google, for whom competition is basically non-existent? Does God sit atop a hierarchy or great chain of Being, or is God a thing unto Godself, totally apart?

The Maimonidean definition of God as “Other” renders God inscrutable, intangible, and removed, for better and for worse. The Thomist definition of God as “Supreme” renders God exemplary. Theoretically speaking, in the Thomist paradigm, I can be like God, if I just work harder. God is synonymous with perfection. The closer I get to perfecting myself the closer I get to becoming like God. But in the Maimonidean framework, I’ll never be like God, because God is beyond comprehension. The cultivation of virtue and the perfection of intellect get me to a life well lived, but no closer to the black box that is the Holy One.

The lofty theological debate between Aquinas and Maimonides has an analogue in the Torah’s discussion of holiness. Does the commandment to be holy entail an imperative simply to stand apart from the other nations or does it suggest an imperative to be an example for the other nations of how to be? In the former paradigm, holiness is found in difference; in the latter it is found in sameness—all humanity should pursue the same ideal, but the Israelites are simply commanded to lead the way. The God is who YHWH, that is singular and inimitable is a God who elects a people who are to be singular and inimitable. But a God who is a “Man of war” is a God who elects a people not stand apart, but to confront the world and elevate through competition.

The first paradigm leads to a conception of Judaism in which what makes it great is its “weirdness,” its resistance to conformity and conventional reasoning. The second leads to a conception of Judaism whereby what makes it great is its potential for “leadership.” Personifying these two types, we might think of the particularist Jew, following a particularist God, as a kind of rebel, drop-out or avant-garde artist and the universalist Jew following a universalist God, as a kind of statesman or institution builder. In one example, keeping kosher, need not be ethical in the normal sense of the word, for example. Rather, the point is simply to be different. In the other paradigm, kashrut becomes justified and justifiable insofar as it engenders certain universally respectable values: mindful eating, compassion to animals, good hygiene, etc.

If you follow only the norm to be singular you end up in a lonely place, a place, moreover, where, in the name of being holy you can throw ethics and humanism to the winds. But if you follow only the norm to be universal you end up in a place where, in the name of being holy, you flatten yourself into whatever cultural trend of the day says is the right side of history. You lose your critical edge, your personality, your tradition, and become irrelevant. Why should one go to synagogue only to be told “We’re all the same?”

If we suspend our aversion to hearing that YHWH is a man and/or that God is martial man, we can hear a deeper point—the text is telling us that we have to affirm both the theological model of Aquinas and the theological model of Maimonides. Moreover, we have to affirm for ourselves a self-conception of Judaism that sees it as both distinct from Egyptian religion and continuous with it (insofar as we are all the same).

Fittingly, a lesson about God and about Judaism as being both distinctive and universal is itself a lesson that is both distinctive and universal. One of the great questions that nations and cultures face today is how to find the right balance between a strong sense of identity and a sense of openness to difference. Neither totally closed nor totally open borders, geopolitically, culturally, or psychologically is sustainable. YHWH, the Maimonidean God who is Other represents a God with borders so tight none can cross the heavenly threshold. Ish Milchama, the Thomist God, who is Supreme, represents a God whose only hope is that we might immigrate to heaven and enjoy perfection with him. The more the merrier.

Both religious orientations have merit, but each has a different charge with respect to the world. In the charge of ish milchama, we are summoned to confront the world, if antagonistically. But the hope is to better it. In the charge of YHWH, we are summoned to retreat from it. The former manifestation of God asks us to be idealistic about the world, the latter asks us to be realists, knowing when to let Egypt be Egypt, and find a haven somewhere else.

While each of us must make our own calculus about how engaged or disengaged we want to be, the poem tells us that YHWH and Ish Milchama are one. It’s the same God. The anthropological projection and the transcendent mystery are two sides of the same coin, just as, for Deleuze, difference and repetition, multiplicity and oneness, continuously enjoin and undo one another.

But YHWH takes precedence over Ish Milchama, because the line repeats so that YHWH appears at the beginning and the end. YHWH is God’s name. The crux of YHWH is that it is a name not an epithet or accolade. And this says: The most fundamental thing we can and must be is singular. Only when we embrace our names, and accept our “weirdness,” rather than trying to win within some pre-established competitive framework will we have conquered Egypt, spiritually speaking. We are not exempt from “war,” but winning the war will not set us free.

When we claim our names, we aren’t simply taking a break from the ethical, we are demonstrating what true universal ethics requires: not generic sameness, but the embrace of difference as that which we have in common.

Shabbat Shalom,

Zohar Atkins @ Etz Hasadeh

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