I was recently watching a television interview with a woman in her 60s. Her husband, about the same age, still works long hours, though they’re already quite financially wealthy. “If he says to me on his deathbed that he regrets working too much,” the woman said, “I’ll kill him.”
It’s a funny line, of course. What makes it funny is that, in this imagined scene, the man is dying, so the words, “I’ll kill him” don’t carry literal weight. Yet, to quote the great sage Homer Simpson, “It’s funny because it’s true.” The word “kill” here functions as an exaggerated metaphor: The emotional distress the woman would feel (and, perhaps, already feels) on account of her husband’s choices about spending his time on work are existential—they’re affecting their lives in a significant way, so much so that she’ll be upset enough to kill, even though she isn’t really going to do that. So, it’s funny—but it’s also true.
Now, those same words uttered in a different context could carry a different meaning: If two people were in a fight and one shouted at the other, “I’ll kill you,” and then, God forbid, did so, their statement would probably be used as evidence against them at a murder trial. In this case, based on the context and the subsequent action, the meaning of the words is not metaphorical, but literal. Not funny, but still true.
We encounter questions of literal versus metaphorical meanings all the time: “Life is a rollercoaster.” “She’s a walking encyclopedia.” “Like a bull in a china shop.” We don’t mean these words literally; we employ the metaphors as idiomatic figures of speech.
Metaphorical speech is the starting point for midrash—which many would argue is the essence of Torah study itself. As a teacher of mine, Rabbi Baruch Feldstern, said decades ago in a class at the Pardes Institute on the Book of Samuel, “Jews don’t read the Bible; Jews read the Bible the way the Rabbis read the Bible.” Which is to say, understanding the plain or literal meaning of a verse is not the goal of a Rabbinic approach to reading the Bible. Instead, the project of the ancient Rabbis of the Talmud and Midrash was to play with the text, to find deeper meanings within it—to push the limits of interpretation to their most creative ends, but not so far that they would break. (If an interpretation were completely unmoored from the meaning of the words, then it wouldn’t pass the smell test.)
A classic Talmudic discussion goes to the heart of the matter. The Mishnah (Shabbat 6:4), teaches: “One may not go out with a sword, bow, shield, club, or spear [on Shabbat] and if one does go out, they incur a sin-offering [because the person is carrying them, which is prohibited on Shabbat; if they were considered clothing, however, then the action wouldn’t be carrying, and thus would be permitted]. Rabbi Eliezer says: they are ornaments for the person wearing them [meaning that they are, in fact, clothing, and thus permitted to wear on Shabbat]. But the Sages say, they are nothing but a disgrace, as it is said, ‘And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore’ (Isaiah 2:4).” The Sages’ view, contra Rabbi Eliezer, is that weapons of war are not clothing.
A Talmudic discussion ensues (Shabbat 63a) in which the later Rabbis try to understand both positions. Explaining Rabbi Eliezer’s view, they cite as a prooftext the verse from Psalms (45:4), “Gird your sword upon your thigh, mighty one, your glory and your splendor.” The Talmud continues, “Rav Kahana said to Mar, son of Rav Huna: Is that really a proof? This verse is written in reference to matters of Torah and should be interpreted as a metaphor.” That is, according to Rav Kahana, when the verse from Psalms talks about a “sword,” what is obviously meant is Torah. If so, how could it support Rabbi Eliezer’s view? Mar replied, “Nevertheless, a verse does not depart from its literal meaning.”
What’s striking in this passage is that the peshat, or plain meaning of the verse in Psalms, is treated as an afterthought. “Of course the verse is talking about Torah and not a sword,” Mar seems to be saying, “but still, we do have to concede a little bit to the unembellished meaning of the text.” But it’s the exception that proves the rule: In general, the default preference in Torah study is for thicker, richer, more creative and more intertextual interpretations.
That brings us to Parashat Balak, and specifically to the words of Balaam, which are the subject of much Midrashic discussion. “How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel” (Num. 24:5) is one that may be familiar. Yes, it may literally have referred to their tents, but metaphorically the Rabbis understand this as an allusion to the site of the Temple.
A particularly timely example comes earlier, when Balaam compares Israel to a lioness (Num. 23:24)
Lo, a people that rises like a lioness,
Leaps up like a lion
Predictably, the Midrash understands this verse as referring to Torah study, alluding to rising up early to recite the Shema and perform mitzvot. Yet attuned readers may recognize the words “a people that rises like a lioness” from recent events. In Hebrew those words are am k’lavi yakum, and the name of the Israeli military operations against Iran last month was Am K’lavi. And in that sense, the Israel Defense Forces were clearly not reading these words as a (perhaps attenuated) metaphor about Torah, but as something closer to the plain text itself (which, of course, is a metaphor to begin with).
All of this is perhaps a reflection of the challenge Balaam presents us overall: The gap that can exist between intention and utterance, between spoken or written words and the deeper meanings they may not only convey, but arouse and inspire in us. Likewise, it reflects the ever-flowing possibilities of abundance inherent in our study of Torah, of language, and of our lives—which are lived in and through language. As Ouaknin writes, “The real meaning of a text, as it addresses itself to the interpreter, does not depend on accidental factors concerning the author and his [sic] original audience. Or, at least, these conditions do not exhaust its meaning… In fact, it is not the text that is understood but the reader. He understands himself.”