IN 1965, when I was just 11 years old, I bought my very first Bible. Not the Jewish kind, the one my friends made fun of because it opened backwards, but the official King James Version published by Oxford University Press.
I read late at night with a flashlight under the bedcovers, underlining in orange crayon the passages that stirred me.
By my 12th birthday, I knew as much about Matthew, Luke and John as I did about Abraham and Moses. While my parents thought it a bit odd that I preferred the Bible over Barbie, they rewarded my curiosity by buying me more books.
Since then, I have collected Bibles like Celine Dion collects shoes. (At last count, she had over 3,000 pair; I, on the other hand, only own 14 Bibles, not shoes!) Unlike shoes, however, I have never thrown a single one away because each version of the Bible offers slightly different interpretations of the events, stories and wisdom found within its books.
As a Jew, I have always taken great pride in the fact that we are referred to as the People of the Book. I assumed the name originated within Jewish circles as a way to identify and connect the Jewish people with the Torah, the quintessential blueprint for Jewish behavior and belief.
Surprisingly, the name surfaced during the 7th century as a Muslim reference to Jews and Christians who were regarded as infidels with a protected status. Jews were the people of the book because we possessed a prior revelation from G-d, manifest in our Five Books of Moses.
As such, in the early years of Islam, we were permitted to live undisturbed among Muslims and observe our faith without interference, although that changed significantly by the 11th century.
THE Torah, also called the Five Books of Moses or (Chumash in Hebrew), was expanded into the TaNaKH.
The Tanakh is an acronym for 24 books that are divided into three major categories: Torah, Niviim (Prophets) and Ketuvim (Writings). The Tanakh is the very first consolidated Jewish library.
It presents the history and ideas of the first 3,500 years of the Jewish people, covering the period from Creation until about the time of the Bar Kochba revolt in the 2nd century CE.
In 499 CE, the second most important Jewish book was codified.
The Babylonian Talmud, a compilation of discussions, arguments and analyses of a broad range of subjects by the greatest rabbis of the first four centuries, vastly expanded Jewish literature.
It is filled with Jewish law (halachah), interpretations of Biblical texts and stories that teach moral lessons (aggadah).
For centuries thereafter, Jewish literature was defined as those books that emanated from the Torah and Talmud or found their source in Jewish law and liturgy.
THE concept of Jewish literature has been radically augmented since the Middle Ages to include many other types of literature.
Sephardi-Ladino ballads, Yiddish stories, European Enlightenment literature, Hebrew poetry and Jewish-American novels are examples of what we designate as Jewish literature today.
In its broadest sense, Torah is more than the name of our Jewish Bible; it literally means teachings and includes all of the wisdom from Jewish texts.
But what exactly does it mean to be the People of the Book?
To answer this question, I turn to the traditional mode of Jewish learning by asking more questions. Questions like:
Do we have an obligation to study the Torah?
Will studying Torah affect our behavior?
Will it lead to a life of good deeds and justice?
Which is more important study or action, learning or doing?
AS Jews we are commanded to study the Torah and teach it to our children. It is our spiritual inheritance the road map for Jewish living and guidebook for what G-d expects. But the relationship between the study of Torah and our behavior is a complex matter. The Talmudic rabbis attempted to balance and reconcile the tension between these two essential values in Judaism.
There are conflicting texts about what takes priority: study or action.
Daily we read Elu Devarim, a prayer that lists nine mitzvot whose rewards are without measure, such as honoring our parents, doing acts of kindness and visiting the sick. But the prayer concludes: And the study of Torah is equal to them all because it leads to them all.
But Ethics of the Fathers (1:17) insists: It is not study that is essential, but action.
And a frequently cited passage from the Talmud pits Rabbi Akiva against Rabbi Tarfon. Rabbi Tarfon asserts that action is greater than study, but Rabbi Akiva disagrees. The majority sides with Rabbi Akiva: Study is greater than action . . . because it leads to action.
Does the study of Torah necessarily lead to a life of good deeds and meaning? For some, the answer is a resounding yes; for others, clearly not. That difference may depend upon how we engage in study. If study entails digging deeply into our texts to discover meaning and relevance, the kind that will enable us to confront, resolve and survive the issues and problems of everyday life, then I believe it will.
