Finding the Light, Inside and Out
This Shabbat, we (and Jewish communities everywhere) will read Parashat Noach. As it opens, the earth and its inhabitants have become so corrupt, violent, and full of lawlessness that God decides to wipe out almost all of humanity and begin again; only Noah and his family are to be preserved.
Noah is commanded to build an ark out of gopher wood, covered in pitch -- 300 cubits long, 50 cubits wide and 30 cubits high. And within the context of these very specific ark-building instructions, God tells Noah: "צֹ֣הַר תַּעֲשֶׂ֣ה לַתֵּבָ֗ה" -- "Make a tzohar for the ark" (Genesis 6:16).
It is not immediately apparent what exactly God is asking Noah to make here. The word tzohar is what scholars of ancient texts call a "hapax legomenon": a word that appears only a single time within its text. This makes deciphering difficult, as translators can't rely on the context of the word in other places to figure out its meaning here.
When the biblical text turns up mysterious words like this, Rashi -- the medieval French exegete par excellence -- is usually a good first stop for learning how Jewish interpretive tradition has classically understood its meaning. And indeed, in his commentary on Genesis 6:16, Rashi offers two solid options for how the word tzohar can be translated.
First, Rashi writes: "יֵ"אֹ חַלּוֹן" ("yesh omrim chalon"): "there are those who say it is a window." Later in the flood story, in Gen. 8:6, Noah will open the window of the ark -- there called "chalon" -- to let out the raven, so it's plausible that this is his instruction to add that window during the construction process, just using a different word to describe the same architectural feature. Etymologically, this definition also makes sense: the word tzohar could be linked to tzohorayim (which means noon or midday, and today is the modern Hebrew word for afternoon), indicating that the tzohar of the ark is the opening where light comes in from the outside, from above.
Rashi then continues on in his interpretation of the verse, offering a second explanation of what tzohar might mean: "וְיֵ"אֹ אֶבֶן טוֹבָה הַמְּאִירָה לָהֶם" ("v'yesh omrim even tovah hameirah lahem"): "and others say that it was a precious stone that gave light to them." This second interpretation draws on earlier rabbinic traditions found in the midrash (Bereishit Rabbah 31:11, which Rashi cites) or in the Babylonian Talmud (Sanhedrin 108b). As Rabbi Elie Kaunfer explains: this definition rests on the fact that "the word 'צהר - tzohar' is similar to 'זהר - zohar,' which means a shining light. No natural light could come through a window while it rained for forty days and nights! Instead, the tzohar must refer to another object that has internally generated light—like a precious stone that shines."
Rashi's two possible readings of the word tzohar -- window and precious stone -- both emphasize the need for the ark to have a light-source, whether it is internal or external. This crucial architectural feature -- whether window or skylight or stained-glass feature or precious gem -- literally built into the blueprint of the ark's design, will enable Noah and his family to ride out the storm together during this period of corruption and lawlessness with light and connection.
It struck me this week, while digging into the meaning of the word tzohar, that our Jewish tradition also encourages similar light-sources for our synagogue sanctuaries and places of prayer -- and that there's meaningful symbolism in each case:
In the Talmud (Berakhot 31a), Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba teaches: "One should always pray in a house with windows." Some commentators understand this tradition as preventing a prayer sanctuary from becoming an isolated bubble; instead, the windows symbolize the importance of maintaining connection to the outside world and remind those inside of their responsibility to engage in it. Another tradition says that being able to look at the sky and the grandeur of the natural world from within our prayer space serves to foster and enhance our sense of connection with God.
There is also the custom of a Ner Tamid (Hebrew for "Eternal Light"): a lamp that hangs or is mounted directly above the Aron Kodesh (Holy Ark) in a synagogue. The Ner Tamid recalls the light of the menorah from the Tabernacle and ancient Temple in Jerusalem, and the eternal fire commanded in the Torah (see Exodus 27:20 and Leviticus 24:2-4, for example). This special light honors the holiness of the Torah scrolls and symbolizes God's eternal presence and providential care. At Kavana, we haven't always had an Aron Kodesh (ark), but now we do, thanks to a transfer from Congregation Eitz Or at the same time that we acquired our second Sefer Torah from them this past year. And recently, the parent of a Kavana Bar Mitzvah student realized we didn't have a Ner Tamid and made Kavana a small LED light to use for that purpose (thank you, Rebekah!).
I like that in our tradition, we don't have to choose between light from the outside or light from the inside. Both can be valid interpretations of the word tzohar, when it comes to the construction of Noah's ark, and both can inform how we set up spaces for communal prayer to this very day.
Returning to the parasha, in this moment, it's easy to feel that violence and chaos, corruption and lawlessness are swirling all around us. I don't believe that our world is so far gone that it is irredeemable, as God perceived it to be in Noah's day, but all the same, we can learn from God's instruction to Noah to make a tzohar for the ark. The two meanings of that word that Rashi offers us guide us to pay attention to different potential sources of strength, as we ride out the storms and floods of our own time:
Understanding the tzohar as a window encourages us to stay in relationship with God, seeing what's outside of our small bubble and also allowing ourselves to be seen. Windows work in both directions: letting in natural light also means maintaining a connection to the world outside of our ark and remembering that we have responsibility to act in it.
Reading the tzohar as a precious stone reminds us that at times of turbulence, we can look within -- to our own inner strength and to the brilliance of our tradition -- to find the light, inspiration, and guidance we need.
Finally, on a seasonal level, we've also entered into a time of diminishing light, with fewer lumens and fewer hours of daylight each day. There is a tendency here in the Pacific Northwest to retreat and hibernate a bit during this season. I want to remind us that, especially in this darker season when storms are swirling around us, both literally and figuratively, the Kavana community can be our ark -- the place where we are nourished and bathed in light from both outside and inside. In the light of the window and with the glow of precious stones, we can ride out the storms together.
Wishing us all a Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Rachel Nussbaum
