Prologue to a Theory of Law

Can we really change something just by looking at it? In our ongoing analysis of the verse from Habakkuk 3:6, we have already encountered the terms “standing” and “measuring” but now we will throw another one into the mix: observation. The next piece of the verse states that “He looked [emphasis mine] and dispersed nations.” Presumably, God observes the behavior of the nations and responds in an appropriate manner to create ‘political correctives.’  And while this may be true, there exists an additional dimension that shines forth when we consider the early ‘arc’ of the verse as a whole: positionality (standing), measurement and now observation follow in rapid succession. Clearly, one’s position conditions one’s point of view or outlook. I see things from over here, that is, from where I am standing. So too, observation is itself a form of measurement. I begin by measuring from my current position.

Given this tripartite relationship between position, measurement and observation, we might start to wonder about the recorded consequences. Why evoke displaced nations?’ Our decoding of this expression will have to rely on a number of etymological associations. First, ‘nations’ in the original Hebrew is rendered as ‘goyim.’ ‘Goy’ or ‘nation’ relates to the word ‘geviyah’ which denotes a ‘body.’ A nation therefore, may be thought of as a ‘social body,’ a corporation. It might also be compared with the idea of res extensa–‘extended matter’ or ‘corporeal substance.’

Subsequent to observation, bodies/objects which are distributed in space become redistributed. The force of my gaze moves things. It knocks them out of their initial position, however slightly. This policy of interference that announces itself with every opening of the eye and with each measuring attempt, frustrates all efforts at knowing without altering the thing which one knows. Yet, as quantum physics has confirmed, we do meddle in matters that we aspire to stay clear of. Knowing is messy. Even a sanitized version must admit that one billiard ball of light shot out of my eye must punch its target object with sufficient force in order to gauge the reaction. The ricochet needs to find its way back to the original light source in the mind’s eye.

If reality is the ‘earth,’ then the nations represent the primary way in which reality is carved up and territorialized. Objects placed within the horizons of our world comprise its population. They constitute the categorization that carves up the seamless whole of our experience, breaking it down into determinate zones partitioned off by all sorts of property markers ranging from formal deeds and stone walls to natural landscape features such as mountains and streams.  We secure our boundaries by any and all means available to us. Most require constant maintenance and reinforcement as well as the vigilant eye of their owner.

When one probes the inherent qualities of our conceptual and categorical boundaries, we often run past the border control. In all actuality they are membranes. They breathe. They sweat. They bleed. Moreover, when ‘infinite judgement’ or the judgement that evokes the ‘infinition’ of the phenomenon, the digging down to the undefined core within definition–the assessment of fundamental ambiguity, the unsealed, ever expanding question–transforms everything. The ground is awash. Objects are carried aloft and float away from their original place. After some time, when ‘things’ dry out, when ‘objects’ harden and settle down, we can reassess their redistribution.

Turning next to the word for this ‘redistribution,’ this ‘wandering’ or exile, we can ferret out a more nuanced interpretation: vayater (‘and He caused [nations] to wander’) relates to the word yeter whose constellation of meanings include ‘abundance,’ ‘remainder’ and ‘excess.’ Some commentators (Metzudat Tzion) maintain that this word signifies a ‘jump’ or ‘removal’ from one’s place. Thus, it might be considered as a sudden shift or disruption. Rashi evokes a line from Job (37:1) that reads “v’yetar mimkomo” which refers to that which “is removed from his place.” Spontaneous displacement follows each observation. Some opinions link this verb to the root natar (nun-tav-reish) which implies an emergence of something new ‘jumping’ onto the scene.  How then do ‘jumping’ and ‘excess’ go together?

To make matters still stranger, Rashi ties this entire phrase to the other infamous generational enterprise in the Torah portion of Noah. Following hot on the heels of the flood, we read about the misguiding use of human solidarity which, fueled by the obvious benefits of monolingualism, decided to build the Tower of Babel. The preliminary success of this project hinged on the adoption of a universal language. So too, its derailment revolved around its rupture. The resultant break up dispersed the people into 70 languages for an archetypal 70 nations. Unable to cope with this stupefying polylingualism, their coordinate efforts were thwarted.

In Lurianic Kabbalah, this generation tends to team up with the generation of the flood within the context of our continually recycled soul experience. While the generation of the flood presented various challenges about ubiquitous hype-links generating super abundant oceans of knowledge (as was dealt with in the previous article), the issue of what we can know is often coupled with the question of what we can express. Does language delimit knowledge? Once we come across the epistemological problems associated with large data sets we immediately fall into the ‘semantic sting’ (to borrow an expression from Ronald Dworkin) whereby we can no longer agree on our terminology. The jump or displacement is from a common tongue (where we think we have a handle on what we are saying) to a sense of the inherent fuzziness of language (where neither myself nor the other can comfortably negotiate the exchange of meaning with complete confidence).

Chassidic thought offers a number of examples of essential jumps or discontinuities that are woven into the fabric of reality. One of these is the leap from unity to plurality (delug m’achdut l’ribui). Consequent to this kind of dislocation and we–our linguistic signs and signifiers–are all left to ‘wander.’ Everything is moved and removed. Is this not the most basic experience of language? Even as children we begin to notice that words may mean more than they mean, that language carries with it an excess of meaning, a surplus. Everything not fitting the situation we are trying to define–the remainder, the overflow of significance–introduces plasticity into communication. It may lead us to unexpected places and leave plenty of room for misunderstanding. It may also enrich everything that we say and make the correspondences between words and meanings more manageable on account of the loose fitting qualities of the transmission. Certainly this feature is further exploited by adults and perhaps even more so by lawyers. It is frustrating and exciting at the same time.

Once the jump from unity to plurality has been made however, we might despair at ever restoring that lost universal language. Can the plurality of languages ever feed back into it? Might the polylingual nourish the monolingual? Can the ambiguity of the semantic night be leveraged for the sake of the lucidity of the day? Can confusion be converted into clarity? The response is hinted at in the word vayater (‘and He caused [nations] to wander’) in that its is spelled with the same letters as the word Yitro (Jethro, the father-in-law of Moshe/Moses).

The revelation at mount Sinai occurs in the Torah portion called by Yitro’s name in part because the Torah is regarded as light which is given against the backdrop of darkness. Along the lines of this ‘contrast theory of meaning’ we may gain some insight into the typology of ‘Yitro.’ He was recorded as having worshiped every idol know to exist. As an expert in this type of ‘foreign service,’ in the strange and estranging pursuit of multiplicity of ultimate signifiers of meaning (false gods), he was able to convert not only himself (his acknowledgment of the Torah and monotheism) but also all of his experience. This transition was the jump back from plurality to unity, from idolatry to an attachment to Divinity.

Yitro’s own name is often expounded upon using the verse form Ecclesiastes (2:13) which reads “like the advantage [excess] of light that comes from darkness” (k’yitron [akin to Yitro] ohr min ha’choshek). The chassidic masters explain that this is not merely a statement of contrast for that would be too obvious. The more profound reading is that a superabundance of light comes out of the darkness itself when that darkness is turned or converted into a source of light. It’s all a conversion process.

With respect to our reflection on language, this would be like saying that an exploration of the 70 languages of the world enhances our understanding of Hebrew as a universal language. ‘Outside’ or ‘foreign’ experience if returned back to its source (teshuvah) makes the source experience burn brighter. It provides an intensified feeling for the unity of our monolingualism.

Observation and measurement are so powerful they can even move mountains. The subject of the resurfacing of reality, inclusive of its most enduring and rigid features, will be continued in Part Four.

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