Book Review: The Grammar of God

From RRW
Guest Blogger: Mitchell First   

                      Book Review:  The Grammar of God (2015) by Aviya Kushner

       Aviya Kushner grew up in Monsey. All members of her family had a strong Hebrew background. They  debated constantly about subjects like the meaning of particular Hebrew roots, and the impact of the different grammatical stems and tenses, and nekudot, etc., etc.  In 2002, at age 28 she ends up in Iowa in a graduate school program for writers. There she happens to take a Bible course. That meant studying the Bible in English for the first time.         

      Although her teacher was very knowledgeable, Aviya immediately realized that her teacher could not read the Bible in Hebrew. (Only one other student in the class could.) As Aviya sat through the classes, she was constantly surprised and even shocked by what was being quoted from the English Bible in class, the translations not at all being in accord with the Hebrew Tanach that she grew up with. While she attempted to remain silent, her facial expressions would constantly betray her. Her teacher would  ask: “Why are you so surprised?” She would respond: “I would have to explain so much to you about Hebrew for you to understand why this translation is surprising.” Aviya explains that she took notes on what surprised her, and those notes became letters that eventually became essays. Eventually, those essays became her master’s thesis. One day, her teacher suggested to her that she write this all up as a book. But her teacher asked her to keep one thing in mind throughout: Even if the English translation was inaccurate at times, the Bible in English is holy to millions and millions of people. 

        So that is the background to this book. The book has different chapters, each focusing on different problematic areas in the English translations. But this is not a scholarly book. It is a very easy one to read.  The author also makes a point of reminding us of the statement by the Hebrew poet Chaim Nachman Bialik that a translation is like “a kiss through a handkerchief.”

       I will now provide some examples of items that she discusses, i.e., matters that are lost or transformed in English translation. (Admittedly, a lot of this is obvious to us, but it still bears repeating.)

       For example, the names for God. When we see “Elokim” in Hebrew, we know that it has the form of a plural. But in many English translations, the translation is merely “God.” You lose a lot in this manner! As to the reason for the plural, a widely cited explanation is that of Ibn Ezra on Gen. 1:1. He writes that the plural form for God’s name is merely a “derekh kavod,” and that other languages have something similar as well when a younger addresses an elder. The proof that multiple Gods are not intended is that “bara” (=create) in Gen. 1:1 is in the singular form.

       What about the name “A-do-nay”?  One thing I learned from this book is that this seems to be a plural form as well! It means “my masters.” (“Adoni” would mean “my master.”) I am 59 years old and have recited “Barukh Atah A-Do-Nay” myriads of times, and I did not realize this! (Note that “Barukh” and “Atah” are singular, confirming that here too the plural for God’s name is only being used as a form of respect.)

       

            How about the name for the first man, “Adam”? In reading the Bible in Hebrew, we all realize that this name is connected to the word “adamah,” from where Adam was created (see Gen. 2:7). This connection is lost in any English translation.

             Aviya spends a lot of time on the issue of idiomatic expressions involving the body. She writes: “It seems that often whatever is bodily is blurred, transformed in translator’s hands. The body, it seems, is a battleground in translation. The ancient Bible often relies on body parts in its metaphors and descriptions, which is not necessarily a contemporary way of viewing the world. Translated literally, these metaphors can seem awkward, bizarre, or overly dramatic in English.”  For example, “charon apo” is often translated merely as “his wrath.” But literally it means “his burning nose.” Actually, a better literal translation is “his burning face.” “Af” in Hebrew is likely a metaphor for face, since it is the most prominent section of the face. (When Gen. 3:19 tells us that Adam will eat bread with “zeiat apekha,” the sweat is coming from his face, not his nose.)  

         What about “erekh apayim”? Literally it means “long of nose” or “long of face.” It is an idiom for a God who is slow to anger. If “slow to anger” is the translation used, the interesting image is lost. 

        (By the way, “af”=nose, really comes from Aleph-Nun-Pe. The nun dropped out in this word. That is why we have the word “hitanaf” at Deut. 1:37.) 

        What about “yerekh Yaakov” at Ex. 1:2? Should the translation describe that the Israelites come from the “loins” of Jacob? Many just refer to the “descendants” of Jacob.

          The author has a lot of fun with “sarei misim” at  Exodus 1:11. The King James version (from the year 1611) has “taskmasters.” But should it not be “tax masters”? But what exactly is the “tax” in bodily slavery?

         Finally, at Exodus 2:24, God hears the Israelites cry out from their slavery. Verse 2:25 follows: “God saw Bnei Yisrael, va-yeda Elokim.” The King James version translates the last two words as: “God had respect unto them.” The author writes that this translation “enslaves us all in an incorrect translation of what slavery was like: for man and for God.”  I would add: How can any of us respect the King James version on any verse after seeing this!

        (I did learn from this book that the King James version puts in italics any explanatory words that they added that were not in the original Hebrew.)

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           Most interesting is the portrait of the author’s mother. Aviya tells us that her mother had a life of the night at her dining room table. After everyone went to sleep, she would sit there in her nightgown with a large milkshake and several piles of ancient dictionaries and would read Akkadian (the language of ancient Assyria and Babylonia). She would read their poetry, stories, and legal documents (e.g., Code of Hammurabi from the 18^th century B.C.E).  (The author admits that hers was not a typical Monsey family!) The ancient texts and all of their grammar brought joy to her mother.

        Her mother never finished her PHD on an aspect of Biblical grammar, because her mentor at the University died. With five children, she could not have easily relocated to another PHD program in another city. But she was able to get a teaching position at SUNY Rockland for 20 years teaching Hebrew.

       Bottom line: If you enjoy my column, I think you will enjoy this book. (As to myself, I enjoyed the book as well because I got a few ideas for future columns from it!)

    P.S. I found out about this book because Zal Suldan sent me an article that the author wrote. The article was all about the importance of the nekudot to her family. Then I found a major error in the nekudot in the article (which may not have been the author’s fault but the fault of an editor). The article referred to an important book on the Haggadah as “Haggadah Shelomoh.”  I realized that the reference was to R. Menachem Kasher’s “Haggadah  Shelemah” (=same Hebrew letters, but different nekudot!) This error intrigued me enough that it got me interested in the book!

  P.P.S. I mentioned above that a widespread view is that “A-do-nay” is a plural form that literally means “my masters.” See, e.g., Encyclopaedia Judaica 7:679 (original edition). Admittedly, the nun in “A-do-nay” has a kametz under it, while the normal vowel under the third root letter in this plural form is a patach. It is possible that the purpose of this unusual vocalization was to avoid the understanding of the word “A-do-nay” as a plural. I am open to hearing from readers on this matter.

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Mitchell First can be reached at MFirstAtty@aol.com. He gets up in the wee hours of the morning with the Mandelkern and Even-Shoshan concordances on his desk. (But unlike the author’s mother, no milkshakes.)