In the book of Bereshit, Genesis, we find two such words used to describe key figures: tamim and haya. What do they really mean? Let's dive in, because the Rabbis of old sure had some fascinating ideas.
First, let's look at the word tamim. It's often translated as "faultless" or "perfect," but according to Bereshit Rabbah, specifically section 30, there's a numerical connection too. Bar Hatya suggests that anyone described as tamim, "faultless," lived to an age that was a multiple of seven. Why seven? Well, multiples of seven were considered "complete." Think about it: Noah, who's called tamim, lived 350 years after the Flood. Abraham, also called tamim in Genesis 17:1, lived 77 years after that moment.
Now for haya. This word simply means "was." Sounds straightforward, right? But Rabbi Yochanan saw something deeper. He believed that anyone described with haya was righteous from beginning to end. But then someone raises a challenge: What about Abraham? Ezekiel 33:24 says "Abraham was one, and he inherited the land." Was Abraham righteous from the very start? Wasn't he an idolater in his youth?
Here's where it gets interesting. Rabbi Yochanan doubles down, bringing in an interpretation from Rabbi Levi in the name of Reish Lakish: Abraham recognized his Creator at the tender age of three! So, in that sense, he was righteous from beginning to end.
But Rabbi Yochanan wasn't done. He had another, even more intriguing idea about haya: it signifies destiny. Think about it: "Behold, man [Adam] has become [haya]" (Genesis 3:22) – he was destined for death. "The serpent was [haya]" (Genesis 3:1) – destined for calamity. "Cain was [haya]" (Genesis 4:2) – destined for exile. And so on, through Job (destined for suffering), Noah (destined for a miracle), Moses (destined to be a redeemer), and Mordechai (destined for redemption).
It's like haya isn't just saying what someone was, but hinting at what they were meant to be.
Rabbi Levi and other Rabbis had even more to add. Rabbi Levi suggested that anyone described with haya saw a new world emerge. Rabbi Shmuel listed five examples: Noah, Joseph, Moses, Job, and Mordechai. Think about it: Noah saw the world after the Flood. As it says in Job 14:19, "stones were worn away by water," and Rabbi Levi, quoting Rabbi Yochanan, says that even the lower millstone was obliterated in the water. But then, after all that, "The sons of Noah who emerged from the ark"? (Genesis 9:18). It was a whole new reality!
Joseph went from chains to ruler, Moses from fleeing Pharaoh to drowning him, Job from utter despair to double blessings, and Mordechai from the brink of execution to triumph. Each one experienced a complete transformation.
But the other Rabbis had a different take. They said that anyone described with haya fed and sustained others. Noah cared for the animals on the ark, Joseph provided for his family in Egypt, Moses fed Israel in the desert, and Job, though he suffered, rhetorically asked, "I ate my bread alone, and an orphan did not partake of it?" (Job 31:17).
And then there's the story of Mordechai and Esther. Rabbi Yudan says that Mordechai, unable to immediately find a wet nurse for Esther, nursed her himself. Rabbi Berekhya and Rabbi Abahu, in the name of Rabbi Eliezer, even said that milk came into him! This caused quite a stir when Rabbi Abahu shared it, with the audience bursting into laughter. But Rabbi Abahu retorted, "But is it not stated in a mishna: Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says: The milk of a male is not subject to ritual impurity?" (Mishna Makhshirin 6:7). A surprising detail, perhaps, but it emphasizes Mordechai's role as a provider and sustainer.
So, what do we make of all this? Is tamim just about being faultless, or does it hint at a divinely ordained lifespan? Does haya simply mean "was," or does it whisper of destiny, transformation, and the act of sustaining others? Perhaps it's all of the above. These ancient Rabbis, through their interpretations, invite us to look beyond the surface and find the deeper meaning hidden within the words of the Torah. It's a reminder that even the simplest word can hold layers of wisdom, waiting to be uncovered. And maybe, just maybe, it's a call to consider our own destinies, our own potential for transformation, and our own capacity to nourish and sustain the world around us.