The Midrash Tehillim, a collection of rabbinic interpretations of the Book of Psalms, wrestles with this very idea in Psalm 42. It speaks of God "passing through the camp with an accounting." But what exactly is this "accounting"? It sounds...ominous, doesn't it?
The Midrash dives right in. It paints a picture: We, the people, are journeying, going on foot, seeking God's face. But, and this is a big but, we're approaching with skepticism. The text even makes a comparison to the Sukkah, the temporary dwelling we build during the festival of Sukkot, implying a certain fragility or impermanence in our faith, a questioning.
And yet, we come in great numbers! A huge throng of people, and the nations around us, they are…silent. What kind of power would it take to silence the world?
The Midrash connects this silence to the Temple, the Beit Hamikdash. When the Temple stood in Jerusalem, the nations were in awe, struck silent before its majesty. But now? Now, the Temple is gone, and we are silent. The implication is heavy: the absence of the Temple leaves a void, a silence that mirrors God's own "accounting." A sense of loss and longing permeates everything.
But there's more to it than just somber reflection. The Midrash shifts gears. It speaks of "a voice of singing." When God passed through the camp, it wasn't just with scrutiny, but with joy, with gratitude. There's a duality here, a tension between judgment and love, between accountability and acceptance.
And what about this "great multitude"? The Midrash offers a fascinating little linguistic detour. It explains that "a great multitude" is a Greek term for… water circles. Yes, you read that right. Water circles! Think of ripples expanding outwards. And the Midrash makes a beautiful connection: just as there's no set number of water circles when you toss a pebble into a pond, there's no set number for the Israelites when they go on foot to seek God. The image is one of boundless potential, of limitless expansion, of a community growing and evolving.
So, what are we left with? A complex tapestry of ideas. A God who watches, who takes account. A people who question, who yearn, who sing. A world that is sometimes silent, sometimes overflowing with life. The Midrash Tehillim doesn’t offer easy answers, but it gives us a framework for wrestling with the big questions of faith, doubt, community, and our relationship with the Divine. It reminds us that even when we feel scrutinized, even when we are silent, we are still part of something vast and beautiful. Perhaps, the "accounting" isn't about judgment at all, but about recognizing our place within that vastness. Perhaps, it's about remembering the power of our collective voice, the potential for endless expansion, and the enduring presence of the Divine, even in the silence.