It turns out, the ancient rabbis thought about this a lot, especially when it came to the relationship between humanity and God. Let's delve into a fascinating interpretation of a verse from the Song of Songs, or Shir HaShirim, specifically, 4:6: "Until the day is great and the shadows flee, I will go to the mountain of myrrh and to the hill of frankincense.”
In Shir HaShirim Rabbah 6, a midrashic commentary on Song of Songs, this verse sparks a captivating discussion. Rabbis Abbahu and Levi offer different perspectives, but their core message is surprisingly similar. They focus on the "mountain of myrrh and hill of frankincense," interpreting them not literally, but as potent symbols of sacrifice and divine mercy.
Rabbi Abbahu suggests that when Abraham, our patriarch, bravely circumcised himself, his sons, and his household, he created a "hill" of foreskins. Now, stay with me here. The sun shone upon this hill, and… well, let's just say it wasn't the most pleasant sight. Worms appeared. But here's the incredible part: the scent arising from this, unpleasant as it might sound, ascended before God like the most exquisite incense, like the finest frankincense offered in the Temple. It was so pleasing, Rabbi Abbahu says, that God declared that when Abraham’s descendants falter and sin, He would remember this scent, be filled with mercy, and transform judgment into compassion.
Rabbi Levi offers a similar interpretation, but he shifts the focus to Joshua. When Joshua circumcised the children of Israel, he too created a "hill" with the same… aromatic consequences. And again, the scent rose to God, evoking the same divine promise of mercy and forgiveness.
So, what’s going on here? Why this emphasis on what seems like a rather… unsavory image?
The key, I think, lies in understanding the power of sacrifice. Circumcision, or brit milah, is a profound act of commitment, a physical manifestation of the covenant between God and the Jewish people. It's not easy. It's a sacrifice, a giving up of something, a demonstration of faith. And according to these rabbis, that act, even with its less-than-pleasant side effects, creates a powerful "scent" that resonates with God.
The midrash uses this imagery to explain God's enduring mercy. Even when we stumble, when we make mistakes, God remembers the sacrifices of our ancestors, the unwavering faith that permeated even the most challenging moments. This "scent" serves as a constant reminder, prompting God to temper justice with compassion.
There's a further layer to this discussion. The text then dives into the verse from Genesis (17:26), "On that very day, Abraham was circumcised." Rabbi Berekhya points out that if Abraham had performed the circumcision at night, people might have tried to stop him. By doing it in broad daylight, he showed his unwavering commitment.
Then, Rabbis Abbahu bar Kahana and Levi delve into the phrasing: why does it say Abraham "was circumcised" rather than "he circumcised himself?" Rabbi Abbahu suggests it's to emphasize the pain and suffering Abraham endured, increasing his reward. The passage also touches on who is fit to perform the circumcision, emphasizing that one who is already circumcised (pure) should circumcise another, reflecting a concept of spiritual purity. Rabbi Avin, citing Rabbi Shimon, even suggests that God joined hands with Abraham in this act, referencing Nehemiah 9:8, "You established the covenant with him."
What does all this mean for us today? Perhaps it's a reminder that even in the face of our own imperfections, our own "unpleasant scents," God remembers our efforts, our sacrifices, our attempts to live a life of meaning and purpose. Maybe it's a call to embrace the challenges of faith, knowing that even in those difficult moments, we are creating a "fragrance" that rises to the heavens, evoking divine mercy and love. As we navigate our own journeys, may we remember the "mountain of myrrh and hill of frankincense," and the enduring promise of compassion they represent.