The text begins with a blessing: "Blessed is He that broadens Gad." What does it mean? Simply put, the passage teaches us that the territory allotted to the tribe of Gad expanded eastward. Pretty straightforward, right? But the story doesn’t stop there.
Next, we encounter the phrase, "As a lion he dwells." This isn't just a poetic flourish. The text suggests that the tribe of Gad, dwelling near the border, needed strong defenders to protect against invaders. Hence, the comparison to a powerful lion, guarding its territory. It paints a vivid picture of a people on the edge, ever vigilant.
Then comes a more cryptic phrase: "and he tore the arm" – in the past. "together with the crown" – in time to come." This speaks of Gad's strength and future glory. The tearing of the arm represents past victories, while the crown suggests a future of even greater prominence.
But here's where things get really interesting. The passage states, "And he saw first for himself." This implies that Gad "came first in the beginning, and he will come first in time to come." But first in what? In inheritance? In valor? It's left a little open, prompting us to ponder the tribe's unique role.
Now we arrive at the heart of the mystery: "For there the (burial) plot of the lawgiver is hidden." Moses, the lawgiver himself! The text suggests his burial place lies within the territory of Gad. But wait! Deuteronomy (32:49) clearly states that Moses died in the territory of Reuben, atop Mount Nebo. So, what’s going on?
The Sifrei Devarim resolves this apparent contradiction with a stunning image. Moses, it says, lay dead "in the wings of the Shechinah" – the divine presence – four mils (ancient measurement of distance) between the territories of Reuben and Gad. Imagine that: Moses, cradled in God's embrace, while the ministering angels sang his praises, urging him to "come in first and rest in his plot."
But where did this mysterious burial plot come from? The text tells us it's one of ten things created on Sabbath eve at twilight – a time of liminality, between the mundane and the holy. This list, reminiscent of creation accounts found elsewhere, includes some incredible things: the rainbow, the manna (the food from heaven), Miriam's well, the very writing of the Torah, the tablets of the Ten Commandments, even the mouth of Balaam's donkey!
The list continues: the burial plot of Moses, the cave where Moses and Elijah stood, Aaron's staff with its almonds and flowers. Some even add the vestments of Adam, and (more controversially) demons. Rabbi Yashia, quoting his father, adds the ram offered by Abraham in place of Isaac and the shamir, a legendary worm capable of cutting stone. Rabbi Nechemiah includes the flame and the mule, while Rabbi Yehudah adds the tongs.
Tongs? Why tongs? Rabbi Yehudah's inclusion sparks a fascinating debate. If you need tongs to make tongs, who made the first pair? The answer, he argues, is that they were independently created by God. However, this is countered with the suggestion that the first tongs could have been fashioned in a mold, negating the need for divine creation. It's a miniature philosophical battle, played out over a humble tool!
What are we to make of all this? This passage from Sifrei Devarim isn't just about geography or legal interpretations. It's a window into a world of wonder, where the mundane and the miraculous intertwine. It reminds us that even within the seemingly straightforward narratives of the Torah, there are layers upon layers of meaning, waiting to be uncovered. It invites us to contemplate the hidden dimensions of our tradition, the mysteries that lie just beyond our grasp, and the enduring power of faith to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.