The Zohar" target="_blank" rel="noopener" class="source-link">Tikkunei_Zohar" target="_blank" rel="noopener" class="source-link">Tikkunei Zohar, that mystical companion to the Zohar itself, dives deep into just that when it explores the symbolism of manna, the food that sustained the Israelites in the desert.
The text focuses on a verse from Numbers (11:7): "And the manna was as coriander seed…" But it's not just a simple observation about appearance. The Tikkunei Zohar sees layers of profound meaning embedded within this description. It asks, why coriander seed? The Hebrew word for coriander is gad. The text points out that the numerical value of gad is seven. This, the Tikkunei Zohar explains, alludes to the seven lower sefirot — the divine emanations through which God manifests in the world.
With the addition of the Hebrew letter yod (י), gad (גד) is transformed into gyd (גיד), meaning "vein." According to this mystical interpretation, the manna isn't just food; it's a conduit, a vein through which divine energy flows into the world, nourishing both body and soul. Think of it as a direct line to the Divine, manifested in a tangible, edible form.
But why was it called manna, or man in Hebrew? The Torah tells us (Exodus 16:15) that when the Israelites first saw it, they exclaimed, "Mah hu?" — "What is it?" The Tikkunei Zohar seizes upon this. The very name, manna, becomes a question, an invitation to deeper understanding. It was called man because they did not know what it was. It descended from on high, like white coriander seed.
The text continues, drawing a contrast between the manna's appearance and its taste. It was white "from the right-hand side," like bdellium, a precious gem. But "its taste was like wafers made with honey – from the left-hand side" (Exodus 16:31). What does this mean? In Kabbalistic thought, right and left often represent different aspects of the Divine: chesed (loving-kindness) and gevurah (severity or judgment), respectively. So, the manna, in its very essence, embodies a balance of these qualities. It looks pure and radiant, but tastes sweet and satisfying.
And that phrase, "Mah hu" — "What is it?" — is further dissected. It contains ten letters, and these letters represent something significant, but the Tikkunei Zohar doesn't explicitly state it here. We are left to ponder the connection between the unknown nature of the manna and the ten divine emanations.
So, what are we to take away from all this? The Tikkunei Zohar isn't just giving us a history lesson about ancient food. It's inviting us to contemplate the nature of divine sustenance, the balance of divine attributes, and the very question of what it means to truly know something – or Someone. It's a reminder that even the simplest things, like a seed or a taste, can hold profound spiritual meaning, if we only take the time to ask, "Mah hu?" What is this, really?