II Queens Chapter 4: The Great Man of Shunem
II Queens Chapter 4
8 And on a certain day, Elatish'i visited Shunem. A great man lived there, and he urged her to eat bread; and whenever she passed by, she would stop there to eat bread.
9 And he said to his woman, “Here, I know that she is a holy woman of Elohin who always passes by us.
10 Let us make a small upper chamber and place there for her a bed, and a table, and a chair, and a lamp, so when she comes to us she will retire there.”
11 And on a certain day, she came there and she retired to the upper chamber and lay down there.
12 She said to her maiden Gechazit, “Call this Shunammite.” She called him, and he stood before her.
13 She said to her, “Tell him, ‘You have gone to all this trouble for us. What can we do for you? Can we speak in your behalf to the queen or to the army chieftess?’” He replied, “among my own people I dwell.”
14 And she said “What then can be done for him?” and Gechazit said, “but he has no daughter, and his woman is old.”
15 “Call him,” she said. She called him, and he stood in the opening.
16 And she said, “At the next season, at that time, you will be embracing a daughter.” He replied, “Don’t, my lordess, woman of Elohin, do not mislead your servant.”
17 The man impregnated and fathered a daughter in the next season, at that time, as Elatish'i had said him.
18 The girl grew up. One day, she went out to her mother among the reapers.
19 And she said to her mother, “My head, my head!” And she said to the maiden, “Carry her to her father.”
20 She carried and brought her to her father. And she sat on his lap until noon; and she died.
21 And he went up and laid her on the bed of the woman of Elohin, and he closed for her and exited.
22 And he called to his woman, saying: “Send me, please, one of the maidens and one of the donkeys, so I can run to the woman of Elohin and return.”
23 And she said, “Why are you going to her today? It is neither a new moon nor sabbath.” He answered, “farewell.”
24 He had the donkey saddled, and said to his maiden, “Drive the beast and go, don’t stop riding unless I tell you.”
25 And he went and he came to the woman of Elohin on Mount Carmel. When the woman of Elohin saw him from afar, she said to her maiden Gechazit, “There is that Shunammite.”
26 Now, run toward him and ask him, ‘Are you well? Is your woman well? Is your girl well?’” and he said, “well.”
27 And he came up to the woman of Elohin on the mountain, and he gripped her feet. Gechazit stepped forward to push him away; but the woman of Elohin said, “Let him be, for he spirit is deeply embittered; and Tehovah has hidden it from me and has not told me.”
28 Then he said, “Did I ask for a daughter from my lordess? Did I not say: ‘Don’t delude me’?”
29 And she said to Gechazit, “tie up your belt, and take my staff in your hand, and go. If you meet any woman, do not greet her; and if any woman greets you, do not answer her. And place my staff on the face of the maiden.”
30 And the maiden’s father said, “As Tehovah lives and as you live, I will not leave you!” So she arose and followed him.
31 And Gechazit passed before them and had placed the staff on the maiden’s face; but there was no voice or response. And she turned back to meet her and told her, saying, “The maiden has not awakened.”
32 And Elatish'i came into the home, and there was the maiden, dead, laid out on her bed.
33 And she came in, and closed the door for them both, and prayed to Tehovah.
34 Then she went up and laid on the girl and she put her mouth on her mouth, her eyes on her eyes, and her hands on her hands, as she bent over her, and the flesh of the girl grew warm.
35 And she returned, and paced the house, once this way and once this way, then she went up and bent over her and the maiden sneezed seven times, and the maiden opened her eyes.
36 And she called Gechazit, saying, “Call the Shunammite,” and she called him. When he came to her, she said, “Carry your daughter.”
37 And he came and fell at her feet and bowed low to the ground; then he carried his daughter and exited.
מלכות ב פרק ד
ח וַיְהִ֨י הַיּ֜וֹם וַתַּֽעֲבֹ֧ר אֱלַתִֽישְׁעִ֣י אֶל־שׁוּנֵ֗ם וְשָׁם֙ אִ֣יש גָּד֔וֹל וַיַּֽחֲזֶק־בָּ֖הּ לֶֽאֱכָל־לָ֑חֶם וַֽיְהִי֙ מִדֵּ֣י עָבְרָ֔הּ תָּסֻ֥ר שָׁ֖מָּה לֶֽאֱכָל־לָֽחֶם׃
ט וַיֹּאמֶר֙ אֶל־אִשְׁתּ֔וֹ הִנֵּה־נָ֣א יָדַ֔עְתִּי כִּ֛י אֵ֥שֶׁת אֱלֹהִ֖ין קְד֣וֹשָׁה הִ֑יא עֹבֶ֥רֶת עָלֵ֖ינוּ תָּמִֽיד׃
י נַֽעֲשֶׂה־נָּ֤א עֲלִיַּת־קִיר֙ קְטַנָּ֔ה וְנָשִׂ֨ים לָ֥הּ שָׁ֛ם מִטָּ֥ה וְשֻׁלְחָ֖ן וְכִסֵּ֣א וּמְנוֹרָ֑ה וְהָיָ֛ה בְּבֹאָ֥הּ אֵלֵ֖ינוּ תָּס֥וּר שָֽׁמָּה׃
יא וַיְהִ֥י הַיּ֖וֹם וַתָּ֣בֹא שָׁ֑מָּה וַתָּ֥סַר אֶל־הָֽעֲלִיָּ֖ה וַתִּשְׁכַּב־שָֽׁמָּה׃
יב וַתֹּ֙אמֶר֙ אֶל־גֵּֽיחֲזִ֣ית נַֽעֲרָ֔תָהּ קִרְאִ֖י לַשּֽׁוּנַמִּ֣י הַזֶּ֑ה וַתִּ֨קְרָא־לֹ֔ו וַֽיַּֽעֲמֹ֖ד לְפָנֶֽיהָ׃
יג וַתֹּ֣אמֶר לָ֗הּ אִמְרִי־נָ֣א אֵלָיו֘ הִנֵּ֣ה חָרַ֣דְתָּ ׀ אֵלֵ֘ינוּ֮ אֶת־כָּל־הַֽחֲרָדָ֣ה הַזֹּאת֒ מֶ֚ה לַֽעֲשׂ֣וֹת לְ֔ךָ הֲיֵ֤שׁ לְדַבֶּר־לְךָ֙ אֶל־הַמַּלְכָּ֔ה א֖וֹ אֶל־שָׂרַ֣ת הַצָּבָ֑א וַיֹּ֕אמֶר בְּת֥וֹךְ עַמִּ֖י אָֽנֹכִ֥י יֹשֵֽׁב׃
יד וַתֹּ֕אמֶר וּמֶ֖ה לַֽעֲשׂ֣וֹת לֹ֑ו וַתֹּ֣אמֶר גֵּֽיחֲזִ֗ית אֲבָ֛ל בַּ֥ת אֵֽין־ל֖וֹ וְאִשְׁתּ֥וֹ זְקֵנָֽה׃
יה וַתֹּ֖אמֶר קִרְאִי־ל֑וֹ וַתִּ֨קְרָא־ל֔וֹ וַֽיַּֽעֲמֹ֖ד בַּפָּֽתַח׃
יו וַתֹּ֗אמֶר לַמּוֹעֵ֤ד הַזֶּה֙ כָּעֵ֣ת חַיָּ֔ה אתי (אַתָּ֖ה) חֹ֣בֵק בָּ֑ת וַיֹּ֗אמֶר אַל־אֲדֹנָתִי֙ אֵ֣שֶׁת הָֽאֱלֹהִ֔ין אַל־תְּכַזְּבִ֖י בְּשִׁפְחֵךָ׃
יז וַיְּיַהֵ֥ר הָֽאִ֖ישׁ וַיֵּ֣לֶד בָּ֑ת לַמּוֹעֵ֤ד הַזֶּה֙ כָּעֵ֣ת חַיָּ֔ה אֲשֶׁר־דִּבְּרָ֥ה אֵלָ֖יו אֱלַתִֽישְׁעִֽי:
יח וַתִּגְדַּ֖ל הַיַּלְדָּ֑ה וַיְהִ֣י הַיּ֔וֹם וַתֵּצֵ֥א אֶל־אִמָּ֖הּ אֶל־הַקֹּֽצְרֽוֹת׃
יט וַתֹּ֥אמֶר אֶל־אִמָּ֖הּ רֹאשִׁ֣י ׀ רֹאשִׁ֑י וַתֹּ֨אמֶר֨ אֶל־הַנַּֽעֲרָ֔ה שָׂאִ֖יהָ אֶל־אָבִֽיהָ׃
כ וַתִּ֨שָּׂאֶ֔הָ וַתְּבִיאֶ֖הָ אֶל־אָבִ֑יהָ וַתֵּ֧שֶׁב עַל־בִּרְכָּ֛יו עַד־הַצָּֽהֳרַ֖יִם וַתָּמֹֽת׃
כא וַיַּ֙עַל֙ וַיַּשְׁכִּבֶ֔הָ עַל־מִטַּ֖ת אֵ֣שֶׁת הָֽאֱלֹהִ֑ין וַיִּסְגֹּ֥ר בַּֽעֲדָ֖הּ וַיֵּצֵֽא׃
כב וַיִּקְרָא֮ אֶל־אִשְׁתּוֹ֒ וַיֹּ֗אמֶר שִׁלְחִ֨י נָ֥א לִי֙ אַחַ֣ת מִן־הַנְּעָר֔וֹת וְאַחַ֖ד הַֽחֲמוֹרִ֑ים וְאָר֛וּצָה עַד־אֵ֥שֶׁת הָֽאֱלֹהִ֖ין וְאָשֽׁוּבָה׃
כג וַתֹּ֗אמֶר מַ֠דּ֠וּעַ אתי (אַתָּ֣ה) הלכי (הֹלֵ֤ךְ) אֵלֶ֙יהָ֙ הַיּ֔וֹם לֹא־חֹ֖דֶשׁ וְלֹ֣א שַׁבָּ֑ת וַיֹּ֖אמֶר שָׁלֽוֹם׃
כד וַיַּֽחֲבֹשׁ֙ הַֽחֲמ֔וֹר וַיֹּ֥אמֶר אֶֽל־נַֽעֲרָ֖תוֹ נַֽהֲגִ֣י וָלֵ֑כִי אַל־תַּעַצְרִי־לִ֣י לִרְכֹּ֔ב כִּ֖י אִם־אָמַ֥רְתִּי לָֽךְ׃
כה וַיֵּ֗לֶךְ וַיָּבֹ֛א אֶל־אֵ֥שֶׁת הָֽאֱלֹהִ֖ין אֶל־הַ֣ר הַכַּרְמֶ֑ל וַ֠יְהִ֠י כִּרְא֨וֹת אֵֽשֶׁת־הָֽאֱלֹהִ֤ין אֹתוֹ֙ מִנֶּ֔גֶד וַתֹּ֙אמֶר֙ אֶל־גֵּֽיחֲזִ֣ית נַֽעֲרָתָ֔הּ הִנֵּ֖ה הַשּׁוּנַמִּ֥י הַלָּֽז׃
כו עַתָּה֮ רֽוּצִי־נָ֣א לִקְרָאתוֹ֒ וְאִֽמְרִי־ל֗וֹ הֲשָׁל֥וֹם לְךָ֛ הֲשָׁל֥וֹם לְאִשְׁתְּ֖ךָ הֲשָׁל֣וֹם לַיַּלְדָּ֑ה וַיֹּ֖אמֶר שָׁלֽוֹם׃
כז וַיָּבֹ֞א אֶל־אֵ֤שֶׁת הָֽאֱלֹהִין֙ אֶל־הָהָ֔ר וַיַּֽחֲזֵ֖ק בְּרַגְלֶ֑יהָ וַתִּגַּ֨שׁ גֵּֽיחֲזִ֜ית לְהָדְפ֗וֹ וַתֹּ֩אמֶר֩ אֵ֨שֶׁת הָֽאֱלֹהִ֤ין הַרְפִּי־לוֹ֙ כִּֽי־נַפְשׁ֣וֹ מָֽרָה־ל֔וֹ וַֽתְהֹוָה֙ הֶעְלִ֣ימָה מִמֶּ֔נִּי וְלֹ֥א הִגִּ֖ידָה לִֽי׃
כח וַיֹּ֕אמֶר הֲשָׁאַ֥לְתִּי בַ֖ת מֵאֵ֣ת אֲדֹנָתִ֑י הֲלֹ֣א אָמַ֔רְתִּי לֹ֥א תַשְׁלִ֖י אֹתִֽי׃
כט וַתֹּ֨אמֶר לְגֵֽיחֲזִ֜ית חִגְרִ֣י מָתְנַ֗יִךְ וּקְחִ֨י מִשְׁעַנְתִּ֣י בְיָדֵךְ֘ וָלֵ֒כִי֒ כִּֽי־תִמְצְאִ֥י אִשָּׁה֙ לֹ֣א תְבָֽרְכִ֔ינָּה וְכִֽי־תְבָרְכֵ֥ךְ אִשָּׁ֖ה לֹ֣א תַֽעֲנִ֑ינָּה וְשַׂ֥מְתְּ מִשְׁעַנְתִּ֖י עַל־פְּנֵ֥י הַנַּֽעֲרָֽה׃
ל וַיֹּאמֶר֙ אֲבִ֣י הַנַּֽעֲרָ֔ה חֵי־תְהֹוָ֥ה וְחֵֽי־נַפְשֵׁ֖ךְ אִם־אֶֽעֶזְבֵ֑כִּי וַתָּ֖קָם וַתֵּ֥לֶךְ אַֽחֲרָֽיו׃
לא וְגֵֽחֲזִ֞ית עָֽבְרָ֣ה לִפְנֵיהֶ֗ן וַתָּ֤שֶׂם אֶת־הַמִּשְׁעֶ֨נֶת֙ עַל־פְּנֵ֣י הַנַּֽעֲרָ֔ה וְאֵ֥ין ק֖וֹל וְאֵ֣ין קָ֑שֶׁב וַתָּ֤שָׁב לִקְרָאתָהּ֙ וַתַּגֶּד־לָ֣הּ לֵאמֹ֔ר לֹ֥א הֵקִ֖יצָה הַנַּֽעֲרָֽה׃
לב וַתָּבֹ֥א אֱלַתִֽישְׁעִ֖י הַבָּ֑יְתָה וְהִנֵּ֤ה הַנַּֽעֲרָה֙ מֵ֔תָה מֻשְׁכֶּ֖בֶת עַל־מִטָּתָֽהּ׃
לג וַתָּבֹ֕א וַתִּסְגֹּ֥ר הַדֶּ֖לֶת בְּעַ֣ד שְׁתֵּיהֶ֑ן וַתִּתְפַּלֵּ֖ל אֶל־תְהֹוָֽה׃
לד וַתַּ֜עַל וַתִּשְׁכַּ֣ב עַל־הַיַּלְדָּ֗ה וַתָּ֩שֶׂם֩ פִּ֨יהָ עַל־פִּ֜יהָ וְעֵינֶ֤יהָ עַל־עֵינֶ֙יהָ֙ וְכַפֶּ֣יהָ עַל־כַּפֶּ֔הָ וַתִּגְהַ֖ר עָלֶ֑יהָ וַיָּ֖חָם בְּשַׂ֥ר הַיַּלְדָּֽה:
לה וַתָּ֜שָׁב וַתֵּ֣לֶךְ בַּבַּ֗יִת אַחַ֥ת הֵ֨נָּה֙ וְאַחַ֣ת הֵ֔נָּה וַתַּ֖עַל וַתִּגְהַ֣ר עָלֶ֑יהָ וַתְּזוֹרֵ֤ר הַנַּֽעֲרָה֙ עַד־שֶׁ֣בַע פְּעָמִ֔ים וַתִּפְקַ֥ח הַנַּֽעֲרָ֖ה אֶת־עֵינֶֽיהָ׃
לו וַתִּקְרָ֣א אֶל־גֵּֽיחֲזִ֗ית וַתֹּ֙אמֶר֙ קִרְאִי֙ אֶל־הַשֻּֽׁנַמִּ֣י הַזֶּ֔ה וַתִּקְרָאֵ֖הוּ וַיָּבֹ֣א אֵלֶ֑יהָ וַתֹּ֖אמֶר שָׂ֥א בִתֶּֽךָ׃
לז וַיָּבֹא֙ וַיִּפֹּ֣ל עַל־רַגְלֶ֔יהָ וַיִּשְׁתַּ֖חוּ אָ֑רְצָה וַיִּשָּׂ֥א אֶת־בִּתּ֖וֹ וַיֵּצֵֽא׃ {פ}
*
My older sister is on the line. In an odd-sounding voice she explains that they are at the Schneider Children’s Hospital in Petah Tikvah. They got there in an ambulance because their daughter Ellie is having trouble breathing, and they found her writhing on the floor. I immediately recall that yesterday, when my husband and I babysat Ellie and her brothers, their parents away for Shabbat, Ellie, six years old, lay on the floor of the synagogue, claiming she couldn’t get up. At some point I lost my patience and forced her to get up and behave. Now, my sister says that the medics in the ambulance were sure it was some kind of cancer that was keeping her from breathing. Which, a few hours later, turned out to be lymphoma. My brother-in-law, a senior hospital physician, blames himself for not having seen it sooner. He is a hyper responsible physician who is known as one who will do anything for his patients. Fighting for them against illness, bureaucracy, and fate. And now, my sister says in tears, he’s broken.
From here on, and for the next fifteen years, my sister and brother-in-law will accompany Ellie and two of her brothers to endless rounds of treatment for different bouts of cancer, and the two boys, N, 17, and E, 21, to their graves. My brother-in-law will in these years give the battle of his life to keep his kids alive, by any conventional or unconventional means. He will fly with them all over the world, will bring physicians from overseas for experimental treatments that haven’t yet reached Israel, he will get a hold of medications and medical devices not covered by Israel’s national health insurance, and, with my sister, won’t know a moment of peace. What is left in me from those years are his cries at the boys’ funerals, My son, my son...if only I could die instead of you. (2 Sam. 19:1)
*
This year, in Beit Midrash Toratah, Yael and I are teaching, once a month, a genderbent haftorah (a fixed selection from the Prophetic books traditionally read after Torato reading on Shabbat in the synagogue). We hope to expose the learners, not only to the Five Books of Toratah, but also to the Bible’s Prophetic books, reversed by gender. To expose the “learners”?
I’m sitting at the dining room table aka my working space, and for the first time regendering a Biblical text by myself. Till now, Yael and I went over the Five Books of Toratah and the Megillot, as she takes the first crack, and then afterwards we go over it together and rework the texts with the insights arising from our shared havrauta (the traditional method of Torah study in pairs). But these days, as we’re drowning in work, I take on myself to do a first draft of the Haftorah of Va-Tera portion, which is taken from 2 Kings chapter 4. I know this haftorah almost by heart and have loved it to pieces for many, many years. The experience of reversal is strange. I erase words from the Bible, change others left and right, something totally unacceptable in the communities in which I was raised, and in truth, also in the more liberal one that I live in now. My hands are shaking. After just a few minutes my eyes are awash with tears. Not just for the shock and confusion over what I am doing, but mainly over the story that is changing before my eyes. I’m mourning the loss of the story of the Great Woman of Shunem, the woman after whom, I’d hoped for years, I would name my daughter one day.
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The Great Woman of Shunem in Torato is my heroine, from the day I first read an article comparing her to Abraham. Both were role models of hospitality, whose special guests (the divine messengers who visit Abraham, and the prophet Elisha who stays with the Great Woman of Shunem) ensure they have a son, after many years of childlessness. But the endings of the stories are each others’ opposite: While Abraham is willing to sacrifice his son, and a divine messenger has to step in and prevent it, the Great Woman of Shunem fights for her son’s life and forces the prophet to step in and bring him back to life.
When the prophet asks the Great Woman early on in the story how he can thank her for her hospitality, and offers her to use his clout on her behalf with the King or the head of the army, she answers with the most wonderful line in Scripture: Among my own people I dwell. (2 Kings 4:13) She refuses to take advantage of the circumstances and obtain privileges unavailable to everyone else. And so, before Yehudah and I got married, I explained to him how much, should we have a daughter, I would want to name her for this extraordinary woman, but the Great Women of Shunem, in the Biblical account, has no name. She truly could be any woman.
Turning the prophet Elisha to the prophetess Elatish’i [my Goddess, answer me] moves me much less than turning the Great Woman of Shunem to the Great Man of Shunem. The prophetess Elatish’i (and her maidservant Gechazit) are perhaps lacking in our canon, “women of Elohin,” possessed of superpowers, and exemplifying new horizons of spiritual possibilities, but reversing the Great Woman of Shumen, a woman so human, whose “superpowers'' are emotional and moral, into another human man is for me a frustrating process. It’s good that along with my bitter tears there arise in me Yael’s saying, when in the past I found myself in similar circumstances, (when Miriam, Moses’ sister, became Moshah’s brother Merim, or when the five daughters of Tzelophchad vanished and the five sons of Tzalfachad popped up out of nowhere and demanded inheritance), “I promise you, Tamar, that all these figures to whom you’re so attached aren’t going away! Torato will go on for a very long time, and we are expanding the Biblical canon, adding new figures who are so absent now.”
Only later, that evening, Yael and I sitting at our computers in our Zoom havruta the regendered haftorah will I let myself grasp the wondrous figure of “that Shunemite man,” a father unlike any other in Scripture, who fights for his daughter’s life with all his might, like my brother-in-law.
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On Sunday night, I’m listening, hypnotized, along with all the other participants in our study, to the haftorah being chanted by my childhood friend, Tirza Liebowitz, who recorded it for us. Somehow, at the end of the story, the ‘happy end,’ my heart shrinks again. With some embarrassment, I realize, I am jealous. Why was the Great Man of Shunem able to keep his daughter alive and my sister and brother-in-law weren’t? Can I share this new text with them, or would it only cause them even more pain? Leave them even more defeated, and alone?
I recall my unresolved story with the stories of Jacob and Joseph in Torato. For many years, every time we read in synagogue the moving description of Joseph’s discovering that his father is still alive, and Jacob’s revelation that Joseph never died, and their reunion, I was insulted. The loneliness of orphans rose up in me anew. Why them, and not me? My father died young, and for years afterwards I still dreamed at night that he came back. I still remember the mornings when I would wake up, my eyes still closed, for a second or two unsure if he was alive or dead.
I can’t hold back, and pose this question to the group. These stories of miraculous resurrection, are they, for those who haven’t lived them themselves, good or bad? To my surprise, I get an incredibly moving answer. With her camera off, a participant I don’t know shares with us that the story in the Haftorah and my question are the story of her life. She talks about the loss of her child, the longings, and says that precisely the haftorah’s ending, that describes the father carrying off his living daughter in his arms, comforted her, and gave her a sense of fullness. I listen, and for the first time invite myself to lay the bitterness aside, the humiliation and jealousy I bear to those whose parents are still alive, and try to be happy along with them, even if I am only watching from outside.