
Learning How to Read on Shavuot
The Torah remains our greatest inheritance and our heaviest piece of baggage—simultaneously an elixir of life and an elixir of death depending on the spirit in which it is imbibed.
Matthew Schultz is the author of the essay collection “What Came Before” (2020). He is a rabbinical student at Hebrew College in Newton, Massachusetts.

The Torah remains our greatest inheritance and our heaviest piece of baggage—simultaneously an elixir of life and an elixir of death depending on the spirit in which it is imbibed.

The atmosphere of Memorial Day in Israel speaks to the fact that, in Israel, history runs wild in the streets.

The Exodus story — recounted each year at Pesach seders around the world — tells the story of the Israelites’ two great sanctuaries.

A common critique of religion is that it exists only to blunt our fear of death through the deployment of comforting fairytales, replacing life’s great and unsettling unknowns with visions of an afterlife which are — if not less unsettling — at least less unknown.


Being a rabbinical student, Torah study was already a regular part of my daily life. For my father, aunt, uncle and brother, however, the unmediated Hebrew Bible was foreign territory.

The generation of the exodus is commanded to imagine that their lives are part of a story. In so doing, they cast their eyes forward to the generations of the distant future: to us.

If God has “hardened” or, in some instances, “strengthened” Pharaoh’s heart, is this to say that God violated Pharoah’s free will?

The jagged and gargantuan architecture of mountains implies nothing particularly gentle about their architect.

We are being set up by the text to anticipate a recurrence of this eternally recurring motif—the overturn of primogeniture—in which the younger sibling attains the blessing and privilege due the older.