by Andrew Sunshine
But that erasure—gradual, unremarkable, unchecked so far—is an extraordinary emblem of human indifference, mindlessness. Are we to suppose that it can be without cosmic consequences?
1.
When Rabbi Low saw that the work of his hands had run amok, he knew what must be done. The man he had made must be undone.
What was the golem’s undoing?
Rabbi Low fetched his ladder, stood it by the giant, ascended to the highest rung, and deleted, letter by letter, the Tetragrammaton inscribed upon his brow.
When the first letter had vanished, the man stood stock still.
When the second letter was gone, the light vanished from his eyes and neither his pulse nor his heart could beat any longer.
When the final letter was removed, the man’s form crumbled utterly to dust.
That is the pattern and the rite. Thus, every year on Purim, to celebrate their salvation long ago from the evil Haman, Jews chalk their persecutor’s name on the soles of their shoes, pressing and twisting them into the floor to rub out the letters of his name to forget him forever again.
If you can write it, you can obliterate it. That is why it is forbidden to write the name of God.
2.
The central administrative building at the university where I work, a rotunda with a grand portico atop a prominence overlooking the campus, is called Low Library, built by Seth Low, a former president of the University, in memory of his father. Needless to say, this Low is not to be confused with Rabbi Low which is really Loew or Löw or Loeb or Löb or Leyb, that is, ‘lion’.
The lion happens to be the mascot of the University, but the institutional seal is graced with the four letters of the Tetragrammaton, the letters of God’s name, the letters which compose the universe. A man in a lion costume prances about at varsity football games, but far from the stadium, the University seal is a brass inlay set into the marble floor of Low Library’s lobby. For more than a century, this seal has been trodden underfoot and the Tetragrammaton it encompasses is visibly worn away:
What is the meaning of this?
Who is the architect, the choreographer, of this casual desecration?
Who will answer for it?
Who among us will take the Name from the floor and find for it a tomb?
We who go about our business in the world of human affairs, however wholesome or indifferent our routines may be, effect much violence and destruction, pain and suffering. We wake up in the morning, fix a cup of coffee, and bring worlds to the brink of their doom.
Perhaps the sort of archaic speculation about language enshrined in the legend of Rabbi Low and the Golem of Prague is not up to today’s industry standards. To link it with a modern instance of erasing (or defacing) God’s name may therefore seem to exceed speculation and enter the realm of implausible fantasy: no cataclysm could possibly result from wearing down the letters in a brass emblem in the halls of a secular institution. But that erasure—gradual, unremarkable, unchecked so far—is an extraordinary emblem of human indifference, mindlessness. Are we to suppose that it can be without cosmic consequences?
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Andrew Sunshine is the author of Andra moi (Ambitus Books). Recent work has appeared in Map Literary, Panoplyzine, and Wild Roof. He is co-editor (with Donna Jo Napoli) of Tongue’s Palette: Poetry by Linguists and editor of The Alembic Space: Writings on Poetics and Translation by Joseph Malone (both from Atlantis-Centaur). He lives in New York City with his wife and, when they are passing through, his two sons.