Seven-Up
by Samuel R. Lewis
Future marketing textbooks probably will devote an entire chapter describing the brilliance of automotive product managers and their advertising colleagues who convinced tens of millions of American drivers over the last score of years to purchase slow, heavy, boxy, gas-guzzling vehicles (aka "SUVs") originally inspired by a bouncy, style-less general purpose vehicle ("jeep") in World War II.
As impressive a marketing feat as that was, it's a snowflake in Alaska compared to the marketing challenge posed by the advent of ethical monotheism more than three millennia ago. At the time, most people in the world worshiped topographic gods — rivers, mountains, trees — or saw their deities embodied in animals such as cats, dogs and rats, or simply in figurines they made themselves.
To get the message out to an uninformed mass of people mostly concerned with their physical survival, a story about exceptional human characters had to be beautifully told in a manner that would sear it into the minds of its listeners — and still remain "real-life" in its depiction of the flaws and foibles of even its heroes.
One of the more effective literary mechanisms employed in the Torah is the use of recurring thematic elements. Some of these reflect the distinctly human passions that flow through so many human relationships: acrimony between brothers (Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau), the jealousies and degradations wrought by polygamy or polygamous relationships (Sarah and Hagar, Rachel and Leah), or the problems that inevitably arise when one child is favored by parents over others (Abraham and Isaac, Jacob — repeatedly).
Indeed, even today, there are those who plausibly maintain that Arab hatred of Jews stems originally from Abraham's banishment of Hagar and their son, Ishmael, who is traditionally considered the father of the Arab people. (Ishmael, who ultimately comes off as a pretty good chap, if a bit rough around the edges, appears to have forgiven his father (if he ever faulted him in the first place) and reconciled with Isaac. His many descendants would do well to take a page from Ishmael's live-and-let-live notebook.)
Dreams are another common recurring element, often used to help move the story closer to its moral resolution (recall, for example, Jacob's dream of angels ascending and descending a ladder to heaven) or just provide the connecting tissue that causes characters to interact in ways that would otherwise seem improbable. The rise of Joseph — sold into slavery by his brothers and later servant to an Egyptian official, elevated to what appears to be the secretary of the interior under Pharaoh — is attributed largely to his interpretation of the dreams of Pharaoh and his ministers.
Indeed, reading the story of Joseph a few weeks ago reminded me of one of the most mysterious biblical elements — the Torah's repeated use of certain numbers, particularly the propensity for the number 7. After Pharaoh dreams of seven fat cows devouring seven lean cows on the banks of the Nile River, and then dreams again of seven ears of succulent corn devouring seven ears of corn "thin and blasted by the east wind," he's sufficiently disturbed to call on his magicians to interpret these dreams. When they cannot, the Pharaoh's chief butler remembers how Joseph correctly interpreted his dream and that of the chief baker while they were all in prison. Called from prison, Joseph foretells that Egypt will enjoy seven years of abundance followed by seven years of famine — and recommends that Pharaoh appoint an overseer to ensure that Egypt accumulate sufficient agricultural reserves during the time of plenty to see it through the time of want.
Of course, the Torah is not a book of Egyptian history, and the point of all of this was to place Joseph in a position where he could reconcile with his brothers and assist his family's immigration to Egypt, saving them from the famine that struck their home in Canaan. It also demonstrates, in Joseph's sons, Ephraim and Menasseh, the capacity for maintaining one's devotion to God in an environment that promotes paganism.
The repeated use of the number 7 in Jewish history and observance is more than just a mnemonic device, though it is certainly that. In the romantic realm, Jacob had to labor for seven years to gain Rachel's hand and, when tricked by her father, Laban, into marrying Rachel's older sister Leah, worked an additional seven years for the girl he really loved. And today, sheva brachot (seven blessings) are recited for the bride and groom in a Jewish wedding ceremony. At the most fundamental level, there are seven so-called "Noahide" laws given by God to Noah that apply to all mankind (as opposed to the later Torah commandments that apply to Jews). And outside the religious realm, 7 is still instrumental in the human universe — there are seven notes in the musical scale, for example.
I asked a religious mathematician about this, and he replied that it really is a mystery. A rabbi, not a mathematician, told me about a very interesting phenomenon. Place a disc — say, a quarter — on a table. Surround it with as many quarters as you can. The total number will always be seven, and this applies to any seven discs, so long as all the discs are of equal size.
The point of all of this is not to say that 7 is a religious number. It may or may not be. But the number apparently has some spiritual significance that man has yet to fully — excuse me — divine.
And for those of you who contend that this is all rubbish, that there's no significance to this number or any other, I must ask: How many days are in your week?
— — —
Samuel R. Lewis Samuel R. Lewis writes commentary on current, past, and future events. His articles have appeared in The Washington Times, Car and Driver, and on Townhall.com.
Mensch Press, his column originally devised for UPI's Religion and Spirituality.com, examines the eternal struggle between good and evil and the enlightened man's consequent efforts to pursue the holy over the profane, civilization over barbarianism.
Future marketing textbooks probably will devote an entire chapter describing the brilliance of automotive product managers and their advertising colleagues who convinced tens of millions of American drivers over the last score of years to purchase slow, heavy, boxy, gas-guzzling vehicles (aka "SUVs") originally inspired by a bouncy, style-less general purpose vehicle ("jeep") in World War II.
As impressive a marketing feat as that was, it's a snowflake in Alaska compared to the marketing challenge posed by the advent of ethical monotheism more than three millennia ago. At the time, most people in the world worshiped topographic gods — rivers, mountains, trees — or saw their deities embodied in animals such as cats, dogs and rats, or simply in figurines they made themselves.
It would take an extraordinary narrative to persuade a largely illiterate, nomadic people to adopt a theology based on a God who was universal, physically invisible, and created all human souls — pharaoh and slave, general and foot-soldier — with the same exquisite value. At stake was nothing less than the reshaping and civilizing of human behavior.
To get the message out to an uninformed mass of people mostly concerned with their physical survival, a story about exceptional human characters had to be beautifully told in a manner that would sear it into the minds of its listeners — and still remain "real-life" in its depiction of the flaws and foibles of even its heroes.
One of the more effective literary mechanisms employed in the Torah is the use of recurring thematic elements. Some of these reflect the distinctly human passions that flow through so many human relationships: acrimony between brothers (Cain and Abel, Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau), the jealousies and degradations wrought by polygamy or polygamous relationships (Sarah and Hagar, Rachel and Leah), or the problems that inevitably arise when one child is favored by parents over others (Abraham and Isaac, Jacob — repeatedly).
Indeed, even today, there are those who plausibly maintain that Arab hatred of Jews stems originally from Abraham's banishment of Hagar and their son, Ishmael, who is traditionally considered the father of the Arab people. (Ishmael, who ultimately comes off as a pretty good chap, if a bit rough around the edges, appears to have forgiven his father (if he ever faulted him in the first place) and reconciled with Isaac. His many descendants would do well to take a page from Ishmael's live-and-let-live notebook.)
Dreams are another common recurring element, often used to help move the story closer to its moral resolution (recall, for example, Jacob's dream of angels ascending and descending a ladder to heaven) or just provide the connecting tissue that causes characters to interact in ways that would otherwise seem improbable. The rise of Joseph — sold into slavery by his brothers and later servant to an Egyptian official, elevated to what appears to be the secretary of the interior under Pharaoh — is attributed largely to his interpretation of the dreams of Pharaoh and his ministers.
Indeed, reading the story of Joseph a few weeks ago reminded me of one of the most mysterious biblical elements — the Torah's repeated use of certain numbers, particularly the propensity for the number 7. After Pharaoh dreams of seven fat cows devouring seven lean cows on the banks of the Nile River, and then dreams again of seven ears of succulent corn devouring seven ears of corn "thin and blasted by the east wind," he's sufficiently disturbed to call on his magicians to interpret these dreams. When they cannot, the Pharaoh's chief butler remembers how Joseph correctly interpreted his dream and that of the chief baker while they were all in prison. Called from prison, Joseph foretells that Egypt will enjoy seven years of abundance followed by seven years of famine — and recommends that Pharaoh appoint an overseer to ensure that Egypt accumulate sufficient agricultural reserves during the time of plenty to see it through the time of want.
Of course, the Torah is not a book of Egyptian history, and the point of all of this was to place Joseph in a position where he could reconcile with his brothers and assist his family's immigration to Egypt, saving them from the famine that struck their home in Canaan. It also demonstrates, in Joseph's sons, Ephraim and Menasseh, the capacity for maintaining one's devotion to God in an environment that promotes paganism.
The repeated use of the number 7 in Jewish history and observance is more than just a mnemonic device, though it is certainly that. In the romantic realm, Jacob had to labor for seven years to gain Rachel's hand and, when tricked by her father, Laban, into marrying Rachel's older sister Leah, worked an additional seven years for the girl he really loved. And today, sheva brachot (seven blessings) are recited for the bride and groom in a Jewish wedding ceremony. At the most fundamental level, there are seven so-called "Noahide" laws given by God to Noah that apply to all mankind (as opposed to the later Torah commandments that apply to Jews). And outside the religious realm, 7 is still instrumental in the human universe — there are seven notes in the musical scale, for example.
I asked a religious mathematician about this, and he replied that it really is a mystery. A rabbi, not a mathematician, told me about a very interesting phenomenon. Place a disc — say, a quarter — on a table. Surround it with as many quarters as you can. The total number will always be seven, and this applies to any seven discs, so long as all the discs are of equal size.
The point of all of this is not to say that 7 is a religious number. It may or may not be. But the number apparently has some spiritual significance that man has yet to fully — excuse me — divine.
And for those of you who contend that this is all rubbish, that there's no significance to this number or any other, I must ask: How many days are in your week?
— — —
Samuel R. Lewis Samuel R. Lewis writes commentary on current, past, and future events. His articles have appeared in The Washington Times, Car and Driver, and on Townhall.com.
Mensch Press, his column originally devised for UPI's Religion and Spirituality.com, examines the eternal struggle between good and evil and the enlightened man's consequent efforts to pursue the holy over the profane, civilization over barbarianism.
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