Congregation Netivot Shalom

Rosh Hashannah Haftarah Commentary
Sep 29, 2011 / 1 Tishrei 5772
Hannah Dresner

Commentary on Haftarah, Rosh HaShannah, First Day

We say that Hannah, the mother of the prophet Samuel, is of theologic importance because she invented prayer-speech. The fact that she spoke to God in prayer means that she conceived of a God who listens, and that is her great innovation.

In an environment where worship was not based in language, and where Israelite worship was a communal act offered in a collective voice, Hannah imagined that her individual supplication could reach God, and that God would be affected. She engaged in what Reb Nachman of Bratzlav, 2000 years later, called hitbodedut, pouring out her soul to a divine listener. In this, she appeared crazy to her clergy person Eli the Kohen, at least at first glance.

Hannah was “praying in her heart,” and all Eli saw was a woman mumbling to herself. But in his second take on Hannah, Eli was drawn to really listen, modeling the shift in perception that is possible when we slow down, let go of judgment, and enter another person’s story as a respectful witness to their pain. Eli didn’t attempt to silence Hannah’s lament; instead, he companioned her pain and, by way of his attentive presence, held holy space for her personal relationship with God.

Listening to what was in her heart, he was moved past her outward appearance of dishevelment, and was stimulated to responded by transforming Hannah’s own plea into a blessing: “May the God of Israel grant you what you have asked.” As he opened to listen with compassion, his natural empathy flowed to expression, transforming the priest of sacrificial cult into a pastor. In this way, the first personal prayer invited the first expression of personal chaplaincy. Hannah, as congregant, taught Eli how to be her rabbi, as it were.

* * *

There is more to learn about listening in this narrative. Elkanah, Hannah’s husband, heard the depth of her distress, comforting her weeping by offering to fill the void of her childlessness with his own affection: “Am I not more devoted to you than ten sons?” With this, he acknowledged her intrinsic personhood and her value to him as a beloved, regardless of whether or not she bore children. He is, perhaps, Tanach’s feminist husband.[1] The narrative makes clear that Hannah is not ready to give up childbearing, but perhaps her husband’s support of her merit as a human being contributed to Hannah’s sense of worthiness to stand, as an individual woman, before her personal God.

Elkana is often read as insensitive to his wife’s frustration with infertility, but on second take, with softer-hearted listening on our parts, we hear him, too, crying out. In his wife’s weeping, Elkana heard the brokenness of her self worth, as tied to her ability to conceive. We can hear him crying to liberate his wife from that social construct. [2]

* * *

And there was another adult member of the family system: Peninnah, Hannah’s rival wife, who had given birth to children and whose children each received a portion of Elkanah’s sacrifices, when they made pilgrimage to Shiloh. What we know of Peninnah is that she was wont to taunt Hannah because of her barrenness, so that Hannah wept and would not eat. We are not given Peninnah’s words, but we know what she sounded like, don’t we? ... Or do we? What would we hear if we gave Peninnah a second listen?

I have a dear friend who teaches this text to a class of seventh graders in a Jewish day school. Finding her students too quick to judge Peninnah, she suggested that they formulate of a question they might ask Peninnah so as to better understand her behavior; in this way they would give Peninnah a second chance. All participated in the brainstorming, imagining a time when they’d been mean… What they heard, in answer to their questions, was the anguish behind Peninnah’s jibes. They heard that she did not feel valued as Hannah was valued, that she felt like a surrogate, that she was marginalized by the text, her story not considered, let alone told, and they heard the misery of her need for Hannah to remain barren, so that she, Peninnah has some basis on which she could maintain her dignity as the less loved wife.

The next lesson was a role-play. “Hannah” told “Peninnah” how she felt: “I desperately want to have kids. I don’t care about Elkanah’s love!” To which “Peninnah” responded: “I want what you have! Take my kids!” With this, my friend, the teacher, watched as the students playing “Hannah” and “Peninnah” moved their chairs closer together; it was a powerful moment. Slowly, the class began to discuss how the relationship changed and what was gained when they spoke and listened in this way. The students felt the women had formed the beginning of an alliance and might be able to help one another as sister wives.[3]

It is not surprising that such rich teaching on the subject of listening is possible, based on the Hannah narrative. The text asks to be considered in this framework precisely because of Hannah’s introduction of divine listening. God is listening, and that sets the tone, indeed, the theme, the mida, the quality to be examined and emulated by characters and readers alike. If God listens, we, who emulate God, must learn how to listen. Eli, the man of God, the spiritual leader, set a human example for striving to match this holy attribute, reigning back judgment, allowing his mind to broaden so that he could truly hear a woman who seemed so odd, so aberrant. In truth, Hannah was extraordinary, her revolutionary notion of God based on imagining the possibility of talking to God in one’s heart, and being heard.

1. Cynthia Ozick, “Hannah and Elkanah: Torah as the Matrix for Feminism,” in Christina Buchmann and Celina Spiegel, ed, Out of the Garden: Women Writers on the Bible, pp 88-93
2. Ibid
3. Ellen Blumenthal, Solomon Schechter Middle School, Northbrook, IL 

Hannah Dresner ©