The Ballad of a Dove

As kids, my brothers and I had plastic Noah's ark dish/ cutlery sets. They had simple pictures of animals and a red ark in the center of each dish and the Hebrew and English alphabet around the rims. There may have been a rainy cloud and a rainbow. Also: you could not put them in the microwave.

Noah's ark is all over things for children: puzzles, puppets, paintings, you name it. ... And I sorta get why the story is marketable to children (and their parents and grandparents): there are lots of fluffy animals! And "two by two"! There's a rainbow! But between you, me, and the internet, the place of Parashat Noach in Judeo-Christian society freaks me out.


The best way I know to get into this story is to talk through a different one.

On Passover, we tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt, about how Hashem took the Children of Israel out of bondage and into freedom with a strong hand and an outstretched arm. At the Seder, we ask the question, "How do we tell this story to our children?" and we come up with at least four different answers.

To the child who approaches the story with bright eyes and an open heart, ready to celebrate, ready to embrace with only one question, "How?" we explain the laws of Passover and invite the child to participate in the traditions of his heritage.

To the child who sees a (frankly) bizarre ritual taking place before her, one in which her family is deeply steeped, to a child who begs for a window to peer into and understand, to the child who asks, "What is this service to you?" tradition shows little compassion. It instructs adults to parse her words and punish her for them. To frighten her with terrible words, "If you had been there, you would not have been redeemed."

We are provided by our tradition with simple answers for the child who knows only enough to ask "What's this?" and for the child who does not yet know to ask.


What of the child who asks about the flood?

When I taught the story of Noah to my Hebrew school classes, my older students, seventh graders nodded along, taking the story in stride. My fifth graders rose from their chairs.

They'd never heard the story before.

"Hashem destroyed the whole world?"
"Everything but what lived in the water and the animals and people in the ark."
"All of the people?"
"All but eight. Noah and his family."
"All the children?"
"The children."
"Even babies?"
"The babies."
"By drowning them?"
"By flood."
"Hashem?"
"Hashem."

What consolation is there for a child who asks these questions?

The world was full of sinners. Noah was a righteous man in his generation. Strive to be righteous. When around you all you see is wickedness, strive to be good and kind. Be worthy of saving.
What sort of answer is that when infants were drowned?

The rainbow stands as a reminder to us of the covenant Hashem made with humankind. Never again will Hashem destroy the world by flood. What the hell kind of weak-ass covenant is that?

In retelling them the story, we must reassure bright-eyed, open-hearted children that they are right to be horrified. That they are blindingly beautiful for it. That when they continue to spot injustice throughout their lives, as they no doubt will, that they should be moved to such righteous indignation. That they should move their teachers to tears. That they should move their elders, those who have walked the earth so long that they take stories of destruction in stride, that these 'realistic,' wizened, calloused hearts, these hearts they should move to action.

In retelling the story of Noah, it is our duty as adults to hear the questions of children. To remember that for our entire lives and for many years thereafter, it is to our children we will have to answer.