Was this the moment of grace? The whole world became song. Even the angels began to sing, but God interrupted them with the most universally human call to order in the Talmud: Maase yadai tovim bayam veatem omrim shira?—My creatures are drowning in the sea—and you are singing? What if they are enemies of Israel and liberty—they are still human beings! How can you think of singing while human beings are drowning? Of course, the angels could have replied: What about the Jews, why is it all right for them to sing? The angels, perhaps out of politeness, did not ask the question. Besides, there was a difference: the Jews had just escaped disaster—the angels had not. As a surviving people, a people of survivors, Israel had the right—and duty—to express its gratitude.

Then, seven weeks later, came the big moment, the unique event in the memory of mankind: God was about to speak, to reveal His Law, to make His Voice heard. For three days the people and its leaders lived in expectation and purification; one must be worthy to receive the Law, worthy of being seen by God. Yet, if one is to believe Talmudic legend, there were those who were not impressed. On the morning of the day when all Israel was to have gathered at the foot of the mountain, some men and women were still asleep in their tents. And so God first manifested Himself with thunder and lightning in order to shake, to awaken those who were foolish enough to sleep while time and the heart of mankind opened to receive the call of Him who lends mystery to all things. Then, abruptly, there was silence. And in this silence a Voice was heard. God spoke. What did He speak of? His secret work, His eternally imperceptible intentions? No, He spoke of man’s relationship to man, of one individual’s duties toward others. At this unique moment God wished to deal with human relations rather than theology. No wonder His audience was recalcitrant; after all, why not steal in a society where everyone else does? Why not kill in a world steeped in violence? The Talmud states it explicitly: Israel refused the Torah until God threatened them: Kafa alehem har kegigit—He lifted a mountain and held it over the crowd. It was either the Torah or death. They had no choice, and so they accepted the Law against their will and God was satisfied at last.

But not Moses. Moses, in his candor, would have liked to see his people accept the Law freely. And to freely pledge allegiance to the God who had promised to watch over its fate. But he said nothing. Forty days later everything was forgotten, everything collapsed. Standing at the top of the mountain, the tablets of the Law in his arms, Moses perceived an unwonted noise from down below: his people were dancing, rejoicing, worshipping the Golden Calf.

So angry was Moses, says one Midrash, that he was ready to kill. . . his own brother, Aaron. His disappointment was boundless: forty days after the Revelation at Sinai—a Golden Calf! Despite the magnitude of the events, of the divine manifestations, the crossing of the Red Sea and the other miracles, something of this stiff-necked people had stayed behind in bondage in Egypt!