Feeling at Home in Torah
“I’m sorry if this is a stupid question…”
I hear some version of that sentence almost every time I teach.
Before my students can finish apologizing, I usually stop them.
“There are no stupid questions.”
Over the years, I’ve realized that I don’t say that simply to put people at ease. I say it because I genuinely believe it.
Most of the time, what people call a “stupid question” isn’t a lack of intelligence. It’s simply a lack of background. Those are two very different things.
The only reason I know what I know is because someone else took the time, and had the generosity of spirit, to teach it to me. One of my mentors, Rabbanit Shani Taragin, taught me that simple but profound lesson, and I’ve never forgotten it. The more I teach, the more I realize how deeply it has shaped me. If the knowledge I have was given to me as a gift, then it feels both a privilege and a responsibility to share it with others.
These days, before I begin exploring a new sefer or a new topic, I often pause to orient everyone first. We talk about the historical setting, the literary structure, the geography, the recurring themes, and the Hebrew words that will matter later. Sometimes I joke that we’re going to get through “the boring stuff” first. But I’ve come to appreciate that the background isn’t really the boring part. It’s the map.
At home, I keep a laminated map of our community for guests. Every Erev Shabbat that we’re hosting, I erase the previous directions and draw new ones, showing our guests where the different homes are, where the shuls are, and how everything fits together. It recently occurred to me that I teach Tanakh much the same way. Before asking someone to explore unfamiliar territory, I want to help them get their bearings.
When someone asks about a Hebrew term, a literary structure, or a concept that seems obvious to everyone else in the room, I don’t see it as an interruption. I see it as an opportunity. If one person had the courage to ask, there are usually others who were wondering the very same thing.
So we stop.
We review.
We make sure everyone has the map they need before we continue.
I’d rather linger over an important idea, define an unfamiliar term, or revisit a concept that some people already know than leave others feeling lost. My hope is that people leave not only inspired, but also with a few more tools than they had when they arrived.
Perhaps that’s because I don’t see teaching as simply delivering information. I see it as inviting people into a conversation with Torah that has been unfolding for generations. My role isn’t to stand between my students and the text. It’s to help them feel at home enough to enter the conversation, to notice things they hadn’t noticed before, and to leave eager for the next time they open a Tanakh.
So the next time someone begins with, “I’m sorry if this is a stupid question…,” I hope I’ll keep giving the same answer.
Because someone once made room for me.
And what a privilege it is to make room for someone else.
