By Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel in Chula Vista, California
On Shavuot we celebrate the greatest moment in Jewish history — the Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. Our ancestors stood at the foot of that mountain and received the divine blueprint for how to live as a holy people. But our sages, with their sharp eyes and even sharper sense of wordplay, noticed something curious about the location. The mountain is called Sinai. And what does that sound like in Hebrew? Sinah — שִׂנְאָה — hatred.
That’s right. The Torah was given on the Mountain of Hatred. Before you wonder if this is too heavy for a traditional night of blintzes and cheesecake, let’s unpack this classic midrash.
The Talmud and our sages teach that Hashem intentionally chose Har Sinai because its name hints at a deep truth: from the moment we accepted the Torah, irrational hatred — sinah — would enter the world and often be aimed straight at the Jewish people. It’s a divine pun with teeth.
And the setup for this cosmic joke is even better. According to the midrash, God didn’t just show up at Sinai with the Torah like a surprise party. First, He went around offering it to all the other nations — like a divine salesman going door-to-door with the ultimate upgrade.
To the descendants of Esau (the Edomites), He said, “Want My Torah?” They asked, “What’s in it?” God replied, “Thou shalt not murder.” They laughed: “Sorry, killing is basically our family business. Hard pass.”
He went to the Ishmaelites: “How about a Torah?” “What’s the catch?” “Don’t steal.” They answered, “Stealing? That’s our side hustle! No thanks.”
To every nation He offered it, and each one found a commandment that clashed with their vibe. One group said the rule against adultery didn’t fit their lifestyle. Another said “honor your parents” was too much commitment. It was like God was offering a state-of-the-art moral operating system, and every nation responded with “Nah, we’re still running on Windows 95 — idolatry and moral flexibility edition.”
Finally, He came to the Jews—these former slaves fresh out of Egypt—and we said the now-famous line: Na’aseh v’nishma—“We will do and we will listen.” No negotiations. No “What’s the return policy?” Just full commitment. And that’s when the sinah really kicked in.
Before Sinai, the world operated on its own chaotic terms — idols, power struggles, and very flexible morals. Then a band of ex-slaves accepted a system of absolute ethics: one God, justice for the stranger, honesty in business, and real boundaries around human behavior. The nations looked at this new moral operating system from Heaven and many didn’t like what they saw. It challenged their way of life. And so the resentment began.
The Torah wasn’t given on Har Chessed or Har Shalom. It was given on the mountain whose name literally echoes sinah. As if God was gently warning us with a wink: “This gift is going to make you stand out — and not everyone will send a thank-you card.” And we’re still living this truth in 2026.
Antisemitism remains one of the oldest and most adaptable hatreds in human history. It doesn’t need a reason — it just needs an excuse. Jews are blamed for being too successful and too victimized, too liberal and too conservative, too clannish and too globalist. The contradictions would be funny if they weren’t so exhausting.
Economist Thomas Sowell offered a brilliantly blunt insight into this phenomenon. When asked what Jews could do to minimize the hostility they face, Sowell gave a one-word answer: “Fail.” He explained that as long as Jews continue to succeed—especially rising from poverty and making outsized contributions in science, medicine, business, and culture—they will threaten the egos of those who have not.
Success from humble beginnings forces others to confront their own stagnation, and many prefer to hate the successful rather than examine themselves.
Sowell’s point lands with ironic precision on Shavuot. The very Torah we received at Sinai equips us to succeed in ways that often provoke exactly this reaction. We became a “middleman minority” — merchants, scholars, innovators — filling vital roles that benefit society but also breed resentment when times get tough.
But here’s where the humor and the hope come in. Hashem has a fantastic sense of irony. He gave us the Torah on the Mountain of Hatred, knowing full well what would follow, yet He also equipped us with the perfect response. The same document that brought sinah into the world gave us the tools to rise above it: Torah study, acts of kindness, humor, and unbreakable resilience.
We turned the curse of distinction into a badge of honor. Every time we light Shabbat candles, feed the hungry, argue over Talmud, or invent something that betters the world, we’re answering sinah with light. We’re proving that the Torah’s system actually works — even when the world prefers easier, darker paths.
The Jewish people are still here, still arguing productively, still producing Nobel laureates and stand-up comedians in wildly disproportionate numbers. We outlasted empires that hated us. That stubborn vitality? That’s pure Sinai energy.
So on Shavuot, as we stay up all night learning, let’s embrace the divine wordplay. The mountain was called Sinai for a reason. It reminds us not to be shocked when hatred flares up. It’s not new. It’s part of the package deal we accepted when we said Na’aseh v’nishma.
The sinah is real, but so is our joy. So is our purpose. So is the cheesecake.
As Shavuot rolls around year after year, we stand again at the base of that mountain — not as frightened slaves, but as a people who have carried the Torah through fire and exile for over 3,000 years. We reaffirm our acceptance, knowing the cost, and do it with laughter, learning, and dairy products that probably break several modern nutritional guidelines.
May we receive the Torah anew each Shavuot with fresh eyes and strong hearts. May the same voice that thundered from Sinai continue to echo in our lives — louder than any hatred the world can muster.
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Rabbi Dr. Michael Leo Samuel is the spiritual leader of Temple Beth Shalom in Chula Vista, California.