If there’s a part of the Shavuot liturgy that begs for an explanation, it’s the widespread Ashkenazic custom to recite two cryptic Aramaic poems, or piyyutim, as part of the Torah service. The first, Akdamut, is chanted on the first day right before Torah reading, and the second, Yatziv Pitgam, is inserted toward the beginning of the haftarah on the second day. Where did they come from? And why do we say them?

It turns out that these poems are rather remarkable. They are the last remaining vestiges of live targum or oral targum, a practice that died out nigh on a millennia ago in most Jewish communities. And even though we won’t be saying the piyyutim in shul this year, perhaps they can provide us with a perspective on prayer during these challenging times.

A long time ago, before there were any Chumashim one could use to follow along with the Torah reading, synagogue attendees were provided with a live translation of the Torah portion into the common language of Aramaic verse by verse. The Mishnah (Megillah 4:4) recounts that after the ba’al korei completed one verse, a designated individual would recite the Aramaic targum, or translation, aloud. The Talmud (Megillah 3a) traces this practice all the way back to Ezra’s public reading of the Torah, where there’s indication that his reading was translated (Nehemiah 8:8). The famous Targum Onkelos likely began as live targum before being written down. There was oral targum for the haftarah as well; Targum Yonatan ben Uziel for example, which is less literal than Onkelos and contains many midrashic additions, probably came into being as a haftarah targum.

Live targum flourished when Aramaic was widely spoken by Jews, but died out as the language declined. Although today, it’s practiced only in some Yemenite communities, it didn’t disappear all at once. As late as the fourteenth century, Kol Bo (52) and other Rishonim from Ashkenazi Europe attest to the fact that live targum remained part of the Torah and haftarah service two times a year: on the seventh day of Pesach, which features Shirat ha-Yam, the Song at the Sea, and on Shavuot, when we read the Aseret ha-Dibrot on the first day.

We don’t know exactly why live targum continued to be part of these two holidays in particular, but even nowadays, their Torah readings are unique. We stand for both Shirat ha-Yam and the Aseret ha-Dibrot, but not for other parts of the Torah. And we read each portion a special way: Shirat ha-Yam has a triumphal tune, and for the public reading of the Aseret ha-Dibrot, the ba’al korei uses ta’am elyon, the more dramatic musical notation, or trop, which is written above the letters.

Both Akdamut and Yatziv Pitgam date from this medieval period when live targum had been largely discontinued but was still part of the Torah and haftarah reading for Shavuot. They were written as introductions to the targum, and are part of a larger genre of piyyutim that ask God for permission to translate the Torah or the Navi.

Akdamut, which discusses many topics, including the glory of God, the special nature of the Jewish people, and the greatness of the Torah, was written by Meir ben Isaac Nehorai in the eleventh century. It was originally recited after the first verse of the Torah portion on the first day, right before the targum, as an introduction. Nowadays, however, most say it before the leyning begins in deference to Taz (Orah Hayyim 494:1) and other Aharonim who felt that the Torah reading should not be interrupted in the middle.

Akdamut was held in particularly high regard, not least because its origin was literally the stuff of legend. According to a well-known story, although Rabbi Meir wrote Akdamut, he did not teach it to the Jewish community. Rather, when the community was threatened by an evil Christian sorcerer who challenged them to a magical contest, Rabbi Meir sought help from the ten lost tribes who lived across the Sambatyon River. The river threw rocks during the week and was only navigable on Shabbat, so once Rabbi Meir crossed it in an attempt to find a champion save his people, he was not permitted to return. Instead, he taught Akdamut to the champion he procured from the tribe of Dan, and it was this Danite who, after defeating the sorcerer, conveyed it to the Jewish community.

Yatziv Pitgam doesn’t have nearly as interesting a story associated with it, but it was probably written in the twelfth century by Rabbeinu Tam, one of the most famous Tosafists, who signed his name in the first letters of each line. Unlike Akdamut, the poem explicitly notes that it’s an introduction to live targum; the penultimate line of the piyyut, omitted from the ArtScroll Siddur but retained in the Koren, reads, “ke-ka’aimna ve-targaimna, bemilui debahir safrin,” — “As I stand and translate with the words the scribes chose.” Further, the final line, which begins, “yehonatan gevar invatan” could be translated as “Yonatan the humble one,” an allusion to the Mishnaic Sage Yonatan ben Uziel to whom Targum Yonatan, the most famous targum on Navi, is attributed.

So that’s where Akdamut and Yatziv Pitgam come from. But we don’t do oral targum of any kind anymore. So how come on Shavuot, and on Shavuot alone, two piyyutim introducing the targum have stuck around to this day? (The question only becomes stronger when one considers that in the United States and Israel, many communities have eliminated nearly all of the piyyutim that were once part of the Yom Tov tefillah in Ashkenazi communities such as the ma’araviyot recited during Ma’ariv and the yotzrot said during Shaharit.)

Unfortunately, no one really knows for sure. It’s not really the type of question that’s amenable to cut-and-dry answers. Some have suggested that people found the language of these poems particularly beautiful and meaningful. But while that may have been true once, most people can’t understand the piyyutim anymore, and many other beautiful compositions have faded away. Others have speculated that people kept saying them because each has a distinctive tune. (An interesting aside: the tune for Akdamut commonly used in the United States is nearly identical to the one used for Yom Tov Kiddush.) But the tunes we use now are not universal, and they have changed over time. One scholar has suggested that the extraordinary legend associated with Akdamut’s authorship made an indelible impression on Ashkenazi Jews and ensured that it remained part of the liturgy. This approach, however, does not explain Yatziv Pitgam. One might more promisingly argue that because the Aseret ha-Dibrot is among the most dramatic and religiously significant Torah readings, we recite Akdamut to retain some of the pomp and drama that surrounded the reading in earlier times, and we even carry over that spirit to the next day by saying Yatziv Pitgam in the haftarah. I also wonder whether the longevity of these two poems is related to the fact that their propriety is debated in the halakhic literature. As I noted above, some prohibited interrupting the Torah reading with Akdamut. The same authorities, however, permitted interrupting the haftarah with Yatziv Pitgam because of the haftarah’s lesser status. Ironically then, the very debates over how the piyyutim should be incorporated into the synagogue service could have helped enshrine them in perpetuity.

But I want to close with a different suggestion. It may not be peshat, yet it recognizes a connection between the two poems and what Shavuot is all about.

At first glance, Mattan Torah seems like a top-down experience. There’s a Torah up in heaven, and God brings it down to Earth. This Torah is perfect, immutable, and demands our obedience. The Talmud (Shabbat 88a), for example, speaks about Mount Sinai being suspended over the heads of the Children of Israel. And yet there’s another side to Revelation that’s bottom-up, for the Torah she-Ba’al Peh, the Oral Law, is in large part ours to create. Perhaps this is why Rabbi Elazar declares in Pesahim (68b) “hakol modim ba-atzeret de-ba’inan nami lahem” – on Shavuot, more so than on any other festival, we must spend a portion of the day focused on our own needs; the day cannot be entirely about God. On Shavuot, we must acknowledge the human role in the continual unfolding of the Oral Torah.

Devarim 5:19, when describing the Revelation at Sinai, speaks of a “kol gadol velo yasaf.” While commentators debate what this means, one translation renders the phrase as “a great sound that did not stop.” The nineteenth century commentator Rabbi Yaakov Tzvi Mecklenburg homiletically suggests in his work ha-Ketav ve-Hakabbalah that this “great sound” refers to the Oral Torah, which is always growing and developing through our interpretive efforts. In this sense, revelation is a resonance yet reverberating and a voice still vocalizing. God speaks through our efforts to interpret the Torah.

Live targum is a very daring kind of Torah she-Ba’al Peh. By interrupting the public reading of the Torah with translation and interpretation, we proclaim, in no uncertain terms, that the Torah is not high up in heaven, but here on earth, and that it’s our to learn. So perhaps it is fitting that on Shavuot in particular, when we celebrate both the Written and Oral Torah, acknowledging that we shape the Torah just as it shapes us, a vestige of oral targum remains. The piyyutim of Akdamut and Yatziv Pitgam are our words, inserted smack in the middle of God’s words, which is exactly where they are supposed to be.

We live in extraordinary times. Communal prayer, which was once our anchor, is gone. Each of us is cautiously experimenting with what it means to pray in solitude and to be alone with God. More than ever, many of us want to find new words to express this moment. Perhaps Akdamut and Yatziv Pitgam, which request permission to translate, can inspire us to carve out space to speak to God in our own language and on our own terms. Indeed, the genre of piyyut itself emerged in the third and fourth centuries in the Land of Israel when prayer was more dynamic; each week, virtuosic hazzanim would lead the congregation in their own compositions. May our prayers both old and new find favor so that we can be together once more, ke-ish ehad be-leiv ehad.