I will be back next week with my commentary on the weekly Torah reading. In the meantime, you may visit http://www.hebcal.com/sedrot/behaalotcha to read this week’s portion as well as a variety of commentaries.
To contribute to disaster relief for Houstonians affected by the recent flooding, visit: http://www.jfshouston.org/floodAssistance_donate.php.
:וְלֹא תוֹנוּ אִישׁ אֶת־עֲמִיתוֹ וְיָרֵאתָ מֵֽאֱלֹהֶיךָ כִּי אֲנִי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹֽהֵיכֶֽם
“You shall not wrong one another, but fear your God; for I am the Lord your God.” Leviticus 25:17
This week’s Torah reading provides the basis for much of Judaism’s teachings on the ethics of business. For example, when selling property shortly before the jubilee year, when all property outside walled cities was to be returned to its original owner, the seller is directed to pro-rate the sale price of the property according to the number of years remaining until the land remits back to its original owner. In this discussion, the Torah exhorts the seller: “You shall not wrong one another.” In other words, the seller should hold himself or herself to the highest ethical ideals and refrain from cheating, misleading or harming the buyer in any way.
The phrase “You shall not wrong one another” appears twice in chapter 25, once in verse 14 and once in verse 17. The second appearance includes the words “…but fear your God; for I am the Lord your God.” Modern scholars point out that the repetition serves to emphasize the importance of ethical business practices.[1] The additional words in verse 17 demonstrate that even if the seller can surely get away with an ethical violation, he or she must remember that, though no human may become aware of his ill intentions, God is all-knowing (at least, in the biblical mindset) and will ultimately bring the wrongdoer to justice.
Traditional commentators read more into the repetition of “You shall not wrong one another” than mere emphasis, however. For them, since the Torah uses its words economically, the second appearance must mean something different from the first. Thus, they explain that the first appearance deals with the business transaction itself, and the second deals with the ethics of speech.
Rashi, the medieval French commentator, writes:
By contrast to verse 14, here the phrase refers to wrongdoing one another by speech. You must not belittle anyone, nor deliberately give him advice that would work out to your benefit rather than his. Should you be tempted to say, “Who could know for sure that I deliberately intended to harm him” the verse adds: “Fear your God.” The One who knows thoughts will know. Any time the text mentions something that only the person who is thinking it could know for sure, it adds, “fear your God.”[2]
I was once on a panel for jury selection in a case involving a defendant accused of reneging on a business deal. While we didn’t learn the particulars of the case, one of the attorneys hinted at its nature when he asked us prospective jurors: “Do you consider a verbal agreement to be a binding contract? Raise your hand if ‘Yes.'” Had the biblical authors been in the room, they would have raised their hands at that moment; they believed a person’s word was sacred, that a promise became real as soon as it passed the lips. You might be able to fool people through clever use of words, but you can’t fool God.
Sadly, unscrupulous business people frequently deceive consumers with slick language. Years ago, I fell prey to verbal bait and switch tactics twice. In neither case did I see it coming. I trusted that what I was told up front was the truth. I was wrong. (“Buyer beware” is also an important Jewish value, by the way.) Interestingly, in each of these cases the salesperson was no longer working at his or her place of business six months later. Apparently, management caught on to them and meted out punishment. I wonder if they were acting as agents of the Divine in these cases or, perhaps, they beat God to the punch.
One lesson to learn from the traditional commentators is that you can’t separate out the mechanics of business from the words used to conduct business. Whether it be advertising through the media or a face-to-face sales pitch, the words used to sell a product and close a deal really do matter. One should seek to be honest in all aspects of business, from how one exchanges money and writes up a contract to how one speaks to the customer in person or through advertising.
Another lesson to learn from this discussion is that there’s more to the ethics of speech in Judaism than the prohibition against lashon hara, that is, “evil speech” such as gossip and slander, which are spoken about others. What you say to people in their presence and how you make them feel are also guided by Jewish values. This last point is illustrated beautifully by the following midrash:
Rabbi Shimon ben Gamliel told Tavi, his servant, “Go to the marketplace and buy some food that is good.” Tavi went to the marketplace and returned with tongue. Afterward, Rabbi Shimon said to Tavi, “Go to the marketplace and buy some food this is bad.” Tavi again went to the marketplace and returned with tongue.
“What is this?” asked Rabbi Shimon. “When I told you to buy food that is good, you bought tongue, and when I told you to buy food that is bad, you also bought tongue.”
Tavi replied, “From a tongue can come good and from a tongue can come bad. When a tongue is good, there is nothing better. But when a tongue is bad there is nothing worse.” (Vayikra Rabbah 33:1)[3]
I’ve never liked tongue, and why Rabbi Shimon would instruct his servant to purchase bad meat is beyond my comprehension. These misgivings aside, the moral of the story is clear: we can use our tongues to benefit the world, and we can use our tongues to injure the world. Whether in a shop or an office, in school or at home, may we strive to control our tongues so as not to wrong one another.
[1] Baruch Levine, The JPS Torah Commentary: Leviticus, (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 1989), p. 173.
[2] Michael Carasik, The Commentator’s Bible: The JPS Miqra’ot Gedolot, Leviticus, (Philadelphia, PA: Jewish Publication Society, 2009), p. 208.
[3] Zelig Pliskin, Love Your Neighbor, (Brooklyn, NY: Aish HaTorah Publications, 1977), pp. 326-327.
(The priests) are holy to their God and you must treat them as holy, since they offer the food of your God…. (Leviticus 21:7-8)
That God has no physical body is widely considered a basic tenet of Judaism and is enshrined in Moses Maimonides’ 13 Principles of Faith.[1] If one were not aware of this tenet, however, one could be led to believe by this week’s parasha that God has not only a nose to smell the pleasing odor of sacrifices but also a mouth and digestive tract with which to consume “the food of your God” offered by the priests! Lest we think for a moment, though, that the Torah is speaking literally about God’s ability to smell, taste and digest food, modern commentators make it very clear that the Torah is speaking symbolically.[2] Biblical Israel most certainly worships God, who “desires their devotion and fellowship” only.[3] The biblical author simply borrowed “the idiom common to ancient religions” of a god sustained by offerings of food.[4]
The symbolic nature of “the food of God,” notwithstanding, I find this imagery striking given the role food played in the culture of biblical Israel as well the role it plays among societies throughout the world today. Regarding the former, one need only recall how Abraham and Sarah hastened to serve their guests a lavish meal in Genesis 18:1-8. What began with the intention to fetch his unexpected guests “a morsel of bread,” soon became cakes of choice flour, curds, milk and a calf served as Abraham “waited on them under a tree as they ate” (Gen. 18:8). Abraham and Sarah, thus, instituted the mitzvah of hachnasat orchim, welcoming guests, with food playing a central role in its fulfillment.
Are we really any different today? We continue to honor visitors to our homes by setting out a nosh, if not an entire meal. Outside of the United States, in fact, hospitality is so closely linked with family honor that one refuses an invitation to another’s home at peril of insulting them greatly. As a species, to be sure, one way human beings show honor and respect to others is by feeding them and by graciously receiving others’ hospitalityin return.
To my mind, when we humans feed one another, we give expression to the same ideals expressed through the biblical sacrificial system. There, burnt offerings emitted a reach nichoach ladonai, a pleasing odor to God. Ismar Schorsch, chancellor emeritus of the Jewish Theological Seminary, observes that the ancient rabbis made a word play of “reach nichoach” to get at what was really at stake in the sacrificial rituals:
An early midrashic work after the destruction of the Second Temple reconceptualized the nature of its cultic worship. Brilliantly, the midrash realized that “nihoah” (pleasant aroma) is related etymologically to the word “nahat” or in the rabbinic phrase “nahat ruah” (pleasant feeling). That connection enabled the midrash to read “reah nihoah” as “nahat ruah.” The satisfaction God experienced at the sight of the sacrifice was internal and spiritual: “I commanded and My will was done,” says the midrash. In other words, the cult had nothing to do with divine need. Israel had submitted to God’s will, whatever its intent, and that alone was the source of God’s pleasure.[5]
When we feed others, no doubt, it often is to satisfy someone’s need, but just as often it is to please them. Thus, what we do within the community of humankind mirrors the ancient rite to evoke God’s pleasure; both involve the provision of nachat ruach.
This relationship between real human hospitality and priestly sacrifice, with all its symbolism, has the power to transform us. If we see “the other” as created in God’s image, then the hospitality we extend to our neighbor is no different from the rituals through which the holy priests showed God their deference and devotion. In both cases, then and now, we please God. In both cases, setting out food is a sacred act, the execution of which imbues our lives with holiness.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Dan
[1] For a list of Maimonides’ 13 Principles of Faith, see http://www.jewfaq.org/beliefs.htm. As Daniel Septimus points out in his article at http://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/the-thirteen-principles-of-faith/, Maimonides principles were not universally accepted, including the principle #3 on incorporeality.
[2] See, for example, Etz Hayim Torah and Commentary, p. 718: “Offerings to God, often called “food” (lehem), are considered food for God in a symbolic sense. See also this article by Ismar Schorsch: https://www.jtsa.edu/prebuilt/ParashahArchives/5760/emor.shtml.
[3] The JPS Torah Commentary: Leviticus, p. 17, cf Lev. 3:11.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Ismar Schorsch, commentary on Parashat Emor at https://www.jtsa.edu/prebuilt/ParashahArchives/5760/emor.shtml
God’s presence is often felt most acutely in the wake of tragedy. The death of a loved one may bring estranged siblings together, a house fire in which possessions are lost (but not life) may cause the owner of the house to reassess his or her system of values, a battle with disease may awaken hidden talents within the one who is ill. In these cases, our human experience mirrors what occurs routinely in nature: following a wild fire, it is common for wild flowers to bloom throughout a ravaged landscape. These signs of light, hope and beauty following a period of darkness point to the manifestation of the Source of Goodness, God.
The title of this week’s double Torah reading, Aharei Mot-Kedoshim, surprisingly sheds light on the flourishing of God’s presence in a place of despair. I say surprisingly because it is really just a coincidence that that these words come together as they do. The dual title comprises the first identifying words of two portions: “aharei mot” or “after death,” refers to God’s relating to Moses the priestly ritual of expiation after the death of Aaron’s two sons; “kedoshim ti-h’yu” or “your shall be holy,” are the opening words to a section of Leviticus that echoes and augments the Ten Commandments. Our sages hardly intended to convey a lesson through the chance juxtaposition of these titles. Nonetheless, I believe the title accurately reflects the possibility for holiness to flourish wherever and whenever we let it, even in times of darkness.
In Parashat Kedoshim, the Torah teaches “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy” (Leviticus 19:2). In so doing, perhaps, the Torah is trying to communicate that our job on Earth is to make God’s holiness tangible in the world through our actions. Rather than leave us to wonder how to live lives of holiness, though, the Torah in this reading enumerates dozens of mitzvot that touch on a wide range of human experiences.
Chief among the mitzvot in Kedoshim is the command: “Love your neighbor as yourself” (19:18). Rabbi Akiva, the great sage of the 2nd century, declared this verse to be the greatest principle of the entire Torah (Jerusalem Talmud, Nedarim 9:4)! Akiva saw loving kindness as THE most important teaching of the Torah; no mitzvah could be said to be more essential in living lives of holiness than this one.
Exactly what it means to love one’s neighbor as your self could be seen this week through the global response to the devastation wrought by an earthquake in Nepal. The earthquake itself is projected to have destroyed 250,000 buildings and killed upwards to 15,000 people. No sooner had reports of the most massive earthquake in Nepal in 80 years begun than corporations, charities and governments from around the world were busy raising funds for rescue and recovery operations, emergency health care, and rebuilding. Meanwhile, rescue workers have also come to the aid of the Nepalese from the United States, Israel, United Arab Emirates, and dozens of other nations. Sadly, it sometimes takes a horrible tragedy like this to remind the world that, above all our disputes, we are called upon to love one another as we would like to be loved. For better or for worse, after death there can be this holiness.
Meanwhile, on our own shores we witnessed rioting in Baltimore over the wrongful death of a man arrested by the police. Where there could have been peaceful protests and efforts toward improving the lot of Baltimore’s citizens, we saw violence and looting. Following one man’s death, there was chaos, not holiness. We can only pray that holiness will rise from the rubble left behind by thugs and their misguided followers. We can only pray that Baltimore and other cities, who suffer from racial and economic imbalances, will soon emerge better and stronger than they are now and that all their citizens will show others the love they themselves wish to be shown.
Aharei mot, kedoshim. After death, let there be holiness. From darkness, let there be the light and love.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Dan
A popular folktale tells how a rabbi once cured a townsperson of his inclination toward slander and other forms of lashon hara, harmful speech. The rabbi advises the man to take a feather pillow into the town square and beat it with a broom until the pillow’s casing rips open and the feathers fly to and fro. The man follows the rabbi’s advice and watches as thousands of feathers fly away through the square and beyond. The man then goes back to the rabbi who tells him there’s just one more step to take to be cured of lashon hara once and for all: the man now has to go back to the square and collect up all the feathers. When the man realizes this would be impossible and protests, the rabbi explains that speech is like the feather pillow: once a word has been spoken, its effects are beyond the speaker’s control, and try as he may, there is no recapturing that speech.
This week’s Torah portion teaches a similar lesson about lashon hara, except here the lashon hara is punished by God with a mysterious scaly skin infliction called tzaraat, with the one who has tzaraat known as a metzora. The Torah directs the afflicted person to appear before a priest for diagnosis. If the person test “positive,” the “treatment” includes separation from the community until the skin clears up followed by an offering of two birds, one of which is to be slaughtered, the other of which is to be dipped in the blood of the slaughtered one. Why birds? The rabbis teach us that the chosen birds chirp and chatter just as the offender “chirped” and “chattered.” In a sense, the punishment fits the crime. The price to pay for lashon hara is minimally the cost of two birds, one killed, the other “humiliated” by the blood stains it must bear. In real life, lashon hara has the potential to embarrass and humiliate or, worse, to destroy lives, livelihoods and families.
The effects of tzaraat are not limited to individuals. Clothing and the walls of houses are also susceptible to tzaraat. What’s more, the method to rid fabric and homes of the disease is identical to the cure for humans in that the Torah here, too, prescribes the offering of two birds. The rabbis teach that the diseased clothing, which can be seen by the public, represents the communal impact of lashon hara. An ill word, whether true or not, spoken about one person may upset a whole community, dividing it into advocates and detractors of both the speaker and the one spoken about. Closer to home, so to speak, the words spoken have the potential to tear families apart. It’s as if the disease of one person mutates and covers the walls of his home and, perhaps, the walls of the one he or she has harmed. Thus, the Torah’s discussion of tzaraat suggests that the cost of lashon hara is born not just by the one who speaks it but by the speaker’s family and community, as well.
I recently spoke with a high school acquaintance who now teaches law. Recently, she inadvertently included a link in an email to her students that was intended for her eyes only. Word of her deed spread throughout the university, throughout the internet, and onto the major news outlets. Most reasonable people would see the professor’s mistake as simply unfortunate and embarrassing, but hardly malicious. Nonetheless, university policy required her to take a leave with pay while the administration undertook an investigation. In the meantime, the professor has suffered unbearable humiliation, though thankfully has enjoyed the full support of spouse and children despite suffering their own humiliation due to the attention brought upon them by the professor’s actions. If an embarrassing mistake can cause such chaos to family and a university community, imagine the effects of talebearing and truly malicious speech. As with the house afflicted with tzaraat, too often the proverbial walls must come down and be rebuilt before life can return to normalcy.
It is notable that both the story of the man who learned a lesson about speech and the Torah’s treatment of tzaraat each involve feathers, one in the form of the down stuffing of a pillow, the other in the form of the birds who provide them. When we fail to control our speech, we cause feathers to fly, blood to flow, the fabric of our being to become stained. Too often we ignore this high cost of our speech. We would be wise to heed the words of our rabbis: “Who is strong? The one who controls his/her impulses.” When it comes to speech, truer words could never be spoken.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Dan
Around the world this week Jewish communities observed Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. Young and old, survivors and their descendants, Jews and non-Jews came together for memorial services, choral and theatrical performances, and countless educational programs. These annual commemorations provide consolation, remind us never to forget, and move us to ensure that such an atrocity never happens again, all noble, worthy goals that I myself am committed to pursuing in my life and work.
At the end of the day, though, no observance can adequately capture the unfathomable grief born by generations past, present and future in the wake of the Shoah. The magnitude of the horror is simply incomprehensible. How does one begin to mourn for Six Million Jews and the five million non-Jews who were exterminated with them? Perhaps the most honest response is that of the nation of Israel: at 10 a.m. on the day of Yom Hashoah sirens blare and life for many comes to a complete halt for one minute. Traffic stops. Pedestrians stand still. Commercial transactions wait. The sirens sound, but all is silent.
This year, the Torah reading for the week of Yom Hashoah appears as commentary to this remembrance. In Parashat Shemini, on the day of their inauguration into the priesthood Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu “offer before Adonai alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them” (Leviticus 10:1-2).
Witnessing this tragedy, Moses speaks to Aaron words of consolation, explanation or rebuke, depending on one’s interpretation: “This is what Adonai meant when God said, ‘Through those near to Me, I will be sanctified and before all the people I will be glorified.'”
Hearing this, or perhaps not hearing anything at all, the stunned father responds. The Torah relates: “And Aaron was silent” (Lev. 10:3).
The scene is heart-wrenching. Two sons snatched from their father in an instant. It doesn’t matter what they did. It doesn’t matter what Moses said to him. Nothing matters. The boys were gone. What could Aaron do? Nothing. Therefore, he was silent.
Biblical commentators throughout the ages have pondered exactly what Nadav and Avihu did to ignite God’s wrath. Were they drunk? Were they acting out of zeal rather than reverence for the word of God? Were they coveting the position of high priest held by their father, an office the elder of the sons would one day occupy? The truth is, we don’t know. All we know is what Moses says, which is that God was trying to make a point, though what that point was is also open to interpretation. For Aaron, at that moment of realizing that two of his sons had just died, none of that mattered. It didn’t make sense. What could he possibly do?
Now, let me be clear. The Six Million were not Nadav and Avihu, and God did not bring about the Shoah. It is morally reprehensible to suggest that those who perished in the Shoah did anything to bring about their extermination or that God was trying to teach humankind a lesson through this atrocity. And I suspect Aaron could have made the same argument to Moses. “They were just boys showing God their love! Don’t talk to me about ‘I will be sanctified!'”
Truth be told, on Yom Hashoah we are all this Aaron. Though we read and sing and listen and light candles in pursuit of meaning and catharsis, all we can really do in our grief is nothing. Six Million snatched from the Jewish people in an instant. Let us be silent.
This week’s Torah reading, Deuteronomy 15:19-16:17, a special reading for the final day of Passover, reiterates the mitzvot (commandments) to consecrate the first born of one’s herd or flock to God and also to observe the festivals of Passover, Shavuot and Sukkot, each at its appointed time. In between the verses pertaining to Passover and Shavuot, meanwhile, we find this:
You shall count off seven weeks; start to count the seven weeks when the sickle is first put to the standing grain. Then you shall observe the Feast of Weeks (Shavuot) for the Lord your God, offering your freewill contribution according as the Lord your God has blessed you. (Deut. 16:9-10)
The “standing grain” mentioned here is the omer, the sheaf of the first fruits of the barley harvest, which we learn about in Leviticus 23. The ritual of counting off seven weeks during the spring harvest between Passover and Shavuot is called in Hebrew “sephirat ha-omer” or “counting the omer.” For 49 nights, beginning with the second night of Passover and concluding on the evening before Shavuot, we are to recite a blessing praising God for commanding us to count the omer and then announce which day and week of the omer we are counting that night.
This ritual of counting the days of the spring harvest for seven weeks surely made a lot of sense to our biblical ancestors. On one hand, seven weeks was “the period of time required to complete the harvest.”[1] More importantly, though, until seven weeks had passed, it was not known whether the harvest would be successfully completed and plentiful enough to sustain life and not be damaged by late rain or pests.”[2] Our forebears spent the weeks of the harvest in a state of anxiety, praying that the harvest would sustain them through the scorching summer months.
The rabbis of the Talmud considered these seven weeks a period of semi-mourning for reasons that are not quite known to us. To this day, observant Jews will not get married, get their hair cut, or engage in celebratory activities such as dancing or listening to instrumental music during the counting of the omer. Only the 33rd day of the omer, the minor holiday of Lag B’Omer, provides a brief respite from these restrictions. Regardless of the rabbis’ reasons for enshrining the Omer in mourning customs and providing a day of relief, the meaning of the omer for traditional Jews is found first and foremost in the fact that God commanded the counting of the omer, and they feel duty-bound to fulfill that commandment.
What meaning, though, might the omer hold for less traditional Jews, Jews who neither live in an agrarian society nor feel bound by the dictates of Torah or the rabbis? Why do some of us non-traditional Jews bother pausing for a moment each night to recite the blessing and announce where we are in the counting of the omer? Not only do we no longer harvest our own food, but modern technology ensures that even in lean times we will have plenty of it, albeit possibly at a higher cost and with less variety. What is it about the omer that captures our spiritual imagination today?
To me, the omer is rife with personal meaning. First, the omer reminds me that not all people have the luxury to not worry where their next meal will come from. On the contrary, people living in developing countries, certainly in war-torn parts of the world, are highly dependent on their governments, on the good graces of the rest of the world, and on nature to provide for their needs. As one so far removed from the misery of millions, I see the omer as a structure for “counting my blessings” and praying that all human beings will one day enjoy the bounty I enjoy.
On another level, the omer connects my experience of liberation, celebrated during Passover, with my experience of God’s ongoing revelation, celebrated on Shavuot. On Shavuot, termed “the time of the giving of the Torah” by the rabbis, we remember when God revealed the Torah at Mt. Sinai. Whether that moment at Mt. Sinai is grounded in history or in sacred story, the moment signifies for the Jewish people that point in time when we committed ourselves to living lives of holiness, guided by our understanding of what God expects of us. During the omer, I feel grateful for my freedom and obliged to exercise my freedom in a way that affirms the covenant my ancestors and I made at Sinai.
Finally, the omer brings me closer to the Land and State of Israel. The Torah introduces the ritual of counting seven weeks with “When you enter that land that I am giving you and you reap its harvest…” (Lev. 23:11). By offering first fruits of the harvest and remaining in a grateful, if anxious, mood throughout the harvest, our ancestors gave thanks to God for bringing them into a place they could call home, a place where they could feel close to God, a place where they could become masters of their own destiny. Israel, with all its complexities, is still this place for the Jewish people. I am no less grateful for the existence of the Land and State of Israel today than were my biblical forebears.
While Israel exists as a blessing in my life, there remains one more meaningful aspect of the omer for me in connection to Israel: the tradition that asks me to keep my exuberance in check while counting my blessings demands that I keep my pride and joy in the Jewish homeland in check as well. Truth be told, the Zionist dream articulated in Israel’s Declaration of Independence nearly 67 years has yet to bear enough fruit to satisfy all Israel’s inhabitants. Until all Israel’s inhabitants equally benefit from the development of the country, until all her inhabitants equally feel the blessings of liberty, justice and peace, until all her inhabitants equally enjoy the full freedom of conscience, worship, education and culture, I believe Jews everywhere must continue to pray for the bounty of Zionism’s harvest and, even more, help till the rich soil of Israel’s Jewish and democratic values to bring that harvest forth.
However you relate to this ancient custom of counting the omer, I pray that you, too, will count your blessings while maintaining awareness that for too many in our world their harvest has yet to yield its bounty or may never have been sown at all.
Chag Sameach,
Rabbi Dan
[1] Jeffrey Tigay, The JPS Torah Commentary: Deuteronomy, (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1996) , p. 156.
[2] Ibid.
In an essay on this week’s Torah portion, Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, an esteemed scholar and former Chief Rabbi of the British Commonwealth, asks:
What do you do when your people has just made a golden calf, run riot and lost its sense of ethical and spiritual direction? How do you restore moral order – not just then in the days of Moses, but even now? The answer lies in the first word of today’s parsha: Vayakhel. (See http://www.rabbisacks.org/the-spirit-of-community-vayakhel-5775/.)
Referencing the debacle of the golden calf (Exodus 32), Rabbi Sacks points to a moment in the Torah when our people is divided, disillusioned, and focused only on their immediate needs. With this week’s Torah portion, however, unity, faith and purpose are restored when Moses assembles (vayakhel) the whole Israelite community, reminds them of the sanctity of Shabbat, and calls them to come together to construct the Tabernacle, God’s dwelling place in their midst. Sacks sees in this reconciliation of Israel with God an eternal lesson about the role of the faith community in countering the excesses of individualism, not only for the generation at Sinai but for us today as well.
Sacks merges the teachings of Charles Darwin and Alexis de Tocqueville to make an argument that in an ideal world faith communities would be critical to the functioning of a democratic society. For his part, Darwin demonstrates that though “the survival of the fittest” takes place on an individual level, human beings, nonetheless, survive as groups, utilizing language and communication, among other things, to create “larger and more flexible groups than other species” (Ibid.). This realization of Darwin’s helps explain a paradox:
If evolution is the struggle to survive, if the strong win and the weak go to the wall, then everywhere ruthlessness should prevail. But it doesn’t. All societies value altruism. (Ibid.)
For Tocqueville, religion functions to militate against this “ruthlessness” and enhance the “altruism” of which Darwin writes. These functions are essential to allowing democratic societies to flourish. Sacks writes:
The great danger in a democracy, said Tocqueville, is individualism. People come to care about themselves, not about others. As for the others, the danger is that people will leave their welfare to the government, a process that ends in the loss of liberty as the State takes on more and more of the responsibility for society as a whole. Ibid.)
Sacks argues that with separation of church and state religions are better able to create caring communities that decrease individuals’ reliance on the state for their welfare. Such reliance, Sacks believes, invites government intrusion into the personal lives of its citizens, which in turn leads to a deterioration of liberty.
Sacks concludes:
Vayakhel is thus no ordinary episode in the history of Israel. It marks the essential insight to emerge from the crisis of the golden calf. We find G-d in community. We develop virtue, strength of character, and a commitment to the common good in community. Community is local. It is society with a human face. It is not government. It is not the people we pay to look after the welfare of others. It is the work we do ourselves, together. Community is the antidote to individualism on the one hand and over-reliance on the state on the other. (Ibid.)
I wish Sacks’ idealism would become reality. However, since religious communities have yet to demonstrate their power to inculcate altruism universally and to reduce the human will toward power, I can’t accept his conclusion. Until religion evolves as Sacks would like, the state must act to ensure the welfare of its citizens.
That being said, I do believe Sacks expresses the loftiest goals of Judaism, if not all religions: to bring us closer to God and to create a more compassionate world. In my experience, the communal celebration of Shabbat and the communal effort to build community and repair the world have shown themselves to be two of the most transformative aspects of Jewish religion both for individuals and for the assembly of Israel.
Parashat Ki Tisa
Exodus 30:11-34:35
In case we forget the story about the Israelites’ ill-advised creation of a golden calf at the base of Mt. Sinai, Jewish tradition provides a ritual flare to jog our memories. During the High Holy Days we blow a shofar to awaken our souls to take an honest accounting of our deeds and to work to make change in those areas where we’ve fallen short. What we often overlook is the fact that the shofar itself must come from a kosher animal, such as a ram or a gazelle, but there is one kosher animal from which we may not make a shofar: a cow. Why? Perhaps, this is because using the horn of a cow (or a bull) as a shofar might have the opposite effect of that which is intended. Rather than lead us on the path of righteousness, a shofar from a bull might remind us of the incident of the golden calf and stir within us thoughts of idolatry and licentiousness.
Perhaps, too, there’s another reason: to teach us patience. It’s not that we have to search longer and harder for a ram’s horn than for a cow’s horn, and it’s not that it takes more time to blow a cow’s horn. I suppose the former is not the case, and I know nothing about the latter. No, the lesson about patience emerges not from any practical concern but from the story of the golden calf itself: as the Israelites grow impatient waiting for Moses to return from his 40-day-long campout atop Mt. Sinai, they seek an immediate fix for their pent-up craving for a connection to their God. In so doing, they press Aaron into fashioning a familiar representation of a deity out of the men’s gold jewelry (Supposedly, midrash teaches, the women refuse to hand over their bling.), outraging God to the point of wanting to obliterate the people, causing Moses to smash the tablets of the Ten Commandments, and setting off a series of drastic punishments by God and Moses against the Israelites, not to mention having Moses go back up for another 40 days to inscribe a new set of tablets (with a different set of commandments!). Patience truly is a virtue lacking in this sad tale.
The 11th-12th century Spanish philospher Judah Halevi in his work The Kuzari writes that the real sin of the Israelites is, in fact, their impatience. It was not in making the calf itself and celebrating a festival to God afterward. Scholar and rabbi Harvey Fields summarzes Halevi’s take by stating, first of all, only about 3000 of the 600,000 people who left Egypt actually requested that Aaron build the golden calf. It was hardly a majority of all the people. Furthermore, by building a “tangible object of worship like other nations” around them, they weren’t really rejecting God. As a matter of fact, one could argue that elsewhere in the Torah, God is the one who commands the people to make an object, i.e. the ark with the cherubim on top, as a marker of God’s presence. Halevi, Fields contends, sees no substantive difference between a golden calf and the ark with the cherubim. On the real sin of the Israelites, Fields writes:
Having waited so long for Moses to return, (the people) were overcome with frustration, confusion, and dissension. As a result, they divided into angry parties, differing with one another over what they should do. No long able to control their fears, a vocal minority pressured Aaron into taking their gold and cating into a golden calf…. If the people made a mistake, Halevi says, it was not in refusing to worship God, but in their impatience. Instead of waiting for the return of Moses or for a message from God, they took matters into their own hands and acted as if they had been commanded to replace their leader with a golden idol. Fields, Harvey J. A Torah Commentary for Our Time. (New York: UAHC Press, 1991). pp. 81-82.
The modern bible scholar Nehama Leibowitz disagrees with Halevi’s assessment of the nature of Israel’s sin, but draws a conclusion that could very well have come from Halevi himself. Leibowitz sees in the story a failure of leadershp on Aaron’s part and great sin on the part of the Israelites, to be sure. But ultimately, she suggests, the story points to the need for a sustained, deliberate commitment to study of Torah, a commitment that requires extraordinary patience. Fields explains that Leibowitz:
…sees in the story of the golden calf… a deliberate warning that human beings are capable of acting nobly at one moment and ugly at the next. Leibowitz observes that ‘we should not be astonished at the fact that the generation that heard the voice of the living God and had received the commandment ‘You shall not make other gods besides Me’ descend to the making of the golden calf forty days later. One single religious experience, however profoud, was not capable of changing the people from idol worshipers into monotheists. Only a prolonged disciplining in the laws of Torah directing every moment of their existence could accomplish that.’ (Studies in Shemot, pp. 554-556)
The Torah relates the tale of the Israelits’ sin to teach that yesterday’s charity may be followed tomorrow by selfishness and insensitivity. Each day is filled with new choices. The role of contant Torah study is to keep an individual asking, ‘What is the next mitzvah I must do?'” Ibid., p. 82.
Just as Halevi points out that a number of Israelites grow restless in Moses’ absence and take matters into their own hands beyond what God had commanded them, so, too, does Leibowitz show that human beings in all generations grow restless, or more accurately, distracted and indifferent, and fall back into old habits. Had the Israelites been more patient, they would have soon received the original Ten Commandments in pristine form. If people in our own day allow themselves the opportunity to study Torah and to develop spiritual practices over time, they will be more likely to make their study and their practice routine and, ultimately, to experience God in a consistent way, without having to reinvent the wheel everytime they have a longing.
We live in a fast-paced world that seems to get faster daily. Our attention spans follow suit; our minds and bodies have become conditioned to move from idea to idea, from activity to activity. We’ve lost the art of waiting quietly for change to take place over time. Maybe we should come back to the story of the golden calf more often to remind us of the dangers of our impatience.
Patience is, indeed, a sacred virtue well worth cultivating. Remember that next time you grow antsy waiting for the final blast of the shofar at the end of Yom Kippur.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Dan
This week’s lesson was written by Rabbi Joyce Newmark and first appeared in the New Jersey Jewish News, February 9, 2011. Rabbi Newmark addresses the very topic I was prepared to write about this week. I am grateful to Andrew Silow-Carroll, Editor in Chief of the New Jersey Jewish News, for granting me permission to reprint the article here. You may read the original article at: http://njjewishnews.com/article/3501/serving-god-with-ears-hands-and-feet#.VO_PmPnF_ng. Enjoy!
Parshat Tetzaveh continues the theme begun last week — instructions for making the Mishkan, the portable sanctuary, and its furnishings — dealing with the people who will serve in the sanctuary, the kohanim (priests). We read about the elaborate vestments that were to be made for Aaron, the kohen gadol (high priest), and the special garments that were to be made for his sons. And we also read about the ritual of the kohanim’s consecration.
The Torah tells us that on the day of their ordination, Aaron and his sons were to be dressed in their priestly vestments. Aaron was to be anointed with special oil and then sacrifices were to be offered on behalf of the new priests.
The Torah then says: “Slaughter the ram, and take some of its blood and put it on the ridge of Aaron’s right ear and on the ridges of his sons’ right ears, and on the thumbs of their right hands, and on the big toes of their right feet.” This marking of ears, thumbs, and toes is obviously symbolic, but just what does it symbolize?
Rabbi Joseph Hertz’s Torah commentary explains: “The ear was touched with the blood, that it might be consecrated to hear the word of God; the hand, to perform the duties connected with the priesthood; and the foot, to walk the path of righteousness.” In other words, this ordination ritual was intended to symbolize piety and devotion to God and God’s Torah.
But there’s another explanation, found in Itturei Torah, a compilation of commentaries by Rabbi Aharon Yaakov Greenberg: “These three, the ear, the hand, and the foot, are what the Kohen and every leader must have: an ear to hear the cries of the Jews, to know and understand their needs and requirements; hands, not only to accept the offering due the priests, but also to bestow a blessing on whoever needs it; and feet which hasten to run and help whoever is in need.” That is, the kohanim were never to forget that their mission was to serve the people, particularly those in need.
So which is it? It seems clear to me it must be both. The kohanim were ordained to serve God and their fellow human beings. Torah and mitzvot are not an end in themselves, but a means to building a just and compassionate society. As we are taught in Bereshit Rabbah 44:1, “Rav said, the mitzvot were given only in order that human beings might be refined by them. For what does the Holy Blessed One care whether a person slaughters an animal by the throat or by the nape of the neck? Hence its purpose is to refine human beings.”
This is more than a nice teaching. In recent weeks I have had to dig my car out of huge mounds of snow many times. On several of these occasions, young men from a nearby yeshiva walked by singly or in pairs, some of them actually turning their heads so they could pretend they didn’t see me. I wondered: What good are their long hours of Torah study if none of these young men was willing to take a few minutes to help a 60-something-year-old woman struggling with a snow shovel only a few hundred yards from their beit midrash? Isn’t the point of learning to help bring God into the world?
The Torah tells us that Aaron and his sons were installed in the priesthood through the marking of their ears, hands, and feet. Moreover, the Torah also tells us (Shemot 19:6) that God has called us to be a “kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”
Like the very first kohanim, we fulfill that destiny when we turn our ears, hands, and feet to the service of God and to the service of our fellow human beings.
Rabbi Joyce Newmark, a resident of Teaneck, is a former religious leader of congregations in Leonia and Lancaster, PA.
Daniel Aronson
Daniel Aronson 