Parashat Bemidbar, Numbers 1:1-4:20

What's in a number?

Bills, bills, bills! Ever try to sort out a problem with a bill? You call an automated system, and the first thing they do is have you punch in your account number. Some of them identify you by your phone number, or your postal code. Then they ask for your account number again. Let's not forget the password, which often must be alphanumeric, with the odd symbol tossed in for good measure. If you're lucky, you will eventually speak to a living, breathing human, who will ask you once again for your account number! Even when dealing face to face with an individual who asks for identification, they will often write down your driver's license number. Gone are the days when A good name is better than fine oil. (Ecclesiastes 7:1) Nowadays, it’s your number that’s important, whether it’s your ID, credit rating, or a desirable postal or zip code.

Thus it is somewhat disconcerting to open up the fourth book of the Torah, Bemidbar (in the wilderness), and find out that it begins with the counting of people, clans and tribes. No wonder it is called Numbers in English! Think back to the book of Shemot, Exodus. That book began with the names of the people who went down to Egypt; here we have the number of people in the wilderness.

This is not the first time that God counts the people of Israel. We were counted after the incident of the Golden Calf. God also counted us when we were instructed to make a tabernacle so that God would dwell in our midst.

So what’s the difference between being called and being counted, between a name and a number? It is the difference between the personal and the impersonal, between the infinite and the finite.

There was until quite recently an ambivalence toward counting people and toward knowing their ages. For there was a feeling that knowing someone’s “number” was equivalent to knowing that person’s essence, and such knowledge was ultimately a divine prerogative (e.g., knowing when “someone’s number was up”). However important a census might be, it had to have divine sanction; and if it did not—as in David’s time—the consequences could be catastrophic (II Sam. 24). Latter-day reflections of this ambivalence have been the hesitation of Jews to keep an exact record of their own years, and the habit of counting people in one’s presence by saying, “Not one, not two, not three. . .“—as if to tell God that they were not really presuming on divine privileges.

The Torah: A Modern Commentary, revised edition, W. Gunther Plaut, ed., p. 914

In Bemidbar, as elsewhere in the Torah, it is God who commands that the census be taken. It is done for a Divine purpose. Rashi comments on this census taking, pointing out that God has taken count before. He sees this as a sign of God’s love; God counts that which is dear to the Divine. This is similar to a collector opening a box and lovingly looking at the treasured possessions within. It is a reminder that each one of us is treasured by God. Recall that we are still counting the Omer. As was previously mentioned, counting is also a measure of enthusiasm, and a reaffirmation of our devotion to God.

But somewhere between Shemot and Bemidbar the focus shifts from names to numbers. We went down to Egypt as individuals, but we were redeemed as a group that had bonded through a series of shared experiences. We think of names as providing us with an identity. This is true on a personal level; in a communal setting, a number can represent a common bond or shared experience. A few examples:

· the Group of Seven (Influential Canadian landscape artists from the 1920's.)

· the Mercury Seven (The first seven individuals chosen as astronauts by NASA to fly in the Mercury program.)

· the Chicago Seven (Seven individuals charged with conspiracy at the 1968 Democratic convention.)

· the Gang of Four (A group of leaders in China arrested after the death of Mao and held responsible for failings of the Cultural Revolution. The group included Mao's widow Jiang Qing. Not to be confused with the band of the same name.)

· the Jackson Five (Rock and roll hall-of-famers, this Motown band introduced 11-year-old Michael as the lead singer.)

· the Three Stooges (A vaudeville team specializing in slapstick humour; they made a successful transition to the screen, producing many short films. For true aficionados no one could replace Curly, nyuk, nyuk.)

To paraphrase Shakespeare, what's in a number?

In our contemporary society, we advocate for the individual, sometimes at the expense of the community. Every decade, the government sends people out to take down details of individual lives. These details are tiles in the mosaic that forms a picture of our nation. The census in Bemidbar is also an illustration of a community at a point in time. It serves to remind us that we are part of a group that shares a transformative experience.

How odd! Being identified by an account number lessens my humanity; being counted in a census reaffirms it. Moreover, being counted in a community strengthens my commitment and sense of responsibility to that community. I say this as a woman who has experienced being both included and excluded from a minyan. You relate in a different way to a community that includes you. Inclusion brings with it a desire to contribute to the group. You can see a visible transformation on the face of a Bar or Bat-Mitzvah the first time he or she is asked to be part of a minyan. Indeed, the individual is most important in a community. Bemidbar's message for all of us is: count me in.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Bechukotai, Leviticus 26:3-27:34

It is easy to be grateful when faced with abundance; the challenge is how to keep one's faith when staring at famine.

A few years back, before we were so worried about carbs, there was a television commercial about Fred the baker whose only concern was making doughnuts 24/7. His "time to make the doughnuts" mantra assured us a fresh product all day long. Exhausted as Fred may have been, he was most fortunate to have been a baker in our technological age. Had he lived in the ancient world, he would have had much less to show for a hard day's work. Actually, Fred would have been busy growing and harvesting the grain, Mrs. Fred would have been the one for whom baking bread was a daily grind:

In the Bronze and Iron Age, bread was the staple food. Since it was prepared almost every day, bread-making was one of the main activities of a household. People in Canaan and Ancient Israel consumed between 330 - 440 lbs. of wheat and barley per year. An individual typically consumed 50 - 70 % of calories from these cereals -- mostly eaten in the form of bread.
The grinding of grain was done by hand, using a quern: this consisted of a fixed lower stone, called a metate, and a moveable upper stone or mano. The quern was made of basalt, a course volcanic stone, which was preferred for the process because of its rough surface and relatively light weight. The grain was ground on the course surface to break down the soft center of the kernel into flour. It was a very laborious process and had the disadvantage of producing basalt grit which got into the bread and gradually wore down the teeth.

Bread, Canaan and Ancient Israel,
University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archeology and Anthropology

No wonder bread is such an elemental symbol in the Torah. In the beginning Adam is told By the sweat of your brow shall you get bread to eat …(Genesis 3:19). Gritty though it may have been, ancient bread represented both the good and the bad. This imagery comes into play in Bechukotai, the very last parasha in Leviticus.

The message of Bechukotai is referred to as a tokhacha, a rebuke. Using stark images it conveys what will happen if we fulfill God's will: You shall eat old grain long stored, and you shall have to clear out the old to make room for the new. (Leviticus 26:10), and what will happen if we don't: When I break your staff of bread, ten women shall bake your bread in a single oven; they shall dole out your bread by weight, and though you eat, you shall not be satisfied. (Leviticus 26:26)

Interesting words: ve'achaltem ve-lo tisbe'u, though you eat, you shall not be satisfied. Deuteronomy 8:10 instructs us using the same verbs ve'achtala ve'savata, When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which He has given you.

Bread brings with it immediate gratification by calming a growling stomach. This is not to be confused with the instant gratification that so many of us seek today. The satisfaction derived from a piece of bread fulfills a basic necessity. The importance of this gratification is evident in a Talmudic tale. Abba Hilkiah was known for his ability to pray for rain. Once when asked to do so, he and his wife went to the roof of their house and began to pray. The dark storm clouds first formed over the corner where his wife was standing. When asked about this, Abba Hilkiah explained that he gives money to the poor but his wife gives them bread which they can enjoy immediately; hence she merited this response to her prayer. (Ta'anit 23a-b)

How then is it possible, to eat and not be satisfied? What sort of dreadful curse is this? A number of Holocaust survivors, as well as others who have faced starvation tell of those first meals after liberation. Unsure if there would be any food the next day, they hid pieces of bread. Experience had taught them to be careful and to hoard. Eating meant survival, not immediate gratification. It took time to overcome this desire to put some bread aside "just in case."

These are the most extreme situations. Yet there are other obstacles in life that have the same end result: though you eat, you shall not be satisfied. What of the person who, having survived a round of chemotherapy is informed the prognosis is bleak? What of the couple who have tried their best to make things work but the marriage breaks up and the family is devastated? What of the individual who has placed heart and soul into his work and is unceremoniously let go? All these are efforts done by the sweat of your brow where the result is you shall not be satisfied. It is easy to be grateful when faced with abundance; the challenge is how to keep one's faith when staring at famine. Bechukotai is about reward and punishment; it is very simple. Life is not. It is unsavory and seemingly insulting to view a life-threatening illness, a troubled marriage, or a lost job as punishment. In such situations it is understandable that the suffering individual may question what is happening: "Why me? What did I do to deserve this? It isn't fair!" These are occasions that result in anger towards or alienation from God.

The question of suffering is as old as Judaism. The first question asked is "why?" The book of Job argues that we cannot understand God's ways. Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) finds it useless to speculate on what is fair and unfair in life. Rather, we should do our best no matter what the circumstances. The Talmudic sages also found it difficult to provide an answer:

Rabbi Yannai said: "It is not in our power to explain the well‑being of the wicked or the sufferings of the righteous."

Avot 4:15

Looking at Bechukotai we are tempted to answer that suffering must be punishment for something. But in the Rabbinic response to suffering, "why?" is the wrong question. Instead of delving into theology, the sages tried to find a human response, asking, "What can we learn from this?" The first step is to provide comfort and support for the sufferer. In fact that may be the only response we can provide.

For the individual in pain there is no simple answer, no immediate gratification. "What can I learn from this?" may be a question that at first appears irrelevant and later may be unappetizing. It is like that ancient bread that takes all day to grind and then wears down your teeth. The process provides sustenance, not satiation. But it will keep you going until you no longer feel the need to place a few crumbs in your pocket for the next day. Given time, sustenance can slowly turn to gratification, reaching the point where suffering subsides, healing begins, and you truly feel that: When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Behar, Leviticus 25:1- 26:2

Too often in our society, when it comes to a choice between time and people, the latter loses.

One of my favorite books as a child was Cheaper by the Dozen, a memoir by a brother and sister who grew up in a family of twelve children. Other than the challenges of growing up in such a clan, what was most memorable about the memoir was the occupation of the parents. Frank and Lillian Gilbreth were motion experts. In fact, they were pioneers in the field and often used themselves and their children as subjects for their studies.

The Gilbreths broke down motion into 18 basic components. From this they were able to help bricklayers, typists, surgeons and others perform more effectively. Efficiency was the key. While much analysis has been done in getting people to work faster, working better and more efficiently was the focus for the Gilbreth husband and wife team. They viewed their concern as being the welfare of the worker rather than the bottom line of the business. They never forgot that they were dealing with people.

Too often in our society, when it comes to a choice between time and people, the latter loses. It is our own fault. We take on too much and are afraid to say "no" because it could cost us a promotion or even our jobs. Unfortunately, we train our children in the same manner, as we ferry them from one afterschool activity to another. Is it any wonder that stress-related ailments are taking their toll on children as well as adults?

Whether it is called hyper-parenting or over-parenting, the micromanaged child or the over-scheduled child, it means the same thing: a generation of children signed up in utero for the right preschool; primed for early brain development with Baby Einstein and the like; embarked on a scheduled life in babyhood with play groups in French immersion, kindergym and infant music sessions; enrolled in tutoring by the age of three; every school day book-ended with a loaded program of scheduled activities and organized games.

Anna Marie Owens, Back to Baby Basics, National Post, May 10, 2008

What we need is a different attitude to time, an attitude that is found in this week's parasha, Behar. Last week's portion introduced us to the importance of the number seven in terms of Shabbat, holidays and counting the Omer. This week, the concept is supersized. Instead of dealing with Shabbat as the seventh day of the week, we are introduced to a shnat shabbaton, a sabbatical year that occurs every seventh year. Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield. But in the seventh year the land shall have a sabbath of complete rest, a sabbath of the Lord…it shall be a year of complete rest for the land. But you may eat whatever the land during its sabbath will produce… (Leviticus 25:3, 7)

Beyond this, there is also the concept of seven times seven years (similar to the seven times seven weeks of counting the Omer). The counting of weeks is followed by Shavuot on the fiftieth day, the counting of years is followed by the Yovel, the Jubilee in the fiftieth year: And you shall count seven sabbaths of years to you, seven times seven years; and the space of the seven sabbaths of years shall be to you forty and nine years. Then shall you cause the shofar to sound on the tenth day of the seventh month, in the Day of Atonement shall you sound the shofar throughout all your land. (Leviticus 25:8-9) Sifra explains that just as we formally count the days of the Omer, so too the priests were to count each year until the Yovel. Clearly, it was something to be anticipated.

On the Jubilee, land reverted to its original holder, and indentured servants were set free. In addition, the land was to remain fallow:

Leviticus 25 demands that the land, like the people, have a Shabbat in the fiftieth year (in addition to every seventh year). Such legislation symbolizes the intimate bond between the Land of Israel, the people, and God.

The Torah: A Women's Commentary, p. 751

Most interesting is how the beginning of the Yovel is heralded by the sounding of the shofar on Yom Kippur. Sforno teaches that sounding the shofar on the Jubilee is sign of joy because slaves are set free and the land returns to its original holders. Saadia Gaon created a "top ten list" for what the shofar represents. Rambam's explanation of the shofar as awakening our morality is found in the Mahzor, the High Holy Day prayerbook:

Wake up, wake up, you sleepers, wake up from your sleep! Sleepers, wake up from your napping and examine your deeds, return in teshuvah, and remember your Creator! Those of you who forget the truth in your playing around with the latest frivolousness, spending all year in vanity and meaningless things, which neither profits nor saves you, you, look to your souls, improve your ways and works. Abandon the path which is bad and get rid of all your vain goals.

(translation from Kolel website)

Probably the most common connection we make is between the shofar and the story of the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. The Mahzor also explains that the shofar is not solely a wakeup call for us. It is also a reminder to God of what nearly happened to Isaac, and how God was roused to mercy. Somehow, as pawn in the Akedah which was a test of Abraham, Isaac not only came close to losing his life but his humanity as well. The shofar serves as a reminder to step back, take time out, reassess the situation, and redress wrongs. It cries out to remember that you are dealing with people, not goals, objectives, numbers, statistics, or the bottom line, but relationships.

The shofar on the Jubilee deals with more than space, the land that is redeemed. The shofar is a symbol of time. Blowing the shofar on the Jubilee teaches us that dealing with the bonds of God, land and people takes more than one day, even if that day is Yom Kippur. Think of what could be accomplished if you were to take an entire year to devoting as much energy on focusing on human interactions as you normally devote to your occupation. Both the sabbatical and the Jubilee point the way: it is all a matter of time, of setting aside time.

Fortunately, some modern trends are changing.

There is evidence -- in the parks, the play-dates, the homework schedules and even Hollywood magazines -- that the end is at least near for the pattern of modern parenting that has in recent years dictated highly scheduled lives for children and spawned the species described as helicopter parents.
It can be found in the stories of mothers at playgrounds and schools, who no longer spend so much of their days scurrying their children from one activity to another; in the experiences of parents who successfully lobbied Canada's largest school board to introduce a radical policy that bans homework on holidays and sets limits for work; in the shelves of the nation's bookstores, no longer filled with sprawling racks of angst-filled tomes about how to make a better baby, but smaller now and more likely devoted to simpler topics such as play.

Anna Marie Owens, Back to Baby Basics, National Post, May 10, 2008

The key is simplicity. Trends are changing not only in how we raise our children, but in some other basics of life: for example, in how we eat. The rise of the slow food movement is a sign of this. Respect for the land and those who till the soil is evident in the "One Hundred Mile Diet" or "eating locally."

I am reminded of a classic Twilight Zone episode called Time Enough at Last in which Henry Bemis, an avid bookworm, just wanted time to read. He found out that when he pressed a stopwatch time actually stopped around him and he could indulge himself. Tragically, when the watch got stuck, and time stopped forever, his glasses broke; and his paradise turned to hell. Bemis got it wrong by trying to impose his will on time. It is the time we share with others that is a priceless gift.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1-24:23

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Jeanette Grosman. In memory of her dear friend, Lieba Lesk, 2 Iyar.

In our counting the Omer, God is counting on us.

Few things are as delightful as being present when a young child accomplishes a new task or makes a discovery. I treasure the memories of each of my children managing that first bike ride on his own. Light and darkness were never the same after my then four-month-old son discovered his shadow and tried to catch it. There is something magical about a toddler making the connection between an abstract concept and a concrete item –such as numbers. It is pure pleasure to find out a youngster's age by the number of fingers they proudly hold up.

This intangible pleasure of connecting the concrete and abstract may lie behind the popularity of Count Von Count, the vampirish character on Sesame Street who will count anything and everything. The technical term for his obsession is Arithmomania. The Count has been entertaining and educating youngsters for thirty-six years; that's double Chai in Jewish terms, but who's counting? (Chai, the two-lettered Hebrew word for life has a numerical value of 18.)

It's too bad the Count isn't Jewish. This week's portion, Emor, would have been perfect for his Bar-Mitzvah. He might have started his Dvar Torah (exposition on the weekly torah portion) by telling us that this week's portion is brought to you by the number seven. The twenty-third chapter of Leviticus is all about the calendar. It teaches that the seventh day, Shabbat is important: On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day there shall be a sabbath of complete rest, a sacred occasion. (Leviticus 23:3) The seventh month (Tishrei) contains important holidays: In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe complete rest, a sacred occasion commemorated with loud blasts. …Mark, the tenth day of this seventh month is the Day of Atonement. It shall be a sacred occasion for you: you shall practice self-denial… On the fifteenth day of this seventh month there shall be the Feast of Booths to the Lord, [to last] seven days. (Leviticus 23:23, 27, 34) The pilgrimage festivals of Sukkot and Pesach each lasts seven days. The connection between the third pilgrimage festival, Shavuot, and Pesach is also dealt with in multiples of seven: And from the day on which you bring the sheaf of elevation offering — the day after the sabbath — you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete: you must count until the day after the seventh week — fifty days; then you shall bring an offering of new grain to the Lord. (Leviticus 23:15-16)

Counting the days from Pesach to Shavuot is called sefirat ha’omer, the counting of the Omer, the Omer being a measure of grain brought to the Temple in Jerusalem. (For Sesame Street fans who prefer letters to numbers, this week's parasha is brought to you by the letters e, m, o, and r – which in English spell both Emor and Omer.) The period of sefirat ha’omer is the time between the barley harvest in early spring and the wheat harvest in late spring. It consists of seven weeks of seven days. I am sure the Count would love to count the days, if not each grain in the harvest offering; however, someone else got there first, and today it is possible to "Count the Omer with Homer" i.e. Homer Simpson!

Though we are currently in that period of time between Pesach and Shavuot, our concern is no longer with the harvests of ancient times. In keeping with rabbinic interpretation, sefirat ha’omer is the preparatory period to receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai on Shavuot. It is a measure of the spiritual distance we have traveled from Egyptian servitude to freely entering God's covenant.

The period that connects the two levels of freedom, Sefirat Haomer (counting of the Omer), began with the cutting of the first sheaf of barley that ripened. Barley is animal fodder. An animal is a being whose consciousness consists of the immediate situation. Having no vision of what is beyond the self is the least Jewish of attitudes. As we count the days representing the duration of the barley harvest, we rise toward the start of what was the wheat harvest. Wheat is human food, a symbol of hokhmah, intelligence (based on the rabbis' dictum that a child does not utter its first word until it has tasted bread).
… The message is that without Torah, which gives us the insights to recognize what we want, and the moral standards and social ethics to guide us to accomplish it, we are like animals who respond to instinct. Raw barley needs to give way to the refined wheat, the grain to meal and bread. Raw natural intelligence needs to be refined to become the wisdom through which potential can be reached.

Lesli Koppelman Ross, Celebrate! The Complete Jewish Holiday Handbook, p. 125

Counting is also a measure of enthusiasm. (Count Von Count being a wonderful role model for this!) Children count the days until their birthday. Students count the days until summer vacation. We count the days until the visit from a favorite relative. Counting requires our attention. We take note of something and are fully engaged in it; we take account and are accountable. For Maimonides, the eagerness is as crucial as the actual counting:

Just as one who awaits a most intimate friend on a certain day counts in ardent expectation the days and even the hours until his coming, so we count the days from the anniversary of our departure from Egypt until the Festival of the Giving of the Torah. For the latter was the aim and object of the Exodus from Egypt.

In counting the Omer we spiritually reaffirm our devotion to God, Torah and fulfilling the Divine will. You could say that in our counting the Omer, God is counting on us. Each day of sefirat ha’omer is an opportunity to strengthen that spiritual bond. The tradition of studying Pirke Avot (Ethics of the Fathers) reinforces this desire. So too does the Kabbalistic (mystical) approach of using every day to focus on a particular combination of God's emanations. (Each emanation is called a sefirah in Hebrew; the same word also means "counting".) Whatever approach one brings to this task, the desire is best expressed in – of all things – Sonnets from the Portuguese:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach…

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Shabbat shalom,
MS