Parashat Tazria-Metsora, Leviticus 12:1-15:33; Rosh Chodesh Iyar

We are searching for transformational experiences.

One of them hit middle age, the other is pre-pubescent, both made headlines recently:
Barbie turned 50 this past March and Dora the Explorer is growing up. Both have had their share of controversy. In her fifty years, Barbie has changed little, other than a slight thickening at the waist which still leaves her with proportions not found in real life. Dora is trading in her shorts and t-shirt for a more fashionable look now that she is a 'tween. Is she following in Barbie's stiletto covered footsteps? Hard to believe but Barbie started off as a teenage doll.

The controversy surrounding both dolls is one of image. What is the message they are conveying to their faithful followers? Do these dolls influence the body image of the girls who play with them? Hard to say. Still, in the last few decades women have been working hard at changing their bodies to conform to unrealistic proportions. Clothing stores are carrying sizes that did not exist before. Size 0!? Whatever became of the perfect size 8? Today she's considered overweight. Look around and you'll see that people are getting younger. Botox injections are getting rid of the creases that have shaped your face through years of smiling and frowning. It's not only folks who are as old as Barbie who are using these techniques. Why are 30 year olds getting such injections? Do they want to look 14?
This seems to fulfill the words that Naomi Wolf wrote in The Beauty Myth:

When women adapt too well to the strictures of the industries, the weight or age that defines grace merely adjusts by plummeting: The models descend another 10 pounds, the surgeons lower the ‘preventative’ age for face-lift by another decade.

The Beauty Myth, Naomi Wolf, p. 102

In case you guys are feeling left out, consider the change in suit design that has occurred in the last couple of decades. The proportions on suits are changing: More suits are now wider at the chest and shoulder and narrower at the waist. Think superhero physique.

It is impossible to look at the human body objectively. Anthropologist Mary Douglas points out that the physical always carries a social aspect. "…the human body is always treated as an image of society…there can be no natural way of considering the body that does not involve at the same time a social dimension. …If there is no concern to preserve social boundaries, I would not expect to find concern with bodily boundaries." (Natural Symbols, p. 74)

For Jews it all started with noses. Modern rhinoplasty was invented by a nice Jewish doctor. In 1896 Berlin Dr. Jacques Joseph was dismissed from a group practice for operating on a child with protruding ears. The dismissal was on the grounds that the surgery was cosmetic rather than reconstructive. (Interestingly, a picture of Dr. Joseph shows him sporting a dueling scar.) Two years later the good doctor was approached by a man who wanted a nose job. He complied and reported his rationale to the medical society, stressing the fact that the physical surgery alleviated the patient's depression. As Sander Gilman explains, "The patient no longer felt himself marked by the form of his nose. He was cured of his 'disease,' which was his visibility.” (The Jew's Body, pp.184-5)

All this finally brings us to the double parashah Tazria-Metsora. The former parashah discusses the priestly diagnosis of various skin ailments and whether they make an individual ritually impure:

The priest shall examine the affection on the skin of his body: if hair in the affected patch has turned white and the affection appears to be deeper than the skin of his body, it is a leprous affection; when the priest sees it, he shall pronounce him unclean. But if it is a white discoloration on the skin of his body which does not appear to be deeper than the skin and the hair in it has not turned white, the priest shall isolate the affected person for seven days.

Leviticus 13:3-4

The latter Torah portion describes the treatment for an infected person to be re-introduced into the community. Once the individual has been examined by the priest and declared "clean," he or she must also undergo an elaborate ritual:

The priest shall take one of the male lambs and offer it with the log of oil as a guilt offering, and he shall elevate them as an elevation offering before the Lord. The lamb shall be slaughtered at the spot in the sacred area where the sin offering and the burnt offering are slaughtered. …The priest shall take some of the blood of the guilt offering, and the priest shall put it on the ridge of the right ear of him who is being cleansed, and on the thumb of his right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot. …

Leviticus 14:12-14

What on earth could be the cause of such priestly concern and such elaborate rituals? Rabbinic tradition opines that the affected individual is being punished for a wrong committed. Perhaps it was gossip or slander. The metsora, the infected person, is punned as being motsi ra, one who speaks evil. Alternatively, the person is said to have acted in a haughty manner; hence the lowly hyssop is used as an instrument in the purification ritual. Either way, the physical problem faced by the individual points to the social boundaries of the commentators' community.

Reading the text through modern eyes, we view the separation from the community at best as a quarantine and at worst as a punishment. We know that we would not treat individuals this way in modern society. We would pity them, while hoping they would do something to hide or change their appearance, for most likely, they would be scarred when re-entering the community. (Our reaction in itself says something about our bodily concerns and social boundaries as is evident by "makeover" television programs.)

Before we object to the guilt offering and accompanying rituals, realize that the ceremony parallels the priestly ordination ceremony (Leviticus 8:23-4). In both cases the individuals are separated from the community for seven days, must wash their clothes, bring similar sacrifices, and perform the same rites. This is not a ceremony of punishment but of acceptance.

Imagine the emotional and spiritual power that this ritual brought to the affected individual; the person who is both scared and scarred is welcomed back into the community and accepted before God. While we may only be cognizant of the physical change, the metsora is coaxed into a spiritual transformation.

Today we are searching for transformational experiences. We are constantly bombarded with messages that cosmetic treatments, diets, and intense exercise regiments will change the way we look and transform our lives as well. In reality, however, vanity of vanities all is vanity (Kohelet 1:2) . True transformation is the record of life and experience etched in the clay of the human body that molds the soul within.

What is man that You are mindful of him.
Mortal man that You have taken note of him,
That You have made him little less than divine
And adorned him with glory & majesty.
Psalm 8:5-6

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Shmini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47

What can we learn from silence?

We are surrounded by sound. Shopping malls, restaurants, medical offices, all play specially designed programs, a sophisticated descendant of what was once called "elevator music,” sounds that are designed to convey a subtle message:

A business’s background music is like an aural pheromone. It attracts some customers and repels others, and it gives pedestrians walking past the front door an immediate clue about whether they belong inside.

The Soundtrack of Your Life: Muzak in the realm of retail theatre, 

David Owen, The New Yorker, April 10, 2006

Silent films were shown with musical accompaniment; film soundtracks are still used to convey an added emotional dimension. Laugh tracks were created for to convince us that television comedies are truly funny. When you are put on hold during a phone call, you will hear something on the other end; often an irritating message about how busy the operators are but thanks for waiting, played ad infinitum.

We use sounds to drown out other sounds. Offices install white noise machinery that obscures the sounds of conversations in surrounding cubicles. Many of us carry our sound preferences with us, be they audio books or a personal music mix that we listen to on our ipods while walking, exercising, or taking public transportation.

The still of the night is not silent. City dwellers grow used to car alarms, buses, conversations of late night revelers. On truly quiet nights in the city or country, you will still hear animals, insects, and the wind blowing.

That is why it is so startling to be confronted by Paul Simon's old friend: The sound of silence. Sounds convey information, but what can we learn from silence?

This is the dilemma we face in Shmini. After the ordination of the priests, two of Aaron's sons, Nadav and Avihu, offered before the Lord alien fire, which He had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord. (Leviticus 10:1-2) Moses attempts to explain the situation to Aaron: "This is what the Lord meant when He said: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, / And gain glory before all the people." (Leviticus 10:3) How does Aaron respond? Va-yidom Aharon, And Aaron was silent. (Leviticus 10:3)

These two words va-yidom Aharon are the only description we are given of Aaron's reaction to what has taken place.

The Torah usually does not call attention to someone’s not speaking. What, then, is the unusual significance of Aaron’s silence? That he accepted God’s decree without protest? That his anguish was too great for him to put into words? That he was tempted to burst out in anger at the unfairness of what had happened to his family but was able to restrain himself? Perhaps the text is suggesting that there are more possibilities— and more power—in silence than in any words.

Etz Hayim: Torah and Commentary, David L. Lieber, senior editor, p. 634

Aaron's silence has been treated as a void which has been filled with much commentary.

Rashi understands this silence to be an acceptance of what has occurred. In fact, his reaction is rewarded according to Rashi: Aaron was rewarded for his silence because the next set of instructions (Leviticus 10:8-10) is addressed solely to him. Sforno understands Aaron's silence to indicate that he is comforting himself in the thought that God was sanctified through the death of his sons. Rashbam also believes that Aaron is accepting of God's decree though not without turmoil. According to Rashbam, Aaron silenced his mourning, suppressing his personal feelings. Nachmanides (Ramban) offers two explanations. According to the first, Aaron cries aloud and then falls silent. In his second interpretation, Ramban takes the word yidom to mean "he ceased," meaning that he stopped crying completely. In the first interpretation Aaron could still be struggling with what has happened and is mourning silently; in the second he has accepted the tragic event that has occurred.

All of these interpretations attempt to explain an incident that defies comprehension and in so doing try to bring a level of justification to it. A completely different viewpoint is expressed by Blu Greenberg who, having tragically lost an adult son, can empathize with Aaron:

Aaron’s response is the profoundest human and religious response to the reality that there are times when good people die unjustly or are consumed in tragedies that seem to be arbitrary, shocking, without justification, and with nothing to ameliorate the pain and loss of those who love them. ...

The Jewish laws of bereavement, so exquisitely tuned to the needs of the mourners, stipulate that the shiva visitor should not speak until the mourner speaks. I had always thought that the point of the precept was to ensure that the conversation would flow to the place the mourner needs it to reach. But I now understand that the halachah enjoining comforting visitors to hold back in silence serves a different function: to caution against offering a rationale for the decree of death. The deeper human religious response is to be silent, to live with the contradiction, and to affirm that we need not force meaning into tragedy. Sometimes, the deepest response of love is to be silent.

The Torah: A Women's Commentary, 

Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss, editors, p. 633

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Shabbat Hol Ha-Mo'ed Pesach, Exodus 33:12 - 34:26, Numbers 28:19 - 28:25

There are two sides to the humble matzah.

Browsing through a bookstore the other day, it was interesting to note that the most popular display was for board games. Remember those? There is no joystick, no remote control, no nunchuk, no hookup to a screen, and batteries aren't included because they're not necessary. Some of these games have been around for decades. The second most popular area in the store contained books and magazines about simplifying your life: i.e., getting by with less in tough economic times.

Welcome to Pesach. Despite the exorbitant grocery bill for kosher for Passover products, Pesach is about simplicity. At any rate, it used to be. The Torah reading for Shabbat Hol Ha-moed (the intermediate days of) Pesach simply instructs us: You shall observe the Feast of Unleavened Bread--eating unleavened bread for seven days, as I have commanded you… (Exodus 34:18). Unleavened bread is mentioned a second time in this portion: You shall not offer the blood of My sacrifice with anything leavened; and the sacrifice of the Feast of Passover shall not be left lying until morning (Exodus 34:25).

That's it. Nothing about sponge cake, macaroons, or the oxymoronic Passover bagels; just matzah plain and simple. Matzah is all about simplifying life. The Haggadah refers to it as ha-lachma anya, the bread of poverty. Nonetheless, there is actually something called matzah ashira meaning rich bread, and containing eggs, oil, and sometimes even a sweetener. However, the word matzah is quite literally simplicity itself.

By way of explanation, the Maharal of Prague, in Gevurot Hashem, his teachings on Pesach, draws our attention to a Talmudic passage describing animal hides:

Come and hear: Rabbi Hiyya ben Ammi said on Ulla's authority: There are three types of hide: matzah, hippa, and diftera. Matzah, as its name implies, is neither salted nor treated with flour or gall-nut .

Shabbat 79a

In this excerpt, matzah refers to the untreated animal hide, pure and simple.

The Maharal goes on to relate simplicity to freedom (Gevurot Hashem, 51). Ironically, a wealthy individual is burdened by his possessions and can be considered enslaved by them. In this view, it is only the individual who has no possessions who is truly free.

Well, I can't say that I fully agree. Poverty is also enslavement. When your belly is grumbling, it is difficult to think of anything other than finding a morsel to eat. No wonder when we eat the bread of poverty at the seder, we invite all who are hungry to come and eat.

Still, the idea of simplicity is an important one in a spiritual sense. Possessions do enslave us and distort our perception of things. When trying to keep up with the Joneses, we don't really get to know the Joneses at all; such competition stifles basic human contact. We see them for what they have, not for who they are.

Material simplicity brings with it a spiritual cleansing. Matzah is our back-to-basics reminder. Last week we touched upon a traditional view that matzah represents the yester ha-ra (evil inclination). One week a year, munching on matzah serves as a reminder to focus on ridding ourselves of all the bad habits that we have eased into over the course of the rest of the year.

But there are two sides to the humble matzah. It is also the bread of freedom, hurriedly baked in preparation for redemption. How you view unleavened bread depends on which side of the matzah you butter:

To be fully realized, an Exodus must include an inner voyage, not just a march on the road out of Egypt. The difference between slavery and freedom is not that slaves endure hard conditions while free people enjoy ease. The bread remained equally hard in both states, but the psychology of the Israelites shifted totally. When the hard crust was given to them by tyrannical masters, the matzah they ate in passivity was the bread of slavery. But when the Jews willingly went from green fertile deltas into the desert because they were determined to be free, when they refused to delay freedom and opted to eat unleavened bread rather than wait for it to rise, the hard crust became the bread of freedom. Out of fear and lack of responsibility, the slave accommodates to ill treatment. Out of dignity and determination to live free, the individual will shoulder any burden.

Irving Greenberg, The Jewish Way: Living the Holidays,  p. 47

The irony is that we who live in freedom willingly accept the chains of possessions. Slowly, without our realizing it our materialism enslaves us. Funny, this sounds like a lesson about Sukkot. Isn't that the time of year when we remind ourselves that with the exception of some basic essentials, material possessions are trivial? Well, here is another week-long holiday half a year later which gives us the same message as "food for thought”: The material is immaterial.

Perhaps we need such a reminder twice a year. We're pretty forgetful. Just look at what happened after that wonderful redemption from Egypt: We melted our valuables and formed the Golden Calf, which led Moses to shatter the tablets and go back up Mount Sinai, where we find him this week in the Torah reading used for both Hol Ha-moed Pesach and Sukkot. Our actions post-redemption placed us in quite predicament, which Moses is trying to solve: Moses hastened to bow low to the ground in homage, and said, "If I have gained Your favor, O Lord, pray, let the Lord go in our midst, even though this is a stiffnecked people. Pardon our iniquity and our sin, and take us for Your own!" (Exodus 34:8-9)

How did we end up in that situation so little time after the euphoria of redemption? We were dependent on things, in this case on idols. What is the end of result? God forgives us and has Moses write another set of tablets containing the covenant. The covenantal ceremony between God and Israel will take place fifty days after Pesach on Shavuot. We're all invited.

As we munch on our matzah and detoxify for Shavuot, chew on this lesson: Possessions are meaningless, relationships are priceless.

Moadim le-simcha and Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel