Parashat Noah, Genesis 6:9-11:32

Sponsored by Judy Turner, in loving memory of Kevin Paul Kates - Yahrzeit Cheshvan 3.

We are all guilty of constructing our own edifices.

Thank heaven for elevators! They make life so much easier. After all, you don't have to schlep up ten flights of stairs with your groceries anymore. Actually, there probably wouldn't be buildings with ten flights if there were no elevators. The elevator and the high-rise building developed together. Thanks to elevators, living on the top floor is now so much more desirable than living on the bottom floor. As Eva Gabor sang on Green Acres: "I just adore a penthouse view."

Skyscrapers have been a boon for cities. More people fit in less space; just think of the island of Manhattan, for example. Many of these buildings are also symbols of civic identity and pride. Perhaps that is why there is this never-ending modern quest to see who can construct the tallest structure, buildings and towers that bring in loads of tourist dollars.

Tourists apparently haven't changed over the centuries. Herodotus (5th century BCE) regales us with his description of a tourist attraction in Babylon:

These walls are the city's outer armor; within them there is another encircling wall, nearly as strong as the other, but narrower. In the middle of one division of the city stands the royal palace, surrounded by a high and strong wall; and in the middle of the other is still to this day the sacred enclosure of Zeus Belus, a square of four hundred and forty yards each way, with gates of bronze. In the center of this sacred enclosure a solid tower has been built, two hundred and twenty yards long and broad; a second tower rises from this and from it yet another, until at last there are eight. The way up them mounts spirally outside the height of the towers; about halfway up is a resting place, with seats for repose, where those who ascend sit down and rest. In the last tower there is a great shrine; and in it stands a great and well-covered couch, and a golden table nearby.

Herodotus, History Book 1, section 181, (A.D. Godley, editor, English translation)

It wasn't one of the ancient wonders, but it certainly made quite an impression. Enough of an impression that a description of such a structure, which we now identify as a ziggurat, found its way into the Torah:  Everyone on earth had the same language and the same words. And as they migrated from the east, they came upon a valley in the land of Shinar and settled there. They said to one another, "Come, let us make bricks and burn them hard." — Brick served them as stone, and bitumen served them as mortar. — And they said, "Come, let us build us a city, and a tower with its top in the sky, to make a name for ourselves; else we shall be scattered all over the world." (Genesis 11:1-4)

Herodotus also describes the brick-making, something that is detailed in the Torah as well, which leads modern scholars to view this narrative as somewhat akin to what we would find in a travel column.

The Narrator, clearly writing from the perspective of a foreign observer, displays an accurate and detailed knowledge of Mesopotamian construction techniques. The rarity of stone in the plain of Lower Mesopotamia necessitated the use of molded, sun-dried clay as the common building material, an invention that ushered in the epoch of monumental temple architecture. The discovery of the technique of firing the brick in a kiln enhanced its solidity and durability and made possible the erection of multistoried buildings. The use of bitumen for mortar further added to the strength, cohesion, and impermeability of the brick.

Nahum Sarna, The JPS Torah Commentary: Genesis, p. 82

So bricks, like our modern elevators were an essential component in ancient high-rises. This is all well and good for the archeological tourist, or architectural adventurer, but what of the religious traveler? We'll get there, I promise.

In the meantime, keep thinking of ways we entice tourists to spend some time (and money) in our locales by visiting those tall places with the panoramic views from the observation decks. Those of us who do not suffer from agoraphobia just love to go up these structures and survey the land below.

There is definitely a beauty to it. Back in the summer we touched upon how things are more beautiful from the heights, as when Balaam saw Israel camped below him and was compelled to praise the nation.

We just love the breath-taking view, be it from the top of a mountain or the top of a building. In the case of the latter, we build our own heights.  Taipei 101 is currently the tallest building. (The Burj Dubai the tallest structure; at least this was the case last time I checked.)  We even flock to these sites when they are no longer the tallest: the Empire State Building in New York, the Eiffel Tower in Paris. You can add your favorites to this list.

Religious structures are also built reaching up to the heavens. Think of all the exercise tourists get when climbing to the top of cathedrals, or running up the steps of a Meso-American pyramid.

But back to our Biblical tower, aka the ziggurat: The folks in old Mesopotamia believed that these towers connected heaven and earth. They weren't the only ones. Many cultures believe in an Axis Mundi, the pillar of the world, the point at which heaven meets earth. We also find traces of this in the Torah. Smack in the middle of the Garden of Eden is a famous tree. Additionally, four rivers emanate from the garden, watering the earth. Jacob's ladder connects heaven and earth. Tradition views Jerusalem as being the place where heaven and earth meet.

Is it any wonder that the folks in Babel set out on such an ambitious building project? This was a matter of civic pride: to make a name for ourselves, a unifying structure: else we shall be scattered all over the world. What a wonderful example of human initiative! They built a city and a tower as their crowning glory.

So what's the problem? According to rabbinic tradition, it is not the structure so much as the way in which it was built. The builders had an attitude.

When they would bring up the bricks they would climb from the east, and they would descend from the west. If a man fell down and died they paid no attention. But if a brick fell down they stopped working and wailed saying: "Woe unto us, when will another brick be brought in its place."  

Pirke de-Rabbi Eliezer 24

Tradition tells us that folks were so intent on the building project that they were literally climbing over their injured fellow-workers. Instead of the tower being an overlook from which one could survey the landscape, it became more of a guard tower, separating one person from the other, robbing humanity of empathy.

We build in this way all the time, and the structures need not be vertical. We construct walls and gates to keep others out. Sometimes these structures aren't even physical. We laugh at the stereotypical academic oblivious to all else, dwelling in an "ivory tower." But we are all guilty of constructing our own such edifices, and God help the person who inadvertently places a dirty smudge on our clean ivory tower.

A few years ago I attended an exhibit at a museum of contemporary art where the installation was meant to convey the feeling of what it was like to be on a city street. There were telephone poles and wires, a curb, and "litter" scattered about. It was an antiseptic model of an urban setting. Needless to say, people spent a long time contemplating it. After an enjoyable stay, people exiting the building found an obstacle on the sidewalk in the real world: a homeless individual huddled against the winter cold. Every person that I saw just climbed over this individual without a second thought. The folks who build migdal bavel, the Tower of Babel, weren't the only ones stepping over people. And you don't have to build a very tall tower to hide behind walls from your fellow human beings.

We can understand the desire displayed by the builders of migdal bavel. We are all desperate to find that place where heaven and earth meet. Bava Batra (74a) recounts a tale told by Rabbah the son of Bar Hana. He met a caravan merchant who showed him what could be termed the wonders of the biblical world including Mount Sinai and the place where Korach was swallowed by the earth. But the most fascinating site was the place where heaven and earth meet. Though we are not told where it is, the text describes this as the place where heaven and earth "kiss."

This word guides us to the correct location. This elusive place is not in the heavens. Forget about skyscrapers and towers! Where do heaven and earth kiss? The answer is not "where" but "when." When we turn our gaze towards that individual shivering on the cement sidewalk in the winter cold and recognize the person made in God's image. When we build connecting towers that stand firm, and our language becomes one. That is when we are working with God to bring heaven and earth together. When we successfully complete this construction project On that day God shall be One and God's name shall be One. (Zechariah 14:19)

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Balak, Numbers 22:2-25:9

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Steven Raiken, in honour of his beloved mother Ruthann Goldstein Raiken - Tammuz 14 (July 10, 2006).

Looking down from the heights is associated with many powerful events and emotions.

Asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, George Mallory replied with the famous words "because it's there." The adventurer attempted this feat three times as a member of various British expeditions. Mallory went missing on his third attempt in 1924. Some 75 years later, an expedition found his body on Mount Everest.

Our attraction to heights dates back to ancient times. Mountains were thought to be the abode of deities. Offerings were made at "high places." The Hebrew word bamah refers to such places. (In Modern Hebrew, bamah refers to a stage. A closely related word, bimah, is the area in the synagogue where a service is conducted.

Commentators such as Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch and Nechama Leibowitz have pointed out that Parashat Balak takes special note of high places. Balak, king of Moab, summons the prophet Balaam to place a curse on a people he perceives as a threat: the Children of Israel. Though initially refusing to do so, Balaam gets God's permission, but is told that he will only be able to speak words of blessing. Three times, Balak takes Balaam to high vantage points to gaze on Israel:

In the morning Balak took Balaam up to Bamoth-baal (The high place of the deity Baal). From there he could see a portion of the people.

Numbers 22:41

With that, he (Balak) took him (Balaam) to Sedehzophim, on the summit of Pisgah. He built seven altars and offered a bull and a ram on each altar.

Numbers 23:14

Balak took Balaam to the peak of Peor, which overlooks the wasteland. Balaam said to Balak, "Build me here seven altars, and have seven bulls and seven rams ready for me here." Balak did as Balaam said: he offered up a bull and a ram on each altar.

Numbers 23:28 -30

But under God's command, Balaam's vantage point made it impossible for him to fulfill the king's wish:

How can I damn whom God has not damned,
How doom when the Lord has not doomed?
As I see them from the mountain tops,
Gaze on them from the heights,
There is a people that dwells apart,
Not reckoned among the nations.

Numbers 23:8-9

Looking down from the heights can be associated with many powerful events and emotions. There is nothing more breathtaking than a view from a mountaintop on a clear day. Yet at the same time, the view from a height can also be disconcerting and even paralyzing, as Jimmy Stewart discovered in Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.

Heights are places where God communicates with us. Mount Sinai comes to mind, but so does Mount Moriah, upon which God commands Abraham to offer his son on one of the heights that I will point out to you. (Genesis 22:2) Before his death, Moses ascended the heights to view the Promised Land. Moses went up from the steppes of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the summit of Pisgah, opposite Jericho, and the Lord showed him the whole land: Gilead as far as Dan; all Naphtali; the land of Ephraim and Manasseh; the whole land of Judah as far as the Western Sea; the Negeb; and the Plain — the Valley of Jericho, the city of palm trees — as far as Zoar. (Deuteronomy 34:1)

Recently in Canada, manmade heights have taken on a new meaning. Words are insufficient to describe the intensity of this phenomenon, so I will just state "the facts."

A few weeks ago, while driving on Highway 401, I noticed an ambulance on an overpass. I thought there must have been an accident, until I reached the next overpass which had a fire truck parked on it, as did the next overpass. The closer I got to Kingston, Ontario, the more crowded the overpasses became. Not only with official vehicles; there were crowds of people just standing and waiting. Soon, in the opposite direction a motorcade went by. At the center of the procession was a hearse carrying the body of Captain Richard Leary, Second Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry. Captain Leary had been killed while on patrol in Afghanistan.

The people gathered on the overpasses of Highway 401, aka the "Highway of Heroes," were taking part in a new custom, honouring fallen soldiers whose remains are brought to Canadian Forces Base Trenton and then transported from there to their final resting places. The rituals for this custom are very simple according to the blog Military Mom at Home:

Gather along the 401 between Trenton and Toronto (our Highway of Heroes) to honour our fallen soldier. He is coming home.

There is something deeply moving about these modern bamot (high places) – the highway overpasses, where people gathered to pay their respects. A utilitarian road built for speed and efficiency becomes a holy site.

In that instant, the traffic, the time, and reaching your destination as quickly as possible, lose all meaning. All that matters is that one precious soul be brought to his final resting place with as much care and concern as each individual can muster.

Regrettably, two days after this remarkable example of k'vod ha-met (honouring the deceased), it was reported that another Canadian soldier, Captain Jonathan Sutherland Snyder of the 1st Battalion, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, lost his life in an accident.

And so, as too many of these convoys sadly wind their way along Highway 401, people from neighboring towns gather on the overpasses and gaze on them from the heights, sadly acknowledging that one more selfless individual has joined a people that dwells apart.

Shabbat shalom,
MS