Kolel Parasha Study

Parashat Behar, Leviticus 25:1- 26:2

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 13 May 2008 19:15:00 +0000

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

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Mon, 05 May 2008 15:47:00 +0000

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

Parashat Kedoshim, Leviticus 19:1-20:27

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 15:50:00 +0000

The gray haired elder is a fragile treasure, often not appreciated until he or she is gone.

I have noticed recently that it is impossible to simply run into the drugstore and just pick up an item. Last time I ran out of shampoo it took me half an hour to figure out what to buy. There is shampoo for long hair, short hair, curly hair, straight hair, frizzy hair, coloured hair, damaged hair and so on. Then there are conditioners that produce a number of different results. This is before you even get to the "product," the stuff you put on your clean hair to keep it shiny, curly, tangle free, blonder, darker, redder, softer, staying in place, looking like you just got out of bed, and so on. My grandparents just used soap on their hair and seemed to manage quite well.

They may have been the exception. Our concern with hair has a long history. Poets use it as a measure of beauty. Fairy tales have been written about golden locks, ebony black hair, and hair so long and strong, a suitor could use it to climb to your window. What conditioner does one use for that? Legend tells us that King David was known for the beauty of his red hair. Samson's uncut hair was the source of his strength. The Song of Songs, which we just read on Pesach, has numerous descriptions of the beauty of both lovers' hair: …His locks are curled and black as a raven. (Song 5:11), Your hair is like a flock of goats streaming down from Gilead. (Song 6:5) Not quite how we'd word it today, but the sentiment comes through nonetheless.

For most of history we have tried some amazing concoctions to style and colour our hair; items that go beyond a simple flint knife to trim it. In places as diverse as ancient Greece and pre-revolutionary France, we have braced our hair with branches and wire cages. Some famous early Hollywood platinum blondes ended up wearing wigs because bleaching their locks caused their hair to fall out.

It seems the only time it was fashionable to let our hair alone was in the late 1960s. Interestingly, this month marks the fortieth anniversary of the Broadway debut of Hair.

Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
My hair.
Hair, lyrics by Gerome Ragni and James Rado

How times have changed! Those who once reveled in letting their hair grow wild and naturally, a la Samson, are now keeping the shampoo and colouring companies solvent.

Hair is one of the easiest ways to change how we look. Last fall, Time Magazine ran an article called The Gray Wars. "To dye or not to dye. That is the question in the latest feminist debate over aging and authenticity." In a poll looking at attitudes towards gray or white hair, a large majority viewed such hair as a disadvantage socially and politically. The only time it was viewed as an advantage, by 59% of those polled, was for candidates running for office. Even then it was viewed negatively on specific individuals. (Time Magazine, Sept. 10, 2007, pp. 71-3)

The Torah also weighs in on the issue of hair. Parashat Kedoshim instructs us: You shall not round off the side-growth on your head, or destroy the side-growth of your beard. (Leviticus 19:27) In early June we will read about Sotah, the woman accused of adultery whose hair is uncovered as part of the ceremony determining her innocence or guilt (Numbers 5:18), and in the same portion we will be told about the Nazirite, forbidden to cut his hair (Numbers 6:5).

If our Israelite ancestors had been asked about colouring hair, the Time Magazine poll would have had dramatically different results: Gray hair is a crown of glory. (Proverbs 16:31) This attitude is clearly reflected in this week's parasha: You shall rise before the aged... (Leviticus 19:32) Actually, the older translation of lifnei seiva takum, is much clearer: You shall rise before the hoary head. The word seiva is the same one found in Proverbs translated as gray hair.

A midrash teaches that Abraham was the first individual to show signs of aging:

Rabbi Yehudah ben Shimon said: Abraham asked for old age, pleading before the Eternal: "Sovereign of the Universe! When a man and his son enter a town, people don't know whom to honor! But if You crown the father with the appearance of old age, they will know whom to honour." The Holy One Who is Blessed said to him: "...You have asked well and it shall begin with you." From the beginning of Genesis until here, old age is not mentioned, but when Abraham arose the appearance of old age was granted to him: And Abraham was old, well stricken in age (Genesis 24:1).
Genesis Rabbah 65:9, based on the Soncino translation

There are actually two parts to the verse in Kedoshim: You shall rise before the aged (seiva) and show deference to the old (zaken). This caused quite a discussion in the Talmud. What is the difference between the seiva, the gray haired individual, and the zaken, the elderly person?

Rabbi Yose the Galilean said: Zaken means only one who has acquired wisdom… Issi ben Yehuda said: You shall rise before the aged implies any aged person.
Talmud, Kiddushin, 32b

Two different qualities are at work here. Zaken implies wisdom and leadership. The Talmud relates this to God's instruction to Moses in Numbers 11:16: Gather for Me seventy of Israel's elders (ziknei) of whom you have experience as elders and officers of the people, and bring them to the Tent of Meeting… Seiva is anyone who falls into the senior citizen category.

While in most cultures there is respect for the life experience that goes with aging, our modern culture differs. One year after Hair debuted on Broadway, the term "ageism" was coined by gerontologist Robert Neil Butler. Today, the generation that told us not to trust anyone over thirty is still fighting to maintain its youth. Those of us who are fussing with the hair dye can learn something from those who stopped doing so long ago according to two articles in the American Sociological Review:

“The good news is that with age comes happiness,” said study author Yang Yang, a University of Chicago sociologist. “Life gets better in one's perception as one ages.” …A certain amount of distress in old age is inevitable, including aches, pains and deaths of loved ones and friends. But older people generally have learned to be more content with what they have than younger adults, Dr. Yang said.
…A separate University of Chicago study found that about 75 per cent of people aged 57 to 85 engage in one or more social activities at least every week. Those include socializing with neighbours, attending religious services, volunteering or going to group meetings. Those in their 80s were twice as likely as those in their 50s to do at least one of these activities.
The oldest Americans are also the happiest, research finds, Lindsay Tanner, Associated Press, April 18, 2008

How interesting that contentment is treasured more than that elusive emotion happiness. Interesting as well are the activities that help achieve contentment, the rituals and ethical behavior described in Kedoshim which are integral to socializing, volunteering and ritual activity.

There is much else we can learn from seiva. I believe it was Margaret Mead who said that the elderly, grandparents in particular, teach us history. Years ago I worked with advanced Alzheimer patients. I learned more in conversation with these individuals than from any book or documentary. Some sang the lullabies that comforted them as children. Others recounted the golden days of the Yiddish Theater in New York. When they shared their memories, you felt as though you were sitting next to them at the theater, watching The Yiddish King Lear while munching on a half sour pickle.

The seiva, the gray haired elder is a fragile treasure, often not appreciated until he or she is gone. This is something which strikes more deeply each year as we observe Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Memorial Day. I recently had the privilege of hearing a survivor recount her story to an adult Jewish Information Class that I am teaching. Many survivors volunteer their time to speak to groups of all ages and all faiths, making sure the Shoah (Holocaust) is not forgotten. Each story is unique, with personal details not found in books. The survivors who teach us now were children during the Holocaust. They are the last teachers of the greatest tragedy of our time. Learning from these individuals brings a new understanding to lifne seiva takum, You shall rise before the aged. (Note: The USC Shoah Foundation Institute under the guidance of Steven Spielberg has created a video archive preserving the accounts of survivors. Unfortunately, genocide is still a problem in the modern world and the institute continues its important work by collecting eyewitness accounts from a more recent tragedy: the Rwandan genocide.)

The best-seller is wrong. Kindergarten was not the place I learned everything I need to know. I am still learning on a daily basis from those with greater wisdom and more life experience; the record of their accomplishments deeply etched in their faces, surrounded by a beautiful halo of gray or white hair.

They shall bear fruit even in old age (b'seiva)
They shall be fresh and fragrant
Psalms 92:15

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Shabbat Pesach Seventh Day, Exodus 13:17-15:26, Numbers 28:9-25

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 17:20:00 +0000

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Karen Teasdale.

It is a short road from gnawing on the bread of affliction to suggesting to others "let them eat cake."

Every year I am amazed with the growing array of kosher for Passover products: muffins, bagels, pasta, even pizza. This is ha-lahma anya, the bread of affliction? Even traditional matzah ain't what it used to be, now that you can choose wheat, rye or spelt matzah. Then, of course, there's shmura matzah, the traditionally watched and hand-baked item that reflects the bread of poverty in looks but not in price.

Matzah is as elemental a symbol of the staff of life as can be found: just flour and water, minus the fermentation. We are told that during the Exodus there was no time to let the bread rise; hence we omit the fermentation or leavening agent. Perhaps leaving out this one item is another symbol of leaving Egypt behind, since scholars believe that fermentation was discovered in Egypt making it the birthplace of bread and beer.

Bread was used to pay the workers' wages in ancient Egypt. Those who toiled received grain or simple loaves of bread made from flour and water. In contrast, the rulers dined on bread that contained honey, fruit and nuts. The difference between the haves and have-nots was abundantly clear in the edifices built for the rulers. Pharaonic tombs contained food to sustain the occupant in the afterlife. These tombs contained more wealth and foodstuff than a worker could ever dream of having. What could be more symbolic of a hardened heart, than the food placed in tombs by a worker who could never hope to consume such delicacies?

Bread's relationship to wages is found in English is well. Bread used to be a common slang expression for money, probably derived from the Cockney rhyming slang expression "bread and honey" which rhymes with "money." Fans of old gangster movies will recall dialogue where bank robber would demand the "dough."

While the Torah does remind us that man does not live on bread alone (Deuteronomy 8:3), the Hebrew language appears to have an unusual association with the word for bread. Lechem, the Hebrew word for bread, is the same root as lochem, to do battle. What is the common element? Dr Joseph Lewin offers an intriguing possibility:

What can you say about a culture that uses the same root lamed, het, mem) — for both bread and war, milhama? Do lehem and milhama really come from the same root? It's a good question, and to answer it one must invoke a third use of the root. It seems that laham means not only "he did battle" and "he ate bread" but also "he joined together."

Using this third meaning, Ludwig Koehler, in his 1953 Dictionary of the Hebrew Old Testament, opines that our root originally had the connotation of "to be closely packed together" and that that meaning is the common denominator. In war, says Koehler, soldiers often engage in hand-to-hand combat in close quarters. Voilà for war, milhama. Bread, he adds, suggesting perhaps that it is considered highly nutritious, is "compact food." Voilà for bread, lehem.
Joseph Lewin, A Hebrew Lesson (l-h-m), Jewish Heritage Online Magazine

Another connection between bread and battle has nothing to do with grammar and everything to do with food fights. People go to war over food and sources of food. The silent film classic Battleship Potemkin begins with a group of sailors rebelling when they are fed maggot-infested meat. Or think of the words attributed to Marie Antoinette when told the peasants had no bread: Let them eat cake.

Significant as it may be as a Pesach symbol bread (albeit in its unleavened form) is in the background on this last Shabbat of the festival. The battle between the God of Israel and the god of Egypt is the focal point.

The Torah constantly points out that Pharaoh's hard was hardened – he stubbornly ignored the suffering around him. This is part of the battle between God and Egypt's ruler.

When the king of Egypt was told that the people had fled, Pharaoh and his courtiers had a change of heart about the people and said, "What is this we have done, releasing Israel from our service?" He ordered his chariot and took his men with him; he took six hundred of his picked chariots, and the rest of the chariots of Egypt, with officers in all of them. The Lord stiffened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he gave chase to the Israelites. As the Israelites were departing defiantly, boldly, the Egyptians gave chase to them, and all the chariot horses of Pharaoh, his horsemen, and his warriors overtook them encamped by the sea, near Pi-hahiroth, before Baal-zephon.
(Exodus 14:5-9)

Adding to the battle imagery is the fact that our ancestors are armed (Exodus 13:18) as they make their way out of Egypt and find themselves at the Sea of Reeds with Pharaoh and a cast of thousands giving chase. We all know how the story ends, we cross the Sea of Reeds, Pharaoh and his army drown, and we sing a song of victory to God our Redeemer.

But before we take the plunge a strange thing happens: Pharaoh is not the only one with a change of heart! Our ancestors saw Pharaoh and his troops approaching and they too had a change of heart. The text tells us that they thought they had made a fatal mistake; better to have stayed in Egypt under the yoke of the king. The term describing Pharaoh's approach is faro hikriv, Pharaoh drew near. The root is k-r-v, the same word as korban, sacrifice and often used to indicate drawing close to God. This is the understanding of the Midrash:

What is meant by "Pharaoh drew near"? He brought Israel close to the repentance they showed. Rabbi Berachiah said: Pharaoh's drawing near was better for Israel than a hundred fasts and prayers.
Exodus Rabbah 21:5

As if to stress the importance of this point, Itturei Torah, a collection of Hassidic teachings and Mussar, comments that it takes Pharaoh to bring Israel to repentance.

What is going on here? Pharaoh serves as a reminder of suffering; and that changes the people's will. They turn to God to find the strength to cross the sea and sing triumphantly to the God who redeemed them.

Yet at this moment of our great joy, our rabbinic ancestors wanted to make sure that our hearts would not be hardened and that we would never forget the tragic cost of this freedom: The countless Egyptians who died in the plagues and at the Sea of Reeds. To help us remember the lives lost, the Talmudic sages imagined how this event played out in the heavenly court:

In that hour the ministering angels wished to utter the song of praise before the Holy One, Who is Blessed, but God rebuked them, saying: My handiwork (the Egyptians) is drowning in the sea and you want to sing before me!
Talmud, Sanhedrin 39b

Throughout the festival of Pesach there are constant reminders to prevent us from developing a hardened heart. Remembering the suffering of the Egyptians is the reason we spill the drops of wine when recounting the plagues at the Seder; our joy is diminished by their suffering. For the very same reason we abbreviate the Hallel (Psalms of Praise) that we sing at services on the last days of Pesach. As we read this portion at the end of Pesach, we are reminded that our rejoicing must be tempered.

We were saved at the Sea of Reeds, the symbol par excellence of Redemption. But our redemption is incomplete. What we lacked when we stepped onto dry land, what we oftentimes still lack, is the awareness of the suffering of others. Even worse is the knowledge that others suffer and we do nothing. It is a short road from gnawing on the bread of affliction to suggesting to others "let them eat cake." It is the path of the hardened heart.

On the seventh day of Pesach, as we watch the Sea of Reeds recede in the distance, we know that a long journey still awaits us. Pesach is the beginning of redemption; this is as far as God takes us. Spiritually, this is as far as God can take us; the rest of the journey is on our own. Full redemption can only be achieved when we no longer need to be reminded of the suffering of others. When our heart is open to the suffering of others, and when we act to correct the injustices causing that pain, then all of us will truly be redeemed.

Chag sameach,
Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Acharei Mot, Leviticus 16:1-18:30; Shabbat HaGadol

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 19:11:00 +0000

In memory of Rosalyn White, beloved mother of Myra White and Adrienne Rosen, much loved Bubbe to Alana and Sally. We miss you so much.

The modern scapegoat represents the denial of sin.

One of the challenges of dealing with the text of the Torah in English is that every translation is an interpretation. In these weekly studies I rely on the New Jewish Publication Society (NJPS) translation of the Torah which refers to God as "He," and the divine name as "Lord." The Torah: A Woman's Commentary tackles the issue of gender neutral language by always writing the divine name in Hebrew, allowing the reader to read it as Adonai, Hashem or "Lord."

As sensitive as we liberal Jews are to our language of prayer and study, we have it easy in comparison to the pioneers of Bible translation, who had to set the standards of translation for their descendants. And indeed, we have been greatly influenced by these pioneers. Why else would we think that Eve ate an apple? Or that things start "in the beginning," not "with the beginning" or "when God began to create?"

One of the greatest influences on the English language has been the King James translation of the Bible, responsible for our automatically saying "in the beginning." This translation, known for the beauty of its language, is not the first translation into English. That accomplishment is credited to William Tyndale, a 16th century Protestant reformer who was the first individual to translate the text from the original Hebrew into English. It is thanks to Tyndale that we say "let there be light," and "Am I my brother's keeper?" Tyndale is believed to have created English words when necessary to help in the translation. One such word is "scapegoat" referring directly to a ceremony described in this week's parashah, Acharei Mot:

Aaron shall take the two he-goats and let them stand before the Lord at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting; and he shall place lots upon the two goats, one marked for the Lord and the other marked for Azazel. Aaron shall bring forward the goat designated by lot for the Lord, which he is to offer as a sin offering; while the goat designated by lot for Azazel shall be left standing alive before the Lord, to make expiation with it and to send it off to the wilderness for Azazel.

…Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat and confess over it all the iniquities and transgressions of the Israelites, whatever their sins, putting them on the head of the goat; and it shall be sent off to the wilderness through a designated man. Thus the goat shall carry on it all their iniquities to an inaccessible region; and the goat shall be set free in the wilderness.
Leviticus 16:7-10, 21-22

While today a "scapegoat" is a person who bears the blame for others, for Tyndale this was the joining of two words (e)scape and goat – referring to the animal in the ritual that had the people's sin transferred to it and was set free for Azazel.

Jewish commentators didn't have it any easier just because they were dealing with the original Hebrew. It's not necessarily the ritual that bothered them (though it could be challenging to our modern sensibilities). What "got their goat" was the term Azazel. Since this word only appears in Leviticus 16, how is it to be understood?

The Talmud (Yoma 67b) describes Azazel as being "a hard and rough country" (Soncino translation), based on the word az meaning "strong" or "fierce." David Kimchi (12th century) explains it as being the mountain to which the goat was sent in the wilderness. Another interpretation is that it is a contraction of two words (goat) and azal (to go away), related to a description found in the Mishna (Yoma 6:2). From this one can see the development of the "scapegoat." Ibn Ezra relates it to "goat demons" mentioned in Leviticus 17:7. Baruch Levine points out that Azazel was the name given "to the demonic ruler of the wilderness."

The Torah: A Women's Commentary summarizes it best:

This is the name of the wilderness beyond the boundaries of settled life; most likely it originated as the name of a demon, Azazel in this case is best imagined as the antithesis of the Tabernacle/sanctuary, a place of disorder devoid of the relevant priestly distinctions. By carrying Israel's impurities to such a wilderness, the scapegoat effectively conveys the chaotic aspects of human life back to the place of origin.
The Torah: A Women's Commentary, p. 682

Most interesting are the commentaries relating the two goats to Biblical figures. Nachmanides, drawing on Midrash Bereshit Rabbah (65:10), through the use of puns identifies Esau as the goat that is sent away and Jacob as the one that remains. How so? Esau is described as hairy (sa'ir) which is a pun on another word for goat se'ir. This goat carries the Israelites' iniquities avonotam, punned as avonot tam, avonot meaning sins and tam meaning a person of integrity. Who is described as being tam? Jacob (Genesis 25:27). Take it a step further. Remember Jacob's disguise to fool daddy into thinking he was big brother Esau? Goatskin (Genesis 27:16).

Fast forward to late Saturday night, where, after noshing on kosher for Passover Tam Tams, we will be singing Had Gadya, One Little Goat. This ditty has been invested with allegorical meaning by Jewish commentators. Most popularly, we are told that the goat represents the people of Israel and all the other actors in the saga (except, of course, for God) represent nations throughout history that tried to destroy the Jewish people.

Yet more often than not, it is the scapegoat that has been associated with Jews. How ironic that this animal, symbolic of the cleansing of Israel's sins, has been associated with the Jewish people historically being burdened with the sins of others. Alas, we still see this in the world today.

In Leviticus the ritual with the two goats represents the public acknowledgment and acceptance of sins: the animal designated for Azazel symbolically bears them away. The modern scapegoat represents the denial of sin. We readily accept that this happens to our community on a global level. But let's get personal here. Let's face it; it is part of human nature to make excuses when we fall short of expectations. How often do we as individuals shift blame to others instead of accepting responsibility for our own actions?

So here we are on the Shabbat HaGadol, the Shabbat before Pesach, preparing to recount and relive the story of our deliverance from slavery to freedom. With that precious freedom come obligations, including the responsibility of owning up to our mistakes, shortcomings and transgressions. Pesach is sounding more and more like Yom Kippur! Let's not forget that hametz (leaven), prohibited on Pesach, is symbolically taken to be the yester hara' (inclination to evil). So Pesach, half a year after Yom Kippur, is another occasion to right wrongs. Consider this: there is nothing more liberating than 'fessing up to our sins. Pesach is a spring cleaning for the soul, an opportunity to fix the mess we have made. What are we waiting for?

Shabbat shalom.
Chag kasher ve-sameach,
MS

Parashat Metsora, Leviticus 14:1-15:33

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 19:09:00 +0000

Illness and healing sensitizes the individual to the extraordinary aspects of daily life.

About 18 months ago, Spain banned some fashion models for being too thin. Two months ago, the Spanish government went ahead with a project to take body scans of 10,000 women. The end result will be clothing that takes into account the variety of women’s shapes and sizes. Think of that: shirts that will fit across the shoulders and chest, as well as having the right sleeve length; pants that are proportional at the waist and hips, as well as having the proper inseam; clothes that no longer appear to be cut for teenage boys. There are those who say that fashion designers make clothes for a particular ideal form. I know I do not fit that ideal, nor do any other women I know.

Designers are not the only ones who have been concerned with the human form. No doubt the most famous example of an ideal body would be Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. Based on the writings of the 1st cent BCE Roman architect, Vitruvius, Da Vinci created a drawing of what Vitruvius considered the ideal proportions of the (male) human figure. It is a picture of a man standing at attention, with his arms and legs widespread. This image appears superimposed within a circle and a square. Apparently, Da Vinci viewed the human body as a microcosm of the universe, and the symmetry of the body was extrapolated to the order of the universe.

The relationship between the body and the universe would make sense to the kohanim (priests) of Leviticus. However, their concern was not the symmetry of the body but the proper functioning of the body in an orderly fashion. Any deviation from that would have to be brought back into orderliness. Reading Leviticus you might think that the kohanim view cleanliness as next to godliness. Not so, to the priestly mind orderliness is next to godliness.

One of the daily blessings found in the siddur speaks of the wonder that is the human body. Taken from the Talmud (Berachot 60b), the blessing asher yatsar (Who has created) draws our attention to our biological complexity and the wonder of how everything functions properly:

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Ruler of the world, who formed humans with wisdom and created a system of ducts and conduits in them. It is well-known before your throne of glory that if one of these should burst or one of these get blocked, it would be impossible to survive and stand before You. Blessed are You, Adonai, who heals all creatures, doing wonders.
(Translation from My People's Prayer Book, vol 5, p. 108, 110,
Rabbi Lawrence A. Hoffman, ed., )

While this blessing is centuries old, the appreciation of the human body found in the asher yatsar appears to be so much more advanced than what we read in this week’s parashah Metsora. The name of the parashah refers to an individual with a skin ailment. In this parashah it is the priest who examines individuals with unusual conditions such as skin afflictions or particular discharges. Part of the priestly expertise is determining when an individual must be quarantined due to a skin affliction and when an individual can return to the community. Not surprisingly for the third book of the Torah, reintroduction into the community is accompanied by a ritual. As was stated last week, the priest is a purifier, not a healer.

The ritual is quite elaborate.

…the priest shall order two live clean birds, cedar wood, crimson stuff, and hyssop to be brought for him who is to be cleansed. The priest shall order one of the birds slaughtered over fresh water in an earthen vessel; and he shall take the live bird, along with the cedar wood, the crimson stuff, and the hyssop, and dip them together with the live bird in the blood of the bird that was slaughtered over the fresh water. He shall then sprinkle it seven times on him who is to be cleansed of the eruption and cleanse him; and he shall set the live bird free in the open country.
(Leviticus 14:4-7)

That's not all. The individual undergoing this rite must wash his clothes, shave his hair, bathe and sit outside his tent for seven days. To quote my favorite late night commercial: "But wait! There's more!"

On the eighth day he brings two lambs as an offering, as well as a meal offering. Once the animal is sacrificed: 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 14:14)

This process is repeated with oil as well.

If all this sounds familiar, you're right. The ritual with the two birds is reminiscent of the scapegoat ritual in Leviticus 16, where one animal is slaughtered and the other is set free. The bathing and sitting at the entrance to the tent are part of the ordination ceremony for the priest found in Leviticus chapter 8. The greatest similarity appears in the description of what is done with the ram of ordination.

On the eighth day Moses took some of its blood and put it on the ridge of Aaron's right ear, and on the thumb of his right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot. Moses then brought forward the sons of Aaron, and put some of the blood on the ridges of their right ears, and on the thumbs of their right hands, and on the big toes of their right feet; and the rest of the blood Moses dashed against every side of the altar.
(Leviticus 8:22-24)

Much has been written about the significance of placing the blood on various parts of the priest's body. This is a discussion for another day. What is interesting is the similarity between the ritual for priests and that for folks with skin afflictions. What gives?

Two thoughts: First of all, the priest was the conduit between the people and God. It was a powerful symbol to have the priest welcome an individual back into the community. Think of the pain of being shunned by your own kin. What could be more comforting than having God's representative bring you back into the communal embrace? If the priest says welcome back, how could anyone turn their back on you?

Second, there is a spiritual component to illness and healing that we often ignore. The blessing of asher yatsar is a spiritual affirmation of our physical being. When we say a mi shebeirach, a prayer for healing, we ask for a physical and spiritual recovery. The ceremony for the metsora mimics the ordination ceremony because both have a spiritual aspect to them. The priest ritually serves in an area that is the threshold between the human and the Divine. The metsora, because of his or her personal experience, has glimpsed this threshold as well. Illness and healing sensitizes the individual to the extraordinary aspects of daily life. Anyone who has been ill, or has undergone surgery or extensive treatment will tell you: Things are different afterwards. It may not all be rosy, or warm and fuzzy, but there is a heightened awareness and appreciation of things. If you could find an ancient priest he would tell you that the experience of holiness is similar. It may not be sunshine and music, but it changes your awareness and appreciation of everything.

Far from being an eternal outcast, the metsora is the closest an individual can come to being priestly. Needless to say, we don't want illness and suffering to be the major component of our experience of holiness. But some trouble is inevitable in everyone's life. Experiencing such difficulty may make one feel as lonely as the metsora shunned by the community. When this occurs, let us remember that we are only a step away from the threshold where we encounter holiness.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Tazria, Leviticus 12:1-13:59; Shabbat HaChodesh, Ex. 12:1-20

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 13:23:00 +0000

Ritual impurity is not a value judgment.

Things ain't what they used to be: How often we employ this lament! Life was simpler and better when we were young. The world is more complex, and somehow more dangerous. In many regards, though it really is a good thing that "things ain't what they used to be." I know; I too miss the candy bars that were cheaper and bigger, the films that were creative and original, and time that moved at a more leisurely pace. On the other hand, I am rather partial to the fact that housing has improved, transportation is better, and there really is much to be said for indoor plumbing and running water. Given a choice between much that existed in the "good old days" and what we have today, I'm happy to be living in our day and age.

For one thing, back in the "good old days" a lot of people I know would not have made it to whatever age they are now. We are able to treat an astounding array of complex physical problems that were beyond our ability and imagination way back when. We also view many things as routine which at one time were not. Like the fact that most women who give birth get to hold their babies and watch them grow. In the golden days of yore up to 25% of women only reached the threshold of motherhood, succumbing to what was known as "childbed fever."

Thing changed slowly but significantly. In 1843, an overachieving New Englander named Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. published a report entitled The Contagiousness of Puerperal Fever, in which he argued that the source of this deadly disease among new mothers was actually being carried from patient to patient by their caregivers. Among his recommendations were that physicians clean their instruments and burn their clothes after a fatal delivery. He actually termed this a moral obligation on the part of the doctor.

Four years later and half a world away, Ignaz Philipp Semmelweis of Vienna, concerned with the same obstetrical problem, reached a similar conclusion and mandated that doctors in his wards wash their hands in a chlorinated lime solution before treating each patient. Both men were largely ignored at that time, despite the results of their innovations. Holmes, in fact, was taken to task by a well-known obstetrician of his day who remarked that "Doctors are gentlemen, and gentlemen's hands are clean." It was only thanks to Louis Pasteur's germ theory of disease that the practice of antiseptic cleanliness developed by Semmelweis began to be practiced.

Until these pathfinders came along, there was a strong possibility that the joy of bringing a new life into the world would be followed by its opposite: the death of either infant or mother. Is it any wonder then, that the ideas of birth and death were often intertwined?

This congruence is evident in this week's parasha, Tazria, which deals with a woman after childbirth and the offerings she is to bring as part of the purification ritual. Subsequently, it goes on to detail a number of skin ailments that are to be brought to the attention of the kohen (priest), as well as the actions the priest must take at this point. The kohen is not a healer but a purifier. Not surprisingly, purification is the focus of Tazria, and it is also the focus of next week's portion, Metsora.

What is the problem with impurity? It represents the opposite of holiness. There is a balance between the holiness of life and the impurity of death.

Biblical religion regarded the dead as impure in the extreme and forbade priests from participating in funerary rites. In the commentary it is maintained that this prohibition was aimed at preventing a cult of the dead from becoming part of Israelite worship. To the extent that a higher form of religious expression is served by avoiding the cult of the dead, the devotion of kohanim [priests] to the ancient purity restrictions has contributed significantly to this goal.
Baruch Levine, Leviticus, Jewish Publication Society Commentary, p. 221

But what does all this have to do with mothers and newborn infants? Isn't the birth process perceived as the opposite of death?

…in the Israelite mind, blood was the archsymbol of life. Its oozing from the body was no longer the work of demons [a worldwide view], but it was certainly the sign of death. In particular, the loss of seed in vaginal blood was associated with the loss of life. Thus it was that Israel - alone among the peoples - restricted impurity solely to those physical conditions involving the loss of vaginal blood and semen, the forces of life, and to scale disease, which visually manifested the approach of death.
Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus, Anchor Bible p. 767

So to summarize this rather graphic parashah: Impurity results from contact with the dead. Skin afflictions, translated misleadingly into English as "leprosy" in Leviticus, make one look dead. Genital fluids are generative matter and represent the loss of potential life.

Now let's get back to mother and child. Even in the good old days, commentaries made a symbolic connection between birth and death: "The Torah states that a woman is in a state of impurity for seven days after birth. Similarly, there is a seven-day period of mourning for the dead. All is counted by the number seven." (Yaakov ben Yitzchak Ashkenazi, Tzenah Urenah 2:589)

This Shabbat is also designated as Shabbat HaChodesh (Sabbath of the New Month), which is the first Shabbat of the month of Nisan, when we observe Pesach. The additional Torah reading is Exodus 12:1-20, dealing with the Paschal sacrifice. Here too, in a different context, we see the importance of blood and its association with both life and death. When the paschal lamb was sacrificed, its blood was placed on the doorposts and lintels of the houses of the Israelites. (Exodus 12:7) This was a sign to protect their inhabitants from Divine wrath: And the blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you: when I see the blood I will pass over you, so that no plague will destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt. (Exodus 12:13)

Nonetheless, our modern sensibility is generally uncomfortable with the idea that a new mother is somehow "impure." In answer, we need to remind ourselves that ritual impurity is not a value judgment.

Just as ritual "holiness" may be transmitted by contact (6:11) so too defilement. Both the tamei [ritually impure] and the kadosh [holy] emit a sort of energy. As with modern asepsis, so with ancient ritual: positive measures are needed to overcome defilement. In contrast, ritual purity is a neutral state and is not transmissible. A bandage is no longer sterile if it falls on the floor, yet it does not transmit its former sterility to the spot on which it falls.
W. Gunther Plaut, The Torah: A Modern Commentary, revised edition, p. 723

As was pointed out last week, the book of Leviticus is focused on order and having everything in its proper place. Even things that are natural can be considered to be outside the ideal order: blood in the body is fine, outside the body it’s problematic. Skin diseases and certain bodily discharges are not so good either. We are somewhat sensitive to this as well. Gruesome films depend on blood, ooze, guts and what-not to bring about a reaction in us. Judging from the amount of money they make, it works.

The levitical mindset is concerned with bringing about the proper reaction, which just can't happen when certain factors are not in their proper places. The sanctity and holiness of the mishkan, God's abode, must be protected; and proper precautions are necessary to do so. Just as bad things can happen if an operation takes place in an unsterile environment, bad things can happen if God's abode is not ritually pure. Tazria instructs the reader on the protocols for situations that are out of the ordinary; among the protocols are ways of correcting things that are out of place. The time of blood purification for the new mother is an example of this. Blood plays a role in the purification of priests and of those with skin afflictions as well, although in the latter case the blood has a different source.

Tazria encourages us to contemplate blood and its deep connection to life. Here, and in numerous other parts of Leviticus, the connection is deeply symbolic. We may struggle with the symbolism, but surely we understand the basic physical connection. Having said that, consider the importance of blood and how a simple blood donation on your part can be pivotal in pikuach nefesh (saving a life). Once Shabbat is over, how about doing your part to turn symbolism into reality?

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Shmini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47; Shabbat Parah, Numbers 19:1-22

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 25 Mar 2008 15:51:00 +0000

This Parasha has been generously sponsored by Lorne Opler in honour his brother, Alan Opler.

"A place for everything and everything in its place."

Baseball season is upon us again, and with the peanuts, popcorn and Crackerjacks come all the rituals inherent to the game. I do not mean the singing of the national anthems and the seventh-inning stretch. One of the joys of watching a ball game is observing the rituals of individual players. Some have particular mannerisms they repeat each time they step into the batter’s box. Nomar Garciaparra is probably among the more entertaining ballplayers in this category. Others have had rituals that take place off the field, such as only eating poultry on the day of the game. (That would be Wade Boggs.) No matter what the ritual, each player is convinced that it helps him do his best.

If you could find a levitical priest, he would nod in agreement with the baseball player. He would understand that performing a sacrifice according to detailed instructions would obviate the need for a sacrifice fly. The baseball player must follow the proper rules of dress for the game; the priest must be appropriately attired. The ballplayer must do things "by the book" for the sake of his team, the levitical priest must also adhere to the rules for the sake of Israel’s relationship with God. You cannot go to bat when it is not your turn in the lineup, much as you would love to take a swing at the ball. There are dire consequences for the team. You can’t offer a sacrifice to God at the wrong time; there are consequences there, too.

Nadab and Abihu found that out the hard way. There they were, shortly after the ordination ceremonies were completed, eager to fulfill their priestly duties: Now Aaron's sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before Adonai alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Adonai. (Leviticus 10:1-2)

In their zeal, Nadab and Abihu either forget or ignored the detailed instructions about sacrifice. Everything has to be done properly, and that includes the timing. They bring an offering before God which is described as being esh zarah (alien fire.) Nadab and Abihu played with fire and got burned. Their sacrifice was not sanctioned, their timing was off, and it cost them their lives.

What on earth did they do wrong? This question troubled our sages. After all, you would think that the priestly zeal to serve God is something to be lauded.

One explanation is that they were more concerned with themselves than with others.

Moses and Aaron once walked along, with Nadab and Abihu behind them, and all Israel following in the rear. Then Nadab said to Abihu, 'Oh that these old men might die, so that you and I should be the leaders of our generation.'
Talmud, Sanhedrin 52a

Midrash Leviticus Rabbah draws on Leviticus 16:1 for a different explanation: The Lord spoke to Moses after the death of the two sons of Aaron who died when they drew too close to the presence of the Lord. Because the two young priests drew too close to the Divine Presence, Aaron is warned not to come at will into the Shrine behind the curtain, in front of the cover that is upon the ark, lest he die. (Leviticus 16:2)

Being the "player of the game" is secondary to your team winning. Baseball is a team effort and to win you have to abide by the rules. Ditto the sacrificial system; ditto Judaism. There are boundaries, as is evident in Shmini. Nadab and Abihu drew too close, crossed a boundary and suffered the consequences. The sacrificial system is about maintaining order and boundaries. This was made explicit to Aaron: This is a law for all time throughout the ages, for you must distinguish between the sacred and the profane, and between the unclean and the clean. (Leviticus 10:9-10) Throughout the book of Leviticus, the rules and parameters are there for everyone, not just the priests. The laws of found later in the parashah (Leviticus chapter 11) are all about boundaries, about things being out of place. It's not a matter of good and bad but proper order. Peanuts and crackerjacks are fine at a ballgame, chicken soup isn't. A ball hit into stands is a home run, unless it is on the wrong side of the foul post, one millimeter can make it out of bounds. Rule-wise in a ball game, a foul ball is not fair. Food-wise in a ball park, a fowl bowl is not fare. (Sorry, I couldn't resist).

"A place for everything and everything in its place;" this adage attributed to Benjamin Franklin conveys a bit of the mindset found in Leviticus, though it needs to be expanded a bit: proper place, proper time, proper items, and proper behavior. Hmm, that last one can be tough for us to take. We'll get to that in a moment.

Even in ancient times, things could get out of whack. Sometimes when this happened, you brought an offering. At other times, such events prevented you from bringing an offering. For example, persons who came in contact with a corpse were ritually impure and could not nosh on the paschal sacrifice. Why were they impure? Perhaps it had to do with the blurring of boundaries between life and death. To remedy the situation, a red heifer was burned before the priest. Its ashes were used to purify those individuals who had come in contact with a corpse. The details of this ritual (Numbers 19:1-22) are read this Shabbat, which is designated as Shabbat Parah (Shabbat of the Heifer) and occurs just before the month of Nissan, when we celebrate Pesach.

Lest we think that all this is rigid and archaic – just like baseball according to its critics – we find that we too have sensitivity to boundaries. Despite society's championing of individual desires, nonetheless there are limits. The newspapers regularly report on the downfall of leaders who went too far and got burned; whether role models in politics, business, or religion; whether the issue is one of power, greed, or fulfilling personal desires.

The lesson we learn from Shmini is one of limits. No one has complete freedom; there are always consequences. There is yet a more difficult lesson as well: Just because something feels right doesn't mean it is right. It felt right for Nadab and Abihu to bring the offering they did. But boy, were they wrong, even if they meant well! There may have been a fire burning in their hearts, but fire can be destructive unless properly channeled. This is the heart of Leviticus: channeling things properly so they are constructive rather than destructive. Many modern Jews view the rituals of Leviticus as the cold embers of an ancient fire. Its message, though, is a fire that needs to be fanned to ignite in our souls.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Tzav, Leviticus 6:1-8:36

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 15:50:00 +0000

The threshold is where our Judaism is tested

Remember Alice who followed the rabbit down the rabbit hole? Her adventure really began when, at the very bottom of the hole, she came upon a series of doors and was unable to open any of them:

However, on the second time round, she came upon a low curtain she had not noticed before, and behind it was a little door about fifteen inches high: she tried the little golden key in the lock, and to her great delight it fitted! Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage, not much larger than a rat-hole: she knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How she longed to get out of that dark hall, and wander about among those beds of bright flowers and those cool fountains, but she could not even get her head though the doorway…
Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter 1

She eventually made it through. Her choice was somewhat easier than the conundrum faced by the heroine in Frank Stockton's classic short story "The Lady or the Tiger?" . In this story a man is sentenced for the crime of loving a princess. As with all criminals in his community he is brought into an arena with two doors. His sentence is determined by which door he chooses. One choice means immediate death at the mercy of a ferocious feline; the other choice results in marriage to a lovely femme fatale. The twist is that his beloved princess knows who or what is behind each door and gives her lover the signal. But we are never told which door is chosen. This is a life-and-death version of Let's Make a Deal. We seem to have an insatiable curiosity for what lies behind those doors. Will it be the latest car with all the bells and whistles, or just honest-to-goodness bells and whistles?

While the function of doors has not changed, the psychology of doors has. Do we go through a door to get away from it all, or to be part of the action? Put it another way: Do you prefer the privacy of your backyard or the community of your front stoop? This is a question that has played a significant role in a movement called "New Urbanism." Also known as traditional neighborhood design, the idea is to build our cities and towns in such a way as to foster community. This is based on diversity in housing, public spaces, and transportation. It is the opposite of what is commonly called urban and suburban sprawl.

Entranceways are one of the differences between sprawl and the vision of New Urbanism. Drive down the streets of most suburbs that have sprouted in the last few decades and you will be overwhelmed by the garages. It is no longer the entrance to the home that is important but the rear patio door that leads to the supposedly private backyard. In more traditional neighborhood design, the garage is less noticeable and the big front porch has made a comeback.

The overall goal of these new neighborhoods is to recreate the social interaction that has disappeared from most of our current subdivisions. Simply moving the houses closer to the streets and providing tree-lined sidewalks doesn't guarantee pedestrian interaction. However, by locating porches close to the sidewalks, residents can easily converse with neighbors as they pass by. Contrary to most conventional subdivisions, traditional neighborhoods encourage residents to become acquainted with their neighbors. One result of people knowing one another is a renewed sense of safety, both for children and adults.
Larry Garnett, Porches with Purpose

On a porch it's possible to be in a private space and still participate in a public sense—and the public can participate in a home owner's private world.
Elizabeth Plater-Zyberk quoted in
A Room without Walls: Rediscovering the Front Porch by Jason Miller

The intersection of private and public space plays an important role in Parashat Tsav. While continuing the levitical focus on the variety of offerings and the rituals surrounding them, the very end of Tsav shifts our focus to the folks in charge of the sacrifices - the kohanim (priests) – and to the intriguing details of their ordination:

Moses said to Aaron and his sons: Boil the flesh at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting and eat it there with the bread that is in the basket of ordination — as I commanded: Aaron and his sons shall eat it; and what is left over of the flesh and the bread you shall consume in fire. You shall not go outside the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for seven days, until the day that your period of ordination is completed. For your ordination will require seven days. Everything done today, the Lord has commanded to be done [seven days], to make expiation for you. You shall remain at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting day and night for seven days, keeping the Lord's charge — that you may not die — for so I have been commanded.
Leviticus 8:31-35

It is intriguing that priests are to remain at the entrance to the tent (petach ohel) for the week of ordination. Perhaps it is my modern sensibility, but to my mind it makes more sense if the priests are well within the tent during those seven days. Shouldn't they be meditating on the role they are about to undertake? Isn't it distracting to sit at the entrance to the tent?

In the Torah the entrance to the tent (petach ohel) is a special place. Abraham greets the three divine visitors as he sits at the entrance to his tent. (Genesis 18:1-2) In fact, Rashi tells us he specifically chose this location in order to provide hospitality to passers-by. Sarah overhears the news that she will bear a son at her petach ohel. (Genesis 18:10) Sforno notes that the angel announcing the birth of Isaac was actually there to address Sarah. This is a spiritually important location. God speaks to Moses at the petach ohel (Exodus 33: 9, Deuteronomy 31:15), sometimes in the presence of Israel. (Exodus 33:8, 10) This is also where God rebukes Aaron and Miriam. (Numbers 12:5) Korach and his fellow rebels meet their fate at the entrance of the tent. (Numbers 16:27)

Even when we are no longer wandering in the desert and no longer living in tents, the threshold retains its importance. This Shabbat's proximity to Purim reminds us that Esther too stood at the threshold awaiting recognition from the king to invite him and Haman to a banquet. (Esther 5:1) Esther's threshold is spiritual as well as physical. She hides her Judaism in order to enter the palace. Now, at the threshold before the king, she initiates a plan wherein she must reveal her true self.

Living in our modern society, are we still sensitive to the petach ohel as both a physical and spiritual place. Where are we in relation to our modern-day tents? Are we inside: physically isolated and mentally insulated? We all know of people who draw the blinds and lock their doors, not bothering to look out at the greater community. As well, we are acquainted with other individuals who prefer to be on the outside, physically and spiritually, not even bothering to peek in.

The threshold is the boundary between the public and private spheres, the dividing line between the sacred and the profane. In the Torah, the priests are not hermits. Their role puts them at the center of the community. Even their private preparations entail public presence.

Actually, the sacred area is not in the inside of the tent, nor is the public space outside: The threshold is the sacred space. The point at which the areas meet, the entranceway, the threshold, the tent door, this is the most sacred of spots where God speaks to us because this is where we must respond.

"Be a Jew at home and a man outside of it." This was the lesson of the Haskalah (Enlightenment) as summarized by the poet Yehuda Leib Gordon . Judaism was in the tent. The moment you walked out the entrance you were a participant in the modern world. Over a century later, experience has shown us that this is not so. The threshold is where our Judaism is tested: not in the comfort of home or synagogue, but at the moment we set foot through that doorway to interact with the world around us.

This is what the priests found out and what Esther learned. It remains our challenge as Jews today. When we walk towards that entrance, we know that that is where God’s presence is so strong and yet so fragile. This is the area we must approach with the resolve embodied in the psalmist’s prayer:

Open up gates of righteousness
I will approach and thank the Eternal one.
Psalms 118:19

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Vayikra, Leviticus 1:1-5:26; Shabbat Zachor, Deuteronomy 25:17-19

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:49:00 +0000

The soul laid bare before God.

I love the music of Kurt Weill. The only reason I took High School German was so I could understand Mack the Knife in the original. In North America those familiar with this song from the Threepenny Opera know the Bobby Darin version, or perhaps the Louis Armstrong rendition. Some might be familiar with the German version, Die Moritat von Mackie Messer, because it was used by Ernie Kovacs as the music to accompany many of his sight gags in the golden days of television. There is a world of difference between the 1950's hip North American version and the original 1929 Berlin item which exudes cynicism both in the lyrics of Bertolt Brecht as well as in the music of Kurt Weill. Alas, there is no original cast recording of the Berlin stage production. The song about Mack the Knife which opens the play was actually a last minute addition. It was performed by one of the most popular actors of Weimar Germany, a fellow named Kurt Gerron, who also happened to be Jewish. A few years ago I saw a film about Gerron that forever changed this song for me.

From the height of celebrity in Weimar Germany, Gerron fell into the depth of Nazi hell known as Theresienstadt. There he was given the task of making a film for Nazi propaganda purposes to show the world how wonderful Jewish life was under Nazism. Gerron weighed his decision: The Jewish council told him to do what he must in order to survive. And so the film The Führer Gives a City to the Jews came into existence.

Being the consummate professional, Gerron put his all into the project, making the best film he could. All this is documented in the 2002 film Prisoner of Paradise. There are scenes of soccer games and people at cafes. Children are shown eating fresh bread and fruit. Smiling for the cameras, Gerron's fellow inmates were forced to act as though all were well.

Because the film was made for the Nazis, the once popular Gerron was viewed as a traitor by his community. Not that this made any difference in the long run. The Nazi shark showed his pearly white teeth and Gerron became one more victim of this monster's insatiable appetite.

Why am I reminded of this film on Shabbat Zachor, the Shabbat before Purim? Zachor means remember, and on this particular Shabbat we are to remember all those in history who sought to destroy us. Amelek is the symbol of these adversaries from Haman of old to his modern descendants.

Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt —how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!
Deuteronomy 25:17-19

In the Bible Amalek attacks when Israel is famished and tired, striking from behind where one would find the weakest members of the group: The old, the infirm and the very young. Shabbat Zachor is more than a reminder of the evil that threatens to destroy us. It is an exhortation to our moral responsibility in the face of evil.

Nonetheless, this selection from Deuteronomy is the additional reading for this Shabbat. The primary reading is the beginning of the book of Leviticus, Vayikra, a portion that deals with a variety of sacrificial offerings and the proper way of bringing such offerings. While the majority of offerings involve various animal sacrifices, Chapter 2 deals with the simplest of offerings: the meal sacrifice. The chapter begins with the words nefesh ki takriv "when a person brings an offering." Normally, the biblical text uses ish or adam to designate a person. The biblical word for person nefesh is the word we use today for soul. In addition, the cantillation marks for this phrase are an unusual combination. Listen closely and you can hear: This is the soul laid bare before God.

Rabbi Yitzchak said: What distinguishes the meal-offering that the term 'soul' is used? Because the Holy One, Who is Blessed said: "Who normally brings a meal-offering? It is the poor person. I account it as though he had offered Me his very soul".
Talmud, Menachot 104b

The individual, who cannot afford an animal, or even a bird, brings a meal offering. This meal offering is termed kodesh kodashim, most holy (Leviticus 2:9).

Every time I read this parasha the meal offering stands out from the rest of the sacrifices. There is tremendous power in the starkness of the words: In bringing this simplest of offerings, we come before God as our innermost being, nefesh. This is the sacrifice of one who has nothing else to offer and it is considered most holy.

This brings me back to the Weimar superstar Kurt Gerron, physically imprisoned in Theresienstadt and morally incarcerated by an all-too-real Amalek decked out in fancy gloves and jackboots. We remember Amalek; Gerron faced the real thing. What did he accomplish by putting his heart and soul into a project that many viewed as a pact with the devil?

He was a nefesh who brought a sacrifice, offering the best he could, putting his soul into it. Some reports say he hoped to save a few lives by making this film. We know what happened to him once the film was finished. But the results of his efforts are not what Amalek anticipated. Gerron's film allows us to see souls otherwise lost and forgotten. Images that cry out zachor, remember.

One particular image haunts me: It is of group of young children eating fresh bread; in Theresienstadt Kurt Gerron's project made it possible for these children to get a slice of fresh bread, perhaps one slice at the most. For some of these children it was probably the best meal they had had in their young lives.

One slice of bread, a meal offering of the finest flour. Gerron's sacrifice brought a moment of fleeting happiness into their too-short lives. On this Shabbat, when sacrifice and memory are intertwined, this too we must remember.

Shabbat shalom,
MS

Parashat Pekudei, Exodus 38:21-40:38; Shabbat Shekalim, Exodus 30:11-16; Rosh Chodesh Adar II

noreply@blogger.com (Rabbi Michal Shekel) — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 16:47:00 +0000

The mindset that entertains the possibility of human obsolescence demeans us all.

It appears that the long awaited conflict is over: Blu-ray disc has won the DVD battle. HD DVD will go the way of Betamax videotapes, 8 tracks, cassettes, vinyl records, floppy disks. Add to the discard pile my first portable computer –a Kaypro which was the size of a large suitcase, and also desktop PCs which are deemed obsolete the moment they are bought. To quote the late night commercial: "But wait, there's more!" How about my first cellphone –resembling a brick in shape, size and weight, old fax machines, typewriters, rotary phones, or hairdryers that don't last beyond their warranty?

The cliché is true: We live in a throw-away society in which it is cheaper to replace things rather than repair them. I can't keep track of the number of toaster ovens I have owned. Yet my dad still has the same one that my folks used when I was a kid. Hey, he even has my mom's hairdryer, which is older than I am. Nowadays, it is cheaper to buy a new watch than replace the battery in an old one. This also holds true for cellphones – if you can still find a replacement battery for one. Is it even possible to change a battery in an iPod? It seems that the latest items are built to last the shortest amount of time (and yes, the warranties covering them are getting even shorter). Planned obsolescence is a fact of modern life, albeit a frustrating one.

The very concept of "planned obsolescence" is a modern invention. According to writer Giles Slade:

Actual use of the word “obsolescence” to describe out-of-date consumer products began to show up in the early twentieth century when modern household appliances replaced older stoves and fireplaces, and steel pots replaced iron ones. But it was the electric starter in automobiles, introduced in 1913, that raised obsolescence to national prominence by rendering all previous cars obsolete.
Giles Slade, Made to Break: Technology & Obsolescence in America, p. 4

He points out that convenience has always played a role in obsolescence. First, the razor blade took over for the straight edge, now we have complete razors – metal blades with plastic handles – that are fully disposable.

In addition to the quickening pace of technological innovation that renders the item we just purchased obsolete, there is also something called "psychological obsolescence." That's that nagging feeling that you need to get new clothes every few months because the style, material, cut or color you're using is deemed to be out of date. The same holds true for cars and even personal appliances as they become fashion statements. An abundance of television shows have me convinced that my house is hopelessly out of style and the only solution is to gut it and start over.

It is one thing to deem items outdated, but we do this with people as well. We all know businesses that are constantly restructuring, workers who discover that their jobs no longer exist, or worse – the potential for work no longer exists because they have reached a particular age and are assumed to lack the abilities for what is needed. Slade looks at the wonderful, simple technological tool called the slide rule which dates back to the early 17th century. With the advent of the calculator, a technological divide took a human toll:

Thus, by the 1980s, what younger engineers perceived as a democratization of calculation had in fact sheared the engineering world along generational lines. Age, not wealth, determined which engineers had the advantage. As the hacker culture would soon demonstrate, design and engineering were no longer the exclusive activities of a carefully trained elite. The term 'obsolete' now applied both to the device that the older generation of administrators preferred and to the analog skills they used.
Giles Slade, Made to Break: Technology & Obsolescence in America, p. 203

Well, we know that things change: Sometimes it is the world that changes, sometimes we do. Businesses tell us we must adapt to changes, but this attitude often ignores what an individual might have to offer. Beyond that, the very mindset that entertains the possibility of human obsolescence demeans us all.

So let's pause our latest gizmo for just a moment and turn to that most retro item, the Torah scroll, which this week unrolls to Parashat Pekudei. Here at the very end of the book of Exodus, we find that the Tabernacle has been completed. The word pekudei refers to the account taken of all the items used for the building of the mishkan (tabernacle): everything from the gold for inside the structure to the ram skins for the outside: Each item was tallied, and each served a purpose.

The mishkan had a couple of important functions: God's presence would fill the Tabernacle and was a symbol of the divine presence in the midst of the people. In addition, the mishkan housed the ark wherein were placed the Ten Commandments: He [Moses] took the Pact and placed it in the ark; he fixed the poles to the ark, placed the cover on top of the ark, and brought the ark inside the Tabernacle. (Exodus 40:20-21) But Moses had gone up Mount Sinai twice to receive the commandments. Recall that in a fit of anger, he smashed the first two tablets when he saw the Israelites dancing around the Golden Calf. The Talmud (Bava Batra 14a-b, Menahot 99a) teaches that the ark contained both sets: The second set brought down whole, and the shards of the first set that Moses had broken. The broken pieces were not considered useless and tossed aside; these shards were as sacred as the whole.

Today we still treat sacred items and ritual items with reverence. We bury works that have the Divine Name written in them. We do the same with ritual items such as tallitot, (prayershawls). Consider then, if objects are sacred, how much more so a human being made in the image of the Divine?

Permit me a short digression: I recently overheard a group of young girls talking at a restaurant. They couldn't have been more than nine years old and looked adorable, all dressed up and on their best behavior at a friend's birthday dinner. They covered a wide range of topics in a short amount of time as only sweet young things of this age have the energy to do. As often happens in a conversation among friends, there was a difference of opinion, at which point one girl would insult the other by calling her a – well, let's just say a derogatory term for a mentally challenged individual. Ouch, out of the mouth of babes. Even at this tender age, these children, who would know better than to use racial or ethnic slurs, still managed to find a denigrating term, one that asserts human obsolescence.

This Shabbat is the first of four special Shabbatot that will occur between now and Pesach. Shabbat Shekalim, occurs on the Shabbat prior to the month of Adar or on Shabbat Rosh Chodesh (the new month) Adar. In traditionalist synagogues we read Exodus 30:11-16, describing how a census is to be taken of the Israelites, aged 20 and above. Everyone counted in the census contributes half a shekel, the rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel… (Exodus 30:15) How interesting, rich or poor pay the same amount; everyone is treated equally in the census. No mention is made of IQ or ability. The 20 year old is not valued more than the 30 year old, the 45 year old is not obsolete.

Interestingly, the word used for tallying the people is lifkudeihem (according to their numbers), related to the word pikudei, from the root pkd, to account. This root is also found in Exodus 34:7 where we are told that God visits (poked) the iniquity of parents upon children and children's children, upon the third and fourth generations. The same root is used positively Genesis 21:1 where God took note (pakad) of Sarah as He had promised and she was blessed with Isaac, ensuring the continuity of our people and our brit (covenant).

What a mishmash of things this week! Let's see if we can simplify: A human being is not an object to be denigrated or discarded. The census we read for Shabbat Shekalim teaches us that each person is as important as the next. The weekly parasha goes even further, showing us that what appears to us as obsolete or defective is in fact quite precious. If this is true of an item, how much truer it is of a person! As always, we have a choice. If we choose to ignore the humanity of those around us, our children will learn from us, carrying this sin for generations to come. If we take note of the Divine gift implanted in each human being, we become instrumental in fulfilling the brit. Contemplate this and the words in the Rosh Chodesh Amidah will take on new meaning:

Remember us this day for well-being;
Take note of us (fokdeinu) for blessing;
Help us to a fuller life.

Shabbat shalom,
MS