Empathy and Compassion: Finding Connections in a Seemingly Random Universe
D’var Torah for Emor (Leviticus 21:1—24:23)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
April 30, 2010, 16 Iyar 5770

I often hear about young children showing amazing empathy and compassion. I remember when our daughter, Hannah, was in preschool and her teacher told us of something that happened that day. There was a child who developed a fever and was placed on a cot by the teacher until he could be picked up by his parents. The teacher covered him with a blanket, but other children kept pulling the blanket off. Hannah kept covering him again and again, until in frustration she came crying to the teacher. The teacher was struck by the show of compassion and told us about it.

This was not an isolated incident. I hear from many parents about how their children have this intrinsic quality inside them, and how they show it in all sorts of amazing ways. Parents never forget these examples of empathy and compassion, particularly because they show up already at the youngest age.

To some, this kind of behavior may seem to be nothing short of amazing. To Dr. Marc Hauser, however, they are proof of a theory he proposed a few years ago. Dr. Hauser, a Harvard professor, said that “in the same way that we are endowed with a language faculty that consists of a universal toolkit for building possible languages, we are also endowed with a moral faculty that consists of a universal toolkit for building possible moral systems.”[1] What this means is that an innate sense of morality may be embedded within us, within our DNA, as part of our survival mechanism. Dr. Hauser proposes that this is an evolutionary trait that developed within human beings as part of the Darwinian natural selection process.

Scientists, theologians as well as atheists have been arguing about this theory. Atheists, in particular, claim that what this means is that morality is genetic, and therefore not necessarily an aspect of religion. Theologians, on the other hand, ask whether this observed trait is merely a random development, or whether perhaps one couldn’t see the hand of God there, implanting the seeds of morality deep within us.

However it is that empathy and compassion have become embedded within us, it is clear that these feelings are found already in the behavior of very young children.

What the Torah teaches us is that they are examples of holy behavior.

Making moral choices is what the Torah is all about, and though this parashah is tightly packed with instructions and commandments that may seem antiquated and irrelevant, carefully placed within them are also timeless moral lessons that serve to remind us of our humanity—and of the sacred divine image that is within us. To be human, after all, is to be a step above all other animals. It’s about adding value and meaning to what would otherwise be no more than natural animalistic instincts. Parashah Emor is about preserving dignity at the most difficult moments of life—grief and mourning after a loved one’s death. At the same time, however, it is also about celebrating holidays—making ordinary days extraordinary by adding symbolic meaning to them. Embedded within the chapter that describe the sacrifices offered on these holidays are two rules that elevate the ritual far beyond its original intent—to placate angry or unmindful gods:

“When an ox or a sheep or a goat is born, it shall stay seven days with its mother, and from the eighth day on it shall be acceptable as an offering by fire to the Lord.” (Leviticus 22:27).

The first of these commandments may be understood better in light of a phrase from the Talmud (Tractate Pesachim 112a): "More than the calf wants to nurse, the cow wants to give milk." The Torah’s commandment reminds us of the maternal instinct that can be found even in animals. Recognition of this instinct is the first step; allowing the bond between mother and child to develop enables us humans to express our empathy and compassion for all life. Of course, this commandment is only the first step, and it naturally leads to the next one, expressed in the following verse:

“However, no animal from the herd or from the flock shall be slaughtered on the same day with its young” (Lev. 22:28).

Feelings of love are not exclusive to human beings. Pet owners may be too quick in perceiving emotions in their pets’ behavior. But not really. Anyone who has ever owned a dog knows better. Even out in the farmyard and in the wild, though caretaking of the young may be instinctive, it is not hard to recognize the emotional attachment that develops between a parent and its offspring, even in animals.

Empathy and compassion may be embedded within our DNA, but not all of us learn to activate them. Too often, many of us fall into base and instinctive behavior. To be religious means to turn on the potential for holiness within us, to elevate the ordinary into the sacred. There is no end to this process—it is ongoing; it requires constant practice and dedication. Once set in motion, further progression must follow, leading us to additional steps that show mercy and kindness.

Ultimately, the question of killing the animal in the first place must come up. Life is God-given, after all. All life, not only human life.

The moral choices we make may originate from somewhere very deep within us, perhaps as deep as our DNA. Where these choices lead us, however, to what conclusions and behavior, that each of us is free to determine for ourselves. Not all of us choose to become vegans based on this Torah portion. However, Parashah Emor helps us to understand that exercising empathy and compassion can turn us into better human beings. Like maintaining self-respect and dignity, like celebrating holidays and other special events, these are all examples of how we turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, of how we can create order in a seemingly random world, and of how we can bring sanctity and holiness into our everyday lives.

[1] Marc Hauser: Moral Grammar, posted by PvM on November 6, 2006 on “Panda’s Thumb.”
http://pandasthumb.org/archives/2006/11/marc-hauser-mor.html

©Boaz D. Heilman, 2010

I’ve Fallen But I CAN Get Up Again!: Acharei Mot/Kedoshim (Leviticus 16:1—20:27)

I’ve Fallen But I CAN Get Up Again!
D’var Torah on Acharei Mot/Kedoshim (Leviticus 16:1—20:27)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 23, 2010 9 Iyar 5770

In honor of Dr. Norman Cohen, my dissertation adviser at HUC-JIR, NYC.

About half way into rabbinic studies at Hebrew Union College I came to understand why I entered the field in the first place. Though the calling came to me gradually, increasing in volume and urgency until I could no longer avoid or run away from it, I did not understand its claim on me until I began to gather material for my rabbinic dissertation. The topic I chose to study was the midrashic material (rabbinic literature from the first millennium) concerning the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem and the consequent reconfiguration of Judaism for a post-destruction time and place. The question I most wanted to know was how the rabbis ensured the continuity of Jewish belief and practice following this catastrophe.

The midrashim I was studying were written long ago and addressed to the Jewish people as a whole, but they also held special meaning for me personally. A second-generation survivor of the Holocaust, my childish belief in God was deeply shaken by what I gradually began to hear from my parents and their friends. From as early as I can remember, I knew of what the Germans had done to us. My relationship with God was always challenged by questions and doubt. Through the years, I learned not to question why God permitted the Holocaust to happen, but rather why people, why humanity allowed it. But I could not, and still cannot, fathom why a compassionate God would not intervene when there was just so much evil on earth, when so much suffering was inflicted upon so many millions of innocent men, women and children.

It was a personal issue I tried to resolve, but I realized that it wasn’t only mine.

Rekindling and rebuilding our faith in God has always been a huge matter for the Jewish people. Our existence and continuity depended on this relationship. That much we’ve always known. What was more challenging was the question of how best to do that—how to preserve ancient laws, practices and customs while integrating and adapting to new places and times. We weren’t always successful. Sometimes we had to leave so much behind that we simply forgot who we were. And where we did manage to hold on to some artifacts or memories, persecution and destruction were not unknown to us. How to pick up the pieces and begin again and again became a continual problem throughout our communities.

A simple Google search on “Jewish Continuity” comes up with about 302,000 entries. Clearly an important topic, we can find one of the earliest “entries” in this week’s Torah reading.

Once again this week we are given a double portion comprising “Acharei Mot” (Leviticus 16:1—18:30) and “Kedoshim” (Lev. 19:1—20:27). Specifically, Acharei Mot (“after the death”) addresses the personal tragedy of Aaron and its bearing upon the larger community. Curiously, the only reference to the terrible loss is the few verses with which the parashah begins: “After the death of Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu….” This is immediately followed by instructions relating to the rituals of Yom Kippur. From this juxtaposition we may learn that the institution of Yom Kippur accomplishes two great feats: First, it enables us to experience atonement and forgiveness. But then, just as importantly, observing and practicing its laws and rituals ensures continuity, the never-ending relationship between humanity and God. Failure is temporary. After a fall we get up, we wipe the dust off and we start again.

For this alone we could say “dayenu!” We’re good! But—remember?—this is a double portion, and so we go on to Kedoshim (“You shall be holy”).

In this portion we are charged with being holy by dint of our relationship with God. “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.” However, being Israel—and consequently holy—can’t stop with our relationship with God. It’s also about how we live with one another. Kedoshim (“You shall be holy”) contains a reading that is so important that it gets chanted twice a year: Once during the regular, cyclical reading of the Torah (this week), and once at services on the afternoon of Yom Kippur. It is called “The Holiness Code” and is addressed not only to the priests, but to the whole people. Its beauty and strength are contained in its message that we are all holy! That holiness cannot and must not be confined to the temple compound. Holiness is expressed as much in our relationship with God as through our relationships with the world around us.

Some of the laws included in “The Holiness Code” (Lev. 19) are simple: Don’t lie, don’t cheat. Don’t spread rumors. Do not place a stumbling block before the blind. Don’t withhold a worker’s wages through the night. Some laws are a bit harder to live by: Love your neighbor as yourself. Now that’s tricky, as it means that we must appreciate ourselves as much as others—not more, not less. A hard balance to maintain sometimes. Yet some other laws are even more difficult than that: Do not begrudge your brother in your heart. Not even in your heart!

The idea that holiness can define and inform the way we live, that it can extend beyond the sanctuary into the world at large and turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, is revolutionary. It enables us to take God home with us. Yes, communal worship at the temple is important. Offering sacrifice and prayer are vital not for only for the individual but also for the whole community. But beyond that, what Kedoshim helps us understand is that being a good Jew isn’t only about how many services you attend or how many books of Jewish wisdom you’ve learned. Certainly it’s that, but there’s more: It’s about how you live your life. How you behave with your loved ones; how you conduct your business; how you relate with your community—with the rich and powerful as well as with the weak and needy. Holiness isn’t realized only through Shabbat worship or even by the meticulous observance of the holidays; it can also be a part of our daily and ordinary life, enriching every moment and every day. Making it all count. Making it all matter.

This is the secret of our amazing continuity: That when we fall, we’ve learned to get up again. We start where we left off—trying to bring God and holiness into our lives. Only this time we try not to make the same mistakes we’ve made before. This time we begin again, with thoughts of holiness in our hearts, with deeds of righteousness in our lives.

©Boaz D. Heilman, 2010

Life, Death, Transition and Hope: Tazria-M’tzorah (Leviticus 12:1-15:33)

Life, Death, Transition and Hope
D’var Torah for Tazria-M’tzorah (Leviticus 12:1-15:33)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
April 16, 2010, 2 Iyar 5770

The Hebrew calendar is an amalgamation of ancient systems, combining the lunar as well as solar schemes of charting time. One result of this is the difference in the length of the year according to the Hebrew calendar as opposed to the general calendar that most of the world uses. Because of this difference, every two or three years an adjustment has to be made in the Hebrew calendar where an additional month is added to the twelve already there. What this means for the cycle of weekly Torah readings is that there have to be enough portions in the Torah to accommodate the extra weeks. In years when the extra month is not there, the “extra” portions are joined one to its neighbor, and we study a “double” portion instead of the usual weekly one portion. This week is one of these occasions.

The two parshiyot that make up this week’s reading, Tazria and M'tzora, are unified by length and theme: Together they make up only four chapters; their common theme is health.

These two portions contain detailed descriptions, rules and regulations relating to natural bodily functions (and dysfunctions). The center points are conception, child birth and the feared contagious disease of leprosy. Though at first these may seem incongruous, they are all points of transition and change. Fraught with dangers and misconceptions, they were—and for many people actually still are—misunderstood, bogged in ignorance and superstition.

Tazria-M’tzora highlight Judaism’s perspective on the human body. Shaped by God and therefore sacred, the body is seen as a miracle that is simultaneously strong and frail. It is self- contained, capable of existing by itself, yet for survival it is also dependant on a larger group. The human body is capable of imagination and fulfillment, yearnings and accomplishments. At the same time, however, it also requires constant attention and care. In ancient Israel as in other cultures, this task was given to the priest. It was he who was entrusted with observing, diagnosing, and dispensing treatment and care. It was a huge and vitally important task, and the Torah portions emphasize time and again the need for repeated observation, careful diagnosis, and compassionate caretaking.

Tazria and M’tzorah may be short portions; to our “refined” taste, they may also seem somewhat unpleasant. They are definitely lacking by today’s medical standards. Nevertheless they are fundamental to our perception of the body as the temple that contains the sacred image of God and is therefore deserving of the utmost care and concern.

What emerges from the study of these portions is that, as important as was the actual medical diagnosis, so were the steps that led up to it and the steps that followed. Contagious diseases were justly feared, as they often took a terrible toll on the general population. The priest’s responsibilities included calming the fear of the individual and his or her family. Shame and embarrassment often accompanied the priest’s visit; easing their effect was a critical component of the priest’s job. A person who was declared contagious was often ostracized and excluded from the community. Feeling useless, he or she would be filled with a sense of worthlessness that could lead to depression and further deterioration. For the priest, healing the sick was important, but so was empowering them to maintain their humanity. A visit from the priest could make all the difference in their disposition. Keeping the image of God alive in a broken body was one of the most challenging tasks that the priest was entrusted with. More often than not, he put his own health and the health of his family at risk by going outside the camp to visit the sick and provide for their physical and spiritual needs. It was a dangerous but essential part of his many responsibilities.

Once an individual was declared healed, integrating him back into society was just as important. Once again, fears had to be allayed, suspicions set aside. On reentry the individual who was pronounced cured needed a public welcome and a boost in morale. A ritual was thus performed at which sacrifices of gratitude and well-being were offered. A bird was set free, symbolizing the new beginning, the new leaf that was being turned in the life of this person and the community. Immersion in the purifying waters of a mikveh (ritual bath) was required. At the conclusion of this ceremony, a drop of blood was dabbed on the healed person’s right earlobe, right thumb and right big toe. Reminiscent of the ritual of a priest’s ordination, this indicated that the individual could now resume the social responsibilities that had to be set aside for the duration of the illness. The effect of the ceremony was that the light of the divine image was rekindled within the person, filling him or her with a renewed sense of inclusion and purpose.

In time, the responsibility of healing (though not the mitzvah of visiting the sick) was taken from the priest and handed to more specialized and knowledgeable professionals. Still, health care remains to this day an important part of Jewish life, law and custom. Small wonder that still today, so many Jews turn to the field of medicine. It’s not only because the field may bring its practitioner respect, stability and a measure of financial independence, but also because from the earliest times we have seen medicine and healing as a sacred mission, a role dictated by our partnership with God, a role spelled out in no uncertain terms in two of the Torah’s least liked but most important parshiyot.

Shabbat shalom.

© Boaz D. Heilman, 2010

The Difference: Shemini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47

The Difference
D’var Torah on Parasha Shemini, Leviticus 9:1-11:47
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
April 10, 2010 26 Nisan 5770

Parashat Shemini is one of the most tragic and disturbing portions in the whole Torah. It is set at the time of the dedication of the Tabernacle—the tent complex that served the Israelites as their Sanctuary during the forty years of wanderings in the Sinai Desert. With the building finally complete, the dedication ritual begins. Moses and Aaron offer sacrifice as per the instruction of God; their sacrifice is accepted as a fire descends from heaven to consume the offering.

Upon seeing this marvelous sign of God’s presence, two of Aaron’s four sons, Nadav and Avihu, decide to emulate their father and uncle—or perhaps to supplant them. Totally unbidden, they offer a similar sacrifice. Then they make an additional, fatal mistake: they bring “a strange fire” to the sacrifice. Whatever the “strange fire” was (and, to no one’s surprise, the ancient rabbis offer several explanations of what exactly made it “strange”), it was definitely displeasing to God, and the punishment was not slow to follow. Once again a fire descends from heaven. Only this time, instead of consuming the offering, the flame engulfs the two young men, and they die “before the Lord.”

It was the unspeakable horror. Why did it have to happen? What was it that Nadav and Avihu did wrong? The Torah offers little in the way of explanation, only the enigmatic phrase, eish zarah, they brought “a strange fire,” one that God did not command them.

The Hebrew word used for “strange”—zarah—also means “outside the pale,” or “beyond bounds.” Without even bothering to explain what exactly was the source of their fire, what Torah makes clear is that Nadav and Avihu brought to the sacrifice a fire that was unsanctioned. What could that be?

Missing links in the Torah fired up the early rabbis’ imagination, inspiring stories and sermons that make up the body of rabbinic literature called Midrash. In the midrashic material accompanying this section of the Torah, the rabbis present several opinions regarding the nature of that “strange” fire. First, because of textual proximity (see chapter 10, verse 9), the rabbis reasoned that the two were drunk. One of the chief functions of the priests was to teach God’s rules of right and wrong. This message must clear as a bell; the fires of intoxication can lead to misperceptions and wrong decisions—certainly with greater consequences in the case of leaders and teachers.
Another opinion offers that Nadav and Avihu’s error was in acting without first consulting Moses or Aaron, who were the only ones authorized to make ritual decisions. In a sense, then, the strange fire was one of rebellion against authority. It was unbounded ambition. The passion of youth and their impatience to replace Moses and Aaron led them to start an open rebellion, with tragic but understandable results.

Worse yet, the rabbis surmise from the text that the two brothers did not act as brothers. “They did not consult with one another,” the Midrash reads. How far from the wonderful example set by their father and uncle—Aaron and Moses! Nadav and Avihu acted from base and selfish motives, inspired by haughtiness and a sense of infallibility. This perhaps was the worst of all. The “fire” that powered them was the impulse to grab power, to wrest it, if necessary, by intrigue and back-stabbing. How alien to the nature of our religion! How far outside the pale of decency, compassion and dignity that Moses and Aaron’s leadership represented and taught!

Parasha Shemini has one overarching moral and lesson. The priests—and by extension, the entire Jewish people—are commanded “to distinguish between the holy and the ordinary, and between the unclean and the clean, and to teach the Israelites all the statutes that the Lord has spoken to them through Moses.” It is an exalted ideal, but one that we must approach with care and foresight. Our zeal may be misleading, even blinding—not only to ourselves, but to all those around us. The fires we stoke can be dangerous. We must be eager, but not impulsive. Upstanding, but not arrogant. And better than that we be driven by our passions—let us strive to be compassionate.

That’s the difference between Moses and Aaron on the one hand, and Nadav and Avihu on the other. It is the difference between right and wrong.

©Boaz D. Heilman, 2010

Renewing the Vows: D’var Torah for the Sabbath during Passover: Exodus 33:12 – 34:26, Numbers 28:19-25

Renewing the Vows
D’var Torah for the Sabbath during Passover: Exodus 33:12 – 34:26, Numbers 28:19-25
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Passover 5770

On the Shabbat during Passover, the weekly cycle of Torah readings takes a break. There’ll be plenty of time next week to resume with the story. But Pesach is a special time. It’s our anniversary with God. On this Shabbat we renew our vows with God.

In the verses from Exodus chapter 33, we read of Moses’ request to actually witness God’s presence—not only for his own benefit, but as proof of God’s promise to dwell among us. He is granted a part of his wish. No one can see God’s face, not even Moses; but God would protect Moses while passing before him, letting Moses see God’s tracks, God’s footprints as it were, left behind on the sand. That’s good enough for Moses, and the bond is sealed. Even in the worst of circumstances, God will be there with us.

Chapter 34 documents an even more encompassing Covenant—the one between God and all Israel. This chapter contains one of the most stunning moments in the whole Torah, as Moses gets to set terms and limitations upon God’s powers—and God agrees. God must agree, as it were, to a statute of limitations. Punishments for crimes and misdemeanors cannot exceed four generations; rewards, however, carry forward for thousands of generations! Considering that God is God, and that Moses is only a human being, we can only ask ourselves why God agrees to such limits. A deeply philosophical question, we perhaps may get a glimpse (and only that) into God’s reasoning, only we must wait for it.

A more practical question to ask would be why do the punishments have to be inflicted upon the children and grandchildren as all? Can’t only the perpetrator be punished, while the innocent are left alone?

These questions characterize Israel ever since Abraham, the earliest Hebrew, and well into Tevya the Milkman’s days of pulling his cart because his horse takes ill on a Friday afternoon. Why do the innocent have to suffer at all?

The answer to this one is simple: That’s just the way it is. All our deeds have consequences. Whether we realize that or not, there are immediate results to every action. Some become apparent right away. Others may take a while to appear. Still other consequences we may be in denial about—but they are still there, gnawing away at the foundations of our life until we admit that we have done something wrong. All too often, the ones who bear the brunt of our misdeeds are the ones closest to us. They may be totally innocent, but the guilt, the shame and the anger are only some of the results of what we do, and these definitely have an effect on all who are around us, including the children. Asking why is almost irrelevant. Isaac Newton’s Third Law of Motion proves what the Torah understood so fundamentally so long ago. This is a powerful lesson for us all—to think before we act; to consider who may be affected. There is no such thing as a deed done in secret, and the misdeeds of parents DO affect the children. Deeply.

Still, what Moses argues for—and, amazingly, receives—is a promise from God that the consequences of our bad deeds be limited to four generations at most. One lifetime, if you stop and consider how many generations coexist at any point in time: Often enough, we share space, time and life with parents, children and grandchildren. That’s as far as the punishment goes. Four generations. One lifetime.

A good deed, on the other hand, goes on almost eternally: “Thousands of generations!”

It’s a powerful agreement. And God agrees to it.

In return, God asks for exclusive worship rights and outlines what that means: Keeping the Sabbath; celebrating the holy days; showing kindness and respect to all life around us, including children, the earth and the animals. It’s an offer we can’t refuse.

With the deal agreed upon by all, Israel then receives the Ten Commandments. It’s our ketubbah, our marriage agreement, or partnership if you prefer, with God.

On Passover, we relive the experiences that led us up to this momentous agreement. With word, song and prayer, we repeat our vows. In every generation, each of us places ourselves in this relationship of love/partnership with God. That is the key to our ongoing existence as a people.

So finally perhaps we can answer the bigger question stated above: WHY? Why does God agree to such terms and limitations?

Maybe out of love. Isn’t that, after all, why we enter into a marriage? Why we have children? Isn’t that why we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and renew our vows? Because we love one another.

Love is never a carefree relationship. It must be nurtured and watched. It can never be taken for granted or misused. It binds us to one another through time and space, linking family units, peoples—and, as it turns out, generations. It is love that links us to our God.

On Passover, as we read the terms of our agreement, we renew the vows between Israel and God. This Shabbat, we seal it with a kiss.

A sweet and happy Pesach to all.

©Boaz D. Heilman, 2010

A Sacred Task: Tzav—Leviticus 6:1-8:36

A Sacred Task: D’var Torah on Parashah Tzav—Leviticus 6:1-8:36
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 26, 2010 11 Nisan 5770

In this week’s portion—Tzav—the Torah continues its detailed instructions regarding the sacrifices that were to be offered by the priests at the Tent of Meeting and, later, at the Temple in Jerusalem. However, unlike last week’s portion (Vayikra), with its exhaustive descriptions of the various sacrifices themselves, in Tzav the emphasis shifts to the priest—the intermediary between God and humanity.

The role of the priest has to be carefully drawn, since it invests so much power in a flesh-and-blood human being. The perks of his position, along with potential corruption, can lead to disastrous results if not carefully watched. The Torah portion therefore goes into great detail in setting down the priest’s duties and responsibilities—if only as a counterbalance for the pitfalls that might divert him from the proper performance of his sacred duties.

The portion relates the process of the priest’s ordination—the ritual by which he is transformed from an ordinary person into the representative of all that is holy in our lives. It is an intricate ceremony that is public and intimate at once, full of spectacle but also of richly nuanced details. There is special clothing with which—after dipping in a ritual bath—the priest is clothed; several sacrifices are offered. For seven days then the priest must sit at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting. Situated, as it were, directly between the sacred and the ordinary, he is in a perfect spot to understand and realize the dual nature of his responsibility: His job is not merely to serve God, but also to represent the people. His relationship to the One is as important as his relationship with the other. Both are equally weighty; both are sacred.

Then, finally, a curious ritual is performed: A few drops of the blood of a sacrificed ram are applied to the ridge of the priest’s right ear, to his right thumb, and finally to his right big toe. Now, just a few verses earlier, the injunction is given to all Jews throughout the generations not to eat any blood—the sign of life, God’s greatest gift. Now the same symbol is used to mark off a priest, dedicated to God’s work, from any common or ordinary human. The rich symbolism cannot be misunderstood: The priest is charged with nothing less than responsibility for all life.

Why the ear? Because through the ear we hear one another. The eye can lie: A smile, no matter how forced, can hide a hundred pains. But the voice is always true—as long as we listen carefully. The intonation, the “music” (as my mother likes to call it), the rhythm and speed of our speech—these give away our true emotions. It is to this inner voice that the priest must pay close attention.

Why the thumb? Because it is with our hands that we conduct our business. We, like the priest, must never forget that the work of our hands must be honest and direct. Our hands must reach to one another, and in fact all around us. With our hands we tend to the needy, with them we work the soil. With our hands we mend nets and cook our food, we weave clothing, we heal and we love.

And why the toe? Because it is our feet that keep us steady and well balanced on our path. The priest couldn’t just sit there. His road was well marked. His charge was clear: to go to the place where he was most needed—to take care of the poor, to visit the sick, to bring hope to the disheartened.

The relevance of Tzav to our own lives is clear. With the Temple in disrepair, we become the priests, we fulfill our destiny of becoming a Goy kadosh—a holy nation. It is directly to us that God and the Torah direct the laws of this portion. It is we who must be meticulous in our work and in our relationships. Are we listening to one another? Are we reaching to the needy? Are we standing in place—or are we walking, perhaps even running, to be of help wherever we are needed.

The Hebrew word that forms the title of this Torah portion—Tzav—comes from the same root as the word mitzvah (a charitable good deed, a commandment). Holiness isn’t just one line that extends from God to us. It also exists in the relationships that we maintain with one another. Maintaining these connections is our responsibility, our holy and sacred duty for all time. May we fulfill it well.


© Boaz D. Heilman, 2010

Of Time, Effort, Money and Other Sacrifices: Vayikra (Leviticus 1:1–5:26)

Of Time, Effort, Money and Other Sacrifices: Vayikra (Leviticus 1:1–5:26)
D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 19, 2010 4 Nisan 5770

This week we began reading and studying Leviticus, the third book of the Torah (aka the Five Books of Moses.

Interestingly, in Europe for centuries Leviticus was the first book taught to children as they began studying Torah.

Two questions immediately rise: Why do we study this book of antiquated and irrelevant sacrificial rites today in the first place? And: If it is so irrelevant, why, of all the Bible stories one could teach, was this book the first taught to children?

To begin with the second question: Leviticus is simple and direct. There is little philosophizing, no existential questions, just a logical system of do’s and don’ts, of acts and consequences. The stories of Creation, of Noah and the Dove, of Abraham, of Joseph and his brothers, the Exodus from Egypt—those would come along the way, heard at weekly Shabbat services, told at holiday celebrations. Now, however, the child is expected to step out of stories of wonders and miracles, and forward into responsibility and ethical behavior.

Leviticus, for all its obsolete rituals, is nothing but relevant to our lives. The sacrifices offered by our ancestors at the Temple in Jerusalem differ only little from the ones we offer today. We still host celebrations and feasts of well being, “simchas” such as a bar or bat mitzvah, or a wedding. We still make offerings to God and the community—not only of food, but also sacrifices of money, time and effort.

The first portion of Leviticus (each week we successively study one portion after another until we finish all five books) is called “Vayikra.” That is the first significant word in the Hebrew reading, by which we identify the beginning of the “parashah” or portion. The word Vayikra means “[God] called out” and refers to the commandments Moses receives regarding the system of sacrifices that would be followed at the temple. Several sacrifices are described, including the Olah (in Greek: Holocaust). Of all the sacrifices, the Olah is the only one burnt completely. All other sacrifices would be shared—some with the priest, others also with larger communities. It was offered once a day, in the morning.

Sacrifice is also part of the ritual of atonement for sins. We atone for our misdeeds—both intentional and unintentional—by repairing any damage we may have caused, as well as by the offering of sacrifice to make up for the break of faith between God and the perpetrator.

Vayikra places each one of us in a relationship of faith both with our fellow human being and with God. Nothing could be surer as a foundation for civilization, as fertile ground for culture and society to flower. It is for that reason that for nearly two thousand years it was the first book of the Torah taught to impressionable children. It is relevant and significant in every generation, including ours.

© Boaz D. Heilman, 2010