Charting A New Path to Holiness: Acharei Mot.22

Charting A New Path to Holiness: Acharei Mot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 28, 2022

The ancient past was a desolate place. Deserts, dusty plains, mountains and a harsh climate competed with warring invaders coming from all corners of the world, each in turn seeking adventure and treasures. Overall, people worked hard at farming and herding, and generally could do whatever they wanted—as long as they also remembered to pay their taxes to the king, temple and local magistrates. 

Even in a small country like ancient Israel, distances between villages made travel difficult, and the differences between city dwellers and those who worked the land were wide and deep.

Science was unheard of. Superstition provided enough explanation to answer most questions, to shed light on that which otherwise could not be understood. Rituals were a way of appeasing gods and demons, for whom humanity was no more than a plaything. From rampant disease to devastating famines, the gods were in charge, and their willful and even cruel nature needed to be soothed by sacrifice.

If the Torah’s weekly portion, Acharei Mot (“After the death,” Leviticus 16:1—18:30) seems to portray a primitive society, it’s because that is its primary intention. Through several examples, it paints an unflattering, but realistic, picture of a time and culture that needed to move forward. The narrative picks up where the previous portion left off—the death of Nadav and Avihu. Nadav and Avihu, two of Aaron’s four sons, were born to power. What they did to cause God’s wrath isn’t explained clearly, except for one verse that suggests that they might have overreached for supremacy, that they rebelled against Moses and Aaron, their uncle and father. Power can be intoxicating.

In the ancient world, power was a means of survival, requiring harsh rules to set bounds to its misuse. By itself, morality was a weak fence, and those who were blessed with physical strength and/or beauty didn’t shy from using their gifts. In this kind of society, sex was more than about reproduction. It was often a path to power and control.  

Evil was as real and palpable as any of the elements of life. Ridding society of evil also required physical form, such as the annual ritual of the scapegoat. As described in this portion, this involved releasing a goat into the wilderness (or perhaps hurling it over a steep precipice). This was thought to unburden the world of the evil that had accumulated in it like so much dirt and dust. It didn’t take much back then to make people feel better. 

To our own more modern sensibilities, the commandments that are listed in Acharei Mot may be obvious. We’ve come a long way since that time when people could get away with the kind of immorality that the portion describes: The wanton seizure of anyone or anything that could be used for pleasure or profit; the tyrannical overreach for power; the misuse of religion to control people and what they may think and believe.

And yet we haven’t. Our basic impulses, even today, remain identical with those of our ancestors. 

The grandeur of Moses isn’t only in that he formed us into a people and gave us the Torah. It’s also that he understood that tossing a goat over a cliff represented primitive thinking, a superstition that only limited our ability to learn, understand and develop. In this Torah portion he instructs us not only to understand better the world around us, but also ourselves—both as we are and also as we can be. We can live like simple animals, subject to basic desires and impulses, or we can treat one another with respect, dignity and consideration. In a harsh and cruel world, we can be better. 

To simply view Acharei Mot as a mirror reflecting the primitive conditions that existed three thousand years ago is to completely miss the mark. Its purpose is to shed light on a path forward, toward a better future. Its timeless teaching is that through our choices, through our everyday deeds and actions, we have the power to make God’s holiness appear even in the darkest times. 

It’s powerful teaching.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Encountering God in the Wilderness: Passover 2022

 Encountering God in the Wilderness: Passover 2022

By Boaz D. Heilman

This year, as in all but three of the past 22 years, Passover and Easter coincide. This isn’t a mere coincidence—both holidays are celebrated on or around the first full moon of spring. Passover begins on the first evening of the full moon; Easter, on the Sunday following it.

There are other commonalities. The wine, the matzah and the shank-bone—representing the Paschal lamb: These took on new meaning for Christianity as the new religion pushed further away from the common roots it once shared with Judaism.

Sadly, the convergence of these two holidays wasn’t always peaceful. But at least in recent decades, there has been wider acceptance of Passover and its traditions, to the point where today there are many Christians who celebrate a Seder with their Jewish neighbors, friends and even families. 

There are, of course, also those who celebrate a “Christian Seder.”

There are various reasons for this new phenomenon—not all legit. One belief is that since Jesus was a Jew (a view not widely accepted by all Christians), celebrating a Seder is one way of reconnecting with ancient roots, or perhaps understanding the mindset of the Christian Savior.

But of all the Jewish holidays, Passover—Pesach, in its Hebrew name—is not only the oldest, it’s also the most uniquely Jewish. From its very start, recounting the history of the Israelites, to its climax, retelling the Redemption from physical and cultural enslavement in Egypt, the narrative of Pesach follows the entire arc Jewish history, tradition, philosophy and theology. 

Avadim hayinu— “We were slaves unto Pharaoh.” So begins our story, reminding us of our humble origins. Not descended from royal stock but rather from unassuming ancestry, we persevered in our beliefs and traditions despite oppression and persecution. “A fugitive Aramean was our father,” the story continues, an understatement if there ever was. 

The Haggadah—the book we follow during the Seder meal—is centered around the account of the Exodus as it appears in the second book of the Torah. Yet even as the Haggadah describes the ten dreadful plagues brought upon Pharaoh and his subjects, it leaves out one important detail: Moses. It is God who brings about Redemption; God who causes the waters of the Nile to turn into blood; God who causes the natural disasters and then, ultimately, the most horrible affliction of all, the death of every Egyptian first-born. 

By removing Moses from the story, the focus shifts to the struggle between God and an impostor: Pharaoh. It isn’t only a new people that emerges, but also a new belief—the belief in a God whose transcendent power to redeem comes from somewhere beyond Nature itself. It’s a moral God who takes the upper Hand, a God who demands empathy, not apathy; who teaches us to live with compassion in our hearts, not cruelty. 

In its use of symbolic foods, the Seder reminds us of our Jewish history and traditions. The shank-bone and the burnt egg takes us back to the time when the Temple yet stood in Jerusalem, when the Israelites gathered to thank God with the Paschal sacrifice. The maror—bitter herbs—and the salt water in which we dip our vegetables recall the suffering we endured in the past. And the afikomen—the broken half of a matzah hidden for the children to find at the conclusion of the Seder—reinforces our belief in a future when there will be no more hunger or need. 

And yet it isn’t all in God’s hands. In many Jewish homes, the story of the Exodus from Egypt is expanded to include personal stories of heroism and survival. The ancient past comes to life year after year. “In every generation we must see ourselves as though WE were redeemed from Egypt.” The purpose of this reminder is not abstract. It’s there to remind us of what slavery and oppression feel like. To forget this means not only that we lose a part of our past, but also of our charge to redeem those who are still oppressed and enslaved, those who still endure prejudice and discrimination.

May Passover, the Festival of Freedom, inspire us to carry forward the vision of our ancestors and the purpose we took upon ourselves when we encountered God in the Wilderness of Sinai. May the spirit of the Prophet Elijah infuse all our homes with sweetness and hope. May freedom, health, joy and peace come soon to a world sorely in need of these blessings.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Passover—Festival of Foods

 Passover—Festival of Foods

Reflections by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Pesach goes by at least three names: Passover; Festival of Freedom; Spring Festival. Without a doubt, however, added to this list should also be Festival of Foods.

More than any other holiday in the Jewish calendar, the focus during Passover is on food. The idea here is not merely to add a particular pastry or dish, or even completely to avoid one. Passover is all about what we eat—or more specifically, what we don’t eat. Preparation for the holiday go far beyond spring cleaning: Some of us go so far as to open a special kitchen that might be closed the rest of the year; or go on a Kosher for Passover cruise, or stay at a hotel specifically equipped for the strictly observant among us. Others take out of storage whole sets of dishes, silverware and cooking utensils, and might even cover kitchen countertops with yards of aluminum foil. 

Shopping for KP (kosher for Passover) foods is an adventure. In some places, it may be somewhat more of a treasure hunt, but gradually, store managers are learning about our traditions and have become quite accommodating to our special needs.

And then we look for recipes.

Matzah is hard to chew. Its flavor is arguably existent. It may even irritate digestive systems (hence tzimmes with prunes, and all those fruit compote recipes!).

But as my wife used to say to our children when they started protesting, around the third day of the holiday: A week of a restricted diet beats a lifetime of slavery. No doubt about that. 

Of course, there are the endless transcultural arguments: Are kitniyot (legumes) kosher for Passover? Is rice a grain that needs to be avoided? Is corn syrup OK? Do you add sugar to your gefilte fish? 

But once we get past these questions, human inventiveness knows no bounds. We find substitutes for the flour and other grains that are such a staple of the regular diet many of us are used to. Matzah meal mixed with potato starch turns out not too bad at all, mixed with enough sugar, oil and eggs. It’s possible to make delicious Kosher for Pesach pancakes, rolls and cakes (though I might stay away from the factory-made boxed versions). And matzo brei—eggs scrambled with moistened pieces of matzah, then slathered with all sorts of sweet or savory toppings—is a year-round favorite in my house. Delicious and filling, easy to make, easy to clean!

True, after a week of KP foods, we might be more than ready to break Pesach at our favorite pizzeria. But it doesn’t mean that we don’t try to always improve on the blandness of our Bread of Affliction.

Ultimately, Passover is fun—and can be delicious as well. Most importantly, however, the foods we eat on this holiday should remind us not only of our humble origins as slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, but also of the ongoing plight of so many people—around the globe, but also among us, in our own communities—who are oppressed; who go hungry not seven days a week, but entire years at a time; who feel hopeless; who are confined by cultural, economic or health issues. 

Passover this year will commence on the evening of Friday, April 15. As we enter the final week of intense preparation for this Festival of Foods, let’s keep in mind the memories, traditions, and many lessons that the holiday contains for us.

A zissen Pesach: May the holiday of Passover be sweet for us all. May it bring joyful tidings of freedom, love and peace not only to Jews, but to all humanity around the world. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Medicine and Metaphor: Tazria/Metzora.22

 Medicine and Metaphor

D’var Torah for Tazria and Metzora

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Torah portions for the next two weeks (Tazria, Leviticus 12:1-13:50 and Metzora, Leviticus 14:1-15:33) are arguably the most obsolete portions in the entire Torah. Dealing with health issues (literally and figuratively), these two portions position the priest not only as intermediator between the people and God, but also as healer of physical illness. The portions discuss various skin ailments—but they express archaic notions and use long-forgotten terminology. Viewed through modern eyes, Tazria and Metzora reflect not only ignorance, but also superstition and bigotry.

It would be easy to dismiss Tazria and Metzora as irrelevant. And yet, they not only represent a pivotal point in Rabbinic thinking, they also serve as the foundation stone for Judaism’s evolving views on health and caretaking—two of the highest and most sacred values in Jewish culture and belief. 

The early Rabbis expound the physical symptoms metaphorically. They explain the word metzora (literally defining someone who is afflicted with leprosy) as a composite of the Hebrew words motzi and ra, used to refer to someone who engages in gossip or slander. While some explain the disease as divine punishment for engaging in these sins, others express a much broader view, in which the contagion is not only physical but also social.

The Torah uses the term metzora to describe symptoms that may appear not only in an individual’s body, but also in clothing and even homes. Slander is thus explained by the Rabbis as a societal disease, as contagious and dangerous as leprosy itself. At first, the symptoms are restricted to an individual, but soon they spread in ever-wider circles. The clothing represents one’s family; the walls of the house stand for all society. The ill effects of slander and gossip are never contained only to one individual; we all are impacted by the lies and smears, starting with the person who first spreads them but quickly spreading to everyone within earshot (and today, screenshot as well). 

In this light, Tazria and Metzora aren’t only about physical health. They also contain strict warnings about our cultural and societal wellbeing.

But there is yet another aspect to these chapters, one often overlooked at first reading.

Coming from an age in which priests also served as witch doctors, the Torah gives a new, more enlightened role to the priest. From now on he is to observe and take care of those who are ill. Though the serious nature of the contagion may necessitate isolation (read: quarantine) of the sick, they are never abandoned. Every seven days they must be visited by the priest, whose duty it is to determine whether the sickness has advanced or receded.

No matter how we choose to understand Tazria and Metzora, they are among the most important in the entire Torah, at least partially explaining why medicine has always been seen as a “Jewish” profession. The search for knowledge and understanding did not stop with these portions. True, the signs and rituals they describe may be obsolete, but not so the philosophy behind them. The Torah makes it clear that healing and taking care of the sick, along with further research and observation, are nothing less than our most sacred duty and obligation.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman