A Nation of Priests: Tzav.23

 A Nation of Priests: Tzav.23

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 28, 2023

After completing the list of sacrifices offered at the Temple, this week’s Torah portion (Tzav, “Command,” Leviticus 6:1—8:36) turns to the ceremony of the Priests’ Ordination. This once-in-a-lifetime event (for the High Priest as well as his assistants) was an intricate procedure. Each priest was to be clothed in the special garments—linen tunic, robe, sash and turban. The service began with a series of sacrifices (including a “ram of consecration”), after which the priests were anointed with sacred oil. 

The Torah consistently admonishes against consumption—or ritual use—of blood and the fat of animals. Yet as part of the Priest’s Ordination an exception is made. Moses is told to dip his finger in the sacrificial blood and place a drop of it on the priest’s right earlobe, his right thumb and finally his right big toe.

No explanation is given for this ritual, which could be an indication that this might be some long-standing practice that became integrated into the Jewish Sacred Service. However, it can be read symbolically as well. 

Blood was always seen as a symbol of life. In the story of the Exodus from Egypt, a lamb’s blood, dabbed on the doorposts of Israelite households, held off the Angel of Death. The prohibition on consuming blood could be understood similarly: blood is the animal’s life; it is symbolic of God’s unique and sacred gift of life. It is not ours and must be returned to the earth.

Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish philosopher of the first century CE, proposed that through this ritual the priest was reminded of the purpose for which he was ordained: his words and deeds must remain pure and holy at every step along the path.

Or it could be that the dabbing of blood on the right earlobe was meant to remind the priest to listen. His duties are not limited to offering sacrifices; he must also hear the people’s prayers and offer them comfort and solace. The blood on his right thumb would remind him to act on behalf of those who are pleading for help. And that on the right big toe would prompt him not to sit too comfortably in his seat of power but rather go out and seek those who might be too weary or ashamed to ask for help.

It's a good lesson for us all. If we are to be—as Moses earnestly hoped—a nation of priests, then we, like the ancient priests, must consecrate ourselves to our mission. In conversation, we must listen and truly hear what is said to us (yet sometimes remains unspoken); and in return, our response must be honest, true and from the heart. In our deeds, we must not turn our backs on those who may need our help, but rather be willing to offer them our hand, all along life’s journey. It’s our sacred duty.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Sacrifices We Make: Vayikra.23

The Sacrifices We Make: Vayikra.23

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 22, 2023

This week we begin the study of the third book of the Torah—Leviticus. In Hebrew, the book (and its first portion) is identified by the first significant word in the text—Vayikra, “and God called.” In this portion (Lev. 1:1—5:26) God calls out to Moses and presents the first of a long series of sacrifices we are expected to offer.

The description gets pretty gruesome at times—yet another reason to be grateful that we no longer offer animal sacrifices. However, the psychology behind these rituals is still valid today.

There are many occasions when we are called upon to offer some sort of sacrifice, be it of time, money or effort. Often, the greater good demands it. Sometimes it’s in order to ensure peace at home. Other times, we are moved either by a swell of gratitude, or its opposite—guilt. 

The Torah distinguishes between two types of guilt—for an intentional wrong and for an accidental sin. Both call for making things right again. Nothing worse than that feeling that we may have done or said something to hurt someone.

Guilt is a heavy burden to carry, and whereas some people might use the emotion as an active verb (“to guilt,” in my opinion a form of emotional abuse), the Torah gives each of us the opportunity to let go of guilt. Sacrifice alone doesn’t always suffice in such cases. Depending on the damage, we may need to engage in some repair work (tikkun) as well. For an object stolen (or taken by mistake) we are told to return or repay the value of the object, and on top of that to add one-fifth as compensation.

The sacrifice rituals described in Vayikra are primitive. Yet they teach us both to be grateful for what we have and to show regret for any wrong we may have committed. These are both valuable lessons. In earlier times, the book of Leviticus was the first of the Five Books of Moses taught to children. Its message was clear, simple and easy to grasp: The world does not revolve around us. We are all part of a larger system in which our families and communities—and ultimately God—have important roles to play. Peace demands sacrifices. Social justice and well-being demand sacrifices and compensation, sometimes even from those who may not be actively involved in committing a particular wrong, but yet are part of the system. We can’t always have it our way. 

That the laws of Leviticus are given in God’s name highlights their importance—not necessarily to God, but rather for us. It isn’t God who benefits from the sacrifices we make and the offerings we bring forth. But we do. These laws are for us, and all who are part of our community and society.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Holy Task: Vayakhel/Pekudei.23

 A Holy Task: Vayakhel/Pekudei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 15, 2023

With this week’s double portion, the second book in the Torah, Exodus, comes to a close. In Va-Yak’hel-Pekudei (“And he gathered” and “Accountings,” Exodus 35:1—40:38) the work of constructing the Tabernacle is finally concluded. To judge by the detailed description of this roving Tent of Meeting that the Israelites carried with them during their 40 years in the Sinai Wilderness—it must have been quite something to behold. The sheer quantity of expensive materials used for the endeavor—gold, silver and copper, precious jewels and stones, rare and costly dyes, intricate tapestries and animal skins—is overwhelming. The solid-gold Menorah (the seven-branched candelabra that stood at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting) and the Ark of the Covenant must have been breathtaking.

These portions contain exact measurements and weights. Everything had to fit together perfectly. Not a hook or clasp could be missing, or the entire structure would fall apart. Yet there is so much more here than just detailed accounting. It’s also the fact that every individual in the community participated in the construction of the Tabernacle. Granted, only one person—the multi-talented Bezalel ben Uri—was qualified to create the magnificent artwork of the Menorah and Ark; but the other contributions came from every Israelite. The cutting, sewing, weaving and embroidery were done by the women; the hewing of wood and hammering of the gold into thin sheets for use in covering the altar and other sacred objects, by able men. In fact—a fundraiser’s dream come true! —the contributions brought forth by the people exceeded the demand!

It was a true community effort, as befitting this magnificent Tent that served to represent God’s holy Presence among the entire People.

But it wasn’t only space that became sanctified. So was time, and the portion gently reminds us to observe the Sabbath—Shabbat—as a sacred day of rest, symbolizing the eternal Covenant between God and the Israelites.

In these portions we learn that the work of our hands is holy when its purpose is holy. The building of the Tabernacle called for each and every member of the community to step up and offer what they could—whether material goods or money, or any of the gifts of time, effort and talent. Without everyone’s contribution, there would be holes in the tapestry; a clasp might go missing or unaccounted for, and the entire project might collapse.

The unique gift each of us can bring forth is without parallel and cannot be replicated. 

No house, tent or temple can contain the infinite glory of God; but the diversity of our offerings, united through purpose and goal, can reflect God’s multi-layered holiness. 

As the book of Exodus concludes, we come to understand that being delivered from Bondage was only the first step toward Redemption. Through the building of the Tabernacle, Israel becomes a holy nation, a people devoted not to building monuments for the dead, but rather sacred communities for the living.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Forgiving God: Ki Tissa.23

 A Forgiving God: Ki Tissa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 7, 2023

Ki Tissa (“When you take a census,” Exodus 30:11-34:35) holds one of the most momentous events in the entire Torah.

The central incident it relates is the Israelites’ creating and worshipping a molten idol: the Golden Calf.

But Ki Tissa goes beyond this fall, this failure of faith. It illuminates a personal characteristic of God, getting us about as close to understanding God’s nature as we can actually get. 

The sin of the Golden Calf is beyond compare to anything else the Israelites had ever done. Moreover, it occurs only three short months after the Parting of the Red Sea, forty days after hearing God’s voice at Mount Sinai giving the Ten Commandments, at the exact moment that Moses comes down the holy mountain, carrying the Tablets of the Law inscribed by God’s own hand.

Could the Israelites have forgotten the Exodus in such a short time?

Or perhaps they sinned not in looking for a new God, but rather for a physical image of that God, one they were more familiar with, to worship and follow. Perhaps their capacity for believing in a God without form was just too far removed from them at this early stage of their spiritual journey.

Yet in Ki Tissa, we get so much more than just an image of God. We learn that God—a force, a law, that emanates from somewhere beyond our understanding and flows throughout all Creation—can execute a complete reversal.

We learn that God can reconsider and forgive.

Despite the grievous nature of the Israelites’ sin, in response to Moses’s pleas, God relents and forgives the people. Unlike any other physical force in Nature, God has a change of mind. God’s power to forgive is a major part of Jewish faith and belief. For otherwise, what would be the purpose of existence? Humanity is prone to making mistakes. If we couldn’t say “I’m sorry” and try again, if the full extent of our guilt were visited upon us, none of us would be here today.

In Ki Tissa we read that, after pleading with God on the top of Mount Sinai and gaining God’s promise to forgive the Israelites, Moses returns with a second set of Ten Commandments—written by his, Moses’s, own hand. The Rabbis teach that this took place on Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. 

But along with God’s forgiveness, we also receive a warning. 

There will be consequences—as there always must be to every word we utter and ever deed we perform, for better or for worse. But ultimately, for just about every error and sin, atonement is possible.

Some might ask, can God’s power—expressed through the constant laws of nature and physics—turn and reverse itself? 

Perhaps the answer is that it isn’t God’s will that changes, but ours. Our choices lead us forward or backwards, towards Redemption or Downfall. And yet the great gift we receive in Ki Tissa is the opportunity to be forgiven—and to forgive ourselves and others. 

There will be consequences, that’s a given; and yet a second chance, a renewed possibility to move forward, is always possible. 

It’s really up to us. 

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Difference Between Holy and Evil: Shabbat Zachor.23

 

The Difference Between Holy and Evil: Shabbat Zachor

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Sabbath before the holiday of Purim is known as “Shabbat Zachor”—the Sabbath of Remembrance. This refers to the special verses from the Torah that are read on this day—Deuteronomy 25:17-19: “Remember that which Amalek did to you... when you went out of Egypt.” This memory isn’t simply a reminiscence, a pretty postcard of some scenic spot along the way. Rather, it refers to a specific event, a horrific attack against the Israelites by the desert tribe of Amalek. 

But like so many other events described in the Torah, both good and bad, this one has taken on even larger meaning. The passage has come to serve as a signpost indicating evil itself.  

First told in Exodus 17, the attack by the Amalekites was the Israelites’ first encounter with an enemy after the exodus from Egypt. The passage we read on this Sabbath fills in some of the blanks: “[Amalek] met you on the way and attacked your rear ranks, all the stragglers at your rear, when you were tired and weary.” 

At the rear of the camp, just straggling along, were the aged and the children, the sick and weary, all those who had despaired and lost hope. If it is a holy commandment—a mitzvah—to help the weak and the needy, by their cowardly action the Amalekites provided an example of the total opposite.  From that point on, assaulting the weary and defenseless has become the epitome—the very definition—of evil.

Blotting out even the memory of Amalek becomes the charge Moses gives to Joshua as the Israelites prepare to enter the Promised Land. 

Sadly, however, the war against evil does not end with Joshua. On Shabbat Zachor, the Sabbath before Purim, we read these verses from Deuteronomy precisely for that reason. As we are told in the Scroll of Esther, the founding story behind Purim, Haman is said to be a descendant of Amalek. Fortunately, his intent to kill off all Jews—men, women and children—is foiled by Mordechai and Esther. Yet even this victory does not stop the ongoing evil. Anti-Semitism, the hatred of Jews and everything Jewish, continues to this day. Remembering this evil concept is a wakeup call for all of us, at every generation. 

The call to “wipe out the memory of Amalek” is not a call to war in itself, but rather to self-defense. That is our duty and right as a people, the right to survive with dignity and security.

But it is even more than that.

Evil does not stop with anti-Semitism. It is found in every hatred of “the other,” of those whom society deems marginal and irrelevant. 

Evil isn’t a word to be used lightly. Because of the tremendous danger it represents, it must not be applied at random to those with whom we disagree or even, at times, quarrel. It stands for something very specific. Its misuse can—and almost always does—become evil in itself.

The opposite of evil is not good, regardless of the common idiom. The opposite of evil is, by the Torah’s definition, holy. 

And that is what this week’s special reading has us remember. We must always remember the difference between these two concepts and, as a nation striving to be holy, focus on the historical meaning and purpose that we as a people have taken upon ourselves: To help the weak and needy, and not repress them.

We must never forget the difference.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Celebrating Victory Over Prejudice and Hatred: Purim.23

 Purim: Celebrating Victory Over Prejudice and Hatred

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 21, 2023

As the holiday of Purim approaches, many of us are busy planning and preparing: There are Purim spiels to write and rehearse; funny and elaborate costumes to create (or purchase); hamantaschen to bake; baskets of goodies to assemble for friends and neighbors; and donations to be made to the needy in our communities. These are only some of the mitzvahs associated with this rich and immensely popular holiday.

The masks we wear on Purim add to the fun and revelry, but they also serve another, more serious function. They remind us that what lies hidden behind all this exuberance and celebration is, in reality, not at all funny

The common saying is, they tried to kill us, they failed, let’s eat. But this condensed version of Jewish history hides much behind the few words. How many times did they not fail to kill us? The hated Haman’s words echo still today, as they have throughout our journeys all over the world, throughout time. It’s Jewish greed that anti-Semites most often point to: “It’s all about the Benjamins,” as US Representative Ilhan Omar declared a few years ago. It’s the dual loyalty—to the host country, yes, but not as much as to ourselves, to other Jews, and to the State of Israel. It’s the excessive power and control that Jews supposedly have in politics, the economy, entertainment and just about every other aspect of life.

There’s hardly a day when we Jews don’t encounter anti-Semitism. And it isn’t only the synagogue massacres and attacks which garner global attention. It’s the daily incidents: the threats; the anti-Semitic myths and propaganda that circulate on the social media; the vile flyers distributed in Jewish neighborhoods and Jewish venues; the ostracizing of Jewish students and desecration of Jewish symbols on college campuses—most recently, in our own backyard, on the campus of the University of Denver. It’s the bullying of children in middle- and high schools, and the physical attacks—the punching, pushing and kicking of visibly identifiable Jews, in broad daylight, on open and public city streets. 

The increasing anxiety and fear felt by Jews in the US today represents a reality that most of us have managed to forget or suppress behind ritualized commemorations like Yom Ha-Shoah or International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Yet what we Jews sense today represents not something that belongs in the past, but rather is a real and present danger. 

Hatred does not come from nowhere. Anti-Semitism is as old as Judaism itself. We can surmise that from Abraham’s flight from his homeland of Haran; we remain witnesses to the slavery and genocide that Pharaoh and the ancient Egyptians carried out. We are reminded of it when we read the Biblical story of Esther. In our own day, though few survivors of the Holocaust still remain, their children and grandchildren still carry the emotional and psychological scars. And we also find these baseless and contemptible accusations in their newest guise: anti-Zionism. Told and retold in story and myth, in theater and the movies, even in seemingly harmless jokes, the Jew has always been equated with evil itself.

That’s not to say that anti-Semitism is a separate hatred in our culture, just one among others. It’s often related to other prejudices, based on nationality, race, color, religion, gender and other lines of separation. That’s why one of the first steps in our struggle against anti-Semitism should be to take a strong stance against any form of hatred and bigotry. As we did during the Civil Rights era of the 60’s, so today too we must present a united front, reaching across all other divides to stand together against all the hate mongers, be they from the right-wing White Supremacists to the so-called Liberal Left.

Because fear and hate don’t stop with us. Directed at anyone who might look or act different, they are symptoms of a pathogen that attacks not only others, but its host as well.

We must never be silent bystanders to hate. There are many organizations that we can turn to for help, from school boards when we realize that our children’s textbooks are filled with misrepresentation of Jewish character or history; to the local police and other, major organizations such as the ADL and the FBI.

Free speech is guaranteed in America, so hate speech per se can’t be censored—but it must not be ignored either. Remaining silent is not an option because words can all all-too-easily turn into violence. Confronting hate speech and engaging all legal means to stop threats and acts of violence are the chief tools we can and must use in our fight against anti-Semitism.

Last month I attended a conference convened by StandWithUs, an organization founded in 2001, in the midst of the Arab murderous wave of terrorism known as the Intifada, as a response to the lies and misinformation that were being spread against Israel and Jews all over the world. I was tremendously impressed by the work this organization does, particularly in the fields of education and law. Its legal staff is thoroughly familiar with everything happening today—not only in our own courts, but also in the United Nations and the International Court of Justice. Its educational work on behalf of global acceptance of the IHRA Working Definition of anti-Semitism has seen great success in universities as well as other national and international institutions. Over the past two decades, StandWithUs has grown and taken on the tough task of fighting anti-Semitism wherever it appears: in the classroom or the workplace, in personal conversation or on social media, on playgrounds or in school hallways. 

Anti-Semitism is the oldest hatred and, along with slavery, the bloodiest and most evil crime against humanity. It’s possible, and quite probable, that anti-Semitism will never disappear. In the Biblical story of Esther, even the king is powerless to change the order he himself had previously issued, to kill all Jews—men, women and children. However, what we do have is the power to stand up and defend ourselves. That is our basic human right, and we must never lose sight of this fact and truth. And that is the deeper lesson of the holiday of Purim.

In the Jewish calendar, we are now in the month of Adar, the month of Purim. The ancient rabbis encouraged us to rejoice during these days. But along with the celebrations, we must also always remember the constant danger that the rejoicing masks. We must never forget that the miracle of our survival is the result of human, not only divine, intervention. It was Mordechai’s teaching, no less than Esther’s conversion from fear to heroism, from naïveté to responsibility, that have made this joyful holiday possible. May Mordechai and Esther always be the model for our own behavior and our own actions in the face of the vile scourge of anti-Semitism, and may our holidays always be a source only of blessings, festivities and joy.

© 2023 by Boaz D. Heilman