Doing Things Just So: Beha’alotecha

Doing Things Just So: Beha’alotecha
D’var Torah on Parashat Beha’alotecha (Numbers 8:1—12:16)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
May 28, 2010 15 Sivan 5770

On any particular day, or no particular day at all, I might be standing in front of the open fridge, surveying its contents. My eyes rove over the shelves from top to bottom and back again. I might move a few things aside to see what lurks behind the more obvious containers up front. I might even look inside the closed bins. Then, of course, there’s the freezer.

Repeating this process a few times, invariably I then shut the fridge door, sigh and exclaim, “There’s nothing to eat in the house!”

Not a whole lot different from the child who, only a few days into vacation, will claim that he’s bored.

“Try reading,” says the parent. Or, “Call your grandmother, she would love to hear from you.”

It isn’t as though there’s really nothing to eat in the house, or as though there weren’t a hundred different things we could do. It’s that we are tired of the same old thing. We want something new, something different.

When the Israelites in the desert claim they have no meat to eat, it’s not exactly accurate. They have plenty of meat—for sacrifice as well as for the occasional roast lamb. It’s the variety that they are missing. The leeks, the melons, the onions and the garlic. It doesn’t matter that manna appears miraculously every morning and tastes like anything you want it to—it’s the very fact that it appears every morning without fail, in just the right quantity.

It’s become ordinary.

Parashat Beha’alotecha (Numbers 8:1—12:16) is all about how we see things. How even the most extraordinary “stuff” can become ordinary and commonplace—and how that affects our mood. We become cranky; we blame each other; we may resort to yelling, slamming doors or worse—things that we later may regret but can’t seem to help it in the heat of the moment, at the height (or depth) of our boredom.

At the very beginning of the portion, we read that Aaron received instructions regarding the lighting of the temple menorah. Then it says, “And Aaron did so.” Rashi, the great medieval commentator (1040-1105) asks why the Torah finds it necessary to say “And Aaron did so.” Isn’t it obvious? Aaron was, after all, the High Priest; the command came from Moses and God. So, why? “To tell us the praise of Aaron,” comes the answer, “in that he did not change.” Day after day, year after year—throughout the forty years of wanderings in the wilderness, Aaron lit the menorah just so, exactly the same, without changing one detail in the process.

Never once did he complain of the unchanging routine. Never did he lose sight of what he was doing; never did his mind wander as he filled the lamps with oil, or as he applied the flame to the wick. The enthusiasm or emotions he may have felt the first time never waned evening after evening after evening.

High praise indeed, and deservedly so.

How did Aaron manage this feat of infinite patience? We know that the Torah is a manual, an instruction. And so we read on. Almost incongruously, the story moves to the ordination of the Levites as they take their place in the temple service, and then to the celebration of Passover. Chapter 9 describes the perfect way in which the Israelites followed God through the desert. Day or night, at a moment’s notice or following a long stay—whenever the signal from God came to pick up and move, so they did. Never wavering, never complaining.

What is the common denominator to all these seemingly unrelated segments?

Meaning, purpose and direction—these are the themes that lie hidden in the disparate stories. Following God, the pillar of smoke at day and the pillar of fire at night, there was never any doubt in the Israelites’ hearts. They knew where they had come from—slavery in Egypt. They knew where they were going—to the Promised Land, with God, Moses, Aaron and Miriam at the helm. Of course they followed unquestioningly (at least thus far in the story).

The Levites originally were no different from the rest of the Israelites. But they received a special purpose and role to play in the larger scheme of life. Fulfilling that role made them special, inspiring them day after day to do exactly, unwaveringly, as they were told.

Time, too, can become meaningless, when we forget that each moment is unique. Passover is an example of how we can turn the ordinary into something special. Similarly, when we remember to fill a moment with direction and meaning, we can turn the everyday into a holy day. At least once a week, we actually have the blessed opportunity to stop the measured flow of time and enter the realm of the infinite and eternal. On Shabbat we make our time, our relationships and our foods special. We may cook a special meal and make it even more so by serving the meal on a white table cloth, on a table adorned by candlelight. To top it off, we say special blessings and sing Shabbat songs. As we turn Shabbat into a special day, we infuse meaning into time, and we no longer take its constant flow for granted. Having done that then, instead of losing our patience with one another, we greet our children and parents with blessings, prayers and joy. First time every time.

Shabbat occurs only once a week, but in truth we can make every moment of the week count. Each of our actions can have a special purpose. What Beha’alotecha teaches us is that we can always turn the ordinary into the extraordinary by shedding the light of holiness—purpose, meaning, direction—on it. By doing things just so, right every time, by focusing on the uniqueness and by keeping in mind the freshness of the very first time, we can be just like Aaron when he lit the temple menorah. Day after day, year after year, always just so.

©2010 Boaz D. Heilman

To Live Long and Prosper: Naso

To Live Long and Prosper: Naso
D’var Torah for Parashat Naso: Numbers 4:21-7:89
Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In honor of Yoni's 11th Bar Mitzvah anniversary, with love and admiration from his Abba.


Leonard Nemoy didn’t simply invent the Vulcan salute. He borrowed it. This week’s Torah portion, Naso, describes the ritual at which the Kohanim, Priests of God at the Temple in Jerusalem, blessed the People of Israel. To perform this ritual, known as Birkat Kohanim (“priestly blessing”), the Priests stood in their bare feet, facing the people, prayer shawls covering their faces. Then they would extend their hands and with their fingers shape the letter “Shin,” which stands for Shaddai (one of God’s many names) or sh’ma (hear, listen!) or perhaps even for Shechina—God’s Presence among us. The blessing may have been somewhat more complex than “live long and prosper,” but it was the same hand gesture that Spock used.

I usually close services with the words of the blessing. The fuller ritual is still practiced in Orthodox synagogues on the High Holy Days.

Going back in time, silver amulets found in archeological digs just outside Jerusalem offer evidence that the Priestly Blessing was widely known and often used as far back as First Temple days.

May God bless you and watch over you.
May God cause light to shine forth upon you and be gracious unto you.
May God’s countenance be lifted towards you, may God grant you peace.

The simple beauty of this Threefold Benediction masks the fact that each verse contains two verbs. These are actually paired blessings where each part somehow relates to the second.

Why are those pairings there? Is it simply a poetic device, or is there more to it? My hunch is that the combination is intentional. The two verbs in each sentence are not necessarily parallels or synonymous; in fact, once can find a certain tension between them, as though they were on two opposing ends, engaged in a game of gravitational push and pull.

If God blesses us, why does He also need to watch over us?

I believe that the answer can be found when we look at the Torah portion as a whole.

There are three parts to Naso. The two outer parts are ordinary and routine, if not actually also a bit boring. The portion opens with a listing of the Levite clans and their Tabernacle-associated daily chores. In last week’s portion we read about the first clan—the Kohathites—and their responsibilities. Now Naso describes the duties of the Gershonite clan (responsible for the software—the cloth material) and the Merarite clan (the hardware: the pillars, sockets and pins).

Another long and tedious listing occurs in the closing third of the portion. It is a detailed inventory of the offerings brought to the Tabernacle at the time of its dedication by each tribe and its chieftain. Not surprisingly, for each of the twelve tribes, the wording is exactly the same, and is repeated twelve times; only the names are changed to fit the tribe and its specific leader.

It’s in the middle of the portion, however, that we find two very extraordinary and even extreme situations. The first is the case of the Sotah, the “wayward woman.” This refers to a wife whose husband suspects of adultery. The second instance is the Nazir, a nazirite, a person who takes special vows to God, promising to abstain from wine and all grape products and from cutting his hair, for a specific period of time.

How are the three sections related to each other? The two outer parts of the portion—tedious and repetitious—could be said to represent everyday life. Everybody here knows their role and what his or her obligation is to society. Everybody knows what to do, when, and precisely how to do it. In this somewhat unreal picture of life, everybody’s contribution to the Tabernacle is equally important. When we live in such a way, the portion says, life and peace will prevail.

But the truth is that reality isn’t ever quite so calm or boring. Life isn’t only extreme sports, it’s extreme everything.

The middle part of Parashat Naso speaks not of the mundane and ordinary, but rather of the extraordinary. It is here, the Torah says, that danger lies.

Since the beginning of humanity, a woman suspected of infidelity was in mortal danger. In the Middle East, among many Arabs, “honor killing” is actually still legal. No questions are asked, no evidence is necessary. Dishonor brings death, often at the hands of a close male relative—say, husband, uncle, father, or brother.

The “Sotah” (“wayward woman”) procedure described in this week’s Torah portion tries to put a stop to this crime. The ritual of proof is demeaning and humiliating towards women. We all may be excused if we feel anger, hurt and shame when we read it. Still, it is important to realize that the true intention of this passage was to stop murder in extraordinary—but tragically not rare—cases of extreme passion. How sad that this law was necessary to begin with; how much sadder that violence against women still continues to this day.

The case of the Nazirite is also one of extreme passion—though this time the fervor is directed towards God. The extraordinary act of faith demonstrated by the Nazirite may at first seem honorable. However, we know all too well how dangerous the overly zealous faithful can be. Human history is filled with religious extremism, religious wars, crusades, jihads and suicide bombings. These are all crimes of passion, no less than the so called “honor killing” in the case of the Sotah. This portion lays out bounds and rules to the Nazirite’s behavior in an attempt to control the danger before it blows up.

With both the ordinary and the extreme in our life, we can now see why we need paired blessings. One to thank for, the other to watch out for.

—May God bless you and watch over you. Bless you: It is a blessing when you are part of the community, when you do can your job, when every individual contributes to society in a fair and equitable manner. Watch over you: From the overly passionate, from the overly zealous; from those who think they have divinely mandated authority.

—May God cause light to shine forth upon you and be gracious unto you. Enlightenment is wonderful. But don’t think you are the only recipient of this gift. True grace is found in the understanding that each of us—not just me or you—has the Divine spark within him or her. Grace is in how you see other people. Watch out for those who presume to possess exclusive understanding of God’s purpose and reason.

—May God’s countenance be lifted towards you, may God grant you peace. A society in which some feel entitled while others end up doing all (or most) of the work will not be at peace with itself. Peace can only be found when we interact, when we give back as much as we take.

The Temple is no longer standing on its mount in Jerusalem. The Levites and the Priests are no longer in charge of services and rituals. Now it’s up to us ordinary human beings to step up to their obligations. Parashat Naso teaches us—novice priests that we all are—that life is a complex blending of the mundane and the unique. That in fact, what we are called upon to do is to take each mundane or ordinary moment and turn it into something blessed, something extraordinary—while keeping its essence intact.

The Priestly Blessing isn’t merely a wish. It’s an instruction, a manual to a long and prosperous life.

© 2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Into the Wilderness: B’midbar

D’var Torah on B’midbar (Numbers 1:1—4:20)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
May 14, 2010 1 Sivan 5770


I remember, some forty years ago, seeing a production of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, an early 20th century operatic setting of medieval minstrel poetry. As the Dallas Opera audience settled in, about forty or so men and women circled restlessly around the stage; some were stretching and warming up; others seemed to be testing the resilience of the dance floor. Suddenly the lights went out and a loud voice began counting down: 10—9—8—7—6 … Within 10 seconds, the whole troupe reorganized itself, and as the lights came up again, the once-jumbled group had lined up into perfectly neat lines and rows and, right on cue, burst into the first bright harmonies of “O Fortuna,” the work’s opening chorus. The dramatic effect was nothing short of astounding.

Not quite the same opening as that of the book of Numbers, the fourth book of the Torah. The words don’t quite leap off the parchment, and the trope melodies repeat themselves over and over with little variation. And yet there are similarities as well: It’s through the numbering, the calling out of numbers and names, that order appears out of chaos.

At this point in our story, 13 months have passed since the Exodus. In that short span the Israelites have nearly doubled their numbers. The work of building the Tabernacle—the Tent of Meeting which is to serve them as a temporary temple until they reach the Promised Land—has been completed. They and the priests have already received their instructions regarding sacrifices and holy day rituals. Now, somewhat restlessly and impatiently, the people mill about, waiting for their new travel orders. In which direction will they be heading? In what order will they march? Who will lead? Who will follow?

A counting ensues, the first of several censuses that Moses will take in these opening chapters of the book of Numbers. First to be counted are the chiefs of the Israelite tribes; next, all men 20 years and older who are capable of fighting in an army; then the Levites—actually four groups of them; and finally, all the first-born males among the people.

That’s a lot of numbers—and hence the English title of this book. (Actually, the Hebrew title, B’midbar, refers to “the wilderness”—specifically the Sinai Desert, setting of the Israelites’ wanderings for the next 40 years).

But—as someone once sagely noted—people aren’t numbers, and Moses’ interest isn’t exactly in how many people he is in charge of. He isn’t interested in counting. Rather, he wants every individual to count, and even though it’s the same word, there’s a vast difference between its two uses.

In dehumanizing the Jews, the Nazis tattooed numbers into their forearms. Men, women and children indiscriminately received a permanent record of their place in the long line destined for slavery or the gas chambers. In totalitarian regimes such as Nazi Germany or Pharaoh’s Egypt, individuals don’t count. All that matters is how many of them there are. The more you have, the wealthier you are, the more powerful you are—the more control you can wield over your subjects.

Moses, however, had the totally opposite intent. He dreamed of each individual having unique, irreplaceable value. How to turn people who never counted into proud individuals, each with a destiny and purpose uniquely his or her own, was Moses’s chief concern at this point in the story. And so he didn’t just count. He listed each person by name, by his father’s name, by the name of his clan, and by the name of his tribe. And then, as we look at some of these names, we can begin to glimpse the wisdom behind Moses’s action. Not only are these Hebrew names—quite a feat in itself, considering that the Israelites had little to draw from: no grave markers to remind them of their ancestors, just some tired old tales from a dusty land far away, tucked into the windowless attics of their exhausted memories. But the names that emerge now, a short 13 months after the Exodus, reveal much about the people’s values and new self image: There is Elizur the son of Shedeur—God is my rock, God is my light; Shelumiel—God’s peace; Nahshon the son of Amminadab—steadfast, son of a generous people; Nethanel—God’s gift; Elishama the son of Ammihud—God hears, the people are grateful. And so on and so on. One after another, their names are called out, and as each name appears in the credits we realize that we are witnessing not merely the birth of a nation, but rather the reaffirmation of this nation’s values.

Each individual, through his given name—bears a value to live up to. The challenge is to live up to one’s expected worth. In the Story of Ruth, Boaz emerges as one of the most noble heroes ever imagined. For me, growing into the name wasn’t always easy. There were expectations that weren’t always met.

But that’s not all that emerges out of the dark and dusty jumble of people—some 750,000 of them!—that now stood at the edge of the wilderness. As our national purpose and goal emerged before us, so did the individual roles that we were assigned. First came those who could fight in the army, called upon to defend the emerging nation. Then the Levites—each assuming a role unique to their clan, all collectively responsible for the upkeep of the Tent of Meeting and for maintaining the new religion. Some would carry the software: the tapestries, the silks, the quilts and the other cloth material that the Tent of Meeting was made of. Another clan carried and was responsible for the hardware: the boards, the bars, the pillars, the pins, the hooks and the sockets. Yet a third group was responsible for the holyware: the gold menorah, the Ark of the Covenant, the altars and all their implements. Finally came the priests, responsible for the actual rituals themselves.

It turns out that everybody had a role and a responsibility. Everyone learned their position and the order in which they would march. They were responsible for their own livelihoods as well as for one another’s safety. No one was out of place. It was perfect order.

I have always imagined that, as they traveled through the desert in this perfectly ordered fashion, not a speck of dust landed on them—not even in the worst of sandstorms.

Of course this was not, this could not, be for real. Life is never perfect. There are those among us who are tired; those who become demoralized; those who are sick. And—let’s face it—there are always also the shirkers, who would rather watch what everyone else is doing and give advice (or worse, criticize) rather than contribute themselves.

But just for this moment, just for this breathtaking roadside view of the way things could or should be in an ideal world, we are granted a vision. We know it can’t last. Life happens. So just this one shining moment. We can deal with realities next week. This week, let everyone have a purpose and a role, let every life have meaning and context. Let everybody amount to more than just a number. Let every individual count not only for who they are, but for who, given half a chance, they can be.

Facing the wilderness in this manner, with this vision before our eyes, we are not afraid. We are ready to march, to proceed into life, into the uncharted territories, with God in our midst and our eyes on the goal—toward the Promised Land.



©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman

Freedom’s Bell: B’har/B’chukotai

Freedom’s Bell
D’var Torah for B’har/B’chukotai (Leviticus 25:1-27:34)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
May 7, 2010 23 Iyar 5770

This week we get another double portion: B’har/B’chukotai (Leviticus 25:1-27:34). With this dual set of parshyiot, the book of Leviticus reaches its conclusion, stating—in the first parashah—some of the highest ideals we should strive for; and—in the second—restating the Covenant along with all its consequences, for better (when we follow the Laws of God) or for worse (when we don’t).

For today, I would like to focus on the first of the two parshyiot, B’har (“At the Mountain”—referring, of course to Mount Sinai).

The epoch-defining song “If I Had a Hammer” (composed in 1949 by Pete Seeger and Lee Hays in 1949), refers to a bell—Liberty Bell. Called in the song “the bell of freedom,” this is the bell that according to tradition, on July 8, 1776, called the citizens of Philadelphia to assemble at the State House to hear the reading of the Declaration of Independence.

Inscribed on the Liberty Bell are the words “Proclaim LIBERTY throughout all the Land unto all the Inhabitants thereof.” The quote is from Leviticus chapter 25, verse 10, taken straight from our portion of B’har.

This is really the theme of the whole portion: freedom. Actually, also about dignity. For without one, we can also not have the other. And if there is no dignity, then the image of God cannot be seen. These are qualities that we are commanded to extend not only to human beings, but also to animals, and even the earth! On the Jubilee year (every fiftieth year), the land is to lie fallow and given a rest. It is not to be worked; working animals are to be given a rest; and slaves (at least Hebrew slaves—a first step only, but an important one nevertheless—) are to be set free.

The idea that all God’s creations, whether animate or inanimate, deserve a Sabbath is truly revolutionary. We are in control of the earth, but we are not free to despoil it. We may be in charge of our animals (hopefully) but their life is God-given no less than ours is. Thus it isn’t only our life and existence that are consecrated and holy—the whole earth and all its inhabitants are deserving of the same recognition and dignity that we give to ourselves.

I wonder whether we are always mindful of this exalted ideal. When we look at the pollution with which we have filled the air and the oceans; when we view the man-made mountains of trash, or imagine the deep burial grounds of nuclear waste—can we wonder that the consequences are so wide and far reaching? Our insatiable hunger for power and energy have brought us to the brink of disaster time and time again. One only has to look at the oil that has been gushing out into the waters of the Gulf of Mexico for nearly three weeks now by the hundreds of thousands of barrels every day. Sure, it isn’t as bad—yet—as the Exxon Valdez accident of 1989; nor is it anywhere in the vicinity of “the 36 billion gallons of oil spilled by retreating Iraqi forces when they left Kuwait in 1991.”[1] But it is catastrophic, and the scope of the impact of the Deepwater Horizon well blowout is yet to be understood.

The parashah, however, poses a question: What exactly is meant by control? Way back in Genesis, weren’t we given dominion over the earth and all animal life? And if so, how far does our control extend? The Torah understands realities; it even takes into account human nature. In the Torah, dignity and freedom are balanced with control and servitude as an ever-evolving law system tries to define and redefine some middle ground. In B’har, laws referring to land ownership are discussed, as are laws that try to set limits to that eternal curse—slavery—and attempt to control the despicable ways in which we treat some of our fellow human beings.

And still a larger paradox presents itself as the portion comes to an end. Though the theme of B’har is liberty, the parashah ends with a stern warning: “For the Israelites belong to me as servants. They are my servants, whom I brought out of Egypt. I am the LORD your God” (Lev. 25:55). How can we be free if we are to be God’s servants?

The answer to this paradox is that though freedom is undeniably God’s gift, we must not confuse freedom with chaos. God did deliver us from slavery to the Egyptians, but not from all work. Ever since Jacob—who was also called Israel—first piled one stone on top of another, erecting monuments and memorials, we Jews have been builders. In Egypt we mastered our craft, even as we built storehouses for Pharaoh, monuments to a way of life that glorified tyranny, slavery and genocide. After the Exodus, we continued building, only from that point on we directed our efforts towards building monuments to OUR God. In the service of our God, we build storehouses—temples—that we fill with the values that Leviticus calls holy: justice and equality for all, education, health; and, above all, liberty and dignity for all human beings, as well as for animals and even the earth. Freedom does not mean total cessation of work; it means that our ongoing work must be meaningful and holy.

Leviticus closes with a warning: If we play lightly with our gifted freedom, we will pay the price. We are called upon to be in a relationship with God—who is holy—and therefore we must be holy, too. What that means is that we must let the Bell of Freedom ring for all God’s creation. It must sound its warning whenever and wherever we see abuse, injustice or usurpation. It must remind us of our responsibility toward all life, towards all existence. So let freedom ring, and let it awaken within each of us the recognition of God’s holy image within me, within you, within every living thing.



[1] “Gulf Oil Spill Is Bad, but How Bad?” by John M. Broder and Tom Zeller, Jr., published May 3, 2010, the New York Times; http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/04/science/earth/04enviro.html

©2010 by Boaz D. Heilman