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