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
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
No comments:
Post a Comment