Triumph of the Soul

Triumph of the Soul
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayak’hel
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Rabbis teach that a true penitent should never be reminded of his transgression. In other words, once a person has corrected their ways and made up for any mistakes he or she may have made along the way, they are completely forgiven. Reminding them of their past becomes a sin in itself.

We see an example of this in this week’s parasha, Vayak’hel (Exodus 35:1—38:20). Having truly repented for the Golden Calf incident, the Israelites were forgiven and offered a second chance. Now they begin in earnest the task of building of the Tabernacle, the work progressing smoothly, with no further stumbling blocks. Their past mistake is as though forgotten, never to be mentioned again.

Throughout the Bible we encounter again and again rebellious nature of the ancient Israelites. Yet in this Torah portion they are as meek lambs, offering no resistance to Moses as he gathers them together (Va-yak-hel: he convened). Called up, they willingly gather and listen to Moses. As instructed by God, Moses first tells the people to remember to observe the Sabbath. Then he sets up a collection, listing all the materials necessary for the building of the Tabernacle: “Take from yourselves an offering for the Lord; every generous hearted person shall bring the Lord’s offering of gold, silver and copper” (Ex. 35:5). Moses instructs Bezalel and Oholiab, the master architect and chief contractor, to start constructing the Tent of Meeting.

Then a miracle happens. To a one, every man, every woman steps up. Some can do the weaving, others the sewing and embroidery. Many have the precious metals necessary for the construction of the Tabernacle, or the gems for the priest’s ceremonial clothing. Some have tanned animal hides that they bring forward; others have linen and soft cotton or wool, or rare, expensive dyes. Morning after morning, moved by an overwhelming, free-flowing generosity, the people continue to step up, one after another bringing forward their donations for the project. It soon becomes apparent that more has been brought in than is necessary, and the call goes out to stop the contributions.

Three thousand years later, many of us today are involved in charitable organizations. We long for the day when the call will go out to stop the flow of generous contributions. We call it the Messianic Age, when disease will have been eradicated, hunger will be no more, and the world will be at peace. It seems incredible and impossible. Yet the Torah tells us it is not beyond our reach. Is there not enough food in the world to feed all the hungry? Of course there is. Do we not have the brains to figure out how to heal the sick, raise the fallen and clothe the naked? It’s all a question of distribution of resources, of skillful organization, of belief in our own talents and abilities.

And so what stops us? What stands in the way of potential contributors? Why do we still get solicitations from a hundred different charitable organizations each week, each month, year after year?

Perhaps it’s selfishness; maybe it’s the fear of the unknown—who knows what tomorrow will bring, maybe we shouldn’t give it all away so easily. Some feel that they are alone in giving, that others are more lax in fulfilling their obligations, and so they become disheartened and cynical. And yet others simply don’t believe that the goal is reachable, so why bother in the first place?

That is why the first instruction Moses gives the Israelites is not concerning the donations for the Tabernacle, but rather a reminder about the holiness of Shabbat. Shabbat, after all, is the day that represents our sacred partnership with God, our share in the ongoing process of Creation. Meant to inspire and uplift our spirits, Shabbat challenges us to reach our true potential. Reaching for the sublime, for the Holy-of-holies within our souls, we find there our inner strength. With each successive Shabbat that we observe, we become stronger, more and more energized by the Spirit of Creation that flows throughout the universe and through each one of us.

We become discouraged with our work when it loses meaning for us; when we lose sight of direction, goal or purpose; when we become overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. Moses’s genius is that he is able to take a rabble of disgruntled ex-slaves and turn them instead into a free and proud people. He unifies us by giving us something to believe in, and he inspires us by presenting us with purpose and objective, by asking us to work towards a lofty, yet eminently reachable goal.

That is the greatness of Moses: That he gave us the power and the tools to overcome all obstacles. He taught us to take a moment from our work, look up and remember why it is that we do what we do. He gave us a goal and encouraged us to believe in our ability to reach it. By appealing to the “generosity of our hearts,” rather than imperiously commanding us, Moses awakens the dream within us and inspires us to believe, to hope, to want to fulfill our highest potential. Three thousand years ago, we responded: “So they continued bringing to him freewill offerings morning after morning” (Ex. 36:3).

To this day, we still respond to this appeal. We still send in our donations, we still rise up each morning to do the sacred work of Creation. Despite all, we still believe, we still hope. That is our greatness. It is the triumph of our soul, the quality that transforms us from imperfect mortals into something just less than the angels themselves, that turns us into a kehillat kodesh, a sacred community, a fitting match for the sacred unity of God.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Terrible Fall

A Terrible Fall
D’var Torah for Ki Tisa (Exodus 30:11—34:35)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tisa (“when you count”), is crucial to the understanding of the relationship between God and Israel. The storyline itself is dramatic enough, but the lessons of the parasha are overarching, reaching across the ages, defining how we may and can make God’s presence appear in our own daily lives.

Ki Tisa begins with Moses being told to take a census of the people, not by counting heads but rather by collecting a half-shekel from each male 20 years and older (the ancient shekel comprised 20 gerahs, the smallest monetary unit of the time; therefore a half-shekel was 10 gerahs, a minimal amount affordable to rich and poor alike). This was the enrollment fee that assured the Israelites of their place among the People of Israel, as well as of the permanent nature of their relationship with God.

This permanence, however, is immediately tested and almost severed. With Moses gone—he has been spending 40 days and nights up on the top of Mount Sinai, where he was called by God to receive the Torah—the people lose sight not only of their leader, but also of God and their ultimate goal. Bewildered and terrified, they demand that Aaron make a physical representation of the Divine, something they could look at and remember that all is not chaos and disorder.

Aaron gives in to the demands of the people and, drawing from Near-Eastern popular imagery of divine beings, creates a golden calf.

Simultaneously, just as the Israelites receive this profane image, Moses receives a totally different representation of the Divine: The Ten Commandments written in stone by God’s own hand.

Seeing the terrible fall of the people, God is incensed and threatens to destroy the Israelites; God promises Moses to make of him the father of a new nation. Moses, however, argues with God, demanding not only justice, but also mercy. He reminds God of the promise God had made to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the promise to redeem the Israelites from slavery and to bring them safely to the Promised Land. What would the Egyptians say if they saw this promise broken? Moses continues by providing the only conceivable answer: the Egyptians would claim that God simply could not do what He had promised and therefore destroyed the people, that it was nothing but a half-baked experiment gone terribly awry. The truth would be hidden forever; the knowledge of God as Redeemer and Savior would be lost forever.

Mollified, God relents and sends Moses down to the people to repair the damage.

When Moses descends from Mount Sinai, he sees the people engaged in wanton revelry around the false idol. He does the unthinkable, hurling the two tablets of the Law, God’s own handwriting and all, against the mountainside. The tablets smash to smithereens. One can only imagine the smoldering bits of God’s energy lying among the gravel and dust; the ultimate proof of God’s existence is gone forever.

Urged by Moses, the Israelites repent. Their repentance is accepted, but the question of how to regain God’s trust remains. When relationships break down, faith and trust are the most difficult to rebuild. In this case, too, both God and the Israelites have to begin from scratch, taking the broken pieces and trying to reconstruct them once again into one whole.

It seems an impossible task. For centuries afterwards, anti-Semites would be using this passage in the Torah as proof that the damage was indeed permanent, that the relationship between God and the Israelites could not be reconstructed, necessitating a new covenant through yet another prophet and another people.

Yet what really happens is that Moses negotiates new terms, a new covenant (Exodus 34:6-7). God would agree to remain in the midst of the Israelites despite their sins, despite their failings, but not without consideration of their deeds and ensuing consequences. Justice however would be tempered by mercy and compassion. Whereas the penalty for even a major sin would be limited, lasting no more than one lifetime (alas, affecting four generations), the consequences of a good deed would last for thousands of generations.

In the words of behaviorist educators: one cannot eliminate bad behavior; it’s part of being human. However, a good teacher can maximize the chances of good behavior and minimize the opportunities for bad behavior. Understanding that consequences must follow, that every action will carry requisite rewards or penalties, is crucial to successful classroom management. But then, so is the deep awareness of what constitutes proper behavior and what does not (both for teacher and for student).

These are the guidelines proposed by Moshe Rabeinu, Moses our Teacher.

And God, magnanimous Principal that God is, agrees to these terms.

Moses writes a new set of Ten Commandments—God’s words, in Moses’s hand. This too, is crucial to our new relationship. Given in the form of words, God’s message can now be transmitted from generation to generation. In scrolls, printed books, even through the Internet—it’s the word and its contents that become holy, not the physical representation of God’s handwriting. We can write it for ourselves, interpret it for our time, teach it to our children, translate it into any language so that others may understand it. Language itself becomes the link that binds God and us through the eons.

In the end, all is well again. A shaky truce is established; rules for holidays, regulations for showing mercy and justice in our own ways—the same qualities we expect of God — are given and the Israelites accept them.

It is only now, having experienced the worst fall of all, that we can begin to rise again. From here on, it will be up to us to maintain our relationship with God. No more golden calves. It will be through the celebration of holidays and Shabbat, through our partnership with our people and community, through the deeds of our hands, that from here on we may and can make God’s presence known and apparent in our midst.

Finally, with a deeper understanding of human nature, God and the Israelites can move on. Much work yet lies before us before we reach the Promised Land. There is a Tabernacle¬¬—modeled after God’s creation of the universe—to be erected, a microcosm of God’s dwelling among us to be constructed.

But first, Shabbat. It’s the least we can do.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

It Is Our Mitzvah

It Is Our Mitzvah
D’var Torah for Parashat Tetzaveh
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In this week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh (“You shall command,” Exodus 27:20—30:10), Moses receives instructions regarding the clothing of the priests. The design and materials match in intricacy and detail those of the Tabernacle. In a sense, the vestments of the High Priest and his assistants thus become an extension of the Tent of Meeting.

Following the description of the sacred vestments, Moses receives the next set of instructions, this time relating to the ceremony of the priests’ installation. In this ritual, they are to be washed in water, dressed in the sacred vestments and anointed with sacred oil. Specific sacrifices are to be offered. These are not the ordinary, everyday sacrifices, but rather the Offerings of Ordination, sacrifices made only once in the lifetime of each priest and high priest—at the time of his ordination and investiture.

Interestingly, Tetzaveh is the only Torah portion in which Moses’s name never appears. Everywhere else we read, over and over again: “God spoke to Moses;” or, “Moses said to the people.” Not here. The portion opens with, V’atah tetzaveh: “You shall command.” Later sections begin with, “You shall bring near;” “You shall speak;” “You shall make.” You, not Moses. This is particularly ironic when we stop to consider that the Hebrew title of this book is Shemot, “names.” Yet in this one portion, the name of the book’s foremost protagonist is prominently left out.

Similarly, even though Aaron and his four sons, the original priests, are mentioned by name, it isn’t their names that are centrally featured in this portion. The minute specifics of their vestments and the detailed description of the sacrifices they must offer push the names to a vague and hazy background.

The key to understanding this puzzle is in the clothing of the High Priest.

Over linen breeches and a belt, over a cotton tunic and an ornate robe, the High Priest wears an ephod, a two-piece linen vest whose front and back panels are connected by two shoulder straps. Sewn onto the straps are two large cut gems, one per shoulder. Set in gold, these stones have the names and seals of the tribes of Israel carved into them, six on each stone. (Must have been pretty large stones!) Suspended over the ephod or vest, and attached to it by a blue thread, is the Urim and Thummim, a divination plate whose purpose is not unlike that of a Ouija board. Set into this plate are twelve gemstones, each different, each set in gold. Like the stones on the ephod shoulder straps, these gems also have the names of the tribes of Israel carved on them, one tribe on each stone.

It must have looked stunning, this armor made of expensive linen, rare dyes and priceless gems. One cannot even begin to estimate its value. Yet its real value wasn’t in the material of which it was made. It was in the names it held.

Before the High Priest began his work, before he went into the Holy of Holies, before he could offer even one sacrifice, he would put on these items of clothing. It wasn’t only for show. The real purpose is explained in Chapter 28 verse 12: “And Aaron shall carry their names before Adonai upon his two shoulders as a remembrance;” and then again in 28:30: “And Aaron shall carry the judgment of the children of Israel over his heart before Adonai at all times.”

It is so easy for a person in power to lose sight of the true purpose of his role—to guide, lead and judge. Surrounded by the trappings of power, all too often the powerful are blinded by the riches and almost infinite opportunities. The heavy rocks on the High Priest’s shoulders were to remind him, to awaken him from any illusions of grandeur. The gold and gems he wore were not for his benefit. They were to serve as a reminder, both for himself and for God. At no point during the service was the High Priest to lose sight of his role and function. It was never to be about himself. He was only the go-between, serving to bring the people’s offerings to God and in return to reveal God’s judgment to them.

These, then, are the names that really matter. It’s the people, not Aaron, that factor in this equation. Even Moses’s name disappears, as a direct line of relationship between Israel and God appears.

What stands out ultimately in parashat Tetzaveh is not any particular individual. Outlasting Moses and Aaron, the Tent of Meeting and the priests’ clothing remain as symbols of an eternal God—but also of the eternal nature of the service of this God. It is the ritual that becomes important: the preparation of the clothing, the investment of the priests, the offering of sacrifice. These are eternal, even if the individuals who practice it at any particular time are not.

In our own day, with the Temple gone, with the priests no longer functioning as intermediaries between God and us, we are still left with the ritual. We no longer offer sacrifice: we offer prayer and acts of kindness. We no longer dress the High Priest with elaborate vestments: We dress the Torah and study its eternal words instead.

And that’s why the name of Moses is never mentioned in this portion. It really isn’t about him. It’s about us.

We have become the priests, a holy nation, in fulfillment of our Covenant with God. Faithfully we carry on our mission; our purpose is engraved for all eternity upon our heart and mind. It may feel heavy at times, but its value is greater than all the gold and gems that sometimes may distract us.

It is our mitzvah.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Building Sacred Space

Building Sacred Space
D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Since childhood, I’ve always loved toys that involved construction. Whether it was a mechanical nuts-and-bolts-type game (I think it was actually called “Construction”) with which I built cranes and bridges and other engineering feats; or Legos; or toys that enabled me to become an architect for a day or two and design—and build—all sorts of structures, I would spend hours and days on each of my projects.

In time, the toys evolved. As a pianist, the pieces I worked on became the structures that intrigued me. I saw rooms within rooms, palaces and humble homes, even edifices that resembled cathedrals—complete with bells! Sometimes I felt that my music was a bridge, a path that enabled me travel to far-off places and times, to commune with distant people.

Still later, as rabbi, I have been fortunate and blessed to be able to work on another kind of structure: a k’hillat kodesh, a sacred community.

There’s nothing new in this hobby—and mission—of mine. I came by it naturally, or perhaps culturally. Ever since slavery days in Egypt, the Israelites have been builders. In Egypt we were bound by Pharaoh’s will to build huge edifices, monuments dedicated to tyranny and oppression. Once free, however, we focused on building more useful structures: hospitals, schools, courts, communities, even countries!

In this week’s Torah reading, Terumah (“uplift donation”, Exodus 25:1—27:19), Moses receives a detailed blueprint that he is to pass on to the Israelites. It is an intricate design for a sanctuary, a portable Tent of Meeting, meant to symbolize God’s presence among us. This grand structure was to be the Israelites’ first construction job as a free people.

As slaves in Egypt we weren’t asked whether we would help out or not. We literally had no choice. Questioning was not allowed. Slacking off was punishable by law. The truly amazing thing in Terumah is that, as a free people we do have a choice. We can participate in contributing and building a sanctuary, or we can choose not to. “Speak to the Children of Israel, that they bring Me an offering [terumah]. From everyone who gives it willing with his heart you shall take My offering” (Ex. 25:2).

Freedom means you can say “No,” even to God.

God makes it easy to say no: First on the list of approved materials are gold, silver and copper! Then come expensive linens; finely spun, soft wool and expertly woven yarn; exotic dyes from the north-eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea; supple leather; all sorts of jewelry and unusual gems; and, to top it all off (literally), the skins of some mysterious animal called “tachash” (the identity of which has brought about all sorts of speculation through the ages).

Rare, expensive gifts that not everyone would be willing to part from.

But the list doesn’t stop there. It isn’t only expensive metals and jewels that God wants. The call is to go out for workers in wood, metals and fabrics; artists and artisans; weavers, embroiderers and quilters. And if none of these suited you, you could always cook a meal or bring a pitcher of water for the workers laboring under the hot desert sun. In short, there is something for everyone to contribute—from generous monetary gifts to a mere pinch of salt.

This common project has two goals: To construct a sanctuary, but also to build community. With everyone participating, with everyone knowing their purpose and function, every single member of the community can feel that he or she is valued for who they are, as well as for what they bring in to the commonality. Why would anyone say no to that?

Every aspect of the wonderful Tabernacle is described in detail: From material to size to shape and texture. It isn’t only the large pieces that matter. Also important are the joints and bars that connect the wooden framework, as well as the loops and clasps that will join together the colorfully woven and embroidered fabric of the Tent itself.

The two most intricate designs are of the Menorah—the seven-branch lampstand—that stood at the opening of the Sanctuary, and the Holy Ark that stood at its innermost heart. The first was designed symbolically like a tree of life. Delicate branches grow into almond flowers, replete with petals, cups and calyx, all hammered out of a solid block of gold.

The Ark of the Covenant is intended to hold the Ten Commandments. Its chief feature is its cover, also made of one piece of gold. It is to portray two angels, one at each end of the cover piece. Facing one another, the wings of one angel are to extend toward the wings of the other, so that together they form a shield for the Ark. It is from within the space between them that God’s voice will be heard by Moses, once the Israelites depart from Sinai and get on with their wanderings.

The symbolism of the two angels is not hard to understand. It is us. Every one of us who is a member of a sacred community, a k’hillat kodesh, is an angel. Our mission is as sacred as we choose to make it. Our wings are our prayers, our wishes, our most sincere longings and hopes. They give us lift from the physical material of which we are formed. When we use these wings to fulfill the purpose for which they are intended, when we choose to share in the performance of mitzvot, the sacred tasks imposed upon us, we become the conduit for God’s voice. It is through our sacred service that we make God’s presence appear.

No wonder that this astonishing work of art was sculpted out of one piece of hammered gold. What more meaningful and valuable imagery—and material—to portray the single most important value of a community than one angel reaching out towards its fellow?

And yet, just so we don’t go too far and call that God—the angel or the gold—we are reminded: It is in the space between them that God’s voice is heard. It is in the silence, in the yet-unformed, in that electrified, sanctified pause between the words that we can perceive God.

As I write these words, Shabbat is descending upon us with its promise of peace. It too is a symbol; it too is a bridge. Celebrating it through communal song, prayer and study is that very space between the angels. It is here and now. Shhhh! Listen!

© 2011 by Boaz D. Heilman