Rites of Purification

Rites of Purification

D’var Torah for Parashat Metzora

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The illnesses are more than skin deep, that’s clear.

Tzara’at—that dreaded range of Biblical skin diseases that may appear as a scaly affliction on a person’s body, extend to his clothing and even to his house and appear finally in the form of genital discharges—is in the background of this week’s Torah portion, Metzora. From the most apparent to the most intimate, says Rabbi Leonard A. Sharzer of Jewish Theological Seminary, drawing a connecting line between the various symptoms of the disease.

But it doesn’t stop there. With each new manifestation, the disease becomes more symbolic. The house is not merely one’s home, it’s one’s status and station in society. Likewise, that most intimate part of us is also the most enduring, since far beyond our own life span, our children and grandchildren keep a part of us alive in them. It’s our legacy.

The portion speaks not only of physical ills, but of spiritual ones as well.

And that’s why the rest of the parasha isn’t about the afflictions at all. It’s really about the process of re-integration of the now-healed individual back into the sacred community. It’s about the rituals that change the bad into good and which transform the oppressive guilt into a spiritual awakening.

The first step is the offering of guilt and sin sacrifices—an admission that we may have done something to bring the condition upon ourselves. We are human, after all, and we know what that means.

Water and blood play a role in these rituals of rehabilitation. Washing one’s body and clothes is essential in the routine. Then, two birds are brought to the priest; one is slaughtered and the other is dipped in its blood and then set free to fly. The blood is there, on the wings of the freed bird, a reminder of having survived, of being given a second chance, perhaps even of the responsibilities that come along with this renewed privilege.

Blood is sprinkled seven times on the healed individual. Seven isn’t only a reminder of the Seven Days of Creation. Seven is a symbol of God’s handshake with humanity: For six days God worked to create a pretty good world. Now it’s our day, our opportunity to tend the garden, to watch it grow, to become God’s partners in ongoing Creation. No matter what our faults were, we have atoned and been healed. We are what we are, we say to God—clay formed by Your eternal hand, matter into which You breathed a soul. The clay gets washed away; matter isn’t perfect. Let the soul be.

The priest then takes some of the blood of the guilt sacrifice (a sheep or a bird, depending on the economic means of the individual) and applies a drop of it to the ridge of the right ear, to the right thumb and to the right big toe of the individual. On the ear—say the Rabbis—so that you might hear the cry of the needy; on the thumb, so you might be able to offer your hand to them; and on the toe, empowering you to approach them, to go in their midst and offer your help.

Oil is used to set the drops of blood, acting to keep the blood moist, vibrant, alive, a sign of vocation and rededication.

Finally, the most wonderful ritual of all was performed. The priest would take some of the remaining oil in his hand and let it drop on the individual’s head. Pouring oil on the head of a person or on an object was an act of consecration. Kings, prophets and priests were thus anointed on the day that they were inducted into service. Now this individual, a humble penitent guilty of any number of sins—from the most public to the most intimate—becomes similarly anointed, similarly raised from the lowly status of the diseased to the exalted state of a consecrated priest.

Transformed and redeemed through these rituals on the outside as well as the inside, the healed individual regains tohora, the condition of spiritual purity. He or she is now fully reintegrated into the k’hillat kodesh—the sacred community—of which they were part before.

The rituals of purification may seem antiquated today. We feel repelled by the description of animals killed, their blood splattered and painted on us. Our worldly, educated minds resist the notion that tribal and superstitious behavior can transform the inherent essence of an individual. What are we, after all, but the sum product of our genetic and cultural makeup.

And yet, there may be some truth behind these rituals: We are all imperfect, in the best of cases likely to fail almost as often as we succeed. Yet within each of us there also lies the hope that we can transcend our human frailties and reach something ultimate, something eternal. We forever try to excel; we strive for that Olympic medal, a personal goal, a personal best that will elevate us from the stature that our weaknesses keep us in.

If nothing else, parashat Metzora keeps this hope alive in us. And even though we don’t practice the rituals anymore, it’s now the words that remind us of this ancient process and which enable us, time after time, to rise and try again.

For that is the grandeur of being human, attainable by all.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman