The Blessing of God

The Blessing of God
D’var Torah for Parashat B’har
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

At the end of the first book of the Torah, Genesis, Jacob, weary with age and with all of life’s experiences, blesses his sons.

At the end of Exodus, with the Tabernacle completed exactly as per God’s instructions, a sacred task that involved all the Israelites, Moses is filled with exultation. Seeing it all there, every piece precisely crafted and set in its place, Moses simply turns to the people and, in a state of spiritual ecstasy, blesses them.

Now, pretty much at the end of the third book, Leviticus, it is God’s turn. However, God’s message isn’t so much a blessing as it is a living will.

So what does God say to the Israelites now? They are ready for the rest of their journey into their future. The Tabernacle has been activated, its powers tested and proven: As the People of Israel march forward, God’s presence will appear as a cloud in the day and as a pillar of fire at night—to guide them, to inspire them, to make sure they always look up. What final instructions does God have for His people at this point?

B’har , “At the mountain,” refers, of course to Mt. Sinai. It is a short portion that contains only one chapter, Chapter 25 (OK—and the first two verses of chapter 26, but who’s counting?). But in this concise parasha, God—not unexpectedly—has a powerful message for us. We are in a special relationship with God, and because God is holy, so must we must be holy.

The portion builds on a truism that is so magnificent that we often fail to fully comprehend it: As the Creator of the universe, God owns the land. The earth does not belong to us but rather to God. We are here at God’s pleasure. What that means is that we must treat the earth with the same kind of respect and sanctity that we show God. Just as we human beings must observe a day of rest, Shabbat, once a week—extending its blessing to one another as well as to the animals we use for work the rest of the week—so must the Earth be granted, every seven years, a year of rest. We must give the earth the opportunity to replenish itself, to restore its normal rhythm, to return to an existence without a taskmaster—save for God, who only willed it to exist and bear fruit. On the 7th year—called sh’mita, “letting go,” we may not till the ground or prune our trees; we may not plant, seed or sow. We may glean—take what we need for the day’s journey—but no more than that, and certainly none to be used in any commercial venture whatsoever.

Sanctifying the seventh part of Time, in days or years, teaches us that Time is no more ours than the earth is. We are granted a limited span of it within which to exit. Sanctifying Time—the holidays, the years, the days that are bound by our birth and death—means filling our tiny share of eternity with meaning and purpose.

But there is yet more. We must strive for holiness even further, beyond time and space. The image of God is imprinted within each and every one of us, and therefore our relationships with one another must be held sacred. Abuse, taking advantage, cheating and ultimately shedding blood lie at the extreme opposite of the way of holiness that God wants us to follow. If we learn nothing else from our helpless dependence every seven years on the Earth’s natural yield, it is that we are all gleaners, all of us homeless, all of us essentially renters of the parcel of land we live on. And that means we all are equal before God, our Creator. Our value lies not in our material goods, but rather in how well we carry out our charge and responsibility to redeem the fallen and help the needy. That’s what holiness—being in a relationship with a holy God—means.

The highest ideal of all comes early in this portion (Lev. 25:10): “Proclaim liberty throughout the land to all its inhabitants.” This is the ultimate gift of God: The right to exist, to think and choose, to be free to be ourselves—a right not only reserved for oneself, but rather for all life.

That is our blessing from God.

As in everything else, however, we human beings have tremendous power over what we choose to do with this blessing: We can choose to bestow it further, to imbue our life, in all its contexts, with holiness. We can share the blessing with one another. We can bless the land and make it work with us, not against us. And we can fill the time of our life with blessing, as we infuse it with meaning, direction and purpose. Life, along with all its complications and failures, is filled with marvelous prospects and possibilities. What we make of it can turn it either into a blessing or else a blight for ourselves, our children, and everything else around us.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman