Fear and Arrogance: When We Fail the Test of Faith
D’var Torah for Parashat Shelakh Lekha, Numbers 13:1—15:41
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
If last week’s Torah portion, Beha-alotecha, was all about “raising the light,” or elevating one’s existence to a state of holiness, this week’s portion, Shelakh Lekha, is about some of the ways in which we can fail to do so.
It’s always a good idea, before embarking on any endeavor, to check out all the possible outcomes. It isn’t so much fortune telling as it is about hedging one’s bets. Spying has always been associated with intelligent warfare—in fact, modern parlance uses that very word, “intelligence gathering” for something very ancient and very basic to human existence: Scouting out the land.
Shelakh Lekha is the command Moses receives to send out spies to scout the Promised Land. Twelve men, each a leader among his own tribe, are sent with specific instructions to gather information about the land—its topography, its nature, its yield—and about its inhabitants. Even though God had promised the Land of Israel to the People of Israel, how exactly is the handing-over going to take place? Would it be peaceful co-existence or—in greater likelihood—would it involve wars? And if so, what kind of resistance will the Israelites encounter?
Ultimately, Moses urges the spies to bring back proof of the Land’s fruitfulness. Was it worth the trouble to begin with?
After forty days, the scouts return. There’s no question about the worth of the land. The fruit they bring back—a single cluster of grapes so big it has to be carried on the shoulders of two of the men, as well as figs and pomegranates, life-giving symbols in their own right—are proof of the intense life force flowing within the Land itself.
However, the scouts claim to have seen giants in the land, fierce and evil, armed-to-the-teeth giants. “We seemed like grasshoppers before them,” the spies quake and wail, “and so must we have seemed to them.” What’s worse, eretz ochelet yosh-vei-ha hee, “the land consumes its own inhabitants!” (Num. 13:32).
Despite the minority opinion offered by two of the twelve spies—Caleb and Joshua—to the effect that “If Adonai is pleased with us, He will lead us into that land, a land flowing with milk and honey, and will give it to us” (Numbers 14:8), the effect the spies’ account has on the Israelites is complete demoralization. Losing all faith, hope and courage, the Israelites express their deep desire to return to Egypt, and they nearly stone Moses and Aaron to death. Only God’s intervention saves them.
Letting their fears take charge was the failure of the ten false spies. They forgot about the secret weapon of Israel—God. There are no giants in the land—only in our imagination. And though it is a tough land to keep and cultivate, the fault lies not in the land itself, a “land flowing with milk and honey,” but in the cruelty and greed of those who strive to possess and use it for their own ends only. In punishment for their loss of faith, God decrees that the Israelites be wanderers in the wilderness for forty years, one year for each day that the faithless spies had scouted the Land.
Following Moses’s and God’s chastisement, the Israelites have a sudden change of heart. They decide to storm the Promised Land and take it by force. Which would have been fine, except that they were warned by Moses not to do that. God would not be with them, and they would be decimated by the fierce inhabitants of Canaan. Headstrong, many of the Israelites go ahead and charge up the hill, only to be destroyed as God and Moses had predicted. Their failure this time? Complete and exclusive self-reliance, again forgetting where the source of Israel’s strength ultimately lies.
From a total lack of confidence, the Israelites rush forward to supreme arrogance, a complete 360° turn that nets the same result: annihilation.
Shelakh Lekha deals with the basic human need to understand where we are going in order that we be better prepared for what we find when we get there. Facing an indeterminate future, it is best that we strengthen ourselves as best as we can. Confidence, this Torah portion teaches us, doesn’t only result from our own abilities. Nor is it luck. It is about preparedness, certainly; but it also is about faith and belief. The understanding that our existence and longevity as a people depend on our faith in God is an intrinsic part of our people’s history.
As a small minority in the families of nations, the Jews could not always rely on their own physical prowess for survival. Dependence on one superpower or another always proved only an illusory prop. Empires are notoriously fickle and unstable. Our faith in God, however, has always served to sustain us, in light as in darkness, through good times as through bad.
So why send spies to begin with? Why does God not only sanction this foray into the future, but commands it? To remind us that our strength comes from many sources, not least from our own resourcefulness; but also to teach that for us as Jews, there is only one answer to the question of our existence. We are here because God has a mission for us, and so long as we feel bound to that purpose, our faith—sustained by belief, ritual and mitzvot—remains the source of our strength.
©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, June 17, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Marching Orders
Marching Orders
D’var Torah for Parashat Beha-alotecha
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Dedicated to the graduating class of 2011
Late at night, when all the campfires had been allowed to die out, one light still remained, a beacon that pointed east, to the direction of the rising sun, toward the Promised Land. It was the light of the menorah, the seven-branch candelabra that stood at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.
Kept going by Aaron and his sons, the priests, the menorah did more than just cast light. Its purpose was also to show direction in the physical world of time and space. It became a symbol for the values that the Israelites tried to hold highest while wandering in the untamed wilderness.
The wilderness often creates its own laws. The harsh elements, the individuals and tribes that sometimes find refuge in the wilds, all help create a universe that is so different from the one we settled and civilized people are used to.
But the menorah, its lights burning steady, reminded the ancient Israelites of the obligations they had taken on, the dedication to higher standards and nobler ideals.
This week’s Torah portion, Beha-alotecha, refers to the act of lighting the menorah’s candles. A more literal translation of the title would read, “When you raise the lights.” The act reminds us of the focus and concentration you can see on the face of a person who lights Shabbat candles, taking care that the spark catch, that the new flame rise and become protected from the merest breeze.
Yet of the whole long portion (Numbers 8:1—12:16), only the first four verses refer to the lighting of the menorah. The many stories that occupy the rest of the portion could be seen as examples of other ways to “raise the lights.” The appointment of the Levites to the work of maintenance of the Tent of Meeting is a case in point. Nothing made the tribe of Levi more special—not its incidence or order of birth nor any other physical characteristic. Yet it was the Levites who were chosen by God to represent the rest of the people, to serve all the needs of the Tabernacle and—not least—to protect the Israelites from approaching too near to the Tabernacle and risking the fierce energy of the Divine.
Yet their very appointment to that post meant they were elevated from among the other Israelites. But like the lights of the menorah, their raised status came with function and purpose. They were to form an indispensible link in a chain, so many stops along a course that connected the people with God. Responsible to God, to Aaron and the priests and to themselves (and their families), the Levites were also responsible for the people’s spiritual wellbeing.
Moving on, chapter 9 has Moses reminding the people to celebrate Passover at its appointed time. Once again, the ordinary is elevated to a sacred position—not people this time around, but rather time itself. The holidays in general—and Passover in particular—remind us both of the relationship between God and us, and also of the importance of time. Our time here on earth is limited; by infusing it with holiness, we make it extraordinary; by making it special, we make it count.
Much of the portion is given to the journeys and some specific places where the wandering Israelites made camp. The orderliness in which those journeys were made, the attention and focus given both to direction and to the enormous mechanism of picking up and moving this very intricate organization (sometimes at a moment’s notice) make this uneventful travelogue stand out in better relief: This chapter is about sanctifying the space around us.
Kindling, elevating or raising the lights—the theme of this parasha—thus becomes a metaphor. It isn’t only about lighting a candle; it’s about sanctifying life; about taking the ordinary and making it extraordinary; it’s about overcoming the darkness that frightens and oppresses us—which sometimes is around us and just as frequently is found within us.
It’s a particularly appropriate message this weekend especially, when so many families celebrate graduations. Giving the invocation prayer at the Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School this week, as I was watching the proceedings, reading the faces of graduating students and their parents, I was vividly remembering my daughter’s graduation from high school, and my son’s, four years later. The unexpected emotions came in waves, as I realized that these children were no longer children. They were beginning their own journey, setting out into their own wildernesses. We, the parents, of course felt enormous pride at their accomplishments. However, along with that, there was also apprehension as we all faced the unknown future.
We have so much to say to our children as they begin this new chapter in their life. Mostly it’s how much we love them; but also it’s how much we want them to be happy, to feel secure and of value to themselves as well as to others. Ironically, however, for many of us the words do not come out clearly or easily. Nor are these young adults prepared to hear them. They are now on their own, and everyone knows that.
If only we had a prepared text, some writings of wisdom that we could give them. Perhaps these words would not be read anytime soon. But later, when needed, they would be recalled.
Parashat Beha-alotecha is the very text we are looking for. It contains the perfect advice for anyone starting out on a journey, be they a new graduate or a middle-aged man starting out on his route towards old age. The message is to make every moment, every place and every person we meet a special one. To treat them all with respect; to light the spark within them and watch it grow; to recognize God’s image in every one of us, at every moment of our life, wherever we might find ourselves.
And so the Israelites marched on through the wilderness, overcoming every obstacle along the way, much as we still do today. Everywhere we went, we brought holiness along with us; we passed it on to our children, and they to theirs. In the words of the beautiful prayer by Rabbi Alvin Fine, it has indeed been a sacred pilgrimage.
May the graduates of the class of 2011 continue along this path; may they succeed in making their journey a sacred one; may their lights shine far into the future for years and years to come.
Amen.
©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman
D’var Torah for Parashat Beha-alotecha
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
Dedicated to the graduating class of 2011
Late at night, when all the campfires had been allowed to die out, one light still remained, a beacon that pointed east, to the direction of the rising sun, toward the Promised Land. It was the light of the menorah, the seven-branch candelabra that stood at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.
Kept going by Aaron and his sons, the priests, the menorah did more than just cast light. Its purpose was also to show direction in the physical world of time and space. It became a symbol for the values that the Israelites tried to hold highest while wandering in the untamed wilderness.
The wilderness often creates its own laws. The harsh elements, the individuals and tribes that sometimes find refuge in the wilds, all help create a universe that is so different from the one we settled and civilized people are used to.
But the menorah, its lights burning steady, reminded the ancient Israelites of the obligations they had taken on, the dedication to higher standards and nobler ideals.
This week’s Torah portion, Beha-alotecha, refers to the act of lighting the menorah’s candles. A more literal translation of the title would read, “When you raise the lights.” The act reminds us of the focus and concentration you can see on the face of a person who lights Shabbat candles, taking care that the spark catch, that the new flame rise and become protected from the merest breeze.
Yet of the whole long portion (Numbers 8:1—12:16), only the first four verses refer to the lighting of the menorah. The many stories that occupy the rest of the portion could be seen as examples of other ways to “raise the lights.” The appointment of the Levites to the work of maintenance of the Tent of Meeting is a case in point. Nothing made the tribe of Levi more special—not its incidence or order of birth nor any other physical characteristic. Yet it was the Levites who were chosen by God to represent the rest of the people, to serve all the needs of the Tabernacle and—not least—to protect the Israelites from approaching too near to the Tabernacle and risking the fierce energy of the Divine.
Yet their very appointment to that post meant they were elevated from among the other Israelites. But like the lights of the menorah, their raised status came with function and purpose. They were to form an indispensible link in a chain, so many stops along a course that connected the people with God. Responsible to God, to Aaron and the priests and to themselves (and their families), the Levites were also responsible for the people’s spiritual wellbeing.
Moving on, chapter 9 has Moses reminding the people to celebrate Passover at its appointed time. Once again, the ordinary is elevated to a sacred position—not people this time around, but rather time itself. The holidays in general—and Passover in particular—remind us both of the relationship between God and us, and also of the importance of time. Our time here on earth is limited; by infusing it with holiness, we make it extraordinary; by making it special, we make it count.
Much of the portion is given to the journeys and some specific places where the wandering Israelites made camp. The orderliness in which those journeys were made, the attention and focus given both to direction and to the enormous mechanism of picking up and moving this very intricate organization (sometimes at a moment’s notice) make this uneventful travelogue stand out in better relief: This chapter is about sanctifying the space around us.
Kindling, elevating or raising the lights—the theme of this parasha—thus becomes a metaphor. It isn’t only about lighting a candle; it’s about sanctifying life; about taking the ordinary and making it extraordinary; it’s about overcoming the darkness that frightens and oppresses us—which sometimes is around us and just as frequently is found within us.
It’s a particularly appropriate message this weekend especially, when so many families celebrate graduations. Giving the invocation prayer at the Lincoln-Sudbury Regional High School this week, as I was watching the proceedings, reading the faces of graduating students and their parents, I was vividly remembering my daughter’s graduation from high school, and my son’s, four years later. The unexpected emotions came in waves, as I realized that these children were no longer children. They were beginning their own journey, setting out into their own wildernesses. We, the parents, of course felt enormous pride at their accomplishments. However, along with that, there was also apprehension as we all faced the unknown future.
We have so much to say to our children as they begin this new chapter in their life. Mostly it’s how much we love them; but also it’s how much we want them to be happy, to feel secure and of value to themselves as well as to others. Ironically, however, for many of us the words do not come out clearly or easily. Nor are these young adults prepared to hear them. They are now on their own, and everyone knows that.
If only we had a prepared text, some writings of wisdom that we could give them. Perhaps these words would not be read anytime soon. But later, when needed, they would be recalled.
Parashat Beha-alotecha is the very text we are looking for. It contains the perfect advice for anyone starting out on a journey, be they a new graduate or a middle-aged man starting out on his route towards old age. The message is to make every moment, every place and every person we meet a special one. To treat them all with respect; to light the spark within them and watch it grow; to recognize God’s image in every one of us, at every moment of our life, wherever we might find ourselves.
And so the Israelites marched on through the wilderness, overcoming every obstacle along the way, much as we still do today. Everywhere we went, we brought holiness along with us; we passed it on to our children, and they to theirs. In the words of the beautiful prayer by Rabbi Alvin Fine, it has indeed been a sacred pilgrimage.
May the graduates of the class of 2011 continue along this path; may they succeed in making their journey a sacred one; may their lights shine far into the future for years and years to come.
Amen.
©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, June 3, 2011
Checks and Balances
Checks and Balances
D’var Torah for Parashat Naso (Numbers 4:21—7:89)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
The Torah often teaches its lessons by first providing a picture of an ideal situation, then giving its total counterpart. The Ideal is a model of perfection itself—an impossible dream, a Garden of Eden that can only be imagined. Then comes the downfall.
The lesson must be extrapolated from between the two situations. How to reach for the Ideal without stumbling and then, just as importantly, how to rise again from the inevitable Downfall is rarely an easy task. There are far-reaching consequences to each and every one of our actions. Sometimes it’s impossible to undo the hurt that results from a missed opportunity, or from an action that somehow misses its mark—or worse, finds it.
The fourth book of the Torah, Numbers, begins with a perfect ordering. The Israelites undergo a system of organization in which every individual has a role and knows her or his place. Like a perfectly tuned symphony orchestra under the staff of Moses, its conductor, the Israelites travel in perfect harmony among themselves as well as with God. When the cloud that symbolizes God’s presence lifts off the Tent of Meeting, it is a sign to break camp and move on. When the cloud rests again, the Israelites stop. A pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night guide and protect the people on their journeys.
At least theoretically. Reality, however, soon sets in.
This week’s portion, Naso (“count” or “raise”), concludes the assignation of the various Levite clans to their particular chores in maintaining the service of the Tent of Meeting. What follows are examples of extremism, actions or behavior that go beyond the prescribed, that break the bounds of what is normal and harmonious.
The story of the sotah, the “wayward woman,” is the all-too-familiar tale of a love gone wrong. Suspicion and jealousy erupt into violence. Imagined or real, the outcome of over-zealous love is predictable. Among many societies in the Middle East, honor killing is still considered acceptable, even legal. What this portion of the Torah tries to have us learn is how avoid this outcome. The public trial of the woman results in face-saving for the jealous man, but has much more to offer for the woman—it is designed to save her life.
From the moment the woman is handed over to the priest, the fate of the sotah is out of her jealous husband’s hands. The priest represents sanctuary for her. Administering a terrible oath and a bitter potion—disgusting, yes; deadly, no—the priest ensures that spirits cool down without resorting to bloodshed. At least until the next time. It is a humiliating experience, to be sure, but it is far preferable to the common fate of women who are suspected of infidelity.
A similar exaggerated sense of devotion is exhibited by the Nazirite. A person who takes a special vow of commitment to God may make it for any length of time. For the duration, however, he or she must not drink anything alcoholic and even abstain from any and all grape products. There are at least two reasons for that. First—so that nothing would distract the Nazirite from his or her mission; total focus on the goal and the process of reaching it are expected of the Nazirite. Should this dedication be broken by accident, the Nazirite must start from the beginning, from square one.
Practice makes perfect, and perfection is the goal of this special devotee to God.
The second reason for the prohibition of alcohol for a Nazirite is that intoxication might make his or her actions even more extreme. Emotions heightened and inhibitions lowered make for a powerful combination. Without limits or restraints, extremism can turn into fanaticism, once again with predictably tragic results.
The rituals and sacrifices that surround the two cases of the Sotah and the Nazirite are meant to teach, but also to provide controls for extremist behavior. Everything is prescribed; every step of every ritual is clearly delineated. The individual in question cannot be allowed to break the social norms and thus cause a breach of holiness. Whether the over-zealous love is directed at God or at one’s spouse, the inherent danger to life and society is the same, and it must be kept under control. It’s the priest’s responsibility to keep the passions in check.
Following these two harrowing tales of extremism, parashat Naso continues with the famous three-fold blessing:
May God Bless you and keep watch over you;
May God’s light shine upon you and grant grace unto you;
May God’s countenance be lifted up towards you and may God bless you with peace.
It is through the harmonious interweaving of our lives that we bring God’s blessings into the world. Encouraged when we need support and restrained when our passions threaten to explode into violence, we try to keep on an even keel. Bamidbar, in the wilderness of life, sometimes the beasts can be found around us; at other times, however, we see them within ourselves. Navigating between the extremes, trying to stay away from the most exalted heights as well as from the most depraved lows, we look to God’s light for guidance.
We are forever trying to balance our love and longing for the Ideal with the realization that we can only go so far in reaching for it. Peace is found in the in the tension that we sense within ourselves, in the balance that we manage to maintain between what we want and what we cannot have. It’s a hard act, but one we must learn to master.
Dedicated, with love, to Yoni, on the 12th anniversary of his bar-mitzvah.
©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman
D’var Torah for Parashat Naso (Numbers 4:21—7:89)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
The Torah often teaches its lessons by first providing a picture of an ideal situation, then giving its total counterpart. The Ideal is a model of perfection itself—an impossible dream, a Garden of Eden that can only be imagined. Then comes the downfall.
The lesson must be extrapolated from between the two situations. How to reach for the Ideal without stumbling and then, just as importantly, how to rise again from the inevitable Downfall is rarely an easy task. There are far-reaching consequences to each and every one of our actions. Sometimes it’s impossible to undo the hurt that results from a missed opportunity, or from an action that somehow misses its mark—or worse, finds it.
The fourth book of the Torah, Numbers, begins with a perfect ordering. The Israelites undergo a system of organization in which every individual has a role and knows her or his place. Like a perfectly tuned symphony orchestra under the staff of Moses, its conductor, the Israelites travel in perfect harmony among themselves as well as with God. When the cloud that symbolizes God’s presence lifts off the Tent of Meeting, it is a sign to break camp and move on. When the cloud rests again, the Israelites stop. A pillar of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night guide and protect the people on their journeys.
At least theoretically. Reality, however, soon sets in.
This week’s portion, Naso (“count” or “raise”), concludes the assignation of the various Levite clans to their particular chores in maintaining the service of the Tent of Meeting. What follows are examples of extremism, actions or behavior that go beyond the prescribed, that break the bounds of what is normal and harmonious.
The story of the sotah, the “wayward woman,” is the all-too-familiar tale of a love gone wrong. Suspicion and jealousy erupt into violence. Imagined or real, the outcome of over-zealous love is predictable. Among many societies in the Middle East, honor killing is still considered acceptable, even legal. What this portion of the Torah tries to have us learn is how avoid this outcome. The public trial of the woman results in face-saving for the jealous man, but has much more to offer for the woman—it is designed to save her life.
From the moment the woman is handed over to the priest, the fate of the sotah is out of her jealous husband’s hands. The priest represents sanctuary for her. Administering a terrible oath and a bitter potion—disgusting, yes; deadly, no—the priest ensures that spirits cool down without resorting to bloodshed. At least until the next time. It is a humiliating experience, to be sure, but it is far preferable to the common fate of women who are suspected of infidelity.
A similar exaggerated sense of devotion is exhibited by the Nazirite. A person who takes a special vow of commitment to God may make it for any length of time. For the duration, however, he or she must not drink anything alcoholic and even abstain from any and all grape products. There are at least two reasons for that. First—so that nothing would distract the Nazirite from his or her mission; total focus on the goal and the process of reaching it are expected of the Nazirite. Should this dedication be broken by accident, the Nazirite must start from the beginning, from square one.
Practice makes perfect, and perfection is the goal of this special devotee to God.
The second reason for the prohibition of alcohol for a Nazirite is that intoxication might make his or her actions even more extreme. Emotions heightened and inhibitions lowered make for a powerful combination. Without limits or restraints, extremism can turn into fanaticism, once again with predictably tragic results.
The rituals and sacrifices that surround the two cases of the Sotah and the Nazirite are meant to teach, but also to provide controls for extremist behavior. Everything is prescribed; every step of every ritual is clearly delineated. The individual in question cannot be allowed to break the social norms and thus cause a breach of holiness. Whether the over-zealous love is directed at God or at one’s spouse, the inherent danger to life and society is the same, and it must be kept under control. It’s the priest’s responsibility to keep the passions in check.
Following these two harrowing tales of extremism, parashat Naso continues with the famous three-fold blessing:
May God Bless you and keep watch over you;
May God’s light shine upon you and grant grace unto you;
May God’s countenance be lifted up towards you and may God bless you with peace.
It is through the harmonious interweaving of our lives that we bring God’s blessings into the world. Encouraged when we need support and restrained when our passions threaten to explode into violence, we try to keep on an even keel. Bamidbar, in the wilderness of life, sometimes the beasts can be found around us; at other times, however, we see them within ourselves. Navigating between the extremes, trying to stay away from the most exalted heights as well as from the most depraved lows, we look to God’s light for guidance.
We are forever trying to balance our love and longing for the Ideal with the realization that we can only go so far in reaching for it. Peace is found in the in the tension that we sense within ourselves, in the balance that we manage to maintain between what we want and what we cannot have. It’s a hard act, but one we must learn to master.
Dedicated, with love, to Yoni, on the 12th anniversary of his bar-mitzvah.
©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)