Caution: Sacred Work in Progress
D’var Torah for Parashat Tzav
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 30, 2012
For a while there, as a child, I had a love/hate relationship with those models planes or cars that came disassembled in a box and that you had to put together by following the most detailed and complex list of instructions. While on the one hand it was fun to do, it was also a very complex task that required more patience than I, as a child, had. Inevitably some of the pieces didn’t quite fit the way they were supposed to, then the glue got smeared all over the windows and windshield of the car or plane and spoiled the shiny effect. I soon moved on to other hobbies.
Reading this week’s Torah portion, Tzav (Leviticus 6:1-8:36) reminds me of those model cars and the instructions that came with them—elaborate, repetitive and never quite clear enough (for me, at any rate). They really aren’t too different in style from the commandments that are addressed in Tzav to the priests officiating at the Tabernacle in the Sinai Wilderness, and, later, at the more permanent Temple that Solomon built in Jerusalem.
Of course the priest wasn’t building a model. He was working the real thing. And maybe that’s why he was more successful than I was, and why he stuck with his duties whereas I moved on to other hobbies. For the priest, offering a sacrifice was not a hobby. Following directions precisely was a matter of life and death.
However humanity perceived God or the gods, they were dangerous. All powerful, all-seeing, all-knowing, it was hard to hide from the gods. Adam found that out once he ate of that infamous apple and tried to hide his shame.
The gods of ancient civilizations were capricious, willful and often treacherous. They demanded bloody sacrifice, often human and sometimes children. They demanded unwavering obedience and allowed no questioning, no doubts. Whatever the priest—the gods’ spokesman—required had to be given.
Gods could cause wars, earthquakes, and volcanoes. Gods could be unjust, prejudiced and brutal. There was no logic and no understanding, only unquestioning obedience. Sacrifices were offered to placate and appease the gods’ wrath; the secret wish of anyone who offered sacrifice was just to be left alone. Let the gods go somewhere else.
Judaism offered a new concept—a God who didn’t want human sacrifice, to whom blood was distasteful, even repugnant. It was a God with no physical form, without digestive organs, with no hunger or lust, a God who didn’t really need to be fed—and who preferred that people feed one another instead.
As early as the 8th century BCE, the prophet Isaiah claimed that it wasn’t sacrifices God desired, but rather justice and compassion.
It was a revolutionary concept—and one that the priests in Jerusalem probably didn’t like a whole lot. After all, the sacrifice system was their way of life; it was their job, their whole purpose of existence and meaning in life.
The God that Isaiah and later Judaism offered was not one you wished would go away—the whole idea was to invite God into your life. Pleasing God was not done in order to placate God or assuage God’s anger. Rather, it was done so as to bring a sense of holiness into your own life, to raise a meager human being—an ant or microbe in the larger scheme of the universe—into something more meaningful.
And yet, the danger existed—and still does. When life—or God—strikes, it strikes hard and, often, unfairly. The haftarah associated with this Shabbat’s Torah reading (Malachi, 3:14-15, a special reading for the Sabbath preceding Passover) raises the question: “What good has it done us to walk repentant before God? It seems that the arrogant are the blessed ones, the wicked are raised up and those who deny God flourish.” Where is the justice we expect from God, the prophet seems to ask. It’s a question many of us raise—silently, within our souls, if not out loud—frequently enough. There is uncertainty associated with God’s response to our pleas and danger even in worshipping God—in fact, in our very existence as Jews.
Religion is dangerous any way you look at it. The rabbis see religion as one of the top three reasons for war and violence (along with women and material possessions). A quick perusal of history shows the truth in this assessment.
God, in my understanding, is a huge force of energy. God is the energy behind the Big Bang, the spark that started it all. As with any energy, God must be served with caution. We try to be careful with electricity, fire, water and wind—certainly with nuclear energy. How much more so as we approach the actual source of all those forms of energy!
It’s no wonder that the instructions the priests receive prior to becoming eligible to serve God are intricate and detailed. One wrong step and the whole thing can go up in flames. Ministering to God’s people is no simple task either. What the priest has to do is channel this enormous force into something we can comprehend, something we can use in our daily lives. The mega-force that God is has to be minimized—a huge nuclear explosion transformed into a candle flickering in the wind.
For the priests serving in God’s temple, building models was their way of life. Only these weren’t toys. The Tabernacle is set up to be a model of God’s universe, where all the pieces fit together just so, each supporting the other. God’s people is yet another such model; with God’s image implanted in each of us, we carry on the work of Creation in a way that is unique to each of us, yet which somehow interlocks into the work our neighbor does. The Tabernacle—and later, the Temple, the Synagogue, the Shul and our own modern-day temples—is the engine that empowers the whole thing. It is the seat of the heart, mind and soul of the community. Its work must be done carefully, following detailed instructions with accuracy and precision.
The danger isn’t only that the glue might get smeared; the danger is that the whole thing might collapse and bring us all down with it.
And so the instructions are given, repeatedly. The priests are are commanded, as we are, to be cautious about something as enormous and as powerful as God. Religion—no less than our bodies and souls—is no trifling matter.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, March 30, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
The Interweaving of Holiness: D’var Torah for Parashat Vayikra
The Interweaving of Holiness: D’var Torah for Parashat Vayikra
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 23, 2012
This week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, is also the Hebrew name of the third book of the Torah, Leviticus. Vayikra (Lev. 1:1-5:26) is the first portion of this book, and goes into action without even so much as a how-do-you-do. With the very first word of this parasha, God calls (“vayikra”) for Moses. In the Tent of Meeting, God issues a series of commands relating to the way sacrifices are to be offered.
At first directed only toward the officiating priest, these instructions soon extend to the layperson, the individual who brings the offering. An interrelationship immediately develops, as the one who brings the offering lays his hands on the animal’s head, transferring whatever purpose he may have had in mind, heart or soul to the animal being presented. The priest then takes over and lays his hands on the animal’s head, adding yet more purpose and dedication. Only then is the animal sacrificed. After disposing of the blood and other unusable parts, the majority of the meat (or grain, vegetable or fruit) of the sacrifice is used for feeding the priest as well as the larger community. Only a token of each offering is burnt completely at the altar, “as a gift of pleasing odor to Adonai.” Thus a circle of mutual responsibility is created, in which feeding the hungry is as important as “feeding God,” or accounting for a wrongdoing.
Specific reasons for offering a sacrifice are enumerated and explained in depth. There is the olah offering, a daily sacrifice offered every morning, the only sacrifice that is burnt completely. A guilt offering is shown to be different from a sin offering, being more of a response to an uneasy sense that something may have gone wrong though the intention was good. Actual sins, however, are quite another matter. They are actions taken—knowingly or not—that specifically contradict a commandment. Obviously bearing more severe consequences, the penalty for these is greater too.
Among the listed sins is that of withholding testimony. A person who can testify must do so, at the risk of incurring guilt if he or she doesn’t. Responsibility for justice isn’t just for individuals; it is a matter of concern for the whole community. Similarly, if a sin is somehow overlooked (how easy it is, in the daily hustle and bustle of life, to push aside a simple slight, possibly with the intent to make right it later, more likely to be forgotten a moment later); it is the right thing to do to bring the oversight to the attention of the one who sinned. A wrong—no matter how slight and seemingly unimportant—is still a wrong; its consequences linger on, causing greater harm the longer they remain unaddressed.
Correcting mistakes is the essence of Vayikra. Recognizing a wrong done to another person requires apology and restitution. If the wrong is also a breach of God’s law, a sacrifice is also required.
The priests are responsible not only for serving God. As the middleman between the lay person and God, they also serve the lay people who depend on them. The people bring to the priest their pleas and requests, asking him to present these before God. The priests, in return, hold the power to declare a person innocent, free of guilt and of further responsibility. They can declare an individual tahor, purified or healed—or conversely, tamei, unqualified to participate in public rituals or even to dwell in the midst of the community.
At the same time, the priests (descendants of Aaron, of the tribe of Levi, hence the English title of the book) must also be there for one another. The sacrifices have to be made according to regulation; veering from the exact specifications may cause any number of bad consequences. More mature priests will mentor the younger ones, instructing them both before and during the ritual.
Much in the same way is Torah chanted in our day. To the side of the person who is chanting the prescribed Torah portion stands the gabbai, the proofreader. This person follows the chanting word by word, vowel by vowel, making sure it is done correctly. Should the reader make a mistake, it’s the gabbai’s responsibility to correct him (or her, in the more liberal traditions). If both fail to note and correct a mistake, someone from the congregation needs to make the correction. It’s the whole community’s responsibility to make sure the Torah is read correctly.
Holiness is more than one individual’s state of mind or being. It’s more like a huge tallit that encompasses all who would seek shelter under it. It needs to be maintained by all of us—each within our sphere of influence, all of us guided by the sense of morality and righteousness planted within us as the Divine Image.
As the laws of holiness in Leviticus evolve, we learn that holiness isn’t contained to the Tent of Meeting. It isn’t just between God and Moses, or just between God and the priests. Holiness must be found in every aspect of our own daily lives—in the ways we treat one another; in the ways we interrelate with life all around us. The incredible view that Leviticus offers us is of the whole world, and indeed the whole universe, being holy. None of our actions, for better or for worse, is without consequence. Wrongs must be righted, or an imbalance might be created; a small wrong can—and will—get so much worse if left unattended.
Leviticus may have started out as a priestly manual. Its reach, however, soon extends to each one of us, enveloping us—if we so will—with holiness. We all become God’s priests, responsible for one another as well as for God and God’s Creation. We can all be holy—if we so choose.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 23, 2012
This week’s Torah portion, Vayikra, is also the Hebrew name of the third book of the Torah, Leviticus. Vayikra (Lev. 1:1-5:26) is the first portion of this book, and goes into action without even so much as a how-do-you-do. With the very first word of this parasha, God calls (“vayikra”) for Moses. In the Tent of Meeting, God issues a series of commands relating to the way sacrifices are to be offered.
At first directed only toward the officiating priest, these instructions soon extend to the layperson, the individual who brings the offering. An interrelationship immediately develops, as the one who brings the offering lays his hands on the animal’s head, transferring whatever purpose he may have had in mind, heart or soul to the animal being presented. The priest then takes over and lays his hands on the animal’s head, adding yet more purpose and dedication. Only then is the animal sacrificed. After disposing of the blood and other unusable parts, the majority of the meat (or grain, vegetable or fruit) of the sacrifice is used for feeding the priest as well as the larger community. Only a token of each offering is burnt completely at the altar, “as a gift of pleasing odor to Adonai.” Thus a circle of mutual responsibility is created, in which feeding the hungry is as important as “feeding God,” or accounting for a wrongdoing.
Specific reasons for offering a sacrifice are enumerated and explained in depth. There is the olah offering, a daily sacrifice offered every morning, the only sacrifice that is burnt completely. A guilt offering is shown to be different from a sin offering, being more of a response to an uneasy sense that something may have gone wrong though the intention was good. Actual sins, however, are quite another matter. They are actions taken—knowingly or not—that specifically contradict a commandment. Obviously bearing more severe consequences, the penalty for these is greater too.
Among the listed sins is that of withholding testimony. A person who can testify must do so, at the risk of incurring guilt if he or she doesn’t. Responsibility for justice isn’t just for individuals; it is a matter of concern for the whole community. Similarly, if a sin is somehow overlooked (how easy it is, in the daily hustle and bustle of life, to push aside a simple slight, possibly with the intent to make right it later, more likely to be forgotten a moment later); it is the right thing to do to bring the oversight to the attention of the one who sinned. A wrong—no matter how slight and seemingly unimportant—is still a wrong; its consequences linger on, causing greater harm the longer they remain unaddressed.
Correcting mistakes is the essence of Vayikra. Recognizing a wrong done to another person requires apology and restitution. If the wrong is also a breach of God’s law, a sacrifice is also required.
The priests are responsible not only for serving God. As the middleman between the lay person and God, they also serve the lay people who depend on them. The people bring to the priest their pleas and requests, asking him to present these before God. The priests, in return, hold the power to declare a person innocent, free of guilt and of further responsibility. They can declare an individual tahor, purified or healed—or conversely, tamei, unqualified to participate in public rituals or even to dwell in the midst of the community.
At the same time, the priests (descendants of Aaron, of the tribe of Levi, hence the English title of the book) must also be there for one another. The sacrifices have to be made according to regulation; veering from the exact specifications may cause any number of bad consequences. More mature priests will mentor the younger ones, instructing them both before and during the ritual.
Much in the same way is Torah chanted in our day. To the side of the person who is chanting the prescribed Torah portion stands the gabbai, the proofreader. This person follows the chanting word by word, vowel by vowel, making sure it is done correctly. Should the reader make a mistake, it’s the gabbai’s responsibility to correct him (or her, in the more liberal traditions). If both fail to note and correct a mistake, someone from the congregation needs to make the correction. It’s the whole community’s responsibility to make sure the Torah is read correctly.
Holiness is more than one individual’s state of mind or being. It’s more like a huge tallit that encompasses all who would seek shelter under it. It needs to be maintained by all of us—each within our sphere of influence, all of us guided by the sense of morality and righteousness planted within us as the Divine Image.
As the laws of holiness in Leviticus evolve, we learn that holiness isn’t contained to the Tent of Meeting. It isn’t just between God and Moses, or just between God and the priests. Holiness must be found in every aspect of our own daily lives—in the ways we treat one another; in the ways we interrelate with life all around us. The incredible view that Leviticus offers us is of the whole world, and indeed the whole universe, being holy. None of our actions, for better or for worse, is without consequence. Wrongs must be righted, or an imbalance might be created; a small wrong can—and will—get so much worse if left unattended.
Leviticus may have started out as a priestly manual. Its reach, however, soon extends to each one of us, enveloping us—if we so will—with holiness. We all become God’s priests, responsible for one another as well as for God and God’s Creation. We can all be holy—if we so choose.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, March 16, 2012
A Sacred Symphony
A Sacred Symphony
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayakel/Pekudei (Ex. 36:1-40:38)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
For my friends at Temple Israel, Boston
I wasn’t born a rabbi.
To be a rabbi, maybe. But born a rabbi—no.
I spent the first half of my professional life as a concert musician, a pianist. I would be lying if I told you, however, that I always enjoyed practicing. No, like all children, I hated practicing. It was boring, and I would much rather spend time with my friends outside. I did like to perform, however, and that’s what drove me on.
It wasn’t until I was in college that I learned how to practice in such a way that it became a joy, not a chore. I learned two important lessons then: First, that repetition of a piece from beginning to end isn’t practicing. It’s repetition. More important was pinpointing the exact difficulty, and fixing that. This little time-saver led to the next discovery: That each time you repeated a passage, you had to make it somehow different. Over a period of time, the best interpretation would emerge.
Practicing piano is, no doubt about it, time consuming (at least if you want to get good at it). There are so many details you need to pay attention to! Each one matters, and the piece as a whole can only be called “perfected” when all these details are mastered. That’s when you really know it.
But additionally, I also learned that sitting in the practice room wasn’t enough. You had to go out and live and experience life and the world so that you could make your music live! Art isn’t a recording. Art is a living experience, when done right.
No wonder that it sometimes took me years before I was finally satisfied with a particular performance or interpretation!
In just such a way was the Tabernacle built by the ancient Israelites as they were wandering in Sinai.
Piece by piece.
The list of required materials—all valuable—and all the specific designs, sizes and measurements sound like a very long shopping list at a Temple Depot Warehouse. Precious metals included gold, silver and copper; fine linen, silk, soft goat hair were spun to make the threads and tapestries; crimson, blue and purple—“royal” dyes—were the major color scheme; and expensive gems were used on the breast plate worn by the priest at the time he officiated services. The number and exact size of each plank and bar had to be specifically adhered to, and hundreds of hooks and gold, silver and copper clasps had to match up perfectly.
And let’s not forget the gorgeous tree-of-life-motif Menorah (the Temple’s seven-branched candelabra) and the Ark of the Covenant with its solid gold top depicting two angels facing one another, their wings spread forward, toward one another, simultaneously providing an additional cover for the Ark. (It’s from the narrow open space created between their wingtips, where they nearly touch one another, that God’s Voice, like some electromagnetic current, would emanate).
It’s a glorious vision, but those details! And to make it worse, the list is repeated several times during the last few portions of the Torah’s second book, Exodus.
But, of course, as they say, God is in the details.
And we’re not done yet! For following the listing of construction materials and specs, we get a similar treatment for the priests’ vestments, the clothing they would be wearing at the time they offered sacrifices. Made of basically the same designs, colors and materials (minus the hardware) as the Temple, these clothings gave a sense of uniformity to the whole endeavor. The Temple would be inhabited by the Presence of God; the garments were inhabited by the priest, the human equivalent of God’s Presence. Wearing these vestments would remind the Priest not only of where he was, but also what his function was.
Interestingly, sizes for these uniforms that the priests wore are nowhere specified. Each uniform would be sewn individually, a true and unique fitting adapted to just one individual. In countermeasure, as the priest functioned within the time and space that the Torah calls Holy, he had to adapt too. The priest, then, was the meeting point of form and function—the form was that of a human being; the function was to be a bridge to the Divine.
It was by paying attention to all life’s details that the Priest achieved his goal. By listening carefully to the plea of the layperson who came to offer prayer or supplication; by offering to God the poor man’s gift with as much care and respect as he would offer the rich diamond brought in by the important functionary. By carefully weighing out his words and measuring the food he could distribute to the poor and hungry. That’s how a priest contributed to creating a holy community and to living in a sacred world.
No amount of holy space or time can contain God, who is true infinity and eternity. However, in the span of time that we spend on this earth, when we become involved in the creation of holy space, when we mark off sacred times and seasons, when we help the needy and bring justice to the oppressed, we create a place for God within our life. Each mitzvah is another brick or plank in God’s Tabernacle. That’s what gives us meaning and purpose in God’s universe.
When we pay careful heed to the details of our life, we become the priests. When we engage in behavior that betters this world, we continue creating God’s Tabernacle.
That is how we “perfect” our life, much like an evolving work of art. Step by step, note by note, practicing until we do it just right.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayakel/Pekudei (Ex. 36:1-40:38)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
For my friends at Temple Israel, Boston
I wasn’t born a rabbi.
To be a rabbi, maybe. But born a rabbi—no.
I spent the first half of my professional life as a concert musician, a pianist. I would be lying if I told you, however, that I always enjoyed practicing. No, like all children, I hated practicing. It was boring, and I would much rather spend time with my friends outside. I did like to perform, however, and that’s what drove me on.
It wasn’t until I was in college that I learned how to practice in such a way that it became a joy, not a chore. I learned two important lessons then: First, that repetition of a piece from beginning to end isn’t practicing. It’s repetition. More important was pinpointing the exact difficulty, and fixing that. This little time-saver led to the next discovery: That each time you repeated a passage, you had to make it somehow different. Over a period of time, the best interpretation would emerge.
Practicing piano is, no doubt about it, time consuming (at least if you want to get good at it). There are so many details you need to pay attention to! Each one matters, and the piece as a whole can only be called “perfected” when all these details are mastered. That’s when you really know it.
But additionally, I also learned that sitting in the practice room wasn’t enough. You had to go out and live and experience life and the world so that you could make your music live! Art isn’t a recording. Art is a living experience, when done right.
No wonder that it sometimes took me years before I was finally satisfied with a particular performance or interpretation!
In just such a way was the Tabernacle built by the ancient Israelites as they were wandering in Sinai.
Piece by piece.
The list of required materials—all valuable—and all the specific designs, sizes and measurements sound like a very long shopping list at a Temple Depot Warehouse. Precious metals included gold, silver and copper; fine linen, silk, soft goat hair were spun to make the threads and tapestries; crimson, blue and purple—“royal” dyes—were the major color scheme; and expensive gems were used on the breast plate worn by the priest at the time he officiated services. The number and exact size of each plank and bar had to be specifically adhered to, and hundreds of hooks and gold, silver and copper clasps had to match up perfectly.
And let’s not forget the gorgeous tree-of-life-motif Menorah (the Temple’s seven-branched candelabra) and the Ark of the Covenant with its solid gold top depicting two angels facing one another, their wings spread forward, toward one another, simultaneously providing an additional cover for the Ark. (It’s from the narrow open space created between their wingtips, where they nearly touch one another, that God’s Voice, like some electromagnetic current, would emanate).
It’s a glorious vision, but those details! And to make it worse, the list is repeated several times during the last few portions of the Torah’s second book, Exodus.
But, of course, as they say, God is in the details.
And we’re not done yet! For following the listing of construction materials and specs, we get a similar treatment for the priests’ vestments, the clothing they would be wearing at the time they offered sacrifices. Made of basically the same designs, colors and materials (minus the hardware) as the Temple, these clothings gave a sense of uniformity to the whole endeavor. The Temple would be inhabited by the Presence of God; the garments were inhabited by the priest, the human equivalent of God’s Presence. Wearing these vestments would remind the Priest not only of where he was, but also what his function was.
Interestingly, sizes for these uniforms that the priests wore are nowhere specified. Each uniform would be sewn individually, a true and unique fitting adapted to just one individual. In countermeasure, as the priest functioned within the time and space that the Torah calls Holy, he had to adapt too. The priest, then, was the meeting point of form and function—the form was that of a human being; the function was to be a bridge to the Divine.
It was by paying attention to all life’s details that the Priest achieved his goal. By listening carefully to the plea of the layperson who came to offer prayer or supplication; by offering to God the poor man’s gift with as much care and respect as he would offer the rich diamond brought in by the important functionary. By carefully weighing out his words and measuring the food he could distribute to the poor and hungry. That’s how a priest contributed to creating a holy community and to living in a sacred world.
No amount of holy space or time can contain God, who is true infinity and eternity. However, in the span of time that we spend on this earth, when we become involved in the creation of holy space, when we mark off sacred times and seasons, when we help the needy and bring justice to the oppressed, we create a place for God within our life. Each mitzvah is another brick or plank in God’s Tabernacle. That’s what gives us meaning and purpose in God’s universe.
When we pay careful heed to the details of our life, we become the priests. When we engage in behavior that betters this world, we continue creating God’s Tabernacle.
That is how we “perfect” our life, much like an evolving work of art. Step by step, note by note, practicing until we do it just right.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, March 9, 2012
A Failure of Imagination
A Failure of Imagination: D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Tissa
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 9, 2012
Way up in the cliffs of Mt. Sinai, in an enraptured scene—one can imagine Moses shielding his eyes from the terrible fire and windstorm—God was writing down the Ten Commandments with God’s own hand. Simultaneously, down below, Aaron, Moses’s brother, acceding to the will of the Israelites, was busy creating for them a Golden Calf.
The irony of this downfall is bitter. It hasn’t been more than 100 days since the Israelites saw God’s mighty hand parting the Red Sea. Barely a week or two since they heard God’s very voice telling them not to create any molten imagery, not to worship any foreign gods. But just let Moses disappear a few days, and they forget everything, resorting to common imagery and immoral behavior.
Add to that the fact that in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa (Ex. 30:11-34:35), just prior to the Golden Calf incident, God had just finished giving Moses directions for building the Holy Tabernacle along with all the holy ritual tools—including the seven-branched candelabra, the famous gold Menorah. All of that is disregarded, however, as the rebellious Israelites cast all their gold jewelry into a great fire, and—in Aaron’s words—a golden calf randomly leaps out!
It’s a juxtaposition of two worlds, one the world the Israelites saw around them, in the behavior and practice of other peoples; the other, the world that God would have them imagine and create. In the first, sacred cows and divine bulls prompted fertility rites and even human sacrifice. It was a world in which nature—random and amoral—was the most powerful force around. To worship nature meant to participate—to take part in and mimic—the process of life-procreation-death that humans observed all around them. The powerful bull represented the physical and full potential of the anima, the spirit, within us. There was, there could be, no more.
But the world that God wanted us to live in was different. It was one of possibilities made real, a world of dreams and visions where humans transcended the animal within them and reached for the divine instead. It would be a new, improved world of justice, morality and compassion.
In the pagan world, the bull represented the finality of potential; in the world that Moses envisioned, God represents the eternality of potential. This isn’t the best of all possible worlds, Moses taught. But it is a starting point for something better.
The failure of the ancient Israelites to comprehend this is understandable. Used to specific and exact directions for every deed and action, their power of imagination has atrophied. The lofty goals Moses had set for them proved—at least for the moment—too high and inaccessible.
The sin of the Israelites was not in the failure of their faith, but rather in their failure to imagine. It’s useless to ask a newborn child to create a masterful work of art. The world God and Moses envisioned was—for the moment, at least—an impossibility. And so the people gave in to frustration, resorting to the kind of base rituals they saw others perform. That image of a bull in its infancy was all they were capable of seeing at that moment.
The fury with which God and Moses react initially is understandable, but to his great credit, Moses soon begins to defend the Israelites. He pleads their case, even resorts to an ultimatum: If God does not forgive Israel, Moses threatens to recuse himself, to retire from the role in history and theology that God had assigned him.
It’s a wonderful argument, full of pleading and finger pointing, accusation and recrimination. But little by little Moses gets his way. God will forgive the people; Moses will continue leading them; God will be in their midst—imageless, but imagined in as many ways as one can envision.
Having shattered to pieces the first set of carved Ten Commandments—the set God created with His own finger—Moses creates a new set. This time around, it’s in his own handwriting, made as legible as possible, the more easily to be deciphered and comprehended. Moses brings us to a new stage in our understanding of God. We humans are not expected to do what only God can—the creation of the world. All God can expect of us is to continue, painfully, laboriously, in the all-too-human work of improving it. That is to be—for all time—our role in God’s world.
It is in this Torah portion that we find the famous words we sing every Friday night: V’shamru v’nai Yisrael et ha-Shabbat: “The Children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to observe the Sabbath throughout their generations, for an eternal covenant. It is a sign between me and the Children of Israel for ever: for in six days Adonai made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day God rested, and was refreshed” (Ex. 31:16-17).
This eternal sign—Shabbat—is the foremost symbol of our partnership with God, forged in the fires of history. Not a golden calf or any other, lesser, image will do. Our connection to God is not material or physical. Its substance is that of which dreams and visions are created. Its realm is a promise waiting to be fulfilled. It reminds us of the possible, if we persevere; of the not-yet, but nonetheless eminent, if only we persist.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 9, 2012
Way up in the cliffs of Mt. Sinai, in an enraptured scene—one can imagine Moses shielding his eyes from the terrible fire and windstorm—God was writing down the Ten Commandments with God’s own hand. Simultaneously, down below, Aaron, Moses’s brother, acceding to the will of the Israelites, was busy creating for them a Golden Calf.
The irony of this downfall is bitter. It hasn’t been more than 100 days since the Israelites saw God’s mighty hand parting the Red Sea. Barely a week or two since they heard God’s very voice telling them not to create any molten imagery, not to worship any foreign gods. But just let Moses disappear a few days, and they forget everything, resorting to common imagery and immoral behavior.
Add to that the fact that in this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa (Ex. 30:11-34:35), just prior to the Golden Calf incident, God had just finished giving Moses directions for building the Holy Tabernacle along with all the holy ritual tools—including the seven-branched candelabra, the famous gold Menorah. All of that is disregarded, however, as the rebellious Israelites cast all their gold jewelry into a great fire, and—in Aaron’s words—a golden calf randomly leaps out!
It’s a juxtaposition of two worlds, one the world the Israelites saw around them, in the behavior and practice of other peoples; the other, the world that God would have them imagine and create. In the first, sacred cows and divine bulls prompted fertility rites and even human sacrifice. It was a world in which nature—random and amoral—was the most powerful force around. To worship nature meant to participate—to take part in and mimic—the process of life-procreation-death that humans observed all around them. The powerful bull represented the physical and full potential of the anima, the spirit, within us. There was, there could be, no more.
But the world that God wanted us to live in was different. It was one of possibilities made real, a world of dreams and visions where humans transcended the animal within them and reached for the divine instead. It would be a new, improved world of justice, morality and compassion.
In the pagan world, the bull represented the finality of potential; in the world that Moses envisioned, God represents the eternality of potential. This isn’t the best of all possible worlds, Moses taught. But it is a starting point for something better.
The failure of the ancient Israelites to comprehend this is understandable. Used to specific and exact directions for every deed and action, their power of imagination has atrophied. The lofty goals Moses had set for them proved—at least for the moment—too high and inaccessible.
The sin of the Israelites was not in the failure of their faith, but rather in their failure to imagine. It’s useless to ask a newborn child to create a masterful work of art. The world God and Moses envisioned was—for the moment, at least—an impossibility. And so the people gave in to frustration, resorting to the kind of base rituals they saw others perform. That image of a bull in its infancy was all they were capable of seeing at that moment.
The fury with which God and Moses react initially is understandable, but to his great credit, Moses soon begins to defend the Israelites. He pleads their case, even resorts to an ultimatum: If God does not forgive Israel, Moses threatens to recuse himself, to retire from the role in history and theology that God had assigned him.
It’s a wonderful argument, full of pleading and finger pointing, accusation and recrimination. But little by little Moses gets his way. God will forgive the people; Moses will continue leading them; God will be in their midst—imageless, but imagined in as many ways as one can envision.
Having shattered to pieces the first set of carved Ten Commandments—the set God created with His own finger—Moses creates a new set. This time around, it’s in his own handwriting, made as legible as possible, the more easily to be deciphered and comprehended. Moses brings us to a new stage in our understanding of God. We humans are not expected to do what only God can—the creation of the world. All God can expect of us is to continue, painfully, laboriously, in the all-too-human work of improving it. That is to be—for all time—our role in God’s world.
It is in this Torah portion that we find the famous words we sing every Friday night: V’shamru v’nai Yisrael et ha-Shabbat: “The Children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to observe the Sabbath throughout their generations, for an eternal covenant. It is a sign between me and the Children of Israel for ever: for in six days Adonai made heaven and earth, and on the seventh day God rested, and was refreshed” (Ex. 31:16-17).
This eternal sign—Shabbat—is the foremost symbol of our partnership with God, forged in the fires of history. Not a golden calf or any other, lesser, image will do. Our connection to God is not material or physical. Its substance is that of which dreams and visions are created. Its realm is a promise waiting to be fulfilled. It reminds us of the possible, if we persevere; of the not-yet, but nonetheless eminent, if only we persist.
©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
Friday, March 2, 2012
The Power of the Past
The Power of the Past
D’var Torah for Shabbat Zachor
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 2, 2012
In 1947, two years after the end of the Holocaust and World War II, my father received a letter from his brother. It was actually written four years earlier, but because of the war, it wasn’t sent until postal services resumed.
The letter detailed the deaths of my father’s family during the Holocaust. He had a father, mother, two brothers and a sister, all of whom were murdered by the Germans. The uncle I never met wrote this letter on his way to Auschwitz. He managed to somehow smuggle it to a Polish neighbor, asking him to mail it to my father. He gave no address; smartly, the Polish man sent it to an Israeli newspaper which somehow found my father in the kibbutz where he lived at the time.
The letter changed my father forever. I won’t discuss the many ways, just focus on the role that memory played in his life from that day on.
Memory became a kind of religion to him. Though my parents started a new life in Israel, built a home and raised a family there, the past was never far behind them. I remember how my father, sitting down to a meal, used to bury his face in his hands and, after a moment of silence, heave a deep sigh before allowing himself to begin eating. Was he praying, I once asked him. No, he said. He was talking with his mother and father.
When my children were growing up, at bedtime he would tell them tales of heroism featuring his brothers and sister and a long-gone dog named Lordie.
And every couple of years he would send me a postcard with just one message on it: “Remember that which Amalek did to you.”
Amalek was one of the tribes the Israelites encountered during their 40 years of wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness following their Exodus from Egypt. The difference between Amalek and all the others was that Amalek waged war against the Israelites. They attacked by night, by stealth and—much, much worse—they struck at the rear of the camp. This was where the stragglers were: the weak, the ill, the ones who had lost hope. The very ones we are commanded by the Torah, as sacred, holy deeds, as mitzvahs, to reach a hand to and help. What Amalek had done was the exact opposite of holy. It was evil.
Memory is a major pillar of Judaism. We commemorate our liberation from Egyptian bondage by reciting the haggadah at the Passover Seder. We remember how Mordechai and Esther saved the Jews of Persia from persecution when we tell the story of Purim. Hanukkah retells our miraculous victory over our Greek oppressors. And Shabbat, of course, ties us ever closer to the Eternal by reminding us of our obligation to participate in Tikkun Olam, the completion and repair of God’s unfinished business of Creation.
The act of remembering, however, isn’t so simple. It’s more than just reading and re-reading a story. Memory is triggered by many agents. Smell is a big memory-trigger. It can take you back years! So can pictures, stories, music, words and traditions.
How do we remember something we did not participate in? And more—why should we remember something we weren’t a part of, that wasn’t a part of our personal experience?
Because everything that has happened in the past really is part of our experience, in that it helped shape us. There is no question that I—and millions of other 2nd and 3rd generation survivors of the Holocaust—can’t possibly know what it was really like to be hunted, to forage for food in the daytime or look for safe shelter as the afternoon turned into evening. But the emotions—even the memories—associated with these experiences can be transferred. The anger, the hurt, the fear—these become a part of who we are as much as they will always be a part of those who physically lived that moment.
Our memories—our past which we carry with us wherever we go—are part and parcel of who we are.
In the last 2000 years and more, there were many who attempted to annihilate the Jewish people physically. I won’t go through the list. But just as many were those who tried to destroy us spiritually by erasing our memory. See what the Inquisition tried to do to our people in the 15th and 16th centuries. It wasn’t enough to burn us as heretics, or expel us from one country after another as unwanted, untrustworthy pariahs. They forced those who remained behind to renounce their past, to take on a religion that wasn’t theirs. To leave their memories behind. To forget their past.
In Czarist Russia and under Communism, after the bloody pogroms came the equally destructive orders to stop the practice and teaching of Hebrew and Judaism. To stop being Jewish.
Such efforts—to claim our Jewish past and erase it—still continue this day. In the posthumous baptism by some well-meaning Mormons of the souls of Jewish victims of terror and the Holocaust; in the denial by Arabs—and others—of the ancient ties between Jews and the Land of Israel; indeed, in the very denial that the Holocaust ever happened. These, among others, are some of the ways in which some people try to make us forget who we are.
I know how to defend myself against those who would rise up and kill me. But how do I resist those who would take my soul from me? My past? My memories?
Simple—by remembering. By actively recalling the past and retelling it. By singing it. By cooking and eating traditional foods. By studying the texts—the stories, legends and laws that shaped us as a people. And by teaching them to next generation of Jews, and the one after that.
Purim tells the story of Esther, a heroine who wasn’t always so heroic. Told by her uncle, Mordechai, to hide her past, she was all too willing to comply. It was dangerous to reveal that she was Jewish. It could mean that all the luxury, power and comfort which now surrounded her would be stripped from her. And so she complied. She buried her past, leaving it behind as so much unwanted baggage, and she tried her best to become something she really wasn’t. Esther became a hero only once she realized that her own personal danger was far less than the danger of total annihilation that her whole people faced. And so she remembered her ancestry and tradition. She embraced her hidden past. At that moment, her role became clear to her, and the strength of generations of warriors and survivors came to her aid. And that’s how Esther became the hero of our people.
This Shabbat, the Sabbath before Purim, is called Shabbat Zachor, reinforcing the commandment zachor, “Remember!” On this Shabbat, we learn and recall Esther’s lesson: That our past is not a burden. Rather, it is our might. By remembering, we discover the wells of strength that lie within us. That is the secret of our perseverance through the ages. May it help us persevere in the future as well.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
D’var Torah for Shabbat Zachor
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman
March 2, 2012
In 1947, two years after the end of the Holocaust and World War II, my father received a letter from his brother. It was actually written four years earlier, but because of the war, it wasn’t sent until postal services resumed.
The letter detailed the deaths of my father’s family during the Holocaust. He had a father, mother, two brothers and a sister, all of whom were murdered by the Germans. The uncle I never met wrote this letter on his way to Auschwitz. He managed to somehow smuggle it to a Polish neighbor, asking him to mail it to my father. He gave no address; smartly, the Polish man sent it to an Israeli newspaper which somehow found my father in the kibbutz where he lived at the time.
The letter changed my father forever. I won’t discuss the many ways, just focus on the role that memory played in his life from that day on.
Memory became a kind of religion to him. Though my parents started a new life in Israel, built a home and raised a family there, the past was never far behind them. I remember how my father, sitting down to a meal, used to bury his face in his hands and, after a moment of silence, heave a deep sigh before allowing himself to begin eating. Was he praying, I once asked him. No, he said. He was talking with his mother and father.
When my children were growing up, at bedtime he would tell them tales of heroism featuring his brothers and sister and a long-gone dog named Lordie.
And every couple of years he would send me a postcard with just one message on it: “Remember that which Amalek did to you.”
Amalek was one of the tribes the Israelites encountered during their 40 years of wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness following their Exodus from Egypt. The difference between Amalek and all the others was that Amalek waged war against the Israelites. They attacked by night, by stealth and—much, much worse—they struck at the rear of the camp. This was where the stragglers were: the weak, the ill, the ones who had lost hope. The very ones we are commanded by the Torah, as sacred, holy deeds, as mitzvahs, to reach a hand to and help. What Amalek had done was the exact opposite of holy. It was evil.
Memory is a major pillar of Judaism. We commemorate our liberation from Egyptian bondage by reciting the haggadah at the Passover Seder. We remember how Mordechai and Esther saved the Jews of Persia from persecution when we tell the story of Purim. Hanukkah retells our miraculous victory over our Greek oppressors. And Shabbat, of course, ties us ever closer to the Eternal by reminding us of our obligation to participate in Tikkun Olam, the completion and repair of God’s unfinished business of Creation.
The act of remembering, however, isn’t so simple. It’s more than just reading and re-reading a story. Memory is triggered by many agents. Smell is a big memory-trigger. It can take you back years! So can pictures, stories, music, words and traditions.
How do we remember something we did not participate in? And more—why should we remember something we weren’t a part of, that wasn’t a part of our personal experience?
Because everything that has happened in the past really is part of our experience, in that it helped shape us. There is no question that I—and millions of other 2nd and 3rd generation survivors of the Holocaust—can’t possibly know what it was really like to be hunted, to forage for food in the daytime or look for safe shelter as the afternoon turned into evening. But the emotions—even the memories—associated with these experiences can be transferred. The anger, the hurt, the fear—these become a part of who we are as much as they will always be a part of those who physically lived that moment.
Our memories—our past which we carry with us wherever we go—are part and parcel of who we are.
In the last 2000 years and more, there were many who attempted to annihilate the Jewish people physically. I won’t go through the list. But just as many were those who tried to destroy us spiritually by erasing our memory. See what the Inquisition tried to do to our people in the 15th and 16th centuries. It wasn’t enough to burn us as heretics, or expel us from one country after another as unwanted, untrustworthy pariahs. They forced those who remained behind to renounce their past, to take on a religion that wasn’t theirs. To leave their memories behind. To forget their past.
In Czarist Russia and under Communism, after the bloody pogroms came the equally destructive orders to stop the practice and teaching of Hebrew and Judaism. To stop being Jewish.
Such efforts—to claim our Jewish past and erase it—still continue this day. In the posthumous baptism by some well-meaning Mormons of the souls of Jewish victims of terror and the Holocaust; in the denial by Arabs—and others—of the ancient ties between Jews and the Land of Israel; indeed, in the very denial that the Holocaust ever happened. These, among others, are some of the ways in which some people try to make us forget who we are.
I know how to defend myself against those who would rise up and kill me. But how do I resist those who would take my soul from me? My past? My memories?
Simple—by remembering. By actively recalling the past and retelling it. By singing it. By cooking and eating traditional foods. By studying the texts—the stories, legends and laws that shaped us as a people. And by teaching them to next generation of Jews, and the one after that.
Purim tells the story of Esther, a heroine who wasn’t always so heroic. Told by her uncle, Mordechai, to hide her past, she was all too willing to comply. It was dangerous to reveal that she was Jewish. It could mean that all the luxury, power and comfort which now surrounded her would be stripped from her. And so she complied. She buried her past, leaving it behind as so much unwanted baggage, and she tried her best to become something she really wasn’t. Esther became a hero only once she realized that her own personal danger was far less than the danger of total annihilation that her whole people faced. And so she remembered her ancestry and tradition. She embraced her hidden past. At that moment, her role became clear to her, and the strength of generations of warriors and survivors came to her aid. And that’s how Esther became the hero of our people.
This Shabbat, the Sabbath before Purim, is called Shabbat Zachor, reinforcing the commandment zachor, “Remember!” On this Shabbat, we learn and recall Esther’s lesson: That our past is not a burden. Rather, it is our might. By remembering, we discover the wells of strength that lie within us. That is the secret of our perseverance through the ages. May it help us persevere in the future as well.
© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman
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