Keeping the Fire Burning: Tzav

Keeping the Fire Burning

D’var Torah for Parashat Tzav

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Parashat Tzav (“Command”), Leviticus 6:1—8:36, contains intricate laws regarding the sacrifice ritual.  These directions are given in context of the ordination of the priests, the ritual that separated them from the rest of the Israelites and culminated in their becoming consecrated to work at the Tabernacle. 

Yet before the description of any of the sacrifices, however, comes the commandment to keep the altar’s fire going day and night.

As I taught this portion to my 6^th grade class last Thursday, almost to a one, they were intrigued by this mitzvah more than all the other commandments this parasha contains. “What if it rains?” asked one.  “What happens when you have to move,” was another question.

Perhaps they were goading me somewhat, as 6^th graders have been known to do.  Yet the questions expressed not only their budding need to defy authority, but also their natural curiosity.  The questions showed that they were thinking, not merely absorbing like sponges.  These young, smart students intrinsically understood the challenge that this commandment posed.  It wasn’t going to be easy or straight forward.

Beyond the obvious perks and social status associated with the position of being a cohen—a priest—it was actually hard work.  It demanded meticulous attention to detail, but also other responsibilities, physical, spiritual and psychological.  Bridging the chasm between God and humans was not easy.  It was a charge that could be filled with its own dangers (as we will see in a couple of portions).  It was a task that only a priest could perform—not from a distance, not through an intermediary, but personally, by himself.  As with similar professions in our own day, being a priest in ancient days required the ability to listen, to hear, to be of support.  Only a priest could absolve a person of guilt.  And only a priest—if for no other reason than that he lived and worked in closer proximity to the Divine—could bring your story or petition up to God and ask for intercession.

The elevated position of the priest could, of course, lead to greed and abuse of power.  There were definite perks—outright gifts as well as choice portions of certain sacrifices.  But the tasks weren’t always pleasant, either.  Visiting or diagnosing the sick for the various ailments, encouraging the weak and disheartened, comforting the bereaved and providing guidance to the lost demanded compassion and understanding.  A priest driven by his own ego or who was in pursuit of glory or honor was doomed to failure.

The precarious position of the priest was highlighted by one of the last steps in the process of his ordination.  For seven days and seven nights, the novice priest had to stay just outside the Tent of Meeting.  Not one of the ordinary folk anymore, nor yet a priest, he was somehow part of both camps.  With one foot in this world and the other, as it were, in the next, the priest being initiated was learning to be attentive less to his own needs and more to those of God and the people he would serve.

I remember the days when I was considering becoming a rabbi, nearly 20 years ago.  I was thinking of leaving the familiar behind me and starting something new, something I knew about yet had never experienced myself.  I consulted with many people—friends, family and mentors.  Standing out from all the other words of advice I received was the guidance given me by Rabbi Dr. Norman Cohen, who—if I’m not mistaken—was then Dean of Students or perhaps already Provost at Hebrew Union College in New York.  After advising me of the challenges and difficulties of a mid-life career change, Rabbi Cohen told me, “If you have a fire burning in your belly, go ahead and do it.”

The moment he said these words, I knew I would have to follow through. 

It was the fire.

Three times in this portion, Parashat Tzav, God commands that the fire on the altar not be allowed to go out.  It’s no simple matter.  As my students pointed out, it could be raining.  The wind could make the sparks burn out of control—or die.  How do you make sure the fire goes on burning even when you move?  How do you carry it with you wherever you go? How do you protect it?

How many times have we seen the spark nearly die out?  Twice when the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed.  Many times more since then.  Yet, both in our own Land of Israel and throughout our communities in the Diaspora, despite all the cultural changes and influences, the assimilation, the ghetto-ization, we made sure the spark burned on.  Even the Holocaust could not suppress the sacred flame—once we learned how to take care of it.

So what’s the secret?  How do we fulfill the words of this precious commandment?

We internalize the flame.  We carry it inside us.  We nourish it daily, weekly or perhaps even only once a year.  We protect it with our minds, hearts and bodies, carrying it with us on all our journeys, wherever we pitch our tents.  And we pass it on to our children with the same admonition with which we received it—do not let the fire burn out; day and night it must burn on the altar; it shall not go out.

I think my students last Thursday got the message.  Now it isn’t all up to me anymore.  Now, even before they become full-fledged k’lei kodesh—instruments of holiness—themselves, a year before their own bar or bat mitzvah, the ceremony of their ordination as adults in the Sacred Community of Israel, they assume responsibility for this fire.  Let them mull over that for a year or two—or perhaps for the rest of their lives. 

How do we maintain the fire and keep it burning?

Any way we can.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

What Moses Wrote—and The Rabbis Wrought: Va-Yikra

What Moses Wrote—and The Rabbis Wrought

D’var Torah for Parashat Va-Yikra

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion bears the name of the book which it opens:  Va-Yikra, Leviticus.

God “calls out” for Moses from the Tent of Meeting and issues directions regarding the sacrifices that people may bring.

Who may offer the sacrifice, what the gift must be, where it is to be offered and who gets what piece of it—these are only some of the details that this book lists (again and again).  I admit—it’s pretty gory stuff, primitive and even tribal.

The good news is that the Torah regulates sacrifices to such extent that the ritual is doomed to extinction and eventually ends.  Once the Temple is destroyed—first, temporarily, by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, then, to this day, by the Romans in the year 70 CE—the sacrificial cult must, and does, end.

Yet we study Va-Yikra with as much reverence as the other books of the Torah.  It’s actually the first text that Jewish children studied when they began learning Torah in the cheider, the one-room Hebrew school of the old days.  What accounts for such sweet devotion to such an antiquated book? 

There’s a huge lesson there. 

What we learn in Leviticus and what we remember even after all the other minutiae of the sacrifices are forgotten, is that we are never really alone; that there are other people around; that we are surrounded by—and are a part of—Nature; that even when we think we cannot be seen, God sees all.  And that our deeds, no matter how seemingly small, matter; that we do leave an impact on everything and everyone around us.

As soon as we understand the importance of this teaching, as soon as we realize and remember that actions bear consequences, we become at once wiser and more mature.

Va-Yikra teaches us that we must recognize and be thankful to God when we have occasions of joy; when we recover from illness; when we see a child become bar or bat mitzvah; when he or she is accepted to the college of their choice; and when they wed and begin a life of their own.  Not to be taken for granted, these mileposts in our life represent the sum total of our effort as individuals and as parents, partners in the ongoing act of Creation.  They are moments at which we should stop to reconsider ourselves and our place in universe.

For such moments, Va-Yikra has us offer a feast of well-being and thanksgiving.

But there are also times when we fail to be our best.  When by accident or purpose, by neglect or intent, we miss the mark, and the choices we make lead us to deeds that require reparation, or the work of repair. 

For these occasions, Va-Yikra is a training manual:  such-and-such sin requires such-and-such repair.  The book teaches us to evaluate our actions, to consider the consequences of everything we do.  Our deeds do affect others, and—it’s essential to realize—as much as hurt can be inflicted to our bodies, so can there be injury done to our hearts and to our souls.  Each has its own repair ritual.

Mistakes, of course, are different from deliberate wrongs, yet they too require consideration and repair.  The wrong has to be made right again.

But Va-Yikra takes us farther.  It has us understand that our actions reverberate even beyond ourselves.  Sometimes, inaction is as loud as anything we say or do.  So, for example, any community’s silence in the face of prejudice or a hate crime signifies compliance.  Our failure to cry foul makes all of us partners and willing accomplices with the actual perpetrator.  

And of course, the consequences of a leader’s action extend far beyond him- or herself, for the simple fact that society looks up to the leader for both direction and example. 

Called by God to instruct the people, Moses does just so.  He teaches us to measure ourselves by the highest standards.  More importantly, he teaches us that when we don’t quite measure up, when we fail to pass muster, we have to try again and again—until we succeed.

Alas, the Temple in Jerusalem is gone, and with it a much-detailed ritual that once connected us with God.  How do we close the circuit now that this path is closed?  Here is where the ancient Rabbis picked up.

Once sacrifices ended, the Rabbis substituted something else.  Actually, three things:  First, prayer.  It’s simple.  We pray to God to offer thanks or to beg forgiveness and ask for another chance. 

Second, we study.  By studying Va-Yikra we learn and reinforce the astute lessons of justice and morality that God and Moses intended for us.

Third, we offer sacrifice.  To be sure, we don’t kill animals and splatter their blood any more (and that’s just fine by me, thank you), but we do cook a meal for the hungry, we do offer shelter for the weary and homeless.  And we do offer of our own resources to build synagogues, schools, hospitals and courts of law.

The sacrifice ritual may have come to an end; but the thinking behind it has not.  The instruction of Moses and the Rabbis still resounds today.  Evaluating our life at every point makes us better equipped for what may come next.  The sacrifices we offer every day—whether of our money, time or effort—make us and the group around us better.  That is the everlasting teaching of Va-Yikra, and it is to this teaching we dedicate our lives and the lives of our children.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Sacred Common Ground--Vayakhel

A Sacred Common Ground

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayakhel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

One of the most influential books I read in high school was Lord of the Flies by William Golding.  The finely honed characters and well crafted story line totally captivated me.  It was with great excitement that I went to see the movie version (the first one, in black and white), which I found no less stimulating than the book.  (I now show the movie to our temple’s 9^th grade class, and the discussions that follow it are always spirited.)

Of course, it isn’t only the story or characters that make this book so memorable.  Granted, Ralph, Simon, Jack and Piggy are unforgettable.  But what really elicits discussion is Golding’s philosophy, which holds that people are inherently evil, or at least malicious.  Piggy’s argument for a civilized society is ultimately rejected as chaos breaks out.

Jewish philosophy isn’t as pessimistic as Golding’s.  Yes, there is an evil urge (yetzer hara) in every human being, but there also is an equal measure of the good urge (yetzer ha-tov).  Each of us has the option of exercising the one or the other, and the outcome of our choice is what ultimately determines whether we are “good” or “bad” people. 

Society is regulated by the same rules as individuals, though as members of a larger group individuals are easily influenced by others.  Group mentality seems to dictate or at least direct our choices, and as we give in to fashions or trends, we become something less than unique individuals.  Proof in point is mass hysteria, or those terrifying grainy films showing the thousands and thousands of Germans at Nazi rallies cheering and raising their arm in the Nazi salute in unison.

As unique individuals yet also the social animals that we are, most of us strive to achieve a delicate balance between being true to ourselves and acting as part of a larger whole.  But how do we best achieve this balance?  How do we create a society that works together, that identifies itself as one nation or culture, yet which also manages to retain each member’s individuality and uniqueness?

That is Moses’ task in the book of Exodus, the second book of the Torah. As the Israelites leave Egypt, they are described as erev rav, “a mixed multitude.” Later, in the book of Numbers, they are described as asafsuf, a wonderful Hebrew word meaning “rabble,” “mob” or “crowd.”  Unruly, unmanageable, when they leave Egypt the Israelites are disorganized; they are more like escaped prisoners than an orderly and organized camp.

As Exodus comes to its close, however, (this week’s reading, Vayak’hel-P’kudei, is a double portion consisting of the last six chapters), the process of the Israelites’ change from rabble to people reaches its conclusion too.

As Moses convenes the entire congregation of the People of Israel—va-yak-hel Moshe et kol ‘adat b’nai Yisrael—he gives them one last and great gift.  One could say that the Israelites received many gifts as they left Egypt.  First there was all the gold and silver given them by their one-time masters, the Egyptians.  Then came the Ten Commandments, followed by innumerable further laws and commandments.  But none of these was as great as this one.  Yes, gold and silver enable us to live with greater comfort and (at times) fewer worries; but ultimately they weigh us down.  And Commandments, no matter how holy or good, are still orders.  Do this, observe that, don’t do the other.  That hardly qualifies as freedom, as any kid will attest.

So what is it that Moses gives the Israelites at this point?  He gives them meaning and purpose. 

At the command of God, Moses has the Israelites build a temple.  But even as they fashion a glorious dwelling place for God in their midst, one made of the richest and most opulent physical materials, they also create a holy spiritual space in their hearts and souls. 

Over and over, the instructions—given by God, transmitted by Moses—instruct the people to bring what they can.  Those that have gold bring that; those that have goats or sheep bring the wool for the weaving of thread; those who can weave, sew or embroider bring these special talents.  Key, however, is not only the material goods that the people offer to the common task.  It is their free will.

There are several ways to unite a group of individuals.  The scariest of these is through brain-washing.  Through constant repetition, thoughtless and automatic, individuals turn into cogs in a machine.  Losing their souls, they become no more than automatons, robots in the service of some ultimate master.

At no point does our God require the Israelites to give anything up—least of all any part of their humanity.  To the contrary, Moses defines humanity as our ability to transcend the animal in us, to reach for a higher standard of goodness, and he makes that our most treasured possession.  Helping those who need our help, assisting the weak and needy, raising the fallen, loving the unloved—that is Moses’s definition of holiness.  This tent that the people erect in their midst, no matter how magnificent and lavish, is merely symbolic of the highest and most magnificent sanctuary that each of us contains within ourselves.

It is this understanding of the divine presence within us that is Moses’s final gift, the one that unites Israel in time and space.  It is this which elevates us, which completes our makeover from slaves to free human beings.  True, each of us is only part of a larger whole.  Yet, blessed with unique ability, talent and gift, each one of us is also a meeting place, a Tabernacle where God and “I” meet, a sacred common ground where all creation intersects and becomes One.

Yes, we have the ability to choose to profane that which is sacred within us, to void it of beauty, meaning and sanctity.  We can even go further and choose to act upon our yetzer hara, our evil inclination.  But when we do that, we debase our humanity, our glory.

Yes, William Golding was right.  The beast truly is within us.  Yet it is also in our power to choose to be human, which is to say, divine.  Ultimately the choice is ours.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Right To Rise Up Again--Ki Tissa

The Right To Rise Up Again

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Tissa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa, contains one of the most important lessons of the Torah.  It is the story of the Golden Calf, of how Moses shatters the two Tablets of the Law written by God’s own hand and then has to fast for 40 days and 40 nights while rewriting the whole thing in his own hand.

In this portion is the moment of our greatest downfall as the startup nation that we were.  Barely a year out of Egypt, having committed ourselves to God, bound by a sworn covenant, we turned to worshipping a golden calf.  Ironically, we did this at exactly the same moment that Moses was receiving the Ten Commandments from the hands of God up on top of Mt. Sinai.

There have been many attempts to understand this fall.  It wasn’t a new God we were seeking, only an image we could rely on, whose presence would rally us just by being there. Moses, the conduit by which God’s voice could be heard and understood, disappeared in the smoky crevices of that awesome mountain.   With him gone, a vacuum appeared where God’s presence should have been.

There is more rage expressed in this incident than anywhere else in the Torah.  God is furious with Israel.  Moses is furious with Israel.  He is frustrated by their failure to see God’s presence the way he could—face to face.  He blames his own frailties, but he also realizes that God must give in a little. 

It takes all the powers of persuasion Moses has to dissuade God from destroying Israel. 

It is in our nature to fail, Moses reminds God.  Yet it is also our gift and therefore our right to be given a second chance.  Without that, there can be no uplift, no redemption, no continuation of the work God expects us to do, the work of Tikkun Olam—the Repair of the World.  Completing—or at the very least, carrying on—the work of Creation is the task God entrusts to humanity.  Forbearance, patience and the ability to give another chance is what Moses requires of God in return.  With it, we can rise and rise again to the challenge.   Knowing we might fail shouldn’t deter us as long as we know that we can learn from the mistake and move on from there.     

God agrees to the terms established by Moses.

But the people are still without a leader, without the presence of the Almighty within them. 

Moreover, Moses had smashed the Tablets of the Law written by God’s hand—the ultimate physical and material proof of God’s presence.

Israel will need a sign of the Covenant, of the treaty and promise that God and the people make to one another.

Then they will need further guidance.

The sign of the Covenant we receive at this point is as un-material as the first set of Ten Commandments had been set in stone.  It is Shabbat.

Shabbat isn’t merely another day.  Infused with God’s spirit, when we observe Shabbat we bring God into our daily—weekly—life.  It is the spirit of the day that makes it Holy, which is not of any physical material, yet surrounds us as completely as air or water. 

Shabbat holiness is the glow which the candles spread, the light that gleams from the soup before us, the love that flows between us.  The words of “V’shamru,” the Shabbat song we love, come from this portion:  V’shamru v’nei Yisrael et Hashabbat… l’dorotam b’rit ‘olam (“The children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to observe the Sabbath throughout their generations as a perpetual covenant,” Ex. 31:16). 

As long as we observe Shabbat, God dwells within us.

And the guidance for the future?  For when we fail, which we are bound to do again and again?

For that we are given another second chance—a second set of the Ten Commandments, this one written by Moses, not God.  This is a human version, one to match our abilities as well as our frailties, one that commands us, but that also graciously accepts our attempts to understand it, to follow its words.

The Torah’s laws are meant for humans.  Many of them are for the proper observance of the holy days, but even more are for those days when we don’t surround ourselves with Torah and prayer.  These laws are meant for those long hours and days when we tread along the paths that life takes us.   They remind us of home and tradition, but they also remind us to behave in a kindly manner in any surrounding. 

The epitome of these laws is found in Ex. 34:26:  “You shall not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.”  This pillar of the dietary Kashrut laws, which we understand as forbidding the consumption of meat and milk products cooked or served together, serves two functions.  First, it reminds us of our identity as a people.  You are what you eat.  But this law also reminds us of the ability within us to be compassionate. 

We pray that God might be compassionate toward us, despite our many failings.  That’s the very least we should expect from ourselves too—to feel the pain of another living creature, to be compassionate.

Compassion is the opposite of arrogance.  In a universe described as uncaring, Moses enabled us to perceive a far greater power—a power that can forgive, a power that can give a second chance, that can grant us the ability to rise again.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman