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 9th 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
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