A Delicate Balance
D’var Torah for
Parashat Bamidbar
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
On a radio program I listened to this afternoon, they were
interviewing Saul Perlmutter, the astrophysicist who shared the 2011 Nobel Prize in physics for proving not only that the universe was expanding, but that
the rate of this expansion was actually accelerating.
The cosmic picture Prof. Perlmutter painted was of galaxies,
and even clusters of galaxies, all held together by one force—the force of
gravity—while at the same time struggling with yet another force, a sort of
“dark energy” that was forcing the whole structure to pull apart, to spin up
and away from the black hole that lay at the bottom of the downward spiral.
As the interview proceeded with humor and intelligence, the
audience was made to realize that this process, this conflict of contraction
and expansion, is measured on a scale of billions of years, while we, finite
mortals that we are, concern ourselves with what might happen tomorrow or the
day after. It’s all a matter of
perspective, I guess.
And
yet, the cosmic lesson is actually not inappropriate to our own,
infinitesimally tinier, existence. We may
not perceive the motion of the earth beneath us, but we are not unaffected by
the chaos that often results.
Chaos
is all around us—and in fact actually seems to increase at an alarming
pace! Of course, it could all be an
illusion. Maybe human existence never
was calm, now or ever. Wars, revolutions
and other human conflicts have always competed with natural phenomena to see
which would result in greater adversity.
Could it be said about any age, that in such and such a time people lived
in absolute peace and security, without fear of chaos erupting all around
them?
I
think not.
The
annals of history are filled with scenes of war, terror and brutality. Along with major cataclysmic events there are
also everyday struggles with neighbors or even family members. Life has always been, and always will be a
precarious balance.
It
is against this harsh reality that the fourth book of the Torah, Numbers (Bamidbar, “in the wilderness”), is
set. A shimmering jewel in an otherwise
forbidding wilderness, the first portion of this book (also called Bamidbar, chapters 1:1—4:20) is a
picture of an impossibly ideal world.
It’s
a world where everybody has a place, everybody has a role; a world where
everybody counts and everyone has a valuable purpose. In such a world, no one is disgruntled or
dissatisfied. Everybody knows what is
expected of him or her, and everybody does just so. “Thus the children of Israel did; according
to all that Adonai commanded Moses, so they did (Num. 1:54).
It’s
a perfect world, a world that is perfectly impossible.
And
yet, one that exists. If only for a
moment, suspended in time, hanging precariously in the balance between collapse
and expansion, there are examples of flawless existence, where everything is in
place, everything exists in its time.
I
remember a time many years ago, when I was serving in the Israeli army. I was a medic, and fortunate enough to have
served only during peacetime. Yet, that
particular day was especially harrowing as I recall it. At the end of the day I felt fatigued and
frazzled, and still ahead of me was all the paperwork I needed to do before I
could go to sleep: so many people seen in the course of the day, so many pills
dispensed, so many injections administered.
I
turned on my little transistor radio.
The tinny sound that came out of it was nothing compared to the sound
systems we carry around in our pockets today.
Yet the music it played had an unexpected effect on me. Without really listening to it, even as I was
busy filling the ledger’s columns with names and numbers, I felt its calming
effect. The piece—I remember it well—was
a set of fugues by J.S. Bach set for a string quartet by Wolfgang Amadeus
Mozart. The orderliness of the lines in
the Bach compositions—the “civilized conversation between civilized people,” as
Albert Schweitzer described Bach’s contrapuntal style—blended seamlessly with
the sweet and gentle timbre of the violins that Mozart gave these lines
to. Slowly drawing me into the fold of
this beautiful soundscape, the music calmed my frayed nerves. Orderliness, compassion, harmony and beauty—these
were the components of the music I was hearing.
It was a perfect balance, a perfect moment, suspended animation hanging
precariously between instances of a more chaotic reality.
When
I arrived home this afternoon, still thinking about Prof. Perlmutter’s lesson
in astrophysics, I was still facing a series of chores. I’m watching my son’s two dogs this weekend,
in addition to the one of our own. All
three would probably need a walk, or at least to be let outside. Then there were the many little details still
waiting to be done before Shabbat came in.
I
let the dogs out, and then I gave myself a gift: I stayed out with them for a few moments.
Today
was a beautiful day. The night’s rain
had cleansed the air some, and the sun shone just right, angled just so, its
rays highlighting the spring colors rather than blinding you with the intensity
that will come later this summer.
I
watched as the three dogs roamed in the yard, taking in the sounds and
sights. From their perspective, it was a
perfect moment. Sniffing each blade of
grass, they stretched out on the ground to become one with the cool freshness
of the earth.
It
was a perfect moment for me, too, as I watched them. For just an instant, motion stopped; the to
and fro tug of the day’s business ceased.
It was just what I needed.
Learning
to recognize these moments and to take advantage of them is no easy matter for
us today. Busier than ever, we rush from
one point to another, converging at home for an hour or two before setting out
again on yet another errand or mission.
Always coming, always going, we are not unlike the universe around us,
always expanding yet always also collapsing.
Parashat Bamidbar is a lesson exhorting us to appreciate the treasures we
actually have and possess. As we stop to
make each second count, we learn to appreciate the orderliness with which life
actually progresses, the regular heartbeat, the flow of day into night, of the
workweek into Shabbat.
Without
ignoring the world around us, Bamidbar teaches
us to value the moment we live in and to appreciate its potential. It’s a share in the eternal struggle between
being and non-being, and it’s ours. For
ever so long or so short a time, the potential is ours, too. Caught in the balance, our life is a statement
we can give shape and meaning to. Within
its bounds, we are free to make of it anything we want.
Learning
to make this moment the very best we possibly can is the lesson of Bamidbar.
© by Boaz D. Heilman
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