To Serve In The Holy: Pekudei

To Serve In The Holy:  לשרת בקודש

D’var Torah for Parashat Pekudei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion (Ex. 38:21—40:38) is the last parasha in the Book of Exodus.  The depiction of the final fitting of the pieces of the Mishkan (the Tabernacle, or portable temple that the Israelites carried with them throughout their wandering in the Wilderness), offers an appropriate conclusion to the amazing series of events that the Book of Exodus comprises.

The People of Israel, redeemed from slavery as per God’s promise to Abraham, are led through the parted waters of the Red Sea.  Rallying around Mt. Sinai, they hear and accept God’s unity and sovereignty.  Their faith in God is tested—and found wanting—in the incident of the Golden Calf.  But, as troubling as this incident is, it teaches both Israel and God a lesson:  We need to have God’s Presence somehow manifested among us.  It isn’t enough for God to appear in a vision or night dream to this mystic or another.  Rather, God must be evident to all of us, one and all.  Nor are one-time events sufficient.  We need a constant reminder, a visible, indelible and lasting manifestation that would let us know with certainty that God is there, anywhere, anytime.

The solution, of course, is the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, a model for the two Temples that later would be built in Jerusalem.

Nearly half the book of Exodus is devoted to the detailed description of the Mishkan and all its implements and utensils.  Among others, there’s the enormous, colorfully embroidered tent itself; the Menorah, the altar, the laver of fresh water, the table upon which the bread offering would be laid.  Loving attention is given to the clothing of the Priests, from foot to crown.

Finally, Moses is given the go-ahead to put it all together and make it work.

In reading this portion with all its intricate detail (repeated for us yet again, just to be sure no mistake has crept in during the process of production), I am reminded of the rehearsal I hold with each of my b’nai mitzvah candidates and their families.  I am always moved by the intensity of this moment in my congregants’ lives.  Held a day before the event itself, it is exactly as it should be; this is the culmination, after all, of years of preparation.  Raising a child is no easy task.  Guiding them to this point is quite an achievement.  Moreover, unlike anything else the young adult has ever done before, this event involves him or her to an unprecedented level.  Months of studying and preparation are about to reach a spectacular conclusion.  Guests are coming in from all over, perhaps even from overseas.  Flowers have been ordered, caterers are busy cooking up a storm; new clothes, shoes, uncomfortable suits that sometimes don’t even fit exactly (how do you measure for someone who can sprout several inches in a matter of a few days?).   Yes, the party.  An event so fantastic, designed to make your friends jealous! 

And did I mention gifts? 

We go over the service, making sure everyone has a part, spoken or acted.  We practice chanting the Torah and haftarah, reciting the speech, intoning the ancient blessings.

At some point during the rehearsal, the reality of it all sinks in.  I see the thirteen-year-old sitting there, suddenly speechless, dazed by the enormity of the occasion. I see the parents often struggling to contain their emotions, to stem the rush of memories.  Some run, one last time, over the figures and numbers, astonished at how quickly they add up to a huge sum.

This is what Parashat Pekudei is all about:  The final checklist, leading up to the main event.

As Moses does the final accounting, he looks at each and every piece of the Mishkan.  Finding it done just so, “just as God had commanded Moses, so did the Children of Israel do the work” (Ex. 39:42), Moses, in spiritual exhilaration, turns and blesses the people. 

But this is only the prelude.

Now comes the first “activation” of the Tabernacle.  Moses pours the oil and lights the Menorah; he dresses Aaron and his sons, the priests, in their priestly garments and anoints them.  Then he offers the first public sacrifice ever.

That is when a cloud signifying God’s presence descends and covers the Tabernacle. 

A cloud.

No image of God is permitted.  No physical representation is allowed.  God appears to us in a thick cloud through which no one may peer, not even Moses.

This is the daze we feel when we are up on the bimah, receiving the Torah, chanting from it, describing and teaching its meaning to a new generation.  It’s the feeling we get, one that transcends moment and space and that feels as though we were glowing down to our very fingertips.  It’s God’s Presence within us.

For hundreds, even thousands of generations we have reenacted and relived this moment of dedication.  It is the timeless, ubiquitous Presence we needed—and were granted—at Sinai, as a sign of the Covenant between God and us.  We have followed it in all our journeying around this world, stopping for a while when it stopped, then picking up and marching on again whenever that call would come.

It’s the vision we have all been granted, one and all, for all time; and it is in the Sacred Service we have undertaken upon ourselves, לשרת בקודש, “to serve in the holy.”

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Holy Olympics: Vayak'hel

Holy Olympics

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayak’hel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Winter Olympics coincided beautifully with February vacation this year.  At least for those who had the extra free days after Presidents’ Day last Monday, we had more spare time in which to watch the amazing athletic and acrobatic feats on ice and snow, the fruit of years of labor that led these athletes to the most magnificent world stage and largest possible viewing audience.

The personal stories that accompanied the actual performances were often as heartbreaking and enthralling as the events themselves.  It brought tears to our eyes as we heard the story of Sarah Burke, the Canadian freestyle skier who died in a tragic accident while training in Utah in 2012.  The tribute that Sochi volunteers paid Sarah, skiing in heart formation right before the women’s halfpipe finals competition, was fitting a testament to the strong will and determination that characterizes all these amazing competitors.

Yet though the personal stories of perseverance and resolve bring us closer to all the athletes, regardless of what country they represent, we still cheer the loudest for our own country’s representatives.  There are personal connections there; some have been training where we ourselves like to ski; others come from the very communities where we live.  While we lead our unexciting, everyday lives, they have been training for hours for this spectacular moment of glory and fame.  We watch the results of all their hard work, and we begin to imagine how we might feel if we were they; some of us get inspired to work out a little bit harder, to see if we can’t come a little bit closer to the physical perfection we see before us. 

Of course, even as we cheer for personal bests, even as we are amazed by the amazing abilities shown by 15 and 17 year olds, regardless of the country they represent, our loudest cheers are reserved for our own, USA team.  Because we know that whatever else they might embody, above all, it is the USA, our homeland, that they stand for.  It is us, our flag, our way of life, that they epitomize.  They are Team USA.  For a couple of weeks, we can forget the many differences that crisscross our population, leave aside the political affiliations and cultural divides, and unite behind the tears and smiles, behind the heartbreaks and glorious victories of the best that we have to offer.  The Olympic Games unify us, if only for a couple of weeks every couple of years.

Yet, even as the flags unfurl, as the huge flame burns and the fireworks explode in Sochi, in a city almost 900 miles away, this year a different fire burned and different explosions were heard.  In Kiev violent clashes have resulted in tragic devastation and the death of a hundred or more Ukrainians civilians.  There’s nothing to cheer for there, only much to weep for; nothing gained, but so much lost.

Though Sochi is officially in Russia and Kiev is the capital city of Ukraine, in our minds at least, the two cities represent one large country.  Until 1991, Ukraine was, in fact, part of the Soviet Union. 

How has this modern tale of two cities come to be?  How is it possible for this huge population, despite economic, political and cultural ties, to be so divisive, to show such diametrically opposite faces?  In one, we see a glorious unity of all humanity; in the other, we see violence and destruction.  In one we see common purpose and unity; in the other we see division and fragmentation.

I suppose there is no easy answer to these questions.  Such is humanity, in all its passion and fervor.   In us human beings, creation and destruction are part of our nature.  We are equally able to engage in one as in the other.  The results of the path we choose can lead us to magnificent edifices and achievements in every aspect of our lives; yet just the same can our choices lead to mass destruction and devastation. 

It is an amazing power that our hearts and minds hold.  We can imagine and think; we can invent, create, fashion and give form to ideas and notions as magnificent as the universe itself.  Yet we can also invent hellish tortures and devise ways to extinguish whole cities, populations and even countries.

This week’s Torah portion, Vayak’hel (Exodus 25:1—38:20) attempts to show us a way to bring forth the best in us, a path that can lead us to be at our best, not at our worst. 

With all instructions for the building of the Tabernacle given, Moses is instructed to call upon a master artist and builder, a man named Betzalel, and assign to him the task of creating this magnificent edifice.  Why is Betzalel the right man for the job?  What makes him so special?  It isn’t only that he is so artistically talented.  He has a particular quality that God and the Torah call chochmat lev, “wisdom of heart.”  In ancient thinking, lev, the heart, was the seat of all thought; it was there that the mechanics of thinking took place.  The Hebrew term chochmat lev emphasizes much more than that, however.  Chochma is wisdom; and wisdom, above all, is about discernment, about knowing the difference between right and wrong, between good and bad, between holy and evil.  It was this ability that distinguished Betzalel from all other people.  It wasn’t just his natural talent or even meticulous and arduous training.  It was his purposefulness and mindfulness, and above all his heartfelt commitment that made him uniquely suitable for the sacred work of constructing the Tabernacle.  Of all other architects, craftsmen and artists, he alone understood how to put together a huge tent in such a way that it became more than the sum of its many parts.  In his heart of hearts, to the core of his soul, Betzalel grasped the meaning of his assignment.  He shared Moses’s vision of the Mishkan, a dwelling that would transcend form and function and become symbolic of something much greater:  God’s very presence in the midst of all humanity.

Betzalel assembled around him the greatest of all craftsmen, all those who knew the arts of weaving, embroidering and fashioning valuable metals and jewels.   Each was given a specific task, one that only he or she could best fulfill.  And there was plenty for all.

Then Moses and Betzalel called for all the people to become involved.  Each brought to this great work what he or she could.  With unity of purpose, with resolve and direction, with one singular, magnificent vision before them, each individual brought his and her best, donating whatever they could and would.  One person’s gift was not judged against his fellow’s, but only against his own abilities.  It was the very best that was called for, and the very best was brought forth.

It was an overflow, an abundance of riches such as was never seen before or after.  In fact, a call to stop the contributions had to be issued because the donations exceeded the need.  And still the people brought forth their very best.

It was this communal effort that unified the people as nothing else could.  The vision they all shared was embedded in all their hearts.  Each brought to it what they were uniquely and individually best at.  They were all gold medal winners, all members of one great team that transcended all their other differences.

Parashat Vayak’hel begins with God’s commandment to the people that they must observe the Sabbath.  This isn’t the first time they hear this mitzvah.  Yet at this point it becomes the flag they follow.  For in creating the Tabernacle, they were becoming partners with God in God’s creation of the world.  In this portion, constructing the Tabernacle and observing the Sabbath become one and the same. 

This is the path to unity and peace that the Torah proposes:  Achieving our best—for a common goal; cheering one another—for the heart we all share; uniting—not by smoothing over the differences between us, but rather by recognizing the unique values and gifts embodied by each one of us.  

It is our choice—to build or to destroy; to accomplish the very best we are capable of, or the very worst.  Only one of these paths, however, is holy.  May this be the path we choose.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

God’s Presence Among Us: Ki Tissa

God’s Presence Among Us

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Tissa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Broken relationships are the hardest to mend.  There’s mistrust, loss of faith, deep questioning of the love we thought was there.  Self-doubt creeps in, darkening the very space we occupy.  Sometimes we question ourselves as much as the other person.

Though time heals all—sometimes with the help of a caring friend—the initial anger, hurt and loss are real and intense.

Sometimes there’s more damage.  Collateral damage.  Things get broken.

And it all happens so suddenly, with little warning.  One minute all’s well, the next everything is in shambles.

Rebuilding a relationship is a much longer process.  It takes effort and a deep desire to heal the rift that had appeared.  We have to recognize that something yet remains there, some foundation or basis to build upon, a reason to continue.

If successful, the relationship, once restored, is stronger than before.  Forged both with doubt and new-found experience, what emerges is sturdier, perhaps even more supple for the lessons that we might have learned about ourselves and about one another.

Ki Tissa, this weeks Torah portion (Ex. 30:11—34:35) takes us through the whole cycle.  As the portion begins, Moses is instructed to take a census of the Israelites.  Since counting people as numbers was always considered morally wrong, Moses is commanded to charge an “enrollment fee” of every Israelite 20 years and up.  A half-shekel, not much even back then, is to be raised from each individual.  No more and no less, showing equality before God, the half-shekel binds the individual in a threefold relationship: with God, with Moses and with the entire Israelite nation.

After some further instruction regarding the construction of the Tabernacle, God gives the Israelites the gift of Shabbat (Ex. 31:16-17, also known as “V’shamru”).  Shabbat is to be the spiritual sign of the eternal Covenant binding the people to God.  

Moses then climbs up Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments—the written contract between Israel and God. 

And here, at this most auspicious moment, is exactly when everything falls apart.  Moses tarries too long on the mountaintop; the people, afraid that something may have happened to “that man,” the singular individual through whom God exclusively spoke, ask for another image, a visible symbol of God’s presence among them.  Aaron, Moses’s brother and the first High Priest, complies, though not very eagerly.  Despite all his attempts at procrastination, he manages to collect enough gold to create a molten idol, a golden calf.  He declares a holiday to celebrate the apparition, and the people eagerly gather to revel in all sorts of merriment.

The sound of celebration reaches God and Moses.  Shocked by what he sees, Moses smashes the two tablets of stone on which God had imprinted the Commandments.  In great anger, God, too, withdraws, momentarily disavowing the Israelites—going as far as to call them “Moses’s people.”  In his own anger, Moses commands the Levites to slay “every man… his brother, every man his companion, and every man his neighbor.”  3000 men die that fateful day.

It takes fine negotiation to return matters to the way they had been before this downfall.  Moses pleads with God, coaxing one reluctant concession after another.  Finally God agrees to new terms, a new Covenant between Him and the people.  God will not abandon the people, not even when they sin, but there are to be consequences to all their deeds.  As already promised, first to Noah and then to Abraham, only the guilty would be punished.  The others would have to prove their devotion to God.  Trust would gradually be restored.  Only then would we be able to move on past this terrible conflagration.

This Covenant—the third such agreement between God and humanity—is to be the crowning piece for Moses.  Limiting the extent of God’s violent anger to four generations means that down the line, ultimate forgiveness is possible.  Nothing comes by itself, of course.  The people have to show their remorse; they must repeat the oath of faith they had taken, incising it even more deeply into their hearts and souls.  And, in everything they do, the must abide by their word.

In achieving these terms of forgiveness, Moses proves himself a master negotiator, one we can all learn from.  His tactics are nothing short of brilliant.  Yet where he stands apart from all other analysts and therapists is in the great love he shows both God and the Israelites.  He may have had his issues; he may have had moments of insecurity, moments of great and explosive anger.  Yet overarching them all is his great and deep compassion for this people so desperate to have God’s proven presence in their midst.  Are they so different from any child who has found himself without home or parent?  Inexperienced, vulnerable, filled with fears, children grasp at straws, reaching for any hand they might see extended toward them—in innocence or in guile.  So too, the people.  They simply—and naively—needed some physical manifestation in place of the man and prophet who went missing on them.  Anything would do—even a pathetic, dumb, unseeing calf, barely able to stand on its own legs.

The two tablets of stone that Moses carves again after this terrible incident represent a new stage in our relationship with God.  The Ten Commandments—this time around written by Moses, not by God—form the foundation stone upon which the entire Jewish faith has come to stand.

The Golden Calf was only a mirage, a deceptive image of God, which we allowed to blind us for a moment.  What replaced this false impression was something much more tangible, more concrete and more present than any idol ever could be.  From that moment on, it would be God’s words, first carved in stone, then written on parchment, that would signify God’s presence among us.

“That man, Moses,” has disappeared yet again, as he did that early morning in the Sinai Wilderness.  Only this time around, his voice remains with us.  Repeated, transmitted and taught throughout the generations, it is the voice of Moses we hear when we chant Torah; it is his teaching and his lessons we imbue when we discuss Torah. 

And it is within the silences, in the soundless spaces between the words, in the love and longing, in the eternal and unbroken chain that links parent to child and teacher to disciple, that God becomes apparent to us.  God is thus present and real today just as on the day when the words were first uttered, amidst lightning and thunder, “I am Adonai, your God who has taken you out of Egypt to be My people.”

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Kodesh l’Adonai, Holy For God: Tetzaveh

Kodesh l’Adonai, Holy For God

D’var Torah for Parashat Tetzaveh

By Boaz D. Heilman

Tetzaveh, this week’s Torah portion (Exodus 27:20—30:10), continues where last week’s parasha left off.  God gives Moses instructions for the Tabernacle, the place where prayer and sacrifice would be offered to God for as long as the Israelites journeyed in the wilderness.  With the dimensions, blueprint and materials described in intricate detail, the Torah now turns its attention to the clothing of the priests, as well as the ritual that was performed when a priest was ordained. 

The elaborate priestly clothing is to be made of the same materials as the Tent of Meeting.  The fabric was to be of wool and fine linen, embroidered with gold—beaten and spun into thin thread—as well as crimson, purple and blue yarn.  Besides linen pants (an item of clothing evidently missing in some other religions), the outfit would include “A breastplate, an ephod (vest), a robe, a skillfully woven tunic, a turban and a sash” (Ex. 28:4, New King James translation). 

The weaving would be intricate, the patterns ornate, as befitting an important functionary, a priest of God.  But it didn’t end with that.  On top of it all came the jewelry.  The outer coat would be lined with gold bells that would announce the priest’s arrival.  Twelve different kinds of brilliant gems, ringed in gold, would be set into the breastplate, and two huge gem stones—each big enough to hold the engraved names and seals of six of the tribes of Israel—served as epaulettes, resting on the shoulders of the priest.  On his head, over the turban, a diadem would be placed—gold, of course—inscribed with words declaring God’s holiness.

Only so, clothed in these magnificent vestments, would Aaron and his sons approach God to perform the rituals and sacrifices.

It would be so easy for any one of them to forget for a moment why they were there.

I’m thinking of all those hero stories we like to read, where the hero, having survived harrowing pitfalls and dreadful dangers, finally comes near his goal, only to face one last trap:  dazzling treasures of gold and silver.  Distracted, he loses his footing and, blinded by all the glitter, he falls prey to the vicious monsters that guard the true treasure and keep it well away from prying eyes and hands.

It would be easy for the priest to lose focus of his true role and mission if he, too, got lost in all that gold.  The priest cannot afford to do that, and what he wears reminds him what he needs to do.  It isn’t for his own glory that he puts on the rich, ornate vestments.  Everything he wears represents the people.  It is their gold, their silver, their copper. The yarn is spun from the people’s sheep and goats; it is woven and patterned by the expert fingers of master weavers and embroiderers. All is a free- will offering, generously donated by the people to the Tent of Meeting, the sanctuary that served them all.  The priest literally and figuratively carries the people on his back.  Even the tribes’ names are there, on the breastplate over his heart and as epaulettes on his shoulders, weights that must remind him of the burden he was chosen to carry.

The priest bears the gifts of the people, yes, but he must also hear their pleas.  He must listen to their stories, their woes, their most fervent prayers.  The priest hears their cry.  He listens as a sin is silently confessed, and with compassion he absolves a shame held long in a person’s heart.  Maybe that’s why, when an initiate becomes a priest, a drop of crimson blood is dabbed on his right earlobe, to remind him that what he must hear is not words of personal praise and flattery, but rather expressions of the hurt and anguish that come along with life’s turmoil.   He listens and hears, and then it becomes his duty to bring those words, those prayers and hopes, directly up to God.  They must not stop with him.  They are holy to God.

A drop of blood is also dabbed on the priest’s right thumb.  This is to remind him that there is yet so much to do.  God’s message must be brought back to the people.  They must be taught.  They must be shown how to be partners in Creation; how to hold a newborn baby; how to wield the hammer that builds a home for the homeless; how to weave in such a way that the garment you make both adorns and keeps you warm.  Bringing light to the world demands an unwavering, steady hand, one that can be trusted, one that would offer help, not hurt.  The drop of blood on his thumb helps the priest focus on what needs to be done.

And yet a third drop of blood is placed on the priest’s right big toe.  Lest he rest for too long, lag behind in bringing comfort and solace to the weak and fallen.  “Go there” is the mitzvah, the command he must obey.  So many lack even the resources or strength to come to you.  You must go out and find them.  You must minister to them even if they brought nothing to the temple.  Their life is as unique and special as anyone else’s, no matter how humble their existence.

In the priest’s clothing we find both form and function, beauty and meaning.  We devote so much of our resources, both physical and emotional, to pursuits we consider important—yet Parashat Tetzaveh reminds us of what is truly important.  Yes, we must pay attention to the needs—and even, at times, the luxuries—of our bodies.  But just as important are the needs that surround us.  The needs of people, of animals, of the earth that houses us.  By listening to one another, we become responsible.  And by reaching out and going out to them, wherever they are, instead of waiting for life to come to us, we all become one k’hilla, one community, kodesh l’Adonai, holy unto God.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman