Body and Soul: Tazri'a

Body and Soul

D’var Torah for Parashat Tazri’a

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Tazri'a (Lev. 12:1-13:59), this week's Torah portion, is an anthropologist's delight.  It takes a person back to the earliest tribal times, describing rituals that precede books, rules and civilization.  Child bearing, circumcision... family purity regulations and relationship taboos...   These are some of the details that this portion addresses.

And then there's the whole second half of the portion, dealing with a mysterious illness so dreaded and misunderstood that it required repeated observation and examination by no less than the priest himself.

Ancient translations suggest that this illness is leprosy.

Misunderstood until even most recent times (see how it’s treated by Hollywood in the movie Ben Hur), leprosy was a disease that caused a person to be cast out of the camp.  Totally at the mercy of the elements, the only company this person would ever have for the rest of life would be other lepers, all equally miserable, dejected, rejected and hopeless.

That this was the case in ancient days is more than probable.

Which is why this portion is in the Torah to begin with.  It couldn’t remain so.  Not for a people that sanctifies life and sees healing as a religious commandment.

Up until this portion, the laws of the Torah regulated our relationship with one another and with God under ordinary conditions.  At times we do well; other times, not so well.  So we learn about justice, about compassion, about consequences and about repairing damages.  The Torah even teaches us how to take care of our souls.  The guilt that sometimes gnaws inside us, the feelings of hopelessness that sometimes envelop us, even the surges of joy that make us want to burst out in song—we learn to share these even as we realize that beyond mere existence, our ability to reflect on the meaning of our existence is one of God’s greatest gifts to us.

So now the Torah turns our attention to the peculiar and extraordinary, to the challenges and failures that our physical bodies are subject to.  Having learned to create and maintain sanctuaries to God, we focus on the temple that houses our soul, precious gift of God that it is.  We are only well insofar as our bodies and souls are healthy, and both have this habit of falling apart…

Tazri’a, even as it addresses difficult health issues, doesn’t stop with minutely detailed description of any number of revolting and frightening skin ailments.  It carries with it important instructions for taking care of the ill.

Without a doubt, the knowledge of medicine in ancient days was limited to what could be observed by the naked eye.  It was the priest’s duty to examine—over and over—the infected person.  Any suspicious change could harbor danger to the entire community.

Contagion has always been a fact of life, no less today when we know about germs and viruses than in ancient days.

In tribal societies, taking care of the ill always fell to the closest relatives, but also to the medicine man or woman—the one who knew about the magical healing powers of herbs.  The Torah takes the magic out of this procedure as it hands the responsibility of examining and healing the patient to the priest.  In his duties we see the beginning of real medicine, based on the scientific method—rational, observable, repeatable.  The large number of Jewish physicians throughout time and all over the world is evidence to the seriousness with which we internalized the lessons of Tazri’a.

It’s interesting that the Torah does not associate tzara’at—this dread skin disease—with punishment from God.  Though it is probable that, at the time of the writing of this portion, illness was often seen as the hand of God, in this portion this kind of association is not made.  That task of interpretation was left to the Rabbis, the scholars who looked at this portion hundreds of years after it was written, scratched their beards and heads (hoping the flakes they saw in their hands weren’t the beginning of something terrible) and remained mystified as to what in heaven’s name the writers of this portion had in mind.

So, using a linguists game, they associated tzara’at, the name of this dread disease, with the sin of slander (motzi sheim ra’).

From a physical disease, they turned it into a social and spiritual disease.  Just as leprosy isolated an individual and made him or her feel unwanted, rejected by humanity, so does slander.  And whereas leprosy (or Hansen’s Disease as it is known today) is eminently curable with treatment (and not quite so contagious as ancient peoples feared), not so malicious gossip.  It requires much more a much more difficult course of treatment, is highly contagious, and it often kills.

Even if leprosy isn’t directly the consequence of slander, the physical and spiritual effects are similar enough.  This fact did not escape the deeply probing eyes of the ancient priests and then, somewhat later, the Rabbis.

And so the mitzvah that the Rabbis draw from this parasha is that we must eliminate both kinds of this malignancy, the physical as well as the spiritual/social.  Isolation of the slanderer is the first step (equal measure to the mockery and isolation brought upon the object of the slander).  Repeated examination, carried out by the wrongdoer as well as by an objective judge, must determine how honest and thorough is the repentance.  Only then is forgiveness possible.

At the end of Tazri’a, a ritual is described in which the now-healed individual is welcomed back into the community.  It involves two birds; one is killed and sacrificed.  The other is set free to fly, free to resume its life and lifesong.  Hopefully, a similar ritual is performed if and when forgiveness is granted to the slanderer.  Some part of us dies at each moment, with each wrong that we do or is done to us.  But something new is born as well, a more healthy person and a more wholesome society. 

Holiness is difficult to maintain in a physical world.  Perfection is not given to us—only the power to heal, to correct wrongs, to rebuild relationships, and to strive even harder to do things right the next time around.

Kein y’hi ratzon—may this be God’s will.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Human Fervor and Divine Flames: Shemini

Human Fervor and Divine Flames

D’var Torah for Parashat Shemini

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Flying too close to the sun is a theme found in many popular and classical sources.  In western tradition, Icarus is possibly the best known of those who were burned by their overreaching pursuits.  But there are also others, in Chinese as well as ancient Hindu folklore.  A legendary British king also seems to have constructed wings which failed him in mid-flight, as did an Assyrian emperor of pre-Biblical times.

Though the details change from story to story, what they all have in common is the lesson they teach—the dangers of arrogance and overreaching.

In this week’s Torah portion, Shemini, a similar cautionary tale is told.  In this parasha (Leviticus 9:1—11:47), two of Aaron’s four sons, Nadav and Avihu, attempt a dangerous feat.  For seven days, Aaron and his sons, the priests, were in the process of becoming ordained, or qualified, to offer the sacred sacrifices.  Now, on the eighth day (shemini means “eighth”), Aaron is told by Moses to offer the first sacrifice and thus initiate the sacred service.  Aaron follows Moses’s instructions to the detail, and a flame appears “from before God’s presence” and consumes the offerings.

Next, however, Nadav and Avihu offer a sacrifice, “a strange fire [eish zara] which God did not command them.”  To the horror of all the Israelites, a flame appears once again “from before God’s presence,” but this time it consumes not the offerings but rather the two would-be priests.

What did Nadav and Avihu do that was deserving of such harsh punishment?  Much has been written about this.  Some say that they failed to act as brothers, each outvying the other for fame and glory.  Another interpretation says that in offering a sacrifice that was neither commanded nor sanctioned by God, Nadav and Avihu reached for power and authority far beyond their rank.  Yet a third explanation offers that the “strange fire” came not from the eternal fire, the only authorized source of fire for the sacred sacrifices, but rather from the kitchen—a more mundane, perhaps even impure, source.  

A law that immediately follows this story commands Aaron and the priests to offer their sacrifices in complete sobriety, never to touch wine or any other intoxicant when they enter the Tent of Meeting.  The Rabbis interpret the proximity of this law to the horror of the preceding story by teaching that Nadav and Avihu were drunk when they made their sacrifice.   Regardless of the specific reason and nature of their transgression, say the Rabbis, Nadav and Avihu had blurred the line between sacred and profane.  Whatever their intention was, they overreached and crossed over into a realm that was not theirs.  They flew too close to the sun.

Up to here, this story is not unlike the many other variants of this theme.

Yet the Torah continues, teaching us even deeper lessons as it develops the story further.  For in consoling Aaron, Moses says to his brother:  “This is what Adonai spoke, [saying], ‘I will be sanctified through those who draw near to Me, and before all the people will I be glorified’” (Lev. 10:3). 

These mystifying words seem to carry a lesson far different from the one we had expected.  Is Moses approving of Nadav and Avihu’s actions?  And if so, if the two young men had only striven to draw close to God, did they actually deserve such punishment? 

From the cultural context of the story, we know that Nadav and Avihu overreached.  They were guilty of excessive pride, perhaps even of fomenting rebellion against authority.  Yet what Moses turns them into is icons of self-sacrifice!  If they were guilty of anything, Moses seems to say to his brother, it was of excessive zeal, not rebellion.  They did overreach, yes, but their motivation was not selfish.  Rather, it was to honor God.

So why such harsh punishment?

In the mournful silence that engulfs the brothers, understanding is born.  Moses was kind; he forgave his nephews as he had forgiven the Israelite people many times before.  His great love always enabled him to see the people’s inner rage, their frustration, their fire and their thirst.  In all those cases, he understood their all-too-human mentality, and it tempered his own reactions.  He forgave them and pleaded for God’s mercy even when they went beyond all bounds of decency, bowing to a golden idol.  Now, too, he sees Nadav and Avihu’s motivation as being fervor, not rebellion.  It was their attempt to be close to God that brought this disaster upon them.  It was overreaching, yes, but it was not for power.  Rather, it was to be close to God, to become sanctified through love and religious zeal.

From this story (as well as from the Akeida, the story of Isaac’s willingness, perhaps even eagerness, to become Abraham’s sacrifice), that we Jews have learned the sacred notion of “Kiddush ha-Shem,” dying in sanctification of God’s holy Name.  Throughout the centuries, thousands of Jewish martyrs leaped into fires and rivers while chanting the Sh’ma, preferring the sword rather than to convert and defame their heritage and faith.

And yet, while teaching us that such religious zeal can be sacred, the Torah is also clear in admonishing us of its dangers.  The lines between the sacred and the profane are not always clear.  Religious fervor is not unlike drunkenness.  It’s a state that lies beyond the boundaries of ration and reason.  Zealotry is possession of a person’s body and soul, a force so powerful that it can lead one to extraordinary yet also dangerous realms.  Anything is possible under such conditions.  As lines between reality and fantasy blur, morality itself becomes uncertain and ambiguous.

It’s a state of being the Torah prohibits.   Rather, we are admonished “To distinguish between holy and profane and between unclean and clean” (Lev. 10:10).  The boundary lines must be clear and well defined, both to us and to those we teach, those who will follow our example.

Reaching for holiness is not unlike flying close to the sun.  Both are metaphors for the human urge to understand our origin, purpose and destiny.  It is an inborn impulse, motivating us to greatness.  But it is also dangerous.  Holiness can be an all-consuming fire.  It can take us to great heights, but it can also plunge us into the deepest wells of darkness and oblivion.

We must be careful.

© 2104 by Boaz D. Heilman

Lessons From Ancient Teachings: Tzav

Lessons From Ancient Teachings

D’var Torah for Parashat Tzav

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Tzav (“Command,” Leviticus 6:1—8:36), this week’s Torah portion, picks up where last week’s portion left off.  We are still in the midst of rules and regulations having to do with sacrifices.  Yayikra, last week’s portion, describes the types of sacrifices that could be offered.  Tzav gives intricate instruction having to do with the procedures that the priests had to follow when making these sacrifices.

In Temple days, most sacrifices were communal meals.  The only exception was the ‘olah, the burnt offering that, each and every morning, was completely consumed on the altar by an ongoing, eternal fire.  All other sacrifices, including the peace or well-being sacrifice (sh’lamim), the afternoon grain or meal offering (mincha), even the reparation or sin offerings (chatat and asham) were used as part of the meal, serving as sustenance for the priest as well as the community.

Today, we look at the gruesome details of these ancient customs as no more than curiosities.  With the destruction of the Temple by the Romans in 70 CE, the sacrifice system came to an end.  Priests lost their main function and purpose in life—as the intermediary between the people and God.  The Rabbis—the new leaders and teachers of the Jewish People—instituted a whole new system of relating to God.

Yet those chapters of Leviticus that had once been the basis of our faith system are still part of the Torah; their pages remain intact; they are still part of the teaching of Judaism.  To some, these passages may seem irrelevant, antiquated.  At best they might be thought of as relics, memories of an ancient past.  And yet, they are actually so much more than mere reminder of what once had been but is no more.  Just about our entire prayer service is based on the schedule of sacrifices that the Torah lays out.  Morning, noon and early evening each had its own prescribed offerings and recipes; those, today, are still the times of day when observant Jews offer their prayers to God.  Words that were once spoken as part of this offering or another are still spoken today at specific services, as with the sin and guilt sacrifices, which have become part of our Yom Kippur service; as with certain holiday formulas that have been repeated continuously through countless generations; and as with the recitation of our miraculous Exodus from Egypt, now part not only of our Passover celebration but indeed also of every Friday evening Kiddush.  

And aside from these, there are other important lessons that can still be garnered from these chapters.  Our psychological need to relate to a larger force, our determination to cling to values we call sacred, are as powerful today as they were thousands of years ago.  Perhaps it’s part of the human psyche, some complex that compels us to us believe that we play a role or function in an otherwise meaningless universe.  Perhaps it’s our fear of the unknown, or our humbling understanding of the immensity of the forces that surround us and that, every once in a while, seem to toy with us.

But there is more.  The book of Leviticus is not merely an antiquated relic from our pagan past.  It is actually part of a much larger teaching, a belief that we are more than playthings in the hands of invisible but wily forces, that we can actually be active partners in the ongoing process of Creation.

Just as much as God can command us to obey, so are we given the ability—and the freedom—to refuse.   It isn’t refusal itself that Judaism considers sinful.  It’s our actions that follow our choices that are considered as either sacred or evil.  It isn’t mere acquiescence that our God wants of us.  As parents, at times we do have to demand that our children obey us unquestioningly.  But for the most part, we let our children question us.  Our human need to understand why things are the way they are overwhelms our instinct to follow and obey.  Squelching our children’s questions can crush their curiosity and turn them into unthinking automatons. Moreover, unless we do question accepted truths, we can never learn or discover anything new.  Questioning is part of growing up, part of being human.  It is the basis of our ever-expanding knowledge.

Yet one of the most difficult lessons we must learn is that our choices, no matter how freely made, have certain consequences.  One and all, individual and community all benefit from the right choices we make.  Likewise, we also bring harm and injury to ourselves and to others when we make the wrong choices and follow up these choices with deeds the Torah calls sins, deeds that lead us astray, that make us miss our true goal.  No one benefits from these wrong deeds.

These consequences are reflected in the ancient customs and laws of sacrifice that we encounter in Parashat Tzav.  Sh’lamim, the offerings made in thanksgiving, or as a gesture of well being or peace, are actually communal meals.  Though a part of the sacrifice is given to God (“to be turned into smoke, a pleasing fragrance before Adonai”), the rest of the animal or grain offering is divided among the priest, the person making the offering, his family and the entire community.  Sh’lamim were festive meals that benefitted everyone.

On the other hand, reparation offerings, sacrifices that were made in acknowledgment of having committed an offense or sin, were considered kodesh kodashim, most holy.  These were not shared.  Providing sustenance for the priest alone, not even for his family, the food was to be eaten in a sacred and distinct part of the Temple, nowhere near the more public areas of the Sanctuary.  Why is that difference there?  Why can some sacrifices be eaten by the whole community, in public celebration, while others must be eaten in silence and loneliness?

There are, of course, many possible interpretations.  But the one that comes first to my mind is the essential difference between a mitzvah and a sin.  A mitzvah benefits everyone in the community, so everyone may celebrate together.  A sin, on the other hand, benefits no one.  The reparation offering should not, cannot, be part of a celebration or festive meal.  The priest has to eat; the meat and grain of the offerings are his by right and by law.  Yet this meal must provide nothing beyond sheer sustenance.  Eaten in lonely silence, there’s nothing celebratory or beautiful about it.  The sin or guilt offering is a meal that must give no pleasure.  It may fill our need for food, but it leaves us contemplating the wrong that was done.

In ancient, Temple, days, sacrifices were seen as the way to connect with God.  Every moment in our life was seen as an opportunity to maintain this connection.  With those days long gone, however, new paths to God had to be discovered.  The world around us has changed: For one thing, the Temple no longer stands and therefore the sacrifice system—at least as mandated by the Torah—is no longer extant.  Additionally, however, we have come to understand God in a new way—not as a physical being with physical needs for sustenance and food, but rather as a force both powerful enough to create universes but also intimate enough to inspire individual human beings.

Yet some things never change, and that is the deep and eternal truth that the Torah holds out for us:  It is the profound understanding that our bond with God is as strong today as it was in ancient days; that we have the God-given ability to distinguish between right and wrong; that we understand that our choices have consequences; and that—today as in ancient days—we can still either celebrate our triumphs or correct our mistakes as necessary.

It is through this awareness that we connect both with our own humanity and also with God.  This is the path that we have always sought.  Sometimes alone, surrounded by nothing but our thoughts and feelings, sometimes together with our loved ones and community, we are never alone.  We are always in company with our Maker, our God.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

  

Responding To The Call of God: Vayikra

Responding To The Call of God:  Vayikra

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Dedicated to the memory of my father, my teacher, Z’ev ben Aryeh v’Yonah

on the 9th anniversary of his passing.

While en route to The Promised Land, the Torah takes us on an excursion. Parashat Vayikra, the first portion of the Book of Leviticus (Chapters 1-5), draws a map for us as we set out—not in search of any physical location near or far, but rather inwards, to the core of our souls.

The emphasis of this portion is on sacrifice.  Hence the non-Hebrew name of the book, Leviticus.  The Levites, one of the twelve tribes of Israel, were the temple functionaries.  A specific group of Levites were known as the kohen (kohannim, pl.).  This group did the actual sacrificing, carrying out the ritual with meticulous attention to all its prescribed details.

Some of today’s readers of this book might find it repelling.  The intricate and detailed description of the slaughter of animals and birds is almost enough to turn anyone into a strict vegan.

And besides, what benefit is there to learning about sacrifices (whether animal or not) today, when the whole practice is no longer extant?

But a deeper study of Vayikra would lead us to a deeper understanding of some of the most important lessons the Torah would have us learn, so important that they were called “holy.”  More than merely values, these lessons became law for all Israel, throughout its generations.

Even though the Temple system of sacrifices ended with the destruction of the Temple in 70 CE, Jews have continued to study, remember and observe the spirit of the laws.

It’s no wonder that Vayikra was traditionally the first book of the Torah that a child would study in cheder, the one-room schools of the Old Country.

Vayikra takes us back to the days when kosher, pre-salted and soaked chicken and beef were not available on our supermarket shelves.  In older days, even in rural villages one could always find a shochet—a ritual slaughterer—even if your town was only one in a circuit in which he traveled and worked.  Friday nights or on holiday evenings, you always wanted a chicken in your pot, or some meat (if you could find or afford it) slowly stewing away, fragrant with vegetables and spices.  The shochet, the slaughterer, had to know all the laws relating to the kosher way of slaughtering an animal.  You could trust him to be as merciful as possible when taking the life of an animal.  You would respect him—and his bloody apron—for taking on a task most people couldn’t stomach (pun intended).  Chickens and cows were valuable commodities back then, and you treated them well, not only because you knew them well, but also because they provided you with sustenance and food.  And that’s a lot more than we can say about ourselves—or the food we eat—today. 

But there’s another side to Vayikra.  This book and this portion aren’t only about sacrifice.  What Vayikra is also very much about is the person who brings the sacrifice to the priest in the first place.  It’s about you and me and how we live, behave and conduct ourselves.

Vayikra has a recipe for every moment and time in our life:  When we wish to offer thanks or show respect; when we have guilt bearing down heavily on our souls; when we wish to absolve ourselves of our sins, whether committed knowingly or accidentally, intentionally or by error.  Vayikra addresses our need to be given a second chance, to be able to correct our mistakes and then to start again, this time on the right path.

In short, even with all its meticulous attention to veins, sinews, schmaltz, blood and other unsavories, Vayikra also teaches us about right and wrong.  It helps us distinguish between a sin we had not intended to commit but found out about much later, and the sin of intentionally, deliberately, breaking the boundaries.  We learn that there is even a difference between individual sins and collective sins.  The former are ours alone.  The latter are sins we commit as a community.  Racism, for example, or bigotry of any other kind.  Not surprisingly, national or spiritual leaders are held to a higher standard.  You can tell by the kind of sacrifice they have to offer.  There’s much more involved here; a pinch of salt or even a handful of frankincense simply wouldn’t do in such cases.

It’s a whole system of living.  You show appreciation for what you have, you learn to share your bounty of blessings.  In turn you are shown respect even if you are poor, even if you are unable to offer much more than a few grains of barley.  You learn to think before you speak or utter a promise or an oath.  It’s easier to keep silent than to take back a word spoken in harshness or in anger.  Vayikra instills in you compassion for other living beings, be they human or animal.  Vayikra teaches you to be respectful of others and their property, to be mindful of their rights, to acknowledge the Divine presence in every living being.

Most importantly, Vayikra teaches us that there is redress for the wrongs we might commit.  We can make the wrong right again; we can repair relationships, we can mend hurt feelings.  But the way to do it is through what is commonly known as mindful consciousness.  Be aware of what you are doing or even thinking.  Think before you act.

Posted on a bookshelf in my late father’s library was a note that read, “Put your mind in gear before you put your mouth in motion.”  Vayikra said it first.

Vayikra means, “God called out.”  The rest of this parasha and book consist of how we respond to this call.  The choice is given, as is the way to correct the wrong response.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman