A Tale of Two Birds
D’var Torah for
Parashat M’tzora
By Rabbi Boaz D.
Heilman
For us modern, 21st century, enlightened, educated people,
the big question that this week’s Torah portion, M’tzora (Leviticus 14:1-15:33), raises is what is it doing in the
Torah in the first place.
To begin with, the symptoms as the Torah describes them are,
at least for most laypeople, at best incomprehensible. Maybe a highly specialized dermatologist
might be able to deduce the differences between the various kinds of sores the
portion describes (in vivid, colorful detail); but additionally, the very terms
the Torah uses have probably changed several times over through translation,
redaction and all those other ways that languages evolve through the eons.
The fact that in this portion, tzara’at, the disease with which the m’tzora is afflicted, is applied variably to people, clothing and
house walls indicates that we are not really talking about only a skin disease,
but rather about some sort of general contagion that spreads through all kinds
of material. The point is that it is a
contagion, an undesirable, harmful spread or transmission of things, or perhaps
also of ideas or even thoughts. Think
Nazism, or Communism, or any such totalitarian mind conditioning process that,
when left unchecked, spreads like wildfire and causes widespread havoc and
destruction.
The ancient Greek physician Hippocrates first collectivized
several skin conditions under the heading of the Greek word for scales, lepra.
The leap to the dreaded and misunderstood skin condition that the world came
to call leprosy occurred only in the 16th century. As the English rendering of tzara’at, leprosy was first used in the
1535 Cloverdale English translation of the Hebrew Bible.
Two things do become clear in the Bible, however. One is that this skin condition is not
necessarily irreversible. The second is
that, whatever it was, tzara’at was
deemed dangerous, disfiguring and disgusting.
People afflicted with these horrible symptoms were periodically cast out
of the community, banished and left to the elements, to fend off for
themselves.
But the Torah does not accept this natural rejection of the
sick.
To a people for whom life is sacred, health and healing become
a mitzvah, a sacred obligation.
The priest was thus called upon to examine the sick
repeatedly. Every seven days he would
make the journey outside the camp and examine the sick. Conceivably, his task also included delivering
messages from their families, perhaps also food, certainly whatever medications
or other applications people thought might be helpful. But along with these, with each visit the
priest also brought hope to the sick.
Perhaps by next week… we’ll live and see…. Uncertainty brings with it not only fear, but
also hope.
M’tzora, this
week’s portion, begins with what happens once the person who was banished to
the outskirts of the camp is found cured of his or her condition.
Reacceptance into the community is no simple matter. Suspicions linger. In primitive and superstitious societies, the
cause of the disease might be subject for continued gossip. In cultures where gods and demons were seen
behind just about anything that happens in the world, questions were asked both
before, during and even after the readmission of the diagnosed person.
Not much has really changed in the intervening 3000
years. We still wonder about some people
and their illnesses. Germs, viruses and
bacteria only account for some diseases.
What about mental illnesses? Or
genetic ones?
Depression and anxiety are among the causes of highly
dangerous sicknesses that afflict society today. In themselves they are seen as a disorder, a
condition that can be harmful not only to oneself, but also to the surrounding
community.
In a world where we have become desensitized to violence,
where murder and mayhem are the stuff of popular entertainment, the gritty
reality is something we try not to watch, or perhaps only with a sidelong
glance.
It’s easier to control and deal with the danger around and
within us when it is turned into fantasy, when its real elements are masked and
dispatched within a given length of time, say within a one-hour television
show.
Maybe that’s why the Torah prescribes a very specific ritual
for the time when the once-condemned person is allowed to reenter the
camp. It isn’t only a time for joyful
festivities, a family reunion of the living with the missing.
It’s a curious sacrifice, the only one described in the Torah
in which two birds are brought to the priest, one to be killed, the other to be
set free in the field.
It makes a person think.
Death and life are shown to be two parts of the larger whole, the singular
and unique experience of our existence in this world. This ritual brings it home in no uncertain
terms; no fiction or fantasy allowed here.
This is concete, not virtual, reality.
With this ritual, we learn to accept the imperfections
within us. We learn to live with death
as our neighbor. We learn that
life—represented by the bird permitted to fly freely again—can never be taken
for granted. It has its wonders and
miracles, yes. We have the ability to
sing, to spread our wings and fly, to imagine, see and feel the wind beneath
our wings.
But this life also has its doubts, its questions, its darker
shadows. There are dangers that surround
us, that live within us, dark roads that lead us from happiness and security to
worlds unknown and feared.
Having been given our freedom again does that not mean that
we can live without care or obligation.
As we watch the living bird circle above our heads, we wonder where it
will head. Will it fly off, never to be
seen again, or, at the end of the day, will it return to its nest, hopefully
with food in its beak to feed its young, to nourish those for whom it was given
responsibility.
In the end, whatever the disease was that Tazri’a-M’tzora, last week’s and this
week’s twin portions, describe, does not matter. It’s the dark matter that lies deep within us,
the imperfection that will one day fell us.
We can fear it, or worship it; we can negate it and pretend it isn’t
there. Or we can recognize that we are,
when all is said and done, a crucible where death and life intermingle. For as long as we live, we can choose to seek
meaning in life, but not eternal life.
The reason this portion is in the Torah is not necessarily
to explain any particular illness to us, but rather what we can do about taking
care of the sick. It’s about the mitzvah
of healing, of restoring strength and hope, of renewal of body and spirit
alike.
© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman
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