Seeking Peace Within Ourselves: Naso

Seeking Peace Within Ourselves: D’var Torah for Parashat Naso

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The opening of the book of Numbers creates an idealized picture of the Israelite camp.  Organized by tribes, they are each given specific roles—some in the defense of the people, others in the maintenance, upkeep and porterage of the Tabernacle.

Everybody knows what is expected of him and her, and everybody does exactly as is expected.

It is an impossible ideal.  We are, after all, dealing with people.  Real people, each with his and her own thoughts, feelings, aspirations and failures.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, therefore, that the first dangers the Torah warns us against are not external.  It isn’t other tribes and peoples that loom menacingly on the horizon, but rather another, much closer source.  This danger rises from deep within us.  Unchecked, it can wreak havoc and even result in violence and warfare.

Parashat Naso, Numbers 4:21—7:89, deals with two fierce emotions, love and faith.  These very qualities which we value most within ourselves can easily be distorted to become jealousy and zealotry.  From social and cultural ties that bind us to one another, they can become transformed into brutal and vicious acts of violence and hatred.

It’s hard to understand what could possibly take love and turn it to jealousy.  Far from opposites, the two emotions seem intertwined.  And yet a trigger exists—if only in our imagination—that can turn love into murderous rage.

The results are all too tragic and familiar to us.

Similarly, too, with faith.  When stirred, this beautiful emotion can take insignificant particles of ashes and dust and turn them into b’nai adam, human beings, created and graced by none less than the immortal spirit of all life.  Yet when agitated into a mad frenzy, faith can turn upon itself and reduce life back to its lifeless components of dust and ashes.

Passions can burn fiercely, and that makes them dangerous.

As a cure, or at least as a way of controlling these treacherous emotions, the Torah offers rituals whose purpose is to let time work its cooling magic.  In the case of a jealous husband who suspects his wife of adultery but has no proof of it, a ritual is prescribed that first separates the couple.  The wife is handed over to a priest, a hopefully objective individual who will administer a magical oath and make the woman drink some vile liquid to prove her innocence.

It’s a disgusting ritual, to be sure.  It is terrifying and it is demeaning.  But it saves the woman’s life.  Whatever it is that goes into the bitter potion may produce shame and fear, but it doesn’t kill.

Far from ideal solution—at least by our modern sensibilities—in its time the Ritual of the Bitter Water was actually a huge step forward for culture and civility.  Time and physical separation let passions cool; rational investigation could take place, and hopefully a loving relationship was then restored.

We still do not understand this passion that turns love into violence, but we do know that jealousy is an integral part of our psychological makeup.  Ancient as well as modern legal systems have always tried to stem this human obsession, but it may just be too deeply rooted within us.  It can only be controlled, and the first step must always be the same:  the jealous party must be separated from the suspect.  Justice is the opposite of revenge.  It may not always work perfectly, but it is the best we have.  And if it saves a life, then so much the better for us all.

And zealotry?

How many religious wars can we count in human history?

How many murders or acts of terror in the name of this god or another? 

The image of the zealot may be popular in our imagination.  T. E. Lawrence may have actually been a narcissistic seeker of glory and adventure, but through the lens of movie director David Lean, he becomes Lawrence of Arabia, a mythical icon of passion and courage who rouses Arab armies and leads them into battle against corrupt colonialist powers. 

But in the process, Lawrence unleashed a tsunami of jihads and holy wars that has lasted nearly a century and continues to this day.

The Nazirite—the Torah’s version of the religious zealot—is a person so devoted to his God that he forgoes the luxuries and comforts of society.  The injunctions against imbibing wine or other intoxicants can make the Nazirite a social outcast.  Unbound by civil law or regulation, he might become a danger to others as well as himself.  It is for that reason that the Torah regulates the term and conditions of this religious ascetic. For the duration of his vow of abstinence, he must watch his behavior so that it never strays too far from the norms established by society.  It isn’t only alcohol he must stay away from; death, too, in all its forms is out of bounds for the Nazirite.  He must not go into cemeteries, not even for his parents, brother or sister.  Even accidental contact with a dead body or carcass invalidates his vows so that he must start again from the beginning.

The Torah thus tries to ensure that religious zealotry does not go beyond the bounds of reason and ration. 

Finally, when the term of the Nazirite is complete, he is brought back into society in gratitude and celebration. 

Thank God, indeed, when longing for holiness does not turn into overwhelming obsession; when religious faith remains bound within our hearts and souls, defined by mitzvot and compassion rather than by acts of mayhem and destruction.

It is finally in Parashat Naso that we find the passage we know as the Aaronic, or Priestly, Blessing:  “May God bless you and keep you; may God’s countenance shine upon you and grant you grace; may God’s countenance be lifted up unto you and bless you with peace” (Numbers 6:24-26).

Peace—harmony between opposing forces—should be the ultimate goal for which we strive.  In reaching this ideal, we may have to subdue our passions somewhat, to control and place limits upon them so that they do not defeat the very purpose for which they were created. 

Only when we control our fierce emotions can we even begin to pray or hope for peace.  That, after all, is the blessing we seek more than any other from our God. 

The Torah would have us seeking for it first within ourselves.  Only then can we hope and pray for God to bestow this blessing upon us too.

As partners in holiness with our God, it’s only fair.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

When Numbers Aren’t Only Numbers: Bemidbar

When Numbers Aren’t Only Numbers

Sermon/D’var Torah for Parashat Bemidbar (Numbers 1:1—4:20)

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Memorial Day Weekend 2014

Genesis, the first book of the Torah, the first of the Five Books of Moses, tells of mythical origins.  The origins of the universe, of our own Earth, of humanity, and in particular, the origins of the Jewish people are explained.  Spectacular images—such as the appearance of light in a dark universe, or a flood that undoes the very fabric of Creation—are interspersed with personal stories.  Mostly, Genesis is the story of one particular family and its journeys.  The book ends as the family journeys on—or rather down—to Egypt.

Exodus, the second book, speaks of the conditions in which the Israelites—now a people, not only a family any more—find themselves some 400 years later.  In this span, they have been enslaved.  Yet despite harsh and even brutal conditions, they have become numerous.  It seems there’s simply no way of stopping our fruitfulness, no matter what harsh decrees Pharaoh imposed on us.

Redeemed by God and Moses, the People of Israel exits Egypt and slavery, forever to become servants not of another man, but of an unseen God, a source of energy so enormous that it can part seas and shake mountains.  It is the energy of holiness that we sense, that now fills us, an elation, an exalted state of sensing and understanding the universe around us.

The universe speaks, and we receive—and accept—the Ten Commandments.

  

And then we proceed to build an ark for these tablets of stone, inscribed with God’s law.  We surround that Ark with a Tent of Meeting, a Tabernacle, a Temple.  It is a glorious sight to behold.  It is the abode of God within us.  The epicenter of our existence, it is where Moses hears the word of God and transmits it to us.

In Leviticus, the third book of the series, we learn how to work this amazing core of energy that resides within us.  Leviticus is about sacrifices, yes, but it is also about the many and various ways we can thank God; pray to God; complain to God; and beg God for forgiveness, for a second chance.

Holiness, we learn in Leviticus, doesn’t exist only within the walls of our temples.  It can also be found in our homes, in our schools, and anywhere else that we might take it.  We learn that holiness isn’t only about our ability to think, imagine, calculate, reason, invent, challenge and create; it’s also about fulfilling those expectations, about making the world a better, indeed a holier, place. 

As slaves to Pharaoh, we learned to build monuments to death—the end goal of every Egyptian man, woman and child.  As servants of the Almighty God, the Israelites became builders of schools, courts of justice, hospitals; we became builders of cultures and civilizations.

It was a useful trade to carry with us on all our journeys from the time of Moses—estimated to be around 1250 BCE—to our own day; more than 3000 years later.

This week in our annual, cyclical reading of the Torah, we begin the fourth book of the Torah, the Book of Numbers.

It is called “Numbers” because it begins with a counting—a census taken of the Israelites (actually several censuses!).  Yet this book really isn’t about numbers at all.  In fact, we soon realize that Numbers teaches us more than counting.  It teaches us to account, to amount to something, to count for something and be counted upon when needed.

In Hebrew, the book of Numbers is called Bemidbar—“In The Wilderness.”  It is in this book that the People of Israel begin their journey to the Promised Land.  We head east, toward the dawning of hope, of light, and of redemption.  But though headed there, at least for now we find ourselves in a wilderness.  It isn’t completely unchartered territory, however.  Crisscrossing it are trade routes, check posts, places where various tribes had found a bit of fresh water and established a resting area, an oasis.

Not all people in the wilderness are friendly.  Many will view this new and strange people as dangerous, wild and all-too-powerful.   

It is in light of a danger-filled world that Moses begins to systematize and give shape to his people. Interestingly, he doesn’t start by organizing the Levites, the tribe that will be responsible for the maintenance of the temple and the teaching of our new-found religion.  No, Moses begins by taking a census of all able-bodied young men, 20 years and older, fit to bear arms. 

Moses sets up an army, a formidable battalion that takes positions on the four sides of the Israelite camp.

Why does the army get established first, before the Temple hierarchy is established?

There’s a lesson there.  This teaches us that without physical strength, without protection, our inner core, our very existence, is always in danger.  The elements, the enemies, even history itself will conspire against us.  Yes, our faith in God will be our inner fire, giving us inner strength, reason and hope to survive and carry on.  But our physical survival, our endurance through the centuries and eons, despite some terrifying enemies, will ultimately depend on our own self-defense.

That was the big lesson Moses taught us when we left Egyptian bondage.  That has been the big lesson we have had to relearn in our own day, having left behind the massive destruction that today we call the Shoah, the Holocaust.

The modern State of Israel, which just last month celebrated its 66th birthday, is more than about physical strength.  It is also about education and justice; about science, literature, the arts and high tech.  It’s about agriculture and the environment.  Israel alone among all other countries in the world planted more trees than it cut down in the past five years.  Israel alone produces more water than it actually uses, both through desalination but also through a process that treats and recycles more than 80% of household wastewater.[1]  And Israel is always first to offer help to other countries, whether by teaching them about sustainable agriculture or assisting after calamitous earthquakes, hurricanes or mine explosions.

But Israel could not do any of the above, let alone provide shelter for the millions of survivors of European and Arab persecution who have found safety and security in their ancient homeland, if it weren’t for the powerful force that is the IDF, the Israel Defense Force.

Of course this lesson is not only valid for Israel and the Jewish People.  It holds equally true for any country and nation in the world today.

For all the political hubbub that is the United States today, divided along political, ideological, cultural and religious lines, it is, above all, one country.  No longer a Federation, nor a House Divided, a strong and unified United States is at the hub of just about all human enterprise today.  Our democracy, though not unflawed, provides more freedoms for more people than in most other places in the world.  It may not be the idealized Promised Land longed for by millions of refugees, but America is still viewed with envy by billions who live in substandard conditions and countries and who would do just about anything to move here.   

But all this would not survive for an instant if it weren’t for our Armed Forces, probably the most intimidating source of military power that has ever existed on this planet.

Our freedoms that we so often take for granted are not unshakable. We are forever on the watch both within our camp—for rights that might be trampled; for freedoms that may not be available to all; as well as for those who lurk among us and wish to see our destruction—as we must also always be for the dangers that lurk in the wilderness surrounding us.

The price we pay for the freedoms that are ours, for a beautiful day of baseball in the park, for picnics held freely, for the right to assemble, protest and argue among ourselves is that we have a strong and sturdy defense force.

On this Memorial Day weekend, the lesson of Moses raising an army carries an invaluable message.  It reminds us that freedom is not free for the taking.  It has a price, and sometimes it demands a toll that bears heavily upon our hearts.  Existence in this world is an ever-iffy circumstance.  We are, after all, no more than tiny dust particles in the larger picture of reality.  What makes us count for more than specks is when we accomplish those qualities that we call the Divine Image within us, when we reach moral and intellectual expectations that make us so much more than just animal-kind, that makes us humankind.

This Memorial Day Weekend, we remember not only the numbers of soldiers who have paid for our freedoms with their lives.  We remember also the values that they taught us, that they insisted we live by and uphold.  And we pledge—both for them, but mostly for ourselves, our children and our grandchildren—that we keep these values safe, secure and sacred.

Adonai oz l’amo yitein, Adonai y’varech et amo bashalom—May God grant God’s people strength; may God bless us all with peace, with shalom.

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

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

---

[1] ”ADAPTATION: Israel is creating a water surplus using desalination;” Environment and Energy Daily, by Julia Pyper, E&E reporter, February 7, 2014. http://www.eenews.net/stories/1059994202

The Blessings Within Us: B'Chukotai

The Blessings Within Us

D’var Torah for Parashat B’Chukotai

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

B’Chukotai (“By My Laws,” Lev. 26:3—27:34), this week’s Torah portion, brings to a close the third book of the Torah, Leviticus.

It is a fitting conclusion to a book that concerns itself with holiness.  In the Torah, holiness isn’t an abstraction; it is much more than theoretical or philosophical musings.  Holiness is an energy—a force that emanates from God and which imbues everything in existence with substance and spirit.

Like all forms of energy, holiness—the divine energy of Creation—can infuse us with strength, but it can also be terrible in its destructive power.

B'Chukotai has three parts to it.  In the first, it lists the blessings that will be ours if we walk by God's light.  The gifts of life would be abundant in all their forms; nature would provide us with rain in its season; the harvest would be rich and plentiful.  Peace, freedom and harmony would be the lot of all the inhabitants of the land.

It’s a beautiful vision, yet it takes no more than 10 verses to relate.

The second part of the portion is much more terrifying.  In some 30 verses or so, the Torah lists visions of horrors that seem to undermine the foundations of our covenant with God.  In fact, by disobeying God’s laws of holiness, we would be destroying our very humanity, reverting to a depraved form of bestiality that even most animals don’t practice.

It’s a scary thought, but yet so true.

We human beings, just lower (or perhaps even higher) than angels, have wonderful abilities and gifts.  We have the ability to imagine and to create; we can design and build; we can bridge chasms and construct edifices of magnificent proportions.  But at the same time, we can be cruel to an unspeakable degree.  Human history is filled with acts of savagery and brutality. 

And much of it is done in the name of God.

Is it God’s doing or ours?

The book of Leviticus is an amazing document.  It states that our power—whether to create or to destroy—comes from God.  It is by aligning ourselves with the energy that emanates from God that we become God’s partners in creation—or in destruction.  By walking according to God’s commandments, we build and create.  But when we walk contrary to these instructions, we revert to our very worst.  Implanted within us is the potential for both.

The unspeakable horrors that B’Chukotai lists seem to be endless.  It’s a long nightmare that spirals ever downwards.  But a book such as Leviticus, which raises a simple act of kindness to the level of a mitzvah—a sacred commandment—cannot leave us bereft of hope.  That is why the last part of this portion is such a fitting conclusion to the entire book.

This section (basically the entire last chapter of Leviticus) deals with donations that a person may make to God.  In light of what we had learned in previous portions about the value of land (all relative to the number of years left before the Jubilee), what is the worth of land donated to God or to God’s priests, the kohannim?   And since we do not offer human sacrifice (God forbid), what is the worth or value of a human life that is dedicated to the service of God?

It isn’t the math that matters in this chapter.  It’s the very fact that the book closes with the concept that the earth is sacred to God, that life is sacred, that we human beings are filled with sacred value.  From its visions of heaven and hell, Leviticus turns our gaze to the middle ground:  Us.  Holiness isn’t beyond us.  It’s in the choices we make.  Blessings aren’t the result of some magic formula; they come from the way we see ourselves and our potential, from our values and from how well we live up to them.

Peace and harmony cannot be imposed on the world.  They can’t come from some powerful force outside ourselves.  Rather, they are the inherent outcome of all our actions, if we choose to align ourselves with God’s laws.  Dedicating ourselves to mitzvot, to the standards which Leviticus call holy and good, is the only way to reach these worthy blessings. 

And all it takes is a measure of honesty, fairness, justice and kindness. 

Chazak, chazak v’nitchazek—be strong and courageous, and we shall all be strengthened together.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman

Jubilee Today: Behar 2014

Jubilee Today

D’var Torah for Parashat Behar

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

It seems that God and Moses save their most exalted teachings for mountaintops.  That’s where the Ten Commandments are given—in fact, in the book of Exodus, that mountain appears under two names.  In one place, it is Mount Sinai; in another, it appears as Mount Horeb, the Mountain of God.

Later on, two more mountains will become prominent in our history and geography.   Mount Carmel, near Haifa, is where the prophet Elijah roamed.  To this day there is a cave, not far from the old road to Haifa, which is said to be Elijah’s hiding place.  Today it is a place of pilgrimage primarily for barren women praying to conceive a child.

Mount Zion, of course, is where the Temple used to stand.  Among other teachings, the Sages, the Rabbis of old, identify that mountain as the very mountaintop where Abraham stood ready to sacrifice Isaac.

But in this week’s portion, Behar (“upon the mountain,” Leviticus 25:1—26:2), the mountain has no name.  We assume it is Mt. Sinai.  The Israelites, after all, had not yet started the actual wanderings that would take them zigzagging through the wilderness for forty years. 

It is definitely a place of holiness, however.  As with the rest of the book of Leviticus, this summit presents us with an exalted vision of how we can bring God into our lives.

The book of Leviticus had dealt with the rituals of sacrifice and laid out the duties of both the Priests and the Israelites.  It dealt with sanctifying life and health; it taught us to sanctify time through the celebration of Shabbat and the various holy days.

It wasn’t only “religious” values that were taught.  Holiness isn’t only a function of worshipping at the temple.  It is also about raising personal and community relationships to an exalted place.  Simple rules such as paying a day laborer his wages at the end of the workday; such as not placing a stumbling block in front of the blind; such as respecting the elderly, are made as holy as the idea of leaving some of the produce of your field for the widow, the orphan, the stranger and the homeless.  Loving one’s fellow human being as oneself is a sacred relationship, Leviticus teaches us.

From looking into the face of God—as it were—parashat Behar has us turn our gaze down.  What we see from this mountaintop is the land below.  The very earth, we learn, is holy.  Its ability to bear fruit, flower and vegetable each in its season is nothing short of a marvel.  That there is a specific food appropriate for each creature, and that all existence functions together in order to sustain and maintain life is nothing short of a miracle.

But there are strings attached.  We, human beings, must maintain the sanctity of the earth in order for the earth to reciprocate and continue blessing us with its bounty.

We are commanded to observe a Sabbath of the land.  As each seventh day of the week is to be a Sabbath for us, so is very seventh year to be a year of sh’mitta, of complete rest for the land.  It is not to be harvested, plowed or seeded.  Even a stone may not be moved during this year’s time if it is in preparation for the next plowing season.

That pause that our bodies and minds need, the chance to regroup, refresh and re-energize our souls and hearts, is to be applied to the earth itself.  It too is alive.  The way we treat it will correspond with it gives us back.

But the cycle does not stop there.  There is yet one more connection to be made between us and the land that we roam, settle and live upon.  Seven times seven years are counted off; then, on the fiftieth year, a Jubilee is declared throughout the land.  In the words of this parasha carved into the Bell of Freedom:  “Proclaim liberty throughout the land for all its inhabitants” (Lev. 25:10).  In the Jubilee year, slaves are to be released and lands are returned to their original owners.  All property must be restored to the very families whose Biblical inheritance it is.

The vision is enough to take your breath away.  How exalted!  How holy!

How impossible!

We have lost count of the years.  Nations have displaced nations throughout the centuries.  Humanity has been fruitful and fertile.  Original deeds are long gone. 

It sounds as though the opportunity to sanctify the Jubilee Year is not there for us anymore.  Where would we start counting the fifty?  How far back would we go?  To our childhood home?  To some mythical and legendary “old country?”

Even the Land of Israel has undergone many changes, even as have we, the People of Israel.

Each of us has a moment we call blessed.  It is there we want to go back to.  If only we could, if only we had a wishing stone or some sort of time turner, that’s where we would point it to.  Call it Avalon.

But we also have another alternative, a more feasible one.  We can start right now.  No matter where we are in time and place, let this be holy ground.  This is where the counting begins.  Let’s make this moment count and start from fresh right now.

Going forward, we can give more of our attention to the values we hold holy.  Respecting others as we do ourselves, keeping our gaze upward toward the exalted vision—but also looking down often enough so as not to stumble—we can bring holiness into the world we live in.  We can aim to live in such a way that, looking both forward and back in time, we can call this moment a holy one. 

We don’t have to go back thousands of years to declare a Jubilee.  We can declare a Sabbath throughout the world, for all its inhabitants, starting today.  Each day from now on, let’s sow the world around us, indeed our very lives, with the seeds of holiness.  That way, in fifty years, our children will call this moment holy and return to it, restoring it to all its former glory.

Let the counting begin.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman