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
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