To Soar With Angels: Emor

To Soar With Angels

D’var Torah for Parashat Emor

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been watching a woodpecker create a nest for himself and, hopefully, his family to come.  He has chosen a tall tree stump to hollow out, high above the range of more earth-bound predators.  His constant and untiring work has been inspirational—at least for me, if not in his own limited perception.  For him it’s only work.  Instinctive, embedded within his DNA, he is just following pre-programmed commands over which he has no control.

I’ve always been fascinated by birds.  I think most of us, if not all, have.  The ability to take wing, to soar, to rise above everything and see it from such a different perspective has always held special allure for human beings.

From mythological stories of winged creatures, through ancient tales of people creating wings for themselves, to magical beings that can soar on bed knobs, broomsticks or umbrellas, all the way to our own day of jets and space stations—we have imagined what it must be like to fly.

There are a few instances in the Bible where flying is mentioned—other than in the case of birds, of course.  Most of these appear in visions of prophets such as Isaiah.  So too with Elijah the Prophet.  Elijah doesn’t die; a chariot of fire descends from the heavens and carries him off.  

The Torah, however, concerns itself much more with earthly, not heavenly matters.  As much as we would like to soar above daily life with all its routines, problems and injustices, the Torah says we have to do something harder:  Fix them.  If not for our sake, then for the people who follow us, so that they might have a smoother road before them.

But it doesn’t mean that we can’t rise above the mundane.  The Torah teaches us that we can ascend to spiritual heights.  This is symbolized powerfully in two books of the Torah, Exodus and Deuteronomy, where the text speaks of God’s might to raise and shield us as though on “wings of eagles.”

It’s a powerful image, but one that is saved for those special moments that come, perhaps, once in an eon.

For the everyday we have this week’s portion, parashat Emor (Leviticus 21:1—24:23).

The portion first addresses the priests, the kohanim.  It admonishes them to live by a higher standard than the other people.  Morally and physically, they must behave in a manner that is beyond reproach.  Their hair and beards, for example, must not be unkempt.  Tattoos or other bodily markings are forbidden. 

However, the privileged social position of the priests calls for limits and constraints, too.  They must never become overly proud or corrupt in their behavior. There are restrictions on whom priests may or may not marry.   Even their mourning practices are curtailed.  A priest may not go into a cemetery (a practice still followed to this day by descendants of the ancient kohanim).  Moreover, a high priest can show no public mourning at all, not even for his father or mother.

The ancient priests lived not only by higher standards; they lived in a higher sphere, a holier realm than the rest of the people.

But the rest of the Israelites could ascend the spiritual heights as well.

Chapter 22 reminds us of the sacrifices we could bring to God.  The Torah admonishes us to be scrupulous about these offerings.  They must not be second-rate.  No diseased or lame animals.  A person does not necessarily have to go beyond his means, but there can be no lame excuse for a sacrifice offered only half-heartedly.  We rise spiritually not by being perfect, but rather by striving to achieve the best, to be the best that we can.

Finally, Chapter 23 reminds us of the holidays, starting with Shabbat, going on to Passover and Shavuot, and then to the fall holidays of Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur and Sukkot.

The holidays, despite the amount of work and preparation they entail (or perhaps because of all that work), elevate time to a sacred position.  When we participate in the customs and rituals of the holidays, we elevate ourselves.  Shabbat is not only a day of rest; it isn’t just another a day in the week.  It connects to all the Shabbatot in our life, as well as to those of our ancestors.  As we smell the aroma of fresh challah just out from the oven, as we taste the sweet wine, as we relish the smell of traditional foods, we go to a place that exists far beyond the actual moment, farther even than our own personal or shared memories.  We find ourselves in a river of time that goes all the way back to Creation.  From this vantage point we can see not only ourselves—tiny dots in the spectrum that we are—but also how we fit in and the role we play in the larger scheme of things. 

Like the priests of old, we too can exist—even if only for a few moments at a time—in the sphere of holiness.  But also as with the priests, there are restrictions for us too.  Even as we enjoy the fruits of our labor and rejoice in our holiday traditions, we are commanded not to forget the homeless, the poor and the hungry, but rather to leave them a part of our harvest, to let them have the gleanings of our produce.

There is a powerful lesson here.  Yes, we can raise ourselves to a level we call holy; but holiness isn’t found only “up there,” alongside the angels.  It is also down here, among the needy, among the people.  When we try to draw near to God, our eyes should not only be turned up, toward the heavens.  We should also be gazing deeply into our own souls, to see what needs to be fixed inside us.  And then we must also look around us.  Holiness, we see, is everywhere, if only we reach for it.  For when we do, we can be like angels, or like the birds that soar.  In fact, we can be better.  We can be b’nai adam, descendants of Adam, creatures of the earth in whom God’s image is implanted.

© 2014 by Boaz D. Heilman