Of Freedom and Unity: A Message for The Fourth of July

Of Freedom and Unity: A Message for The Fourth of July

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The ancient Rabbis taught that when God gave the Torah to Israel, God spoke in seven (and some say seventy!) languages. The lesson here is, of course, that God intended that everyone should understand the Torah, regardless of where they came from or what language they spoke.

This wonderful ideal, however, has a built-in problem.

As we know, something is always lost in translation. And, one could also add, something is always gained in interpretation.  How far can we go in adapting the original writing? How far can we stray from the original wording without also veering from the purpose, intent and meaning of God’s Word? Even the Hebrew of the Bible, the language that the Torah was first written in, has undergone considerable change and transformation through the ages. Do we know the absolute intention behind every word that God uttered on that mind-boggling and grand day?

The positive of this is that we are still free today to interpret God’s word as we understand it.

The negative is that we are also free to misinterpret, to quote verses out of context, to delude ourselves into the false belief that ourview is the only possible one, the only legitimate way of understanding God’s truth.

How wonderful when we can study the Torah in Hevruta—as part of a study group—with each participant contributing his or her interpretation! Only then, viewed through many pairs of eyes, through the multi-layered perceptions and life experiences of each individual within the group, does the larger picture become clarified. Only then, as though by miracle, does a higher truth and a deeper understanding emerge. 

The conflict between these two perceptions—the individual and the collective—is addressed in the Torah portion that is read, studied and discussed by Jews all over the world this week, “Balak” (Numbers 22:2—25:9).  In this portion, Balak, the king of Moab, feels threatened by the multitude of Israelites encamped just outside his borders, and he hires an aged seer named Balaam (he of the talking donkey) to cast a curse upon Israel.  Despite his best (or worst, depending on your interpretation) intentions, Balaam ends up blessing Israel instead, pronouncing the famous words, “How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings O Israel!” (Numbers 24:5). 

How did the intended curse turn into a blessing instead? Of course, one could say—as Balaam himself explains this turn of events to King Balak—that God left Balaam no choice, that the famous seer could say nothing but what God was telling him to say.

Or perhaps it was Balaam’s perception, from high up on top the mountains of Moab.

From his lower vantage point, what the Moabite king saw was the sheer numbers that comprised the Israelite people. With terror in his heart, all he saw was the huge army that the Israelites had by that time mustered, the massive population that had spread over the plains. From the mountaintop, however, what Balaam saw was something totally different.  Balaam perceived the impregnable unity of the people. From his point of view, he saw harmony, not disorder.  Balaam saw the collective understanding that existed among the people, the extensive and far-reaching lines of communication—both spoken and unspoken—that unified the Israelites. Despite the fact that they were a tribal society, not nearly the nation that they would become a few centuries later, there was no force, natural or unnatural, that could break them apart.

This insight is what led Balaam to sing his glorious song in praise of Israel.  He understood the power that existed within the community, that unified the disparate kins and tribes, that fused the distinct idioms and customs into one unified, complete and all-embracing whole. It was this truth that led to his famous blessing, much to the consternation and even rage of his patron, Balak. 

The narrow view held by Balak made him unable to understand the full power and potential embedded within the Israelite People.

Balak was not the first—nor, unfortunately, the last—who made this fatal mistake.  World history is rife with kings and governments that tried to enforce their single-minded—and faulty—understanding of God’s Word upon others.  Many have quoted verses from the Bible completely out of context to explain or justify their actions and behavior, no matter how immoral or wrong. This conduct is not only misleading and disingenuous; it is downright dangerous. Rather than creating unity and strength, this kind of demagoguery, which appeals to people’s emotions, fears and prejudices, leads to disunity and discord. Coming not to enhance belief but rather to impose one, the intent of such misuse of God’s Word is not to strengthen the community but rather to weaken it while empowering the fist of a ruthless, immoral and unethical leadership. It leads to separation and disunity rather than to community and cooperation. History has taught us the dangers of accepting and following this kind of unjust leadership—especially when it is espoused by a person who is in charge of the country’s legal system.

Unity cannot be enforced from above—at least not for any lengthy period of time.  Unity can only be achieved when all voices from withinare heard, when all opinions are thoughtfully considered and respectfully discussed.

The lesson the rabbis would have us learn from their wise teaching that the Torah was given in seven (or seventy) languages is that there is no one, single, mind that can begin to grasp God’s meaning and purpose. We can only do that together, collectively—and even then our understanding is constrained, bound by the limits of our humanity.

But when we do listen to one another; when we try to understand what each of us, alone, must endure in life; when we reach out to one another with empathy, compassion and kindness; when we embrace each other with love and acceptance—only then does a higher understanding arise from deep within us; only then does a glorious and divine harmony emerge from the discord, becoming a blessing that strengthens us, that makes us one and inseparable, an indivisible nation of the free and the brave.

With the Fourth of July approaching, a holiday that defines America, that celebrates America, that IS America, may we never forget this eternal truth. May our celebration, this year and always, remind us not only of the differences within us, not only of the different languages and cultures of which America is assembled, but also of the dreams and purposes that brought us all here, and of the great mission that still lies before us. 

God bless America.  God bless Americans and all humanity with prosperity, health and peace.

© 2018 by Boaz D Heilman

Making The Everyday Holy: Beha’alotecha.18

Making The Everyday Holy:  Beha’alotecha

June 1, 2018

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Many years ago, a college friend suggested that we go to Colorado for a week of hiking and camping. Somehow, the trip never materialized, but the thought remained in my mind for all these years. Life kept pushing the idea further and further back, and then it just faded.  Until recently, that is.  

You see, my son now lives in Colorado, and last weekend I went out there for a few days. It wasn’t the first visit, but this time I got to fulfill at least part of the old dream. We didn’t go camping, but we did go hiking.  Colorado is full of amazing roads and nature trails, and beautiful vistas open before you at every moment and every turn.

I posted some of the pictures I took on Facebook, even as I realized that no photograph can do justice to the majesty and grandeur of the scenery.  One of the responses I got was, “I think you could get used to this!” My instinct was to reply, “I hope not!” But of course my friend had meant her words figuratively, not literally.

The phrase “to get used to something” has two meanings.  The figurative meaning is that something doesn’t require much work, there’s nothing unpleasant or difficult involved. It’s easy to become part of the experience. The other, more literal meaning, is to no longer see something as unusual or surprising. The special becomes ordinary.

How could anyone, I thought, get used to the Rocky Mountains? The lakes and rivers, the valleys and rock formations? How could all that become ordinary?

However, I suppose it is possible that for someone who’s lived in Colorado long enough, even the Rockies could fade into the background.

Our senses need constant refreshment; we need persistent stimulation, or else we dobecome used to just about anything. And when we get used to things, to people, to nature, to life, we start taking them for granted, and at that point, unless we are careful, they can lose all meaning.  

We are blessed today with just about everything we need. A few commands entered into our laptops or smartphones guarantee that whatever our hearts desire will arrive at our doorstep within a day or two, if not sooner.

It’s easy to get used to such comfort and convenience.

It’s easy to believe we have it coming to us, that we deserve it, that anything can be ours just because we want it. 

The danger in this kind of thinking, however, is that sometimes—just sometimes—it just so happens that we can’t have what we want.  Childlike then, we lapse into frustration and anger.  We lash out. We blame others for what we cannot have, and sometimes our rage can even turn into hatred, and then to violence.  Sadly, in our day, in our country, we see this happening more and more.

This week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha(“Kindling the Lights,” Numbers 8:1—12:16), teaches us how to avoid this dangerous regression. Its theme is elevation of the ordinary to the extraordinary, the sacred. The portion begins by stating the rules the priest has to follow as he kindles the lights of the menorah, the seven-branched gold candelabra that once stood at the opening of the Tent of Meeting and, later, at the Temple in Jerusalem.  The Torah’s instructions then move on to the ritual of elevating the Levites, one of the twelve tribes of Israel, to the exalted position of maintaining and leading the sacred service at the Temple. Finally, Beha’alotechatalks about elevating Time itself, taking the everyday, the most ordinary, the element of life we pay the least attention to—unless we’re in a hurry, or when we realize how precious little of it we still have left—and making it holy.

In the story of the manna,Beha’alotechaaddresses the danger of taking things for granted. As you might remember, manna was that sweet delicacy that appeared every morning, without fail, like dew, and fed the people throughout their wanderings in the Sinai Wilderness.  It required no work, no hunting, no cultivation.  All you had to do was to go out and gather as much as you needed.  No more and no less. But, as the saying goes, variety is the spice of life, and soon enough the Israelites get used to it and take to complaining.  Forgetting the misery, the slavery, even the genocide they had endured in Egypt, they begin to cry out for—to lust for—the fleshpots of Egypt, the meat, the fish, the fresh fruit and vegetables that grew in abundance by the Nile River.

It’s easy to get used to something if it comes to you regularly, without fail. It’s easy to take things for granted, even people, family, and love.  It’s easy to forget how we got to this point; easy to forget the sacrifices that were made by those who came before us, by those who still stand guard. It’s easy to ignore the plight of those who endure back-breaking work for little or no pay just to make sure we have everything we want, any time we want it.

The lesson that Beha’alotechateaches us is not to get too used to the blessings that fill our life.  Sometimes we needto make a special effort to appreciate what we have. Pinch yourself to make sure the dream does not fade away.  Anything that comes easily can also disappear just as easily.   Kindling the menorahlights may sound simple enough, but it had to be done every day, with special care and attention given to the tiniest details. The High Priest, whose duty this was, had to take an act we rarely think twice about, and make it holy.  Special praise is given to Aaron, Moses’s brother and the first High Priest, for keeping his hand steady as he fills the menorah’sreceptacles with pure olive oil, never spilling or wasting a drop of the precious liquid. 

Making little deeds mean more than they seem to, takes purpose and dedication, even love.

The Levites weren’t born special—no different from you and me.  But the exalted position to which they were called came with extra responsibilities.  Becoming a sacred servant to God and to people takes study, practice and years of preparation. Holiness is neither simple nor easy. Slipping up can have serious consequences.

And as for the rest of us, the so-called ordinary people, the rest of the Israelites, whose roles were mundane, routine, even monotonous, we too were given a task, a special, sacred task: We are called upon to sanctify time.  Time—a share of Eternity—is quite possibly the most wonderful blessing granted us by God, yet also the one we take most for granted.  There are special moments that stay in our minds and hearts forever—like when our children are born, or when they speak their first word or take their first step, or when they graduate high school and leave home for the first time. However, being a holy people means that we must make everymoment of our life special. Make it sacred. Make it count.

The time we spend on this earth; the time we spend with one another; the time we see a flower blossom or a mountain rise before our eyes—these are special times. Making Time sacred means filling every moment with purpose and meaning. The gift of Time is something you can’t get used to, mustn’t get used to.  It is sacred.

May beauty and love never become so ordinary that we get used to them. Like Aaron, may we kindle lights for others.  Like the Levites, may the labor of our hands always be filled with faith and purpose. Like the Israelites in the Wilderness, may we all learn to see the extraordinary, the sacred, at every moment, at every turn, and with each breath we take. 

© 2018 by Boaz D. Heilman