Sacrifice And Ethics During Pandemic Times: Vayikra.20

Sacrifice And Ethics During Pandemic Times

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Shabbat Vayikra

March 28, 2020

In each of our lives, there are moments that define who we are and how we got to be that way. There are of course the individual lifecycle events—births, coming-of-age, marriages—and other, less happy events.  And then there are historical moments, times that we share with our community, with our nation, and even with the entire world: The Great Depression; the World Wars; 9/11; the HIV-AIDS epidemic; and now, COVID-19.

Events like this have been around since the dawn of humanity, and each not only took its own course, leaving behind a trail of pain and devastation, but also managed, each in its own way, to change the course of history.

The Torah describes at least one epidemic outbreak: leprosy. For thousands of years, this terrifying disease was associated with stigmas, legends and accusations. The carrier of the disease was often blamed as having brought it upon him- or herself. Thus, as told in the book of Numbers in the Torah, when Miriam, Moses’s sister, was diagnosed with leprosy, the cause of her illness was understood to be the harsh complaints which she had directed against Moses.

For millennia, disease and illness were seen as divine retribution for immoral or sinful behavior.

So too, today, ignorance and prejudice have led some people to blame COVID-19 on the Chinese, the Gay community, or—naturally—the Jews.

Most of us know better, of course, than to blame any individual, group or nation, for illness or disease. It’s all a part of the world we live in, an imperfect world filled with dangerous fault lines, variables and unknowns.

But beyond that, Jewish tradition has taught us even greater lessons.

If nothing else, it has taught us that research and preparedness—not scapegoating and incrimination—are the proper paths that we must follow.

The fear of leprosy—and its great incidence among the Israelites during our early days in the Wilderness—have taught us about patient care, and about searching for cures. While it was essential to quarantine the sick outside the camp, they were not abandoned or left to fend for themselves. Rather, food and water were always brought to them, and the priest, on top of being in charge of their spiritual well-being, was given the extra responsibility of going outside the camp on an almost daily basis, to visit the sick; to check up on them; to see to their needs; to pray with them and for them; and to encourage and give them hope.

Thankfully, curing the sick isn’t the priest’s duty anymore. Though rabbis do make sick calls, and while visiting the sick is considered a great mitzvah—a holy commandment—finding the treatment and cure is now up to the medical profession.  Thank God!

Aside from caring for the sick, the priest had other functions at the Temple. In this week’s Torah portion, Vayikra (Leviticus 1:1—5:26), we learn about his most important duty: Offering sacrifices.  In ancient days, sacrifice was seen as the most direct way for human beings to interact with God. Though often accompanied by prayer—whether for forgiveness, for strength, or for thanks—it was the actual ritual itself that assured us that our prayer would be heard and accepted.

And in truth, sacrifice works, though perhaps not in the same way that it was understood in ancient days. Parents know about sacrifice. Teachers, who come up—in their “spare” time at home—with lesson plans and innovative ways to reach their students, know about sacrifice.  Those who serve in the military know about sacrifice; as do first responders; and doctors and nurses, who don’t flinch at the sight of blood or suffering, who without fail present themselves at epicenters of disease outbreaks, who work tirelessly to find treatments and cures, never giving up hope or falling into despair.

The truth is that no society can exist without some form of sacrifice for the common good.

Yet, even as the Temple rituals became more and more detailed and exacting, their value was questioned by others, by Prophets who saw how people behaved towards one another as more important than the number of bulls or sheep that they offered at the altar. The prophet Isaiah scorns strict adherence to the sacrificial rules while greed and injustice prevailed in society. “I have more than enough of burnt offerings, of rams and the fat of fattened animals,” Isaiah calls out in the name of the Almighty (Is. 1:11). Rather, we must comprehend that what God really wants of us it to, “Learn to do right; seek justice; defend the oppressed; take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow” (Is. 1:17).

At times of trouble, though prayer helps, and though our own personal sacrifices—of time, effort, money and food—are important, what we need to do no less, is to look at our own ways and behavior and conduct ourselves by the highest standards of ethics and principles.

Too many of us have become short-sighted and selfish. Among many, arrogance and narcissism have replaced generosity and kindness  As a society, we have become obsessed with immediate gratification. We consume far more than we actually produce. We have become dependent on the cheap labor of others, while turning a blind eye to the injustice of major corporations and conglomerates amassing huge fortunes.

Ultimately, both the Torah and the Prophet Isaiah are right. The ancient words that we heard today prove their eternal wisdom yet again. Our sacrifices and rituals are indeed part of who we are, and they provide us with much of our strength. But then, so does our ethical behavior towards one another. Through these recent days of fear and anxiety, we have learned that physical distancing is crucial for our well-being, but that emotional closeness, and spiritual caretaking, are just as important. The lives of all human beings matter, regardless of color, race, religion or creed, regardless of gender or sexuality, nationality and ethnicity.

We live in extraordinary times. If, with all the opportunities for self-reflection that have suddenly been thrust upon us, we don’t learn to evaluate and appreciate what is really important in life, then this history-shaping pandemic will have come and gone in vain, leaving behind nothing but sadness and hopelessness. If we don’t emerge from this crisis—and may it be soon!—with greater empathy for one another’s pain and need, with deeper understanding of the need for all peoples and nations to cooperate, then all our sacrifices will be in vain.

May the lessons we learn from the past help us cope with the anxiety and fear that surround us today. May the ancient words of Torah and our Prophets grant us not only hope, but also direction and guidance for tomorrow and for all the days, weeks and years ahead.

God bless us all with strength and health, along with serenity and peace. Amen.

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman

God’s Presence In Our Lives: Vayak’hel-Pekudei.20

God’s Presence In Our Lives: D’var Torah for Vayak’hel-Pekudei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 20, 2020

This Shabbat, with a powerful double portion (Va-yak’hel-Pekudei, Exodus 35:1—40:38), our weekly cycle of Torah readings reaches the end of the second book of the Torah, Exodus.  

Exodus! The very title awakens powerful images: the parting of the Red Sea, the ten plagues, the burning bush, the Ten Commandments! And above and beyond all these, the very notion—the revolutionary concept—of human liberty, and its glorious affirmation in the defiant stance taken by Moses, whom the Torah describes as the humblest of men, before the mightiest, most arrogant, and most self-delusional man in the world—Pharaoh.

And yet, amazingly, all of these wonders take place in the first half of the book; the rest of Exodus is devoted to something quite different and much less cinematic: the building of the Mishkan, a.k.a the Tabernacle, the Tent of Meeting, God’s dwelling among the Israelites.

“Let them make Me a sanctuary,” God tells Moses, “that I may dwell among them.”  In this double portion we learn about the rare and expensive materials that the people donated for the building of this portable temple; the intricate design, structure and decorations that made it so beautiful; the many instruments and tools, made of gold, silver and copper, that would be used there. 

Every culture, all over the world, seemed to be obsessed with building temples. From the ziggurats—the towers—of Babel, to the pyramids of Egypt and South America; from the Parthenon of Athens to the magnificent cathedrals of medieval Europe, these were the most stunning structures, meant to represent not only the philosophies, but also the grandeur and pride of the civilizations that  produced them. The difference between them and the Tent of Meeting was that the Mishkan built by Moses was nearly empty. Instead of statues and idols, it contained only God’s words, carved on a set of two stone tablets. It was words, not an image, that represented God in this dwelling. 

Three hundred years later, King Solomon built a more enduring temple in Jerusalem, the city that his father, King David, had established as his capital. Viewing the splendid edifice that he had created, Solomon ponders the question of how any physical dwelling—no matter how grandiose or lavish—can contain God’s presence.  In his speech of dedication he asks, “But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, heaven and the heaven of heavens cannot contain you. How much less this temple which I have built!” (1 Kings 8:27, NKJV). 

It was a question Jews have never stopped asking. When, 500 years later, Solomon’s Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians, and then, after yet another 500 years, following the destruction of the Second Temple by the Romans, the ensuing crises of faith took centuries to repair. For the Jewish People, the Mishkan in the Sinai Wilderness and the Temples in Jerusalem represented much more than God’s presence: They stood for the ongoing relationship between God and Israel. With them gone, how were we to reach God? Was God’s Presence still in our midst? Was the Covenant between God and the Jews still valid and binding? Was God still our God, and we, God’s People?

In the Midrash a story is told of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai and his pupil, Rabbi Yehoshua ben Hananya, both of whom witnessed the destruction of the Temple by the Romans.  Seeing the ruins of the Temple, Rabbi Yehoshua said, “Woe to us, for this—the place where all of Israel’s sins are forgiven (through sacrifices)—is destroyed! Answered Rabbi Yohanan: “My son, do not be distressed, for we have a form of atonement just like it. And what is it? Acts of loving kindness” (Avot D’Rabbi Natan 4:5). 

This message has been our people’s guiding light throughout history. Exiled from one land after another, driven to secrecy and hiding places, seeing our shuls and synagogues torched in riots and pogroms, wherever we went, we carried within us the knowledge that these were just buildings, edifices made of wood and stone. Yes, they were sanctuaries; it was there that we went to find comfort, wisdom and company. But the truth was that God’s presence was always within us, as long as we studied the words of Torah and practiced acts of loving kindness. 

This year we find ourselves once again unable to enter our beloved houses of worship. True—Zoom, Facebook and other social media are fine, but they aren’t quite the same as a compassionate hug or a dignified handshake. And there’s little to match the feel of an ancient and well-worn prayer book in our hands. And yet, there’s a real link, not merely a virtual one, that still connects us. God’s presence needs no physical house: As much as it exists in the heavens, so it dwells within our hearts. Just as the Mishkan, the Tent of Meeting, housed nothing but God’s words, so do the words of Torah still abide within us. Acts of love and kindness have always nourished us; our traditions have always shone light into the deepest abyss, and conveyed comfort to those who felt the anguish of loneliness and isolation.  That’s what Moses knew as, seeing the Tent of Meeting up in all its glory, he blessed his people. That was the certainty that outweighed any doubts within King Solomon’s mind when he dedicated the Temple in Jerusalem. And that knowledge is what still sustains us today.

Tonight, housebound by a virus we do not yet understand, we can build our own Mishkan, our own Temple. As we bring Shabbat and its blessings into our homes, we let God’s Presence suffuse our spirit, God’s holiness pervade in our lives.

May the light of our Shabbat candles shine not only for us tonight, but for anyone who sees them through our windows. May their glow bring happiness and hope into all our homes. May they dispel fear and anxiety, and instead inspire us with the certainty that God still dwells amongst us, as God has since the days of the Mishkan in the Wilderness, through all our days and nights.

Shabbat shalom; may this Sabbath be filled with the promise of peace and health.                                            

© 2020 by Boaz D. Heilman