A Strange Fire: Shemini.22

A Strange Fire: Shemini.22

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

A running theme through the Torah is how brothers interact. Beginning with Cain’s murder of Abel and continuing through the selling of Joseph into slavery by his brothers, the Torah gives one lesson after another. In this week’s Torah portion, Shemini (Leviticus 9:1—11:47) we have a beautifully constructed (yet tragic) tale of two sets of brothers: Moses and Aaron on the one hand, and two of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, on the other. 

But though the behavior of the two sets of brothers is important to the story, there’s something else, even more central to this portion’s message: community and the role of religion in sustaining it or creating conflict. 

From the start, Moses and Aaron complement one another. Aaron is chosen by God to be Moses’s spokesman (according to the Torah, Moses had a speech impediment). The two brothers work together in every respect, whether in Pharaoh’s court or in the Sinai Wilderness. When it happens that they disagree, they work it out by talking rather than fighting. An example for this is found in this portion (Lev. 16:16-20). Each knows his place and role; they consult with one another; they collaborate in providing vision and leadership for the Israelites.

Nadav and Avihu prove a striking contrast to this relationship. 

The Torah does not specify what exactly Nadav and Avihu do wrong. It simply says, “They offered before Adonai alien fire [אש זרה], which had not been enjoined upon them” (Lev. 10:1). The Torah is content leaving this as it is. The Midrash, however, offers four possible explanations.

Starting with the text itself, the Rabbis first suggest that what made the fire “alien” was that it was brought from the common kitchen, not from the holy altar—the only sanctioned source of fire for the sacrifices.

Then, based on a commandment given a few verses later, the rabbis offer that the two brothers may have been intoxicated at the time.

The third possibility is that, in a display of ego and greed, they did not consult with one another, and that each was trying to outdo the other.

Finally, the rabbis suggest that their action was an attempted insurrection. By preempting their father and uncle, Nadav and Avihu were trying to usurp power.

Whatever the transgression, Nadav and Avihu paid for it with their lives.

This tragic story is part of a larger narrative—the ceremony of the dedication of the Tabernacle. In this context, it’s more than just about brothers. It’s also about religion and how it can be misused. Moses and Aaron’s behavior illustrates the true function of faith: to create community and to give humanity purpose and direction. Nadav and Avihu, on the other hand, use their position and power to sow discord and division. The results, as this portion teaches us, are inevitable. But the choice is always ours. We can follow Moses and Aaron’s example, or give in to whatever base impulse motivated Nadav and Avihu. The lesson is timeless.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Small Aleph: Vayikra-Tzav.22

 The Small Aleph

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 15, 2022

In its English translations, Va-Yikra, the middle book of the Torah, is known as Leviticus. This title, however, is misleading; the text isn’t only about the Levites and their duties. Much of it pertains to the rest of us, those who were not of the tribe of Levi, chosen by God to serve at God’s Tabernacle. 

In Hebrew, the first word of this book—the word from which the book takes its title—is spelled rather mysteriously, with its last letter aleph (“א”) written smaller than the other letters: ויקרא. Rabbinic commentaries explain that the reason for this is to draw our attention not only to the larger guidelines of God’s commandments, but also to the smaller details. Another interpretation could be that holiness should not be the realm only of an elite group, but also something each one of us can aspire to.

To be sure, much of Leviticus is about the priestly duties—what sacrifices to offer, when, and of course how to offer them properly. But it soon becomes evident that holiness isn’t restricted only to the Levites. 

The word for sacrifice in Hebrew is korban, based on the three-letter root k.r.v, meaning to draw near. In early religious thinking, the vastness of separation between us and the Eternal was bridged by sacrifices. We drew nearer to the Divine through these rituals, some meant to show thanksgiving, others to ask forgiveness and atonement. 

The destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem in the year 70 CE put an end to the practice of animal sacrifice (though our prayer service, particularly for Shabbat and the holy days, still retains their memory). But the evolution of the Jewish understanding of “drawing near,” of reaching the state of holiness or blessedness, did not stop there.

In this week’s Torah portion (Tzav—“Command”—Lev. 6:1—8:36), we are instructed about the ritual of the dedication of priests. As with animal sacrifices described earlier, the Hebrew root k.r.v, is used here too, only now it applies to the priests. In this ceremony it’s the priests themselves who “draw near.” We learn that a living person can become holy by giving the gift of their ongoing lives. The state of holiness isn’t achieved only through sacred rituals. Blessedness is also the purpose and meaning with which we fill our lives. 

This development is an important step. It’s no longer the animal’s death (and subsequent transformation into divine food, “a pleasing odor unto the Lord”) that brings us closer to God. Our deeds, our behavior, how we live our lives, have the same amazing power. At first it was sacrifices, then the priests who brought us closer to God. Leviticus opens the realm of holiness to the rest of us as well. We—each of us—are represented by the small aleph in Va-Yikra, called upon to be holy in all matters large and small.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Revelry and Duty: Celebrating Purim.22

 Revelry and Duty: Celebrating Purim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 9, 2022

Like some other stories in the Bible, the Scroll of Esther is based on myths and legends from long ago. A relief now found in the British Museum describes how, in the 7th century BCE, the Assyrian King Ashurbanipal waged war on a people called the Elamites. In the course of the campaign, the king laid siege to the Elamite capital of Hamanu and destroyed it, carrying off great spoils. Among these was a statue of the god Marduk, which the Elamites had carried off in a previous battle. 

The victory must have been celebrated in great style, while the story was told and retold countless times. About 500 years later it finally assumed the form by which we know it today. Obviously much had changed: the setting was now Persia, ruled by a mythical king known as Ahashuerus. Hamanu was transformed into the evil Haman, while Marduk became the Jew Mordechai. Added now into the mix was Esther (whose name is also derived from a Near-East goddess—Ashtart). The complexity of the story—its genre and form, the number of characters, the political intrigue—are evidence of both the popularity of the story and its many makeovers.

Biblical scholars see motifs that relate the story of Esther to yet another ancient tale: the story of Joseph. Both heroes are described as “of beautiful form and fair to look on” (Gen. 39:6, Esther 1:7, JPS translation); both hide their Jewish identity until pressed to reveal it; both reach positions of power and status in the Gentile world; both take their place in Jewish history as saviors of their people. 

Yet there also exists one major difference. In the story of Joseph, God is given credit for events as they unfold. In the Scroll of Esther, God isn’t mentioned even once. From God’s deeds, the emphasis has shifted to the actions of people. It is now Mordechai’s wisdom and, above all, Esther’s bravery and heroism that result in the ultimate victory of the Jews.

The lesson that we can draw from this is relevant to our own day. Though we understand God as the supreme power behind events, it is we, the people, who make history happen. In the book of Exodus, the building of the Tabernacle is presented as paralleling God’s work of Creation. As the Jewish People undertake to participate in this majestic project, they symbolically pledge to continue being God’s partners. The task thus becomes ours to fulfill.

There are many joyous traditions associated with the holiday of Purim—the day on which we are commanded to commemorate Esther’s heroism. Revelry, masks and (of course) a festive meal—and the famous dessert known as hamantaschen. But along with the festivities we are reminded to share our blessings with our neighbors as well as with those who are less fortunate: refugees, the poor and homeless, the innocent victims of brutality and abuse.

The story of Esther reminds us both of our own history and of our ongoing obligations. Sadly, not much has changed since ancient days. But once again we find ourselves in a position where we can do our duty. The war in Ukraine has already caused two million refugees to seek shelter and food. May Queen Esther’s bravery remind us of our responsibilities not only to ourselves and our people, but to everyone who may need our help!

As the famous rabbi Hillel teaches: “If I am not for myself, who will be? But I by myself, what am I? And if not now, when?”

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Dwelling of the Testimony: Pekudei.22

 Mishkan Ha-Edut: The Dwelling of the Testimony

D’var Torah for Parashat Pekudei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 2, 2022 

In the last portion of the book of Exodus (Pekudei, “Inventory,” Exodus 38:21-40:38) we finally reach the happy—and seemingly perfect—conclusion to the story of the exodus. In the first part of the book, the Israelites are redeemed from Egyptian slavery. The second half is all about building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle representing God’s Presence in their midst. A striking question, however, rises in the reading of the very first verse of Pekudei: “This is the inventory of the tabernacle, the tabernacle of the Testimony” (NKJ version). Why the repetition of the word “tabernacle?”

It’s possible that Moses—dreamer that he was—thought that the Ten Commandments would be enough; that from the moment he came down from Mount Sinai with the Tablets of the Covenant, the people would become righteous and live a life of holiness. He was, of course, wrong. They needed more than stone and rock. They needed something beautiful and glorious as fitting and appropriate evidence of God in their midst.

This became the purpose of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, and it was to this end that the Israelites contributed whatever they could. Some gave material goods—from goat skins and fine wool to gold, silver and copper. Others offered the work of their hands, from weaving and carpentry to working with precious metals and expensive gemstones. Given exact measurements and instructions, it took the Israelites three months to construct the Tabernacle and all its sacred implements—including the altar, the Menorah (the seven-branch candelabra that stood at the entrance of the Tabernacle), and the amazing Holy Ark in which Moses placed the Ten Commandments. In this portion, Moses goes over the checklist one final time, making sure that God’s instructions were followed to the letter, that not one piece, not one hook, not one tiny silver bell from the High Priest’s garments, was missing.

By all accounts, it was a magnificent edifice. 

Yet for all its outer glory, the most sacred object for which the entire structure was intended, and which now was placed in its innermost chamber, was no golden statue, no treasure chest filled with gold and diamonds. Inside the Holy of Holies, Moses placed the Holy Ark, and inside that, the two tablets of The Pact, the Ten Commandments. This was the edut, (עדות) the witnessing document, the Covenant between God and the People of Israel.

The first time the word mishkan appears, it refers to the outer structure; the second time, mishkan ha-edut (משכן העדות), to its sacred contents.

More than a thousand years later, a Roman general, Hadrian, took it upon himself to desecrate the Temple of God in Jerusalem. As he entered the Holy of Holies, he must have expected to find untold treasures. To his amazement, however, he saw nothing at all. Possibly looted by the Babylonians, possibly hidden (or maybe lost, as Hollywood would have it), the Ark and the Stone Tablets were gone. The Holy of Holies was completely bare.

Yet the contract—the edut—had not disappeared; it had transformed. 

The first Mishkan—the Tabernacle in the Wilderness—was a portable tent. Later, it was replaced by a magnificent structure of timber and stone. Over time, the Covenant at its heart also evolved. No longer an object of stone, it became a living document. Its new home is now in every Jewish community, housed within every Jewish heart and mind. Taught and explained, publicly read every Shabbat and holy day, the Torah—symbol, witness and testament of the bond between God and the People of Israel—has finally found its permanent home. Our temples and synagogues are the new mishkan. And we, through our lives and the work of our hands, have become Mishkan Ha-Edut, the sacred Dwelling of the Testimony.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman