Pekudei: An Ending and a New Beginning

Pekudei: An Ending and a New Beginning
D’var Torah for Parashat Pekudei (Exodus 38:21—40:38)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

With this week’s parasha, the second book of the Torah, Exodus, comes to its fulfilling conclusion.

Pekudei—“accountings”—is the final checklist of the quantities and components that went into the building of the Tent of Meeting, the portable temple that the Israelites carried with them throughout their wanderings in the Wilderness.

The exact specifications are repeated several times in this book. Now, with the conclusion of the work, we review them all one last time, just to be sure everything is there. After all, the Tabernacle—and with it, Judaism, the religion of Israel—is about to be launched. I always imagine the pilots of a jet about to take off, going over their checklist yet one more time, just to be sure. It’s a weighty responsibility, on which not only the lives of all the passengers of this specific journey depend, but also the entire history of the Jewish People. Not a piece may be overlooked or misplaced.

In the end, as with the builders of some magnificent edifice—a building, a bridge, even a nation—a single individual gets all the credit. It is the father of our nation, or else the city mayor, the architect or the designer who get their name embossed on the golden plaque. So here, too, certainly one could expect Moses to be given all the credit. Yet the Torah does the extraordinary, going the extra mile to give credit not only to Moses, but also to the entire people: “All the work of the Tabernacle of the Tent of Meeting was completed; the Children of Israel had done [it]” (Ex. 39:32).

It was, after all, their work. Without that, Moses could have accomplished nothing. Under the guidance of Bezalel and Oholiab, every Israelite who could and would, donated time, effort or valuables. Only so could the work have progressed. In the end, not a piece was missing, not one of the thousands of hooks, beams, clasps or pegs, not an inch from the hundreds of yards of linen, wool and yarn. It was nothing less than perfect.

And Moses? He gets the final credit: He is the one who puts it all together. “He set up the courtyard all around the Tabernacle and the altar, and he put up the screen at the entrance to the courtyard; and Moses completed the work” (Ex. 40:33). Now remember, Moses at this point is 81 years old! Yet he is to one who sets up the tent, moves all its furnishings to the right spot, spreads the coverings over the whole compound, puts up the enclosures and divisions, lights the gold Menorah for the first time and offers the very first sacrifice. And all in one day. “Body by Fisher,” boasted a fancy brass plate on every General Motors car that came out until between 1908 and 1996. “Built by Moses” must have been the writing proudly inscribed on the dedication plaque of the Tent of Meeting.

Of course, it may be that Moses was imbued with superhuman powers on that day, the first New Year’s Day after the Exodus from Egypt. He did, after all, part the Red Sea with only his staff (OK—God’s eastern wind had something to do with it too). Miracles abound in the Torah. Why not just add one more to the list and move on?

Or perhaps there is more than meets the eye here. Perhaps “Built by Moses” does not signify only Moses’s huge accomplishment in setting up the Tabernacle, but rather something even greater than that.

The whole thing revolves around a Hebrew word which occurs twice in this parasha, once in each of the verses quoted above. The word is “completed,” vateichel in 39:32 and vayeichal in 40:33. Despite the grammatical difference between the two forms of the word, the root of the word is the same: Ch.L.H. There are, of course, other words the Torah could have used here. Why the repetition of this particular verb?

Because it brings us back nearly two books, to Genesis, where the word first appears in context of the story of Creation (Gen. 2:1): “Thus the heavens and the earth were completed [va-ye-chu-lu] in all their vast array.” This is no coincidence. By using the same word in each of the three verses, the Torah parallels the construction and setup of the Tabernacle by Moses and Israel to the creation of the world by God.

Though the Tabernacle in which the Israelites worshipped during their wanderings in the wilderness is no more, and though the two Temples in Jerusalem that were built to replace it are also gone, the Sacred Service is still ongoing. We are still engaged in worshipping God in the way Moses had taught us. We still study the dimensions of the original house of worship in loving—and repetitive—detail. We still build temples modeled after that original design, constructing dwelling places for God’s sanctity among our communities throughout our wanderings. We dress the Torah in much the same manner the Priests used to be dressed and we place each scroll of the Torah in a Holy Ark, separated from the rest of the more ordinary world by richly embroidered and colorful curtains.

We are still engaged in the same tasks we took upon ourselves over three thousand years ago, tasks that the Torah says are on the same plane as the Creation of the World by God. It is thus—through the study of Torah, through prayers and through the fulfillment of mitzvot (the Commandments)—that we maintain our eternal partnership with God.

The greatness of Moses is not merely that he stood up to Pharaoh, nor even that he stood up to God and argued with God. It isn’t even that somehow Moses found the superhuman strength to erect the Tent of Meeting all by himself on that one amazing New Year’s Day in the desert. His real greatness is that he set an entire people on a path that we have not veered from in more than three thousand years.

With the help of Aaron his brother and Miriam their sister, Moses took a run-down, humbled, worn-out rabble and he gave them a purpose and a goal. He made of them a Nation and set them on a course parallel to—or perhaps corresponding to—Eternity. Compared to that, setting up a tent is child’s play, even at 81. That one day, to the applause of all humanity, Moses bowed his head humbly and accepted the accolades. It was his day of triumph, a day we recount every year, still shaking our heads in disbelief yet knowing it must be so.

The Spirit of God truly strengthens us, invigorates us, enlivens us, moves us, one and all, to ever greater triumphs. That is why, as we conclude reading a book in the Torah—as we will tomorrow in all our houses of worships, in all our temples, shuls and synagogues “before the eyes of the entire House of Israel in all their journeys” (Ex. 40:38)—we all rise and recite a simple formula:

Chazak chazak v’nit-cha-zek: Be strong, be strong and we shall all be strengthened.

Amen.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Triumph of the Soul

Triumph of the Soul
D’var Torah for Parashat Vayak’hel
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Rabbis teach that a true penitent should never be reminded of his transgression. In other words, once a person has corrected their ways and made up for any mistakes he or she may have made along the way, they are completely forgiven. Reminding them of their past becomes a sin in itself.

We see an example of this in this week’s parasha, Vayak’hel (Exodus 35:1—38:20). Having truly repented for the Golden Calf incident, the Israelites were forgiven and offered a second chance. Now they begin in earnest the task of building of the Tabernacle, the work progressing smoothly, with no further stumbling blocks. Their past mistake is as though forgotten, never to be mentioned again.

Throughout the Bible we encounter again and again rebellious nature of the ancient Israelites. Yet in this Torah portion they are as meek lambs, offering no resistance to Moses as he gathers them together (Va-yak-hel: he convened). Called up, they willingly gather and listen to Moses. As instructed by God, Moses first tells the people to remember to observe the Sabbath. Then he sets up a collection, listing all the materials necessary for the building of the Tabernacle: “Take from yourselves an offering for the Lord; every generous hearted person shall bring the Lord’s offering of gold, silver and copper” (Ex. 35:5). Moses instructs Bezalel and Oholiab, the master architect and chief contractor, to start constructing the Tent of Meeting.

Then a miracle happens. To a one, every man, every woman steps up. Some can do the weaving, others the sewing and embroidery. Many have the precious metals necessary for the construction of the Tabernacle, or the gems for the priest’s ceremonial clothing. Some have tanned animal hides that they bring forward; others have linen and soft cotton or wool, or rare, expensive dyes. Morning after morning, moved by an overwhelming, free-flowing generosity, the people continue to step up, one after another bringing forward their donations for the project. It soon becomes apparent that more has been brought in than is necessary, and the call goes out to stop the contributions.

Three thousand years later, many of us today are involved in charitable organizations. We long for the day when the call will go out to stop the flow of generous contributions. We call it the Messianic Age, when disease will have been eradicated, hunger will be no more, and the world will be at peace. It seems incredible and impossible. Yet the Torah tells us it is not beyond our reach. Is there not enough food in the world to feed all the hungry? Of course there is. Do we not have the brains to figure out how to heal the sick, raise the fallen and clothe the naked? It’s all a question of distribution of resources, of skillful organization, of belief in our own talents and abilities.

And so what stops us? What stands in the way of potential contributors? Why do we still get solicitations from a hundred different charitable organizations each week, each month, year after year?

Perhaps it’s selfishness; maybe it’s the fear of the unknown—who knows what tomorrow will bring, maybe we shouldn’t give it all away so easily. Some feel that they are alone in giving, that others are more lax in fulfilling their obligations, and so they become disheartened and cynical. And yet others simply don’t believe that the goal is reachable, so why bother in the first place?

That is why the first instruction Moses gives the Israelites is not concerning the donations for the Tabernacle, but rather a reminder about the holiness of Shabbat. Shabbat, after all, is the day that represents our sacred partnership with God, our share in the ongoing process of Creation. Meant to inspire and uplift our spirits, Shabbat challenges us to reach our true potential. Reaching for the sublime, for the Holy-of-holies within our souls, we find there our inner strength. With each successive Shabbat that we observe, we become stronger, more and more energized by the Spirit of Creation that flows throughout the universe and through each one of us.

We become discouraged with our work when it loses meaning for us; when we lose sight of direction, goal or purpose; when we become overwhelmed by the enormity of the task. Moses’s genius is that he is able to take a rabble of disgruntled ex-slaves and turn them instead into a free and proud people. He unifies us by giving us something to believe in, and he inspires us by presenting us with purpose and objective, by asking us to work towards a lofty, yet eminently reachable goal.

That is the greatness of Moses: That he gave us the power and the tools to overcome all obstacles. He taught us to take a moment from our work, look up and remember why it is that we do what we do. He gave us a goal and encouraged us to believe in our ability to reach it. By appealing to the “generosity of our hearts,” rather than imperiously commanding us, Moses awakens the dream within us and inspires us to believe, to hope, to want to fulfill our highest potential. Three thousand years ago, we responded: “So they continued bringing to him freewill offerings morning after morning” (Ex. 36:3).

To this day, we still respond to this appeal. We still send in our donations, we still rise up each morning to do the sacred work of Creation. Despite all, we still believe, we still hope. That is our greatness. It is the triumph of our soul, the quality that transforms us from imperfect mortals into something just less than the angels themselves, that turns us into a kehillat kodesh, a sacred community, a fitting match for the sacred unity of God.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Terrible Fall

A Terrible Fall
D’var Torah for Ki Tisa (Exodus 30:11—34:35)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tisa (“when you count”), is crucial to the understanding of the relationship between God and Israel. The storyline itself is dramatic enough, but the lessons of the parasha are overarching, reaching across the ages, defining how we may and can make God’s presence appear in our own daily lives.

Ki Tisa begins with Moses being told to take a census of the people, not by counting heads but rather by collecting a half-shekel from each male 20 years and older (the ancient shekel comprised 20 gerahs, the smallest monetary unit of the time; therefore a half-shekel was 10 gerahs, a minimal amount affordable to rich and poor alike). This was the enrollment fee that assured the Israelites of their place among the People of Israel, as well as of the permanent nature of their relationship with God.

This permanence, however, is immediately tested and almost severed. With Moses gone—he has been spending 40 days and nights up on the top of Mount Sinai, where he was called by God to receive the Torah—the people lose sight not only of their leader, but also of God and their ultimate goal. Bewildered and terrified, they demand that Aaron make a physical representation of the Divine, something they could look at and remember that all is not chaos and disorder.

Aaron gives in to the demands of the people and, drawing from Near-Eastern popular imagery of divine beings, creates a golden calf.

Simultaneously, just as the Israelites receive this profane image, Moses receives a totally different representation of the Divine: The Ten Commandments written in stone by God’s own hand.

Seeing the terrible fall of the people, God is incensed and threatens to destroy the Israelites; God promises Moses to make of him the father of a new nation. Moses, however, argues with God, demanding not only justice, but also mercy. He reminds God of the promise God had made to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the promise to redeem the Israelites from slavery and to bring them safely to the Promised Land. What would the Egyptians say if they saw this promise broken? Moses continues by providing the only conceivable answer: the Egyptians would claim that God simply could not do what He had promised and therefore destroyed the people, that it was nothing but a half-baked experiment gone terribly awry. The truth would be hidden forever; the knowledge of God as Redeemer and Savior would be lost forever.

Mollified, God relents and sends Moses down to the people to repair the damage.

When Moses descends from Mount Sinai, he sees the people engaged in wanton revelry around the false idol. He does the unthinkable, hurling the two tablets of the Law, God’s own handwriting and all, against the mountainside. The tablets smash to smithereens. One can only imagine the smoldering bits of God’s energy lying among the gravel and dust; the ultimate proof of God’s existence is gone forever.

Urged by Moses, the Israelites repent. Their repentance is accepted, but the question of how to regain God’s trust remains. When relationships break down, faith and trust are the most difficult to rebuild. In this case, too, both God and the Israelites have to begin from scratch, taking the broken pieces and trying to reconstruct them once again into one whole.

It seems an impossible task. For centuries afterwards, anti-Semites would be using this passage in the Torah as proof that the damage was indeed permanent, that the relationship between God and the Israelites could not be reconstructed, necessitating a new covenant through yet another prophet and another people.

Yet what really happens is that Moses negotiates new terms, a new covenant (Exodus 34:6-7). God would agree to remain in the midst of the Israelites despite their sins, despite their failings, but not without consideration of their deeds and ensuing consequences. Justice however would be tempered by mercy and compassion. Whereas the penalty for even a major sin would be limited, lasting no more than one lifetime (alas, affecting four generations), the consequences of a good deed would last for thousands of generations.

In the words of behaviorist educators: one cannot eliminate bad behavior; it’s part of being human. However, a good teacher can maximize the chances of good behavior and minimize the opportunities for bad behavior. Understanding that consequences must follow, that every action will carry requisite rewards or penalties, is crucial to successful classroom management. But then, so is the deep awareness of what constitutes proper behavior and what does not (both for teacher and for student).

These are the guidelines proposed by Moshe Rabeinu, Moses our Teacher.

And God, magnanimous Principal that God is, agrees to these terms.

Moses writes a new set of Ten Commandments—God’s words, in Moses’s hand. This too, is crucial to our new relationship. Given in the form of words, God’s message can now be transmitted from generation to generation. In scrolls, printed books, even through the Internet—it’s the word and its contents that become holy, not the physical representation of God’s handwriting. We can write it for ourselves, interpret it for our time, teach it to our children, translate it into any language so that others may understand it. Language itself becomes the link that binds God and us through the eons.

In the end, all is well again. A shaky truce is established; rules for holidays, regulations for showing mercy and justice in our own ways—the same qualities we expect of God — are given and the Israelites accept them.

It is only now, having experienced the worst fall of all, that we can begin to rise again. From here on, it will be up to us to maintain our relationship with God. No more golden calves. It will be through the celebration of holidays and Shabbat, through our partnership with our people and community, through the deeds of our hands, that from here on we may and can make God’s presence known and apparent in our midst.

Finally, with a deeper understanding of human nature, God and the Israelites can move on. Much work yet lies before us before we reach the Promised Land. There is a Tabernacle¬¬—modeled after God’s creation of the universe—to be erected, a microcosm of God’s dwelling among us to be constructed.

But first, Shabbat. It’s the least we can do.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

It Is Our Mitzvah

It Is Our Mitzvah
D’var Torah for Parashat Tetzaveh
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

In this week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh (“You shall command,” Exodus 27:20—30:10), Moses receives instructions regarding the clothing of the priests. The design and materials match in intricacy and detail those of the Tabernacle. In a sense, the vestments of the High Priest and his assistants thus become an extension of the Tent of Meeting.

Following the description of the sacred vestments, Moses receives the next set of instructions, this time relating to the ceremony of the priests’ installation. In this ritual, they are to be washed in water, dressed in the sacred vestments and anointed with sacred oil. Specific sacrifices are to be offered. These are not the ordinary, everyday sacrifices, but rather the Offerings of Ordination, sacrifices made only once in the lifetime of each priest and high priest—at the time of his ordination and investiture.

Interestingly, Tetzaveh is the only Torah portion in which Moses’s name never appears. Everywhere else we read, over and over again: “God spoke to Moses;” or, “Moses said to the people.” Not here. The portion opens with, V’atah tetzaveh: “You shall command.” Later sections begin with, “You shall bring near;” “You shall speak;” “You shall make.” You, not Moses. This is particularly ironic when we stop to consider that the Hebrew title of this book is Shemot, “names.” Yet in this one portion, the name of the book’s foremost protagonist is prominently left out.

Similarly, even though Aaron and his four sons, the original priests, are mentioned by name, it isn’t their names that are centrally featured in this portion. The minute specifics of their vestments and the detailed description of the sacrifices they must offer push the names to a vague and hazy background.

The key to understanding this puzzle is in the clothing of the High Priest.

Over linen breeches and a belt, over a cotton tunic and an ornate robe, the High Priest wears an ephod, a two-piece linen vest whose front and back panels are connected by two shoulder straps. Sewn onto the straps are two large cut gems, one per shoulder. Set in gold, these stones have the names and seals of the tribes of Israel carved into them, six on each stone. (Must have been pretty large stones!) Suspended over the ephod or vest, and attached to it by a blue thread, is the Urim and Thummim, a divination plate whose purpose is not unlike that of a Ouija board. Set into this plate are twelve gemstones, each different, each set in gold. Like the stones on the ephod shoulder straps, these gems also have the names of the tribes of Israel carved on them, one tribe on each stone.

It must have looked stunning, this armor made of expensive linen, rare dyes and priceless gems. One cannot even begin to estimate its value. Yet its real value wasn’t in the material of which it was made. It was in the names it held.

Before the High Priest began his work, before he went into the Holy of Holies, before he could offer even one sacrifice, he would put on these items of clothing. It wasn’t only for show. The real purpose is explained in Chapter 28 verse 12: “And Aaron shall carry their names before Adonai upon his two shoulders as a remembrance;” and then again in 28:30: “And Aaron shall carry the judgment of the children of Israel over his heart before Adonai at all times.”

It is so easy for a person in power to lose sight of the true purpose of his role—to guide, lead and judge. Surrounded by the trappings of power, all too often the powerful are blinded by the riches and almost infinite opportunities. The heavy rocks on the High Priest’s shoulders were to remind him, to awaken him from any illusions of grandeur. The gold and gems he wore were not for his benefit. They were to serve as a reminder, both for himself and for God. At no point during the service was the High Priest to lose sight of his role and function. It was never to be about himself. He was only the go-between, serving to bring the people’s offerings to God and in return to reveal God’s judgment to them.

These, then, are the names that really matter. It’s the people, not Aaron, that factor in this equation. Even Moses’s name disappears, as a direct line of relationship between Israel and God appears.

What stands out ultimately in parashat Tetzaveh is not any particular individual. Outlasting Moses and Aaron, the Tent of Meeting and the priests’ clothing remain as symbols of an eternal God—but also of the eternal nature of the service of this God. It is the ritual that becomes important: the preparation of the clothing, the investment of the priests, the offering of sacrifice. These are eternal, even if the individuals who practice it at any particular time are not.

In our own day, with the Temple gone, with the priests no longer functioning as intermediaries between God and us, we are still left with the ritual. We no longer offer sacrifice: we offer prayer and acts of kindness. We no longer dress the High Priest with elaborate vestments: We dress the Torah and study its eternal words instead.

And that’s why the name of Moses is never mentioned in this portion. It really isn’t about him. It’s about us.

We have become the priests, a holy nation, in fulfillment of our Covenant with God. Faithfully we carry on our mission; our purpose is engraved for all eternity upon our heart and mind. It may feel heavy at times, but its value is greater than all the gold and gems that sometimes may distract us.

It is our mitzvah.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Building Sacred Space

Building Sacred Space
D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Since childhood, I’ve always loved toys that involved construction. Whether it was a mechanical nuts-and-bolts-type game (I think it was actually called “Construction”) with which I built cranes and bridges and other engineering feats; or Legos; or toys that enabled me to become an architect for a day or two and design—and build—all sorts of structures, I would spend hours and days on each of my projects.

In time, the toys evolved. As a pianist, the pieces I worked on became the structures that intrigued me. I saw rooms within rooms, palaces and humble homes, even edifices that resembled cathedrals—complete with bells! Sometimes I felt that my music was a bridge, a path that enabled me travel to far-off places and times, to commune with distant people.

Still later, as rabbi, I have been fortunate and blessed to be able to work on another kind of structure: a k’hillat kodesh, a sacred community.

There’s nothing new in this hobby—and mission—of mine. I came by it naturally, or perhaps culturally. Ever since slavery days in Egypt, the Israelites have been builders. In Egypt we were bound by Pharaoh’s will to build huge edifices, monuments dedicated to tyranny and oppression. Once free, however, we focused on building more useful structures: hospitals, schools, courts, communities, even countries!

In this week’s Torah reading, Terumah (“uplift donation”, Exodus 25:1—27:19), Moses receives a detailed blueprint that he is to pass on to the Israelites. It is an intricate design for a sanctuary, a portable Tent of Meeting, meant to symbolize God’s presence among us. This grand structure was to be the Israelites’ first construction job as a free people.

As slaves in Egypt we weren’t asked whether we would help out or not. We literally had no choice. Questioning was not allowed. Slacking off was punishable by law. The truly amazing thing in Terumah is that, as a free people we do have a choice. We can participate in contributing and building a sanctuary, or we can choose not to. “Speak to the Children of Israel, that they bring Me an offering [terumah]. From everyone who gives it willing with his heart you shall take My offering” (Ex. 25:2).

Freedom means you can say “No,” even to God.

God makes it easy to say no: First on the list of approved materials are gold, silver and copper! Then come expensive linens; finely spun, soft wool and expertly woven yarn; exotic dyes from the north-eastern shores of the Mediterranean Sea; supple leather; all sorts of jewelry and unusual gems; and, to top it all off (literally), the skins of some mysterious animal called “tachash” (the identity of which has brought about all sorts of speculation through the ages).

Rare, expensive gifts that not everyone would be willing to part from.

But the list doesn’t stop there. It isn’t only expensive metals and jewels that God wants. The call is to go out for workers in wood, metals and fabrics; artists and artisans; weavers, embroiderers and quilters. And if none of these suited you, you could always cook a meal or bring a pitcher of water for the workers laboring under the hot desert sun. In short, there is something for everyone to contribute—from generous monetary gifts to a mere pinch of salt.

This common project has two goals: To construct a sanctuary, but also to build community. With everyone participating, with everyone knowing their purpose and function, every single member of the community can feel that he or she is valued for who they are, as well as for what they bring in to the commonality. Why would anyone say no to that?

Every aspect of the wonderful Tabernacle is described in detail: From material to size to shape and texture. It isn’t only the large pieces that matter. Also important are the joints and bars that connect the wooden framework, as well as the loops and clasps that will join together the colorfully woven and embroidered fabric of the Tent itself.

The two most intricate designs are of the Menorah—the seven-branch lampstand—that stood at the opening of the Sanctuary, and the Holy Ark that stood at its innermost heart. The first was designed symbolically like a tree of life. Delicate branches grow into almond flowers, replete with petals, cups and calyx, all hammered out of a solid block of gold.

The Ark of the Covenant is intended to hold the Ten Commandments. Its chief feature is its cover, also made of one piece of gold. It is to portray two angels, one at each end of the cover piece. Facing one another, the wings of one angel are to extend toward the wings of the other, so that together they form a shield for the Ark. It is from within the space between them that God’s voice will be heard by Moses, once the Israelites depart from Sinai and get on with their wanderings.

The symbolism of the two angels is not hard to understand. It is us. Every one of us who is a member of a sacred community, a k’hillat kodesh, is an angel. Our mission is as sacred as we choose to make it. Our wings are our prayers, our wishes, our most sincere longings and hopes. They give us lift from the physical material of which we are formed. When we use these wings to fulfill the purpose for which they are intended, when we choose to share in the performance of mitzvot, the sacred tasks imposed upon us, we become the conduit for God’s voice. It is through our sacred service that we make God’s presence appear.

No wonder that this astonishing work of art was sculpted out of one piece of hammered gold. What more meaningful and valuable imagery—and material—to portray the single most important value of a community than one angel reaching out towards its fellow?

And yet, just so we don’t go too far and call that God—the angel or the gold—we are reminded: It is in the space between them that God’s voice is heard. It is in the silence, in the yet-unformed, in that electrified, sanctified pause between the words that we can perceive God.

As I write these words, Shabbat is descending upon us with its promise of peace. It too is a symbol; it too is a bridge. Celebrating it through communal song, prayer and study is that very space between the angels. It is here and now. Shhhh! Listen!

© 2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

Justice Is Holiness

Justice Is Holiness
D’var Torah for Parashat Mishpatim (Exodus 21:1—24:18)
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Misconceptions about Biblical law have led some people to surmise that these laws are overly harsh and even cruel. Nothing could be further from the truth. While it is true that some Biblical laws reflect the primitive cultural background in which they originated, this week’s Torah portion can teach us much about the philosophy and evolution of Jewish law.

The biggest difference between the Jewish perception of law and its counterpart among the neighboring peoples in ancient days is that, in the Jewish view, no one is exempt from the law. Hammurabi’s code—preceding Moses’s by some 500 years—as well as other, even more ancient codes, reflect a very different kind of thinking: The king was above the law. The author of the law—who often presented himself a god—had absolute power over the law, amending it as necessary so as never to be susceptible to it himself.

Not Moses, not Aaron, nor any of the kings of ancient Israel could ever be of such exalted status. By positing God above all humanity, by making God the source of all law, no human being could ever claim to be above the law. Any transgressor, whatever his or her social status, could and would be held accountable for the crime committed.

A second element of Jewish law becomes apparent through a more careful reading of this portion. As understanding of human nature progresses, as societal conditions change, so must the law. The process of the evolution of Jewish law can already be seen in this portion, as ancient laws are stated and immediately challenged. Thus, for example, the laws pertaining to killing. Exodus chapter 21 verse 12 states the category (the pre-existing law): “He who strikes a man so that he dies shall surely be put to death.” There is no disputing the harshness of this law. It is as clear as daylight. If you kill, you will be killed. Yet, to rational minds, this begs an argument: What if the killing was accidental? The following verses discuss this very question, concluding that a fair judicial system must be set up, even going so far as to call for the establishment of the institution of sanctuary—a place of refuge where an accused murderer can run to in order to escape blood vengeance, at least until such time as a court can try him. Blood vengeance was (and sadly, still is) the practice in much of the Near East. The Torah attempts to put a stop this lawless and bloody custom.

The laws of slavery—the first set of laws discussed in this parasha—show a similar progression. Though the Torah cannot put a stop to the practice, it does attempt to regulate it to an unprecedented degree. At least in the case of Hebrew slaves, the Torah goes as far as to command that they be freed after six years of servitude. Over and again, the Torah tries to put a human face on a class of often-mistreated and abused individuals who were thought of as no more than property, as objects of no higher status than any piece of equipment that one might acquire or get rid of as necessary.

The study of the laws of Mishpatim is in itself enough to make a person a better human being. We are called upon to show kindness to animals—not only our own, but even those of our enemies! “If you come upon your enemy’s bull or his stray [lost] donkey, you shall surely return it to him. If you see your enemy’s donkey lying under its burden would you refrain from helping him? You shall surely help along with him” (23:4-5).

The chief concern of this Torah portion, reflected in one law after another, is for the weakest members of society: the slave, the poor, the stranger, the widow and the orphan. Often the object of abuse, they are instead to be protected and sheltered. Their needs have to be addressed and considered: “If you ever take your neighbor’s garment as a pledge, you shall return it to him before the sun goes down. For that is his only covering, it is his garment for his skin. What will he sleep in?” (22:26-27).

The consequences for breaking God’s laws sometimes come from a court of law, sometimes from God. So, for example, in the case of one who oppresses a widow or an orphan. Of such a transgressor, God will assume responsibility for vengeance: “I will kill you with the sword; your wives shall be widows, and your children fatherless” (22:24). Direct and parallel punishment.

Yet, another punishment that often is quoted as being from the Torah, a law that shows similar logic, similar retaliatory thinking, is nothing but a starting-off point for a revolutionary and totally new way of thinking: “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a hand for a hand, a foot for a foot, a burn for a burn, a wound for a wound, a bruise for a bruise” (21:24-25). The Torah understands the folly—and cruelty—of this law. Taking a huge evolutionary leap forward, the Torah has a better idea: the offender must pay damages—an eye’s worth for an eye, a tooth’s value for a tooth. After all, does society really need two toothless men, two blind or armless men—and their families!—to take care of?

Overarching all these laws (there are 53 commandments in Parashat Mishpatim!) is something quite extraordinary. They are all civil laws, governing the behavior of human beings toward one another and toward their environment. Sanctity, the Torah teaches, is not restricted to ritual and worship. The laws of holiness extend far beyond the walls of any temple, extending to the field, the street and even to our place of business. Yet, because these laws emanate from God, it is by following them (or at the very least, studying them) that we make our lives holy.

One can almost hear Hillel, the ancient and famous rabbi of the first century, teaching: “That is the whole Torah. The rest is commentary; now go and study it.”

Indeed and Amen!

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman

My Word: A Sacred Bridge

My Word: A Sacred Bridge
D’var Torah on Parashat Yitro
By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s parasha, Yitro (Exodus 18:1—20:23), is a huge turning point not only in the Torah itself, but in the whole history of the Jewish People. For it is in this portion that Judaism turns from a system of religious belief into a complex and complicated judicial system. Whereas earlier—both in the Torah and in the evolution of Jewish thought—God was a Divine power with whom humans could communicate simply through faith and sacrifice, from this Torah portion we learn that these are no longer enough. What God actually wants of us is proper behavior. God desires holy actions, not only hollow words. Parashat Yitro contains the Ten Commandments, which go far beyond defining our relationship with God. Past a basic few that do cover that territory, the majority of the Ten Commandments have to do with how we human beings interact with one another. Yes, we must be holy unto God; but, additionally, we must be holy unto one another.

It is no coincidence that this parasha has two main storylines: In the first, Yitro (Jethro), Moses’s father-in-law, having heard of the successful and miraculous Exodus, comes to visit Moses. Yitro is a priest among the people of Midian; he is noble and generous of spirit, wise yet humble; and he mentors (OK—he lectures) Moses about the terrible way Moses holds court. “What is this thing that you are doing to the people? Why do you sit by yourself, while all the people stand before you from morning till evening?” (Ex. 18:14). Moses wearies himself as well the people as he sits in judgment before them day in and day out. Yitro gives Moses a lesson in good leadership, instructing him to appoint judges and form lower and appellate courts, saving only the most difficult cases for himself. This judicial system would benefit everyone: The people in line won’t have to wait so long to have their cases heard, and Moses will have more time to do what Moses does best: Deliver to the people God’s word.

The next part of the portion has to do with exactly that: God’s word. More precisely, the Ten Words, or the Ten Sayings, or—as some translators would have it—the Ten Utterances.

The Hebrew designation of the Ten Commandments—Asseret ha-dibrot—implies that it isn’t only the content of the message that is important. It is the very word itself, its sound and shape, that becomes holy. From this point on, the Word—dibra—the utterance of God’s will in speech and writing—becomes a living vessel of holiness, as it gives form to God’s instructions. By absorbing the Word through hearing or reading it, we the people become holy. By the very act of studying Torah and deriving significance, meaning and relevance from God’s words, we transform ourselves and make our lives holy.

Each generation and, in fact, each individual human being, can find unique meaning from these Words. Starting with some of the most ancient laws of civilization, the interpretation of the Torah’s rules and regulations evolves through time, following a process that we can already perceive in the telling of this story. At first it will be God speaking the words. Then it will be Moses repeating them to the people; finally (later in the Torah), Moses will write them down. It’s a progression that makes the Words ours. When we engage in the study of Torah—all of us, throughout the generations—we make ourselves part of this long line of communication, not merely objective witnesses but rather active participants in a most extraordinary and eternally ongoing Revelation.

The Ten Commandments are the very foundation of a new Judaism. Whereas previously commandments came relatively sparsely, from this point on they will be coming on in droves. There are only 13 commandments in Yitro, but the very next portion will have already 53! Though there is some disagreement on the numbering of the Ten (see the differences between the Jewish and the Christian versions), there are basically two categories of law here. First come the laws pertaining to our relationship with God: The declaration of God’s uniqueness; the admonitions against worshipping any other gods (or even mentioning their names) and against making any physical image of God; and the law regarding the observance of Shabbat.

A bridge to the next five commandments is the one in which we are told to honor our father and mother. In the ever-widening circles of relationship, the close bond between parents and children is crucial. Unlike Las Vegas, what happens at home does not stay at home. We repeat what we learn from our parents—both in words and in actions. Beliefs are passed down through the generations. So, tragically, do lies, secrets and even abuse. The model for our relationship with the entire community is set at home. That is the foundation for who we are and what we can become in society.

The prohibitions against murder, adultery, stealing and giving false witness are also fundamental to our individual character as well as to societal well being. They are, respectively, Commandments number six, seven eight and nine.

The final Commandment could serve to summarize all the others, yet it also manages to go beyond them: Do not covet that which isn’t yours. This is the only Commandment that does not regulate what we do, but rather what we think. Because coveting rarely stops there. Of all feelings and thoughts, this one truly is a gateway passion. Coveting lies at the edge of a risky abyss. The tenth Commandment thus forms a border, a hedge against even coming close to this dangerous precipice.

For reasons that we cannot begin to comprehend, God needs us. In an imperfect world, God has a role for us: to be God’s partners in Creation. God wants us to become holy and join Him in this eternal quest. That isn’t done through faith alone. Faith as well as acts of justice and compassion are the twin foundation stone of Judaism. We may be as physically distant from God as a beginning from its end, but a sacred bridge does extend between the two: It’s God’s Word.

©2011 by Boaz D. Heilman