The Rules of the Game--Va-et'chanan

The Rules of the Game

D’var Torah for Parashat Va-et’chanan

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

 As we watch the 2012 London Olympics, it’s hard not to be amazed by the feats of strength, grace and agility displayed by the athletes.  The broken records and other accomplishments are hardly accidental.  You can see the focus in the athletes’ eyes, registered on their taut faces. Noise from other parts of the arena is filtered out and visual distractions disappear.  Pain doesn’t count.  Mistakes are unforgiveable.  

It’s obvious that years of exclusive dedication and training are behind every step and move. 

Some moments from the games enter history.  Jesse Owens in the 1936 Berlin Olympics, defying Hitler; Greg Louganis in Seoul, 1988, who went on to win the gold shortly after hitting the back of his head against the springboard and suffering a concussion; the gymnast Nadia Comaneci; the great Michael Phelps—these are just some of the stars whose light continues to shine in the Olympic heavens.

Among the winners were several Jews, too.  Aly Raisman, of course, is still fresh in our minds. There are several others in this year’s Olympics, but a moment that will forever remain etched in Jewish memory and history is Munich, 1972.  It was at those games that the swimmer Mark Spitz won seven gold medals before quickly being whisked out following the massacre of the 11 Israeli athletes at the hands of PLO terrorists.  This was a high point and a low point at once.

Israel has fielded many participants since it first participated in 1952.  To date, it has won 7 medals—one gold, one silver and 5 bronze.

Israel’s strength in sports and athletics has never been legendary.  In the United States, sports was one way for Jewish immigrants to integrate, and many excelled in boxing and baseball, among other sports.  In Europe, as Jewish nationalism and pride gained momentum, so did the focus on physical strength.  

Jewish strength—at least in the last 2,000 years—has been our heart and mind.  Philosophy, literature, art, music, science and medicine, these were the fields where the Jew traditionally excelled.  Of course there were also business and commerce:  it was Jewish money that funded Columbus’s discovery of the New World, and many Jews (hidden as well as open) followed in the establishment and development of the global trade routes.

The secret of Jewish success in these fields has stymied all those who have sought our destruction throughout the eons.  But it isn’t a secret at all.  It’s as open and clear as can be, available to anyone who could read for nearly 2800 years.  The formula is found in this week’s Torah portion, Va-et’chanan (Deut. 3:23-7:11):  “And you shall keep [God’s laws and ordinances] and do [them], for that is your wisdom and your understanding” (Deut. 4:6). 

In this portion, Moses repeats over and over the importance of keeping alive our values and traditions.  It’s a little bit like listening to your coach reminding you time and time again—sometimes patiently, sometimes less so—to stay focused and, should you falter, to get up and try again.  The Jewish people has been training for centuries, and that’s part of the secret of our success.

Like much of the book of Deuteronomy, Parashat Va-et’chanan repeats and elaborates upon past teachings.  Va-et’chanan reiterates the most important of these: the Sh’ma, the prayer we call V’ahavta, and the Ten Commandments.  Among other essential teachings, we are instructed to remain loyal to our God, to our people, to our history and to our traditions.  Moreover, Moses cautions us that we also must be diligent in teaching these lessons to our children.  Holding fast to these laws throughout the generations is the reason we are here today.

In a seemingly random world and universe, our strength is our steadfast constancy, in our loyalty to the values we subscribed to so long ago.

It is no coincidence that the book of Deuteronomy is read during the summer months.  As the weeks disappear and the year wanes, this book reminds us that the sacred work our ancestors undertook nearly four thousand years ago still awaits our contribution.  It’s all too easy to sit back and count our past accomplishments like so many medals.  Whether our strengths be physical or intellectual, our gifts are the tools we use to carve out the future.  How we use them will determine the measure of our success.  Like Olympic athletes, undaunted determination, straight-forward gaze and sharp focus on our target will lead us to our goals.

With God’s help.

 

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

Fulfilling Your National Duty--Matot-Massei

Fulfilling Your National Duty

D’var Torah for Parashat Matot-Massei 

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman 

On Friday mornings, the checkout lines at Israeli supermarkets are extra long. By one or two in the afternoon, everything closes for Shabbat, so anybody who needs anything to tide them over until Sunday or Monday do their last minute shopping now. Like half the rest of the country, Sally, my mother and I were also standing in line, more or less patiently, while the customer ahead of us argued with the cashier and then arranged and rearranged her groceries in the overfilled baskets that she wanted delivered to her house. 

Even with the AC on, the store was crowded, and it was hot and humid. To pass the time, we eavesdropped on the conversation of the three soldiers standing behind us in line. They were speaking English, and we immediately figured they were in the category called chayal boded, “lone soldiers,” a group of about 3,000 soldiers whose families do not live in Israel and yet volunteer to serve in the Israel Defense Force—despite the fact that they are not obligated by law to do so. 

Out of curiosity, I engaged the three in conversation. Their names, I learned, were Dan, Jared and Gabriel. 

Dan is from Illinois. Tall and sturdy, he had always wanted to be a soldier and at first thought of serving as a Navy SEAL. However, the time commitment asked of him was too long, and so he volunteered to serve for three years in the IDF and then make up his mind as to what to do next. 

Jared, though born in the US, has an Israeli father who had served in the IDF. His family now lives in Arizona. As the son of an Israeli citizen, Jared’s older brother came to Israel to serve in the army, and now Jared felt duty-bound to follow in his father’s and brother’s footsteps. 

Gabriel comes from New York State. “Near Albany,” he said. “Why did you volunteer,” I asked him. Without a moment’s hesitation, Gabriel responded, “Because I am Jewish.” 

No further explanation was needed. Coming to help the Jewish nation in its homeland is a tradition and obligation that goes back to Torah times. It is a mitzvah that we first encounter in this week’s Torah portion, Matot-Mass’ei (Numbers 30:2-36:13, the last double portion of this book). In this story, just prior to the Israelites’ entry into the Promised Land, the two tribes of Reuben and Gad, as well as half of the tribe of Menashe, choose to remain on the eastern bank of the Jordan River. The land there was fertile and promised to be a good one for their families, vast flocks and herds. Moses agrees to the request, on the condition that they help in the conquest of the Promised Land and then come to the defense of the rest of the people if and when they are ever attacked. Only when the two and a half tribes agree to the stipulation does Moses allow them to remain in the Diaspora. 

In the centuries that followed this incident, our history achieved peaks and lows that paralleled the evolution of Western Civilization. Twice was our capital, Jerusalem, destroyed; twice was almost the entire population of Judea forced to leave its homeland. But in both cases a remnant always stayed behind. Those who stayed were subject to further conquests, living in poverty and squalor. But they were never neglected by their brethren who lived in more peaceful and successful circumstances. There was no army—the Jews were forbidden from defending themselves; but money was collected and donations flowed to the impoverished communities. 

In the 20th century, history changed once again. For the first time in 20 centuries, Jews had an army. For the first time in as many years, they could defend themselves in their own land, as soldiers in a Jewish army—which, miracle of miracles, could also be source of protection and pride for Jews all over the rest of the world, in all the lands of our Diaspora. 

The Israel Defense Force is one of the mightiest armies in the world today, its skills honed in one war after another. Its reach seems to know no bounds. Serving in the IDF was a duty I felt personally bound to perform. I served because I could; because it was a privilege many of my immediate ancestors did not have; and also because it was a commandment. 

Of course, not all people think as I do. There are tens of thousands of ultra-Orthodox Jews in Israel today who enjoy the privilege of studying Jewish texts in freedom and luxury—the government actually pays them to be full-time students!— who do not spend one day either in the army or in any kind of national service, and yet who protest the call for universal draft in Israel. I often wonder if they and I are on the same page even when we study the same parasha. After all, doesn’t Moses make himself clear enough to the tribes of Reuben, Gad and Menashe? Only after they help their fellow Israelites may they return to their own homes, children and flocks. You can’t have the comfort if you don’t contribute to the safety and defense of your people. It’s a law for all times and all Jews, wherever they live! 

The three Lone Soldiers I met while waiting in line at the supermarket were fulfilling not only their own destiny, but also an ancient mitzvah—and their glowing faces and full smiles gave testimony to just how they felt about doing so. 

 ©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

Refreshing Visions--Balak

Refreshing Visions

D’var Torah for Parashat Balak

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

A joke has been making the internet rounds lately.  A salesman for a popular soft drink comes back from Israel, looking totally worn out and frustrated.  “What’s the matter,” asks a friend when he comes home.  “Why weren’t you successful in selling them the most popular soft drink in the world?”  The salesman explains:  “When I got there, I prepared a series of three cartoon panels.  In the first, you see a man lying in the hot summer sand, totally exhausted and fainting.  In the second, he is drinking an ice-cold glass of our soda.  In the third panel, the man is totally refreshed.”  “Sounds pretty clear to me,” says the adman’s friend.  “Yes, to me too,” replies the man.  “But nobody told me Israelis read from right to left!  They saw it all backwards!”

Sometimes misunderstandings happen because we don’t read the signals right.  Take this week’s Torah portion, Balak (Numbers 22:2-25:9).  Balak, king of the Moabites, sees the Israelites towards the end of their journey to the Promised Land; they have withstood the harsh desert and the violent tribes and peoples that stood in their way, and now they are poised to overcome their final enemy—the Moabites.  Balak commissions Balaam, an internationally famous prophet, to cast a curse on the Israelites.  Balaam at first refuses but finally concedes, adding that he will only say what God tells him to.

On his way to a mountain that overlooks the Israelite camp, Balaam encounters a fiery angel, visible only to his donkey.  Trying to avoid the angel, the donkey veers from the road, and Balaam beats the animal.  This happens three times until the donkey finally speaks to Balaam and tells him about the danger only he perceives.

When Balaam finally reaches the top of the mountain, he sees the tents of the Israelites.  Intending to curse, he utters a blessing instead.  Balak, the Moabite king, is enraged; his intent was the exact opposite, and he had paid Balaam richly to do his bidding!

Once again, Balak sends Balaam to curse the people, and again the curses turn into a blessing.  On his third and final attempt, Balaam utters the famous words that convey such an exalted vision that they have entered our prayer book:  Mah tovu ohaleicha Yaakov, “How goodly are your tents O Jacob, your dwellings O Israel!”  After forty years in the dessert, shouldn’t the image Balaam sees be one of an exhausted and worn-out people? 

A similar image struck me just a couple of days ago, as the plane I was on descended towards Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv.  Summer had already begun in our land, and I could imagine the heat and humidity that awaited me below.  But from my perspective, it all looked so orderly and cool!  Traffic on the roads seemed to flow evenly and easily.  New and sparkling high-rise apartment buildings alternated with older houses easily recognizable by the red-tile roofs favored by Israelis in the 1940’s and 50’s.  Urban areas alternated with orchards and fields, creating a multi-colored jigsaw pattern astounding with geometric beauty.

Considering that almost none of this was a reality fifty years ago; considering that just 67 years ago we emerged from a Holocaust that destroyed half of our people; considering that the majority of those who built up this amazing country came here with nothing but the clothes on their back, the vision that now unfolded before my eyes was nothing short of miraculous.

It all depends on how you look at things.  You could see a people worn by thousands of years of wandering and hatred, or you could see a people whose blood pulses with purpose and amazing vitality.  You could see a land beleaguered by enemies from within and without, or you could see a people whose confidence and self-assurance amaze all those who behold them.

For six days a week, you see a people working at least one job to keep up with the demands of security and the economy; the roads are crowded with impatient drivers, while the heat and humidity drive you to seek shade and air-conditioning wherever these can be found.

On Shabbat, however, things are different.  Everything seems to slow down and stop.  Families and friends gather in synagogues or around a table laden with all sorts of wonderful foods.  It’s as though someone has uttered a magic spell on the land.  A blessing.  How wonderful, how goodly indeed are the tents of Jacob, the dwellings of our people in our Land, Israel.

This prayer and blessing is part and parcel of our entire being.  It’s hard to understand unless you’ve been there and seen it yourself. 

Just be sure to read from right to left.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

                                                                                                                      

Walking by the Light of Dreams and Visions--Korach

Walking by the Light of Dreams and Visions

D’var Torah for Parashat Korach

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

While shopping for gifts for my family in Israel, I stopped the other day at Toys-R-Us.  The children’s fantasy fulfillment store wasn’t particularly busy that day, and I took my time strolling down the aisles.

The shelves were stocked as far and high as the eye could see with toys and games of all varieties, colors and sizes.  A true paradise for the child inside each of us.

Yet before too long, the all-too-familiar pitch of a child crying came from several aisles away.  The wail soon became a storm, evolving into a full-fledged tantrum.  In the midst of it all, I could also hear the voice of the mother trying to calm her child down.  But reasoning didn’t help, and the enterprise ended abruptly as the mother simply picked up the child and left the store.

The other customers and store staff seemed unfazed by the episode.  It was a private matter, just between parent and child, best left to those individuals whose business it was.  Still, I couldn’t help feeling that this wasn’t an isolated incident.

In fact, such tantrums aren’t rare at all.  This is actually one of the main reasons why I almost never go to Toys-R-Us.  I—an adult—find it difficult not to get overwhelmed by all the possibilities, by all those wonderful toys, so many of them all in one place, under one roof.  How much more so for children.  Parents think they are doing their kids a great favor when they take them there, but all too often, the visit turns disastrous.  Overwhelmed by the choices, unable to make decisions and frustrated that they can’t have it all, the children simply lose it.

The vision of all-you-can-wish-for, all within reach, is just too much.  Children, with their expectations of immediate gratification, simply cannot handle that it just isn’t so.  They are incapable of the rational thinking that their adults expect from them:  You already have that toy; this one is too expensive; or—the ultimate disaster—it’s out of stock and needs to be ordered from another store and state.

And so the kids react in the expected manner, crying and throwing a tantrum.

A similar incident occurs in this week’s Torah portion, Korach (Numbers 16:1-18:32).  The Israelites have just come to realize that the trip to the Promised Land isn’t going to last only a few days.  In fact, it will take them forty years of wandering, lost in an inhospitable and dangerous desert, before they earn the right to reach their goal.  And so they throw a tantrum.  Led by a man named Korach and 250 powerful warriors, they rise up against Moses and Aaron.

The rebels point to the obvious—the desert is no Promised Land.  Any talk of a rosy future is merely political demagoguery, empty promises meant to keep Moses and Aaron in power.  In fact, they continue, Moses is lying to the community, misguiding the Israelites with futile visions and dreams born of ineptitude.  Why did you take us out of Egypt—a land really flowing with milk and honey?  Look where you’ve led us to:  A place where we can’t have our basic needs, let alone what we really want!

With extreme guile, Korach further accuses Moses: “The entire congregation is holy, and God is in their midst; why do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s community?”

Korach’s question is based on a remark made earlier by Moses (“If only all the Lord’s people were prophets, that the Lord would bestow His spirit upon them,” Num. 11:29).  The difference between the two is that Moses wished that all the people would be holy; Korach insisted that they already were.  It’s the difference between the potential and the actual.

Potential is about possibilities and intent.  Actualization of the potential, on the other hand, requires effort and hard work.  The real cause of the child’s tantrum is that every toy he or she could ever possibly want or even imagine was all there on the shelves, in all its overwhelming actuality.  It isn’t merely that the child can’t have this one toy or another—it’s that he can’t have it all, now!  The child wants a shortcut from his wants to their fulfillment, from potential to actualization.  The problem is that such a shortcut simply does not exist.

Korach and the other rebels talk of the false vision with which Moses and Aaron blind the Israelites.  The actual reality, say the rebels, is the harsh and stark desert; Moses’s empty dreams only obscure this reality.  Yet Moses knows that this very vision, this dream of the Promised Land, a dream that has yet to be actualized, is what will keep the People marching on despite the harsh but passing reality.  They will reach their goal—but not by some short and all-too-easy way.  Moses’s is true leadership; Korach’s isn’t.  By claiming that the Israelites are actually all holy already—a potential state of being that Moses can only hope and pray for—Korach proves himself a demagogue, a rabble rouser and a cynic.

At times in our lives, our dreams can indeed seem futile.  It takes maturity and wisdom to know how far to push in trying to reach those dreams, and when it is actually wiser to pursue another course.  But either way, whatever the course, it should always be guided by a vision, by an as-yet-unfulfilled potential imbedded within each of us, one that is forever waiting to be realized.

How wonderful to have our dreams come true, if and when they do!  But part of wisdom is also the mature understanding that enough is never enough; that satisfaction is always yet a moment away; that a worthy goal is deserving of yet one more try and still another attempt.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

Raising the Lights Eternal

D’var Torah for Parashat Behaalotekha

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

June 8, 2012

This week’s Torah portion, B’ha-a-lot’kha (Numbers 8:1-12:16) contains one of the most beautiful metaphors in the entire Torah.  The portion begins with instructions regarding the lighting of the Menorah—the gold candelabra that stood at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting.  Aaron, the first High Priest, is commanded to kindle the Menorah’s lights in such a way that its radiance is directed forward, toward the People of Israel. Standing where it does, between the Israelites and the Holy of Holies with the Ark and God’s holy Presence inside it, the Menorah’s light symbolizes God’s holiness extending toward the People, toward the future.

B’ha-a-lot’kha literally means “when you kindle;” however, its implication is more along the line of “when you raise or elevate the lights.”

Immediately following this short paragraph, the portion continues with a passage describing the ordination of the Levites, a ritual meant to separate them from their brethren Israelites while giving them special chores and responsibilities in the upkeep of the Tent of Meeting and in attending the needs of Aaron and his fellow priests.

Next come rules regarding the rituals connected with celebrating Passover, the first holiday the Israelites are commanded to observe.  Shabbat, another holiday and one for which we were given explicit instruction prior to this passage, celebrates our entrance into a Covenant with God.  Passover represents our people’s emergence onto the stage of world history, an event that we celebrate every year at the Seder, as we retell the story of our Exodus from Egypt.  

What do these three passages have in common?

In each case, something is “elevated.”  In the first, it is light.  No simple matter, light.  It was, after all, the first gift of God to all existence, and it represents the highest values of all—life, warmth, acceptance, education and much more.  Understanding how “valuable” these values are to humanity is the meaning of “raising” them.  We elevate “light” when we infuse it with God’s presence and God’s purpose.

In the second case, it is the Levites who are “elevated.”  Here, however, the Torah does not propose a caste system.  Along with their social status come responsibilities—maintaining the Tabernacle and assisting the priests.  Yes, they get proper remuneration for their work, but the Levites are not exempt from giving their own dues to God or excused from offering their own sacrifices as prescribed for the entire nation.  The Levites’ true purpose, their reason for existence, is to serve God and the People.  Their distinction comes as the reward for their dedication and hard work toward a common and sacred goal.

In the third case, it is Time that is elevated.  We raise time to a higher standard when we make it important in our lives; when we mark it off and make its span—be it short or long—special.  We can elevate our whole lifetime if we dedicate it to Tikkun Olam, participating in God’s ongoing work of Creation.  When we understand that the time we are granted by God and Nature is not unlimited and that we must therefore make it special, we “elevate” it.  When we take time to remember our past, we dedicate ourselves to seeing beyond the past, into the present and future, too.  When we ritualize time by lighting candles and by saying prayers and blessings, we elevate Time and make it sacred.  God may be timeless and eternal, but we are not.  We celebrate our humanity not when we account ourselves unworthy due to our limitations, but rather when we understand the unique gift that—for all its limitations—Time is.  For Time is our portion of God, our share of God’s eternity.  It is, therefore, holy.

From its first humble appearance in this Torah portion, the metaphor of B’ha-a-lot’kha continues onward into our own lives, like the very light of the Menorah.  Emanating from the source of all life, it is like an energy flow that elevates each one of us, that flows through each of us to the children that we raise and teach, to the roof beams that we raise, to the standards and values that we hold up high.

May we all live in such a way that, after our time is up, it will be said of us, as the Torah says of Aaron when he first lit the Menorah:  “And Aaron did just so” (Num. 8:3).

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

Shavuot, Bamidbar and Memorial Day—A Joint Commemoration

Shavuot and Memorial Day—A Joint Commemoration

Sermon on Shabbat Bamidbar (Numbers 1:1-4:20)

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

May 25, 2012     4 Sivan, 5772

This weekend we will be observing a day of remembrance for all those who have served and fallen in the service of our country.  It’s Memorial Day.

How interesting that this Shabbat we will also be reading Parashat Bamidbar, the first portion of the book of Numbers, the fourth book of the Torah.  Bamidbar means “in the wilderness,” referring to the Israelites’ 40-year wanderings through the Sinai Desert.  However, the book got its English name from the fact that Moses is instructed by God at this moment to count up, to number, his people.  This first census, however, is not complete; it encompasses only a portion of the people—only those who will defend the rest of their nation, all men “From twenty years old and upwards, all who are fit to go out to the army in Israel.”

Not all the good intentions in the world, not even Holiness itself, can guarantee the safety of a people if it doesn’t have an army.  It’s a sad truth, but a truth nonetheless.  In the wilderness of life, it’s best to play it safer.  Hope, faith, altruistic idealism are all nice, but without some sheer strength behind them, there’s not much chance of us or them lasting longer than a week or two.

Through the prism lens of Memorial Day, one can see not only one war but also all the wars we’ve ever fought.  One blending into the next, the causes of the next war are already rooted in this one.

Yet Memorial Day is more than just about the little or big wars of our lives.

Memorial Day is also the official beginning of summer.  And—oh!—how great is that?!  To children, summer spells vacation.  To parents, it’s a bit of respite.  A time to catch up on some rest, or travelling, reading, or just spending some extra family time at home.  The plentitudes of life strike us at this season.  The ample sun and rain—thank God—have hopefully resulted in a rich harvest.  Fruit is ripening on trees, and vegetables plants are growing quickly.  This is the season I look toward on all other days of the year. 

Still, for most of us, the range of feelings runs the gamut this weekend.  From remembrance and sadness to expectation and happiness.   There is no life without loss, we know that. We know that there is no peace without some struggle before it.

At times, the feelings run into each other.  Remembering the laugh of a fallen friend, our heart takes flight for a moment; only to falter and sink a moment later with the realization of his loss, of his absence from our side and company.

Yet we celebrate, knowing that life continues because of the sacrifices that had been made.  We do not leave the past behind us; we take the memories, both of the good and of the bad, with us.  And, looking around us and ahead, we make plans to build new worlds, new homes, to plant new crops and tend to them.

Relying on the strength of those who “go out to the army” to serve their nation means we show them our gratitude.  Not only by saying “thank you,” but also by living as they would hope we live:  by the light of the ideals we all share, that we all pay allegiance to. 

Shavuot serves as the Jewish equivalent of this seasonal celebration of life’s journey and blessings.  At first Shavuot served only as an agricultural festival, the Festival of the First Fruit.  But later, by the first century, it assumed yet a new role—a celebration of our people’s receiving the Torah.  Yes, we celebrate this amazing gift.  But along with the joy come the also the lessons of the Torah, those ideals we had promised to learn and live by.  It’s a Day of Remembrance all its own, a day of feeling grateful for the blessings of our life, as well as a day set aside for repeating our vows with God.

These two holidays—Memorial Day and Shavuot—which coincide on this weekend—have two things in common:  first, that on them both we remember the past even as we give thanks for the present moment; but also that on these two days we remember that there are two kinds of strength we need to rely on if we have any hope of surviving another year, of making it into the Promised Land.  Just as it isn’t enough to rely only on God’s promise of a Land Flowing with Milk and Honey, so also it isn’t enough to rely on the sheer physical strength of our armed forces.  We couldn’t survive if it weren’t for both kinds of strength—the strength of our hands as well as that of our faith and ideals.

A commitment to one must always be joined to a commitment to the other.  Physical strength and spiritual strength.  Without them, we just couldn’t survive.

This Shavuot, as Jews, we renew our vows with God.  Once again, we accept God’s Torah, promising to study—and try to live by—its rules and regulations.

On this Memorial Day, as Americans, we dedicate ourselves to remembering those who have served in all our wars, as well as those who continue to serve, today and tomorrow, in our country’s defense.  We pay tribute to those whose lives were lost in past struggles, honoring them not only by planting flags at their grave marks, but also by upholding—and actively furthering—the very ideals for which they lived and died—freedom, justice, equality, love and compassion.

Kein y’hi ratzon.

©2012 by Boaz D. Heilman

Down, Toward the Land

Down, Toward the Land

D’var Torah on Parashat B’har-B’chukotai (Lev. 25-34)

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Mountains are majestic.  People have always known that.  In our human imagination, mountains have ever been the dwelling places of gods and titans.  In our Biblical tradition, there are three major mountains, each the scene of various revelations of God. 

Mt. Zion, of course, became the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the hub of Judah and Judaism, the meeting point of Israel and the God of Israel. 

Elijah the Prophet trod the more solitary paths of Mt. Carmel, above the Haifa harbor.  But even he, persecuted by the governing powers who felt threatened by him, had to seek ultimate refuge and inquire meaning and purpose on yet another mountain—the one where, centuries earlier, God had first appeared to Moses—Mt. Sinai.

It was at Mt. Sinai that God also first appeared to our people, sounding the words that became the foundation of our faith, the Ten Commandments.  It was there that Moses received the instructions for building the Tabernacle and there, too, that he learned and taught his brother, the High Priest Aaron, about holiness and the ways of holiness.

The Holiness Code, the essence of Jewish Life and Belief, is at the heart of the Book of Leviticus.  But though it summons the highest ideals of our people, Leviticus is only the third book of our Torah.  The fitting conclusion of the book—the final two portions that serve as this week’s double portion, B’har and B’chukotai—is not only an eloquent summary of what has been.  It is also a gateway opening to the rest of our life and history.

The first verse of Parashat B’har begins appropriately, “Adonai spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai, saying“—

—Saying what?  What exalted vision of glorious holiness would God provide for Moses and us this one last instant that we are “at the Mountain,” B’har Sinai? 

However, nothing more can be said that hasn’t been said already.  The rules have already been given, the teachings, taught.  Instead of looking for any further ecstatic or spiritual connection with God, the Torah directs our attention elsewhere:  “When you come into the land which I give you, then the land shall keep a Sabbath to Adonai.”  “When you come into the land”!  It is there that God wants us to look, toward our future, toward where we are headed, not where we are right now.

The rest of our life, as it were, isn’t at this Mountain any more.  It is toward the future that we must now look.  Our focus is not to remain sequestered at some exalted high place that we’ve been to, where humanity and the Divine intersect; but rather, it must now be redirected to the plainer, more lowly paths, where humanity and earth intersect.

This is the season of graduations and confirmations.  Hundreds of thousands of proud learners line paths, enter squares, taking their final steps as students on the grounds of their hallowed institutions.  However, once they shake the offered hand, once the diploma is in their hand, they are no longer bound to their masters and mentors.  Once down from the stage, their first steps are into their future life.

What rules can be, what rules should be given at such a moment?

“When you come into the land which I give you, then the land shall keep a sabbath to Adonai.”  That’s what God says to Moses to tell the People at this moment.  Look to the land and make it holy.  Recognize your place and role in it.  You aren’t the master of the house, you’re only the caretaker.  God is the owner of the Land, and that’s why the Land must be holy.

Some years ago, I was walking down a street in Jerusalem when a couple of kids walking in front of me unwrapped some candy and dropped the wrapper on the ground.  I couldn’t believe it.  I picked up the trash, threw it in a bin and asked the offending kids, quite harshly, “So Jerusalem is a trash can now?!”  I think they just shrugged.  Another madman in Jerusalem!  The city is full of them!

But that’s how God intends for us to see all the earth, not only Jerusalem.  Once every seven years, we must let the land produce at its own rhythm, not at our hurried, frenzied buy-and-sell rhythm.  Once in fifty years—the rounded off seven years seven times—we must recognize our position as tenants on God’s farm.  There are no landowners, no homeless people; we all lease the land and are here at God’s pleasure.  We all become equal, all equally dependant on God and the Earth’s natural abundance.

It’s actually a graduation gift:  a moment that we can stop competing with one another, stop trying to prove ourselves better than someone else, stop the treadmill that has us speeding toward an end that will come all too soon of its own accord.

Stopping for a moment of respite, we can look around and see who’s still around.  Where we’ve been is almost inconsequential.  Where we are is more important.  It’s a moment of rest and tranquility that allows us to catch our breath and rediscover the balance in our lives.

Of course we don’t have to wait 50 years for such a jubilant occasion.  Every moment in our life ought to be filled with that sense of wonder, when we can look behind and see where we’ve come from, and then turn fully around and look forward again.  We don’t leave the past behind, that’s impossible.  We are human, and that means we remember.  But just the same, we take the teachings of the past—about self respect, about loving one another as we love ourselves, about dignity and compassion, and of course that lesson about the consequences that must follow our actions—and we apply them to the future.  In the land where we are headed.

Graduation, confirmation—these are the moments of grace we’ve been granted, the gateways where the past and the future can be seen as equally distant, equally near.  As you descend Mt. Sinai and head off la-Midbar, into the Wilderness, into Life, make them both holy.  You know how, you’ve been taught.  Now go do it.

© 2012 by Boaz D. Heilman