Combatting Contagious Diseases: Tazria-M'tzora

Combatting Contagious Diseases

D’var Torah for Parashat Tazria-M’tzora

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Tazria-Metzora (Lev. 12:1—15:33), this week’s double Torah portion, is the ultimate proof for why Torah has to be interpreted and not simply taken as God’s immutable word.  I imagine that this extract from some proto-medical manual, with its intricate descriptions of sores, rashes and other eruptive outbreaks, must have been as baffling to its students as were the very conditions that they came to diagnose and clarify.

Yet, to a primitive society with little or no scientific knowledge, the instructions were critical. 

The ailments and physical failures that are described in these portions were disfiguring and, often, deadly.  The Black Death, the outbreak of bubonic plague in medieval Europe, is reported to have killed a full third of the continent’s population.  Centuries earlier, plagues were—and well into our own day, still are—just as devastating.  In every age, it has been of vital importance for society to diagnose and isolate a deadly contagious outbreak.  What this week’s portion represents is a system, a methodology, whose goal is understanding and containing the disease.  Just as important is its teaching that requires the priest—the same one who had diagnosed the illness—to go visit the sick person every seven days to ascertain which way the disease was going. 

What we have in these two portions is the basis for medicine as a legitimate and desirable Jewish profession.

But aside from that, the instructions themselves are pretty much useless to us today.  Thankfully, medicine has come a long way from the year 1000 BCE.

The ancient rabbis of the first millennium understood this fact very well.  From early on, they started giving new meanings to these portions and to the diseases and conditions they describe.  Tzara’at, the disease we came to call leprosy, was to the ancient mind a mysterious infliction.  Knowing little about medicine and even less about viruses, they took the word tzara’at and redefined it by employing a verbal pun.  They took another phrase, one that sounds like m’tzora (“leper”), and made it the reason and cause of the disease.  Motzi-l’shon ra’—a gossip—brings the conditions upon him- or herself by spreading a false and vile rumor.  The result of gossip, teach the rabbis, is an eruption of ill will that is as disruptive of the well being of individuals and society as any disfiguring and disabling plague.  Tzara’at is thus the original social disease.  Pun intended.

What makes this portion even more prone to interpretation is that the physical ailments it describes aren’t limited to the human body.  The Torah teaches that tzara’at can be found in clothing as well as in the walls of one’s house.  The analogy doesn’t lag far behind.  Our deeds and words have a lasting effect on everything around us, beginning with ourselves and spreading out in concentric circles.  We know that words can hurt as much as any violent act.  Rumors and lies can destroy friendships, marriages, careers and lives.  This truth is even more imperative today than ever because of the much wider reach of our words.  For all the wonder and excitement of cyberspace, overuse, misuse and abuse of the social media has become an unchecked plague of our own digital day, a tzara’at that has brought harm and even grief to many.  

In Tazria-Metzora, this week’s still vitally important Torah portion, the follow-up instruction given to the priest is as important as the initial diagnosis itself: Every seven days, he must go outside the camp, to where the suspected carriers of the tzara’at contagion are exiled, and reexamine them.  This continues until a definitive diagnosis can be made, or else until the person is healed and is allowed to reenter the community.  Invested in the priest is the authority to make fundamental decisions that bear on the wellbeing of the entire community.

Of course, today we have no priests.  At least not in the Jewish religion.  What are we to make of this?  Obviously in health issues, we have doctors, physicians, nurses and other caretakers who examine their patients and take care of their physical ailments and conditions.  We also have contractors of every sort to do any housework that needs to be done to eliminate pollution and contamination.

But who are the individuals whose role it is to monitor cyberspace?  How do we eliminate the kind of taints that exist in this new world that we and our children have discovered? 

Censorship has never been the answer.  But the Torah does have us assign shoftim v’shotrim, (“judges and officials,” Deuteronomy 16:18) to enforce rulings and decisions.  The job of the priest has always been to instruct people about being holy—a state of being that results from a close relationship with a holy God.  As parents, teachers and rabbis, it becomes our role to be the priests, our role to be the shoftim v’shotrim.  It is essential that along with a cell phone and iPads, we also give our children strict instructions about the proper way to use these tools.  Ultimately, we have to learn to trust our kids, but until such time, they have to earn our trust and faith. 

Today we know so much more about medicine.  We know the causes of tzara’at (and the fact that it is barely contagious, and certainly not fatal any more).  Thanks to the methodology we study about in this week’s portion, we have come to understand so much more about the functions and failings of the human body.   Science has taught us to eliminate many diseases altogether and to find remedy for the symptoms of still others.  Today we also know that viruses can be transmitted not only by physical contact, but also by digital contact.  The importance of Tazria-Metzora is thus just as important today as when it was first written down some three thousand years ago.  As a medical text, its words may be archaic, but its meaning and teaching are as fundamental for us today as for our ancient forebears some three thousand years ago.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Truth Is In the Silence: Shemini

The Truth Is In the Silence

D’var Torah for Parashat Shemini

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Shemini (Lev. 9:1—11:47), is the most terrifying of all portions in the Torah.

The setting of the story is the eighth day of Tabernacle’s dedication.  This was to be the most awesome of all days, the first of firsts.  With thorough instructions given (and repeated), with the priests and the Tabernacle now consecrated, it is time to offer the first sacrifice to God.

From the start, however, something goes wrong.  Even after Aaron offers his sacrifice, the expected appearance of God’s presence does not occur.  However, Moses and Aaron seem to know what went wrong, and, entering the Tent of Meeting together, they fix it.  When they next reappear, so does God’s presence, announced by a flame that mysteriously and spontaneously materializes at the altar and consumes the offerings.

It is at this point, however, that disaster happens.  Seemingly eager to follow in their father’s footsteps—or perhaps, as some rabbis think, to supplant him—two of Aaron’s four sons take it upon themselves to offer a sacrifice too.

God’s anger is ignited, and a flame shoots out from the altar and consumes the two lads.

There’s no other sound.  Even Aaron is dumbfounded.  The next few words are uttered by Moses, as he consoles his brother:  “This is what Adonai said:  ‘I will be sanctified through those near to Me, and before all the people I will be glorified” (Lev. 10:3).  Sparse and puzzling as they are, these words have the intended effect:  “And Aaron was silent.”

The specifics of this event have been discussed and written upon for centuries.  What, exactly, did the two boys do wrong?  Some rabbis express their opinion that the two were drunk.  Others say that, in addition to the wrong motivation that led them to offer this sacrifice in the first place, they did not consult with one another; they did not act as brothers.  All-around treachery was on their mind.  Still other rabbis comment that the two brought a fire from the kitchen, a profane flame if there ever was one, instead of a sacred spark from the holy altar.

Just as unclear is Moses’s consolation. What exactly did Moses mean?  How could his words—or any words, for that matter—offer any solace or comfort at such a great and tragic loss?

The Torah sheds little light on the incident.  A few verses later, it does instruct the priests to refrain from offering sacrifices while inebriated.  Perhaps that was the brothers’ sin—that they were intoxicated.  But that’s it; no more said about sacrifices in this portion.  The rest of the parasha is a listing of animals, birds and fish (even some reptiles) that we may eat and other lists of those we may not.   It seems that for the Torah, it really doesn’t matter what Nadav and Avihu, Aaron’s two sons, did wrong.

Yet at the end of the portion, things become perhaps a little clearer.  After the kosher and unkosher animals listed and categorized, the Torah explains we refrain from eating impure food because we are holy.  The Torah equates dietary purity—kashrut—with sanctity and holiness.  And if it’s true of what we eat, how much more so of everything else we do!  Whatever it is that Aaron’s sons had done must have been “impure.”  It was unacceptable at a moment and event of holiness, as they—mortal human beings—try to become attached to a sacredness called God.

Yet the question remains.  Why such swift justice?  Is this what we now can expect if we make a mistake in saying a prayer or uttering a blessing?  Can anyone actually be expected to be perfect—we, who are human and, by design and creation, are corrupt and fallible? 

The difficulty begs the ultimate question we pose to God:  Why?  Why God?  Why let these terrible things happen to us?

By coincidence, this coming week we will be observing Yom Ha-shoah V’ha-g’vurah—the Day of Remembrance of the Holocaust and Heroism (in Israel, the full name of this sad observance).  More than at any other time during the year, that is the day when our nation collectively raises its voice and complaint to God:  Why, God?  Whatever it is that we are guilty of, was it a sin equivalent to six million lives?  A million and a half children?  What in heaven’s name could they have done to deserve the all-consuming flame?

We ask, and God is silent.

There are no good answers. 

But then we read this portion, with its terrible disaster and terrifying consequences, and we remember God’s response—through Moses’s words—to Aaron’s silent cry.  “I am sanctified through those who draw near to Me.” 

We are the ones who draw near to God.  We are the ones through whom God becomes manifest and sanctified.  We are the ones who, through our nearness to God, make God’s glorious presence known to the entire world.

Sho’ah does not mean “holocaust.”  Sho’ah means “catastrophe.”  The murder of 6 million Jews was not a sacrifice.  Our God does not accept human sacrifice, remember?  It was a catastrophe, a disaster that befell our people because of many reasons, primarily hatred, perennial, eternal, bloody hatred.

The fire that consumed my father’s family was not holy or sacred in any sense of the word.  It did not originate in the Temple’s eternal flame.  It came from hell’s kitchen, where ignorance and hatred are the devil’s tools.  It was evil, not Godly.

But it consumed our people nevertheless, because we are Jews, and Jews, since time eternal, have been in a holy relationship with God.  To be in this kind of relationship does not mean you don’t make mistakes.  It does mean, however, that simply because we are Jews, we are prone to dangers.  We may be the cause of some of these disasters ourselves.  God is, after all, a very huge source of energy; drawing close to such energy is dangerous and requires much care and attention.  But just as often—if not more—the danger comes from outside ourselves.  It comes to us because God and Israel have taken a vow that forms a sacred bond between us.  If we hadn’t entered into the Covenant, we would not be in this position of danger to begin with.  But because we did, because we remain Jewish despite all our oppressors and murderers, because we prove God’s existence through our perseverance, our existence is fraught with danger.

Well so let it be.  I, for one, believe that this bond, now nearly of four thousand years, is stronger than anything else in this world.  It is like love—it cannot be shattered.  It does have to be, however, carefully maintained, watchfully nourished.  For, like it or not, it is through us that God’s presence is revealed to the whole world, and that is an awesome and fearful goal and mission.

And that is why Aaron was silent.  In his heart, he acknowledged the truth of this avowal.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

Keeping the Fire Burning: Tzav

Keeping the Fire Burning

D’var Torah for Parashat Tzav

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Parashat Tzav (“Command”), Leviticus 6:1—8:36, contains intricate laws regarding the sacrifice ritual.  These directions are given in context of the ordination of the priests, the ritual that separated them from the rest of the Israelites and culminated in their becoming consecrated to work at the Tabernacle. 

Yet before the description of any of the sacrifices, however, comes the commandment to keep the altar’s fire going day and night.

As I taught this portion to my 6^th grade class last Thursday, almost to a one, they were intrigued by this mitzvah more than all the other commandments this parasha contains. “What if it rains?” asked one.  “What happens when you have to move,” was another question.

Perhaps they were goading me somewhat, as 6^th graders have been known to do.  Yet the questions expressed not only their budding need to defy authority, but also their natural curiosity.  The questions showed that they were thinking, not merely absorbing like sponges.  These young, smart students intrinsically understood the challenge that this commandment posed.  It wasn’t going to be easy or straight forward.

Beyond the obvious perks and social status associated with the position of being a cohen—a priest—it was actually hard work.  It demanded meticulous attention to detail, but also other responsibilities, physical, spiritual and psychological.  Bridging the chasm between God and humans was not easy.  It was a charge that could be filled with its own dangers (as we will see in a couple of portions).  It was a task that only a priest could perform—not from a distance, not through an intermediary, but personally, by himself.  As with similar professions in our own day, being a priest in ancient days required the ability to listen, to hear, to be of support.  Only a priest could absolve a person of guilt.  And only a priest—if for no other reason than that he lived and worked in closer proximity to the Divine—could bring your story or petition up to God and ask for intercession.

The elevated position of the priest could, of course, lead to greed and abuse of power.  There were definite perks—outright gifts as well as choice portions of certain sacrifices.  But the tasks weren’t always pleasant, either.  Visiting or diagnosing the sick for the various ailments, encouraging the weak and disheartened, comforting the bereaved and providing guidance to the lost demanded compassion and understanding.  A priest driven by his own ego or who was in pursuit of glory or honor was doomed to failure.

The precarious position of the priest was highlighted by one of the last steps in the process of his ordination.  For seven days and seven nights, the novice priest had to stay just outside the Tent of Meeting.  Not one of the ordinary folk anymore, nor yet a priest, he was somehow part of both camps.  With one foot in this world and the other, as it were, in the next, the priest being initiated was learning to be attentive less to his own needs and more to those of God and the people he would serve.

I remember the days when I was considering becoming a rabbi, nearly 20 years ago.  I was thinking of leaving the familiar behind me and starting something new, something I knew about yet had never experienced myself.  I consulted with many people—friends, family and mentors.  Standing out from all the other words of advice I received was the guidance given me by Rabbi Dr. Norman Cohen, who—if I’m not mistaken—was then Dean of Students or perhaps already Provost at Hebrew Union College in New York.  After advising me of the challenges and difficulties of a mid-life career change, Rabbi Cohen told me, “If you have a fire burning in your belly, go ahead and do it.”

The moment he said these words, I knew I would have to follow through. 

It was the fire.

Three times in this portion, Parashat Tzav, God commands that the fire on the altar not be allowed to go out.  It’s no simple matter.  As my students pointed out, it could be raining.  The wind could make the sparks burn out of control—or die.  How do you make sure the fire goes on burning even when you move?  How do you carry it with you wherever you go? How do you protect it?

How many times have we seen the spark nearly die out?  Twice when the Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed.  Many times more since then.  Yet, both in our own Land of Israel and throughout our communities in the Diaspora, despite all the cultural changes and influences, the assimilation, the ghetto-ization, we made sure the spark burned on.  Even the Holocaust could not suppress the sacred flame—once we learned how to take care of it.

So what’s the secret?  How do we fulfill the words of this precious commandment?

We internalize the flame.  We carry it inside us.  We nourish it daily, weekly or perhaps even only once a year.  We protect it with our minds, hearts and bodies, carrying it with us on all our journeys, wherever we pitch our tents.  And we pass it on to our children with the same admonition with which we received it—do not let the fire burn out; day and night it must burn on the altar; it shall not go out.

I think my students last Thursday got the message.  Now it isn’t all up to me anymore.  Now, even before they become full-fledged k’lei kodesh—instruments of holiness—themselves, a year before their own bar or bat mitzvah, the ceremony of their ordination as adults in the Sacred Community of Israel, they assume responsibility for this fire.  Let them mull over that for a year or two—or perhaps for the rest of their lives. 

How do we maintain the fire and keep it burning?

Any way we can.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

What Moses Wrote—and The Rabbis Wrought: Va-Yikra

What Moses Wrote—and The Rabbis Wrought

D’var Torah for Parashat Va-Yikra

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion bears the name of the book which it opens:  Va-Yikra, Leviticus.

God “calls out” for Moses from the Tent of Meeting and issues directions regarding the sacrifices that people may bring.

Who may offer the sacrifice, what the gift must be, where it is to be offered and who gets what piece of it—these are only some of the details that this book lists (again and again).  I admit—it’s pretty gory stuff, primitive and even tribal.

The good news is that the Torah regulates sacrifices to such extent that the ritual is doomed to extinction and eventually ends.  Once the Temple is destroyed—first, temporarily, by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, then, to this day, by the Romans in the year 70 CE—the sacrificial cult must, and does, end.

Yet we study Va-Yikra with as much reverence as the other books of the Torah.  It’s actually the first text that Jewish children studied when they began learning Torah in the cheider, the one-room Hebrew school of the old days.  What accounts for such sweet devotion to such an antiquated book? 

There’s a huge lesson there. 

What we learn in Leviticus and what we remember even after all the other minutiae of the sacrifices are forgotten, is that we are never really alone; that there are other people around; that we are surrounded by—and are a part of—Nature; that even when we think we cannot be seen, God sees all.  And that our deeds, no matter how seemingly small, matter; that we do leave an impact on everything and everyone around us.

As soon as we understand the importance of this teaching, as soon as we realize and remember that actions bear consequences, we become at once wiser and more mature.

Va-Yikra teaches us that we must recognize and be thankful to God when we have occasions of joy; when we recover from illness; when we see a child become bar or bat mitzvah; when he or she is accepted to the college of their choice; and when they wed and begin a life of their own.  Not to be taken for granted, these mileposts in our life represent the sum total of our effort as individuals and as parents, partners in the ongoing act of Creation.  They are moments at which we should stop to reconsider ourselves and our place in universe.

For such moments, Va-Yikra has us offer a feast of well-being and thanksgiving.

But there are also times when we fail to be our best.  When by accident or purpose, by neglect or intent, we miss the mark, and the choices we make lead us to deeds that require reparation, or the work of repair. 

For these occasions, Va-Yikra is a training manual:  such-and-such sin requires such-and-such repair.  The book teaches us to evaluate our actions, to consider the consequences of everything we do.  Our deeds do affect others, and—it’s essential to realize—as much as hurt can be inflicted to our bodies, so can there be injury done to our hearts and to our souls.  Each has its own repair ritual.

Mistakes, of course, are different from deliberate wrongs, yet they too require consideration and repair.  The wrong has to be made right again.

But Va-Yikra takes us farther.  It has us understand that our actions reverberate even beyond ourselves.  Sometimes, inaction is as loud as anything we say or do.  So, for example, any community’s silence in the face of prejudice or a hate crime signifies compliance.  Our failure to cry foul makes all of us partners and willing accomplices with the actual perpetrator.  

And of course, the consequences of a leader’s action extend far beyond him- or herself, for the simple fact that society looks up to the leader for both direction and example. 

Called by God to instruct the people, Moses does just so.  He teaches us to measure ourselves by the highest standards.  More importantly, he teaches us that when we don’t quite measure up, when we fail to pass muster, we have to try again and again—until we succeed.

Alas, the Temple in Jerusalem is gone, and with it a much-detailed ritual that once connected us with God.  How do we close the circuit now that this path is closed?  Here is where the ancient Rabbis picked up.

Once sacrifices ended, the Rabbis substituted something else.  Actually, three things:  First, prayer.  It’s simple.  We pray to God to offer thanks or to beg forgiveness and ask for another chance. 

Second, we study.  By studying Va-Yikra we learn and reinforce the astute lessons of justice and morality that God and Moses intended for us.

Third, we offer sacrifice.  To be sure, we don’t kill animals and splatter their blood any more (and that’s just fine by me, thank you), but we do cook a meal for the hungry, we do offer shelter for the weary and homeless.  And we do offer of our own resources to build synagogues, schools, hospitals and courts of law.

The sacrifice ritual may have come to an end; but the thinking behind it has not.  The instruction of Moses and the Rabbis still resounds today.  Evaluating our life at every point makes us better equipped for what may come next.  The sacrifices we offer every day—whether of our money, time or effort—make us and the group around us better.  That is the everlasting teaching of Va-Yikra, and it is to this teaching we dedicate our lives and the lives of our children.

© 2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Sacred Common Ground--Vayakhel

A Sacred Common Ground

D’var Torah for Parashat Vayakhel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

One of the most influential books I read in high school was Lord of the Flies by William Golding.  The finely honed characters and well crafted story line totally captivated me.  It was with great excitement that I went to see the movie version (the first one, in black and white), which I found no less stimulating than the book.  (I now show the movie to our temple’s 9^th grade class, and the discussions that follow it are always spirited.)

Of course, it isn’t only the story or characters that make this book so memorable.  Granted, Ralph, Simon, Jack and Piggy are unforgettable.  But what really elicits discussion is Golding’s philosophy, which holds that people are inherently evil, or at least malicious.  Piggy’s argument for a civilized society is ultimately rejected as chaos breaks out.

Jewish philosophy isn’t as pessimistic as Golding’s.  Yes, there is an evil urge (yetzer hara) in every human being, but there also is an equal measure of the good urge (yetzer ha-tov).  Each of us has the option of exercising the one or the other, and the outcome of our choice is what ultimately determines whether we are “good” or “bad” people. 

Society is regulated by the same rules as individuals, though as members of a larger group individuals are easily influenced by others.  Group mentality seems to dictate or at least direct our choices, and as we give in to fashions or trends, we become something less than unique individuals.  Proof in point is mass hysteria, or those terrifying grainy films showing the thousands and thousands of Germans at Nazi rallies cheering and raising their arm in the Nazi salute in unison.

As unique individuals yet also the social animals that we are, most of us strive to achieve a delicate balance between being true to ourselves and acting as part of a larger whole.  But how do we best achieve this balance?  How do we create a society that works together, that identifies itself as one nation or culture, yet which also manages to retain each member’s individuality and uniqueness?

That is Moses’ task in the book of Exodus, the second book of the Torah. As the Israelites leave Egypt, they are described as erev rav, “a mixed multitude.” Later, in the book of Numbers, they are described as asafsuf, a wonderful Hebrew word meaning “rabble,” “mob” or “crowd.”  Unruly, unmanageable, when they leave Egypt the Israelites are disorganized; they are more like escaped prisoners than an orderly and organized camp.

As Exodus comes to its close, however, (this week’s reading, Vayak’hel-P’kudei, is a double portion consisting of the last six chapters), the process of the Israelites’ change from rabble to people reaches its conclusion too.

As Moses convenes the entire congregation of the People of Israel—va-yak-hel Moshe et kol ‘adat b’nai Yisrael—he gives them one last and great gift.  One could say that the Israelites received many gifts as they left Egypt.  First there was all the gold and silver given them by their one-time masters, the Egyptians.  Then came the Ten Commandments, followed by innumerable further laws and commandments.  But none of these was as great as this one.  Yes, gold and silver enable us to live with greater comfort and (at times) fewer worries; but ultimately they weigh us down.  And Commandments, no matter how holy or good, are still orders.  Do this, observe that, don’t do the other.  That hardly qualifies as freedom, as any kid will attest.

So what is it that Moses gives the Israelites at this point?  He gives them meaning and purpose. 

At the command of God, Moses has the Israelites build a temple.  But even as they fashion a glorious dwelling place for God in their midst, one made of the richest and most opulent physical materials, they also create a holy spiritual space in their hearts and souls. 

Over and over, the instructions—given by God, transmitted by Moses—instruct the people to bring what they can.  Those that have gold bring that; those that have goats or sheep bring the wool for the weaving of thread; those who can weave, sew or embroider bring these special talents.  Key, however, is not only the material goods that the people offer to the common task.  It is their free will.

There are several ways to unite a group of individuals.  The scariest of these is through brain-washing.  Through constant repetition, thoughtless and automatic, individuals turn into cogs in a machine.  Losing their souls, they become no more than automatons, robots in the service of some ultimate master.

At no point does our God require the Israelites to give anything up—least of all any part of their humanity.  To the contrary, Moses defines humanity as our ability to transcend the animal in us, to reach for a higher standard of goodness, and he makes that our most treasured possession.  Helping those who need our help, assisting the weak and needy, raising the fallen, loving the unloved—that is Moses’s definition of holiness.  This tent that the people erect in their midst, no matter how magnificent and lavish, is merely symbolic of the highest and most magnificent sanctuary that each of us contains within ourselves.

It is this understanding of the divine presence within us that is Moses’s final gift, the one that unites Israel in time and space.  It is this which elevates us, which completes our makeover from slaves to free human beings.  True, each of us is only part of a larger whole.  Yet, blessed with unique ability, talent and gift, each one of us is also a meeting place, a Tabernacle where God and “I” meet, a sacred common ground where all creation intersects and becomes One.

Yes, we have the ability to choose to profane that which is sacred within us, to void it of beauty, meaning and sanctity.  We can even go further and choose to act upon our yetzer hara, our evil inclination.  But when we do that, we debase our humanity, our glory.

Yes, William Golding was right.  The beast truly is within us.  Yet it is also in our power to choose to be human, which is to say, divine.  Ultimately the choice is ours.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Right To Rise Up Again--Ki Tissa

The Right To Rise Up Again

D’var Torah for Parashat Ki Tissa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa, contains one of the most important lessons of the Torah.  It is the story of the Golden Calf, of how Moses shatters the two Tablets of the Law written by God’s own hand and then has to fast for 40 days and 40 nights while rewriting the whole thing in his own hand.

In this portion is the moment of our greatest downfall as the startup nation that we were.  Barely a year out of Egypt, having committed ourselves to God, bound by a sworn covenant, we turned to worshipping a golden calf.  Ironically, we did this at exactly the same moment that Moses was receiving the Ten Commandments from the hands of God up on top of Mt. Sinai.

There have been many attempts to understand this fall.  It wasn’t a new God we were seeking, only an image we could rely on, whose presence would rally us just by being there. Moses, the conduit by which God’s voice could be heard and understood, disappeared in the smoky crevices of that awesome mountain.   With him gone, a vacuum appeared where God’s presence should have been.

There is more rage expressed in this incident than anywhere else in the Torah.  God is furious with Israel.  Moses is furious with Israel.  He is frustrated by their failure to see God’s presence the way he could—face to face.  He blames his own frailties, but he also realizes that God must give in a little. 

It takes all the powers of persuasion Moses has to dissuade God from destroying Israel. 

It is in our nature to fail, Moses reminds God.  Yet it is also our gift and therefore our right to be given a second chance.  Without that, there can be no uplift, no redemption, no continuation of the work God expects us to do, the work of Tikkun Olam—the Repair of the World.  Completing—or at the very least, carrying on—the work of Creation is the task God entrusts to humanity.  Forbearance, patience and the ability to give another chance is what Moses requires of God in return.  With it, we can rise and rise again to the challenge.   Knowing we might fail shouldn’t deter us as long as we know that we can learn from the mistake and move on from there.     

God agrees to the terms established by Moses.

But the people are still without a leader, without the presence of the Almighty within them. 

Moreover, Moses had smashed the Tablets of the Law written by God’s hand—the ultimate physical and material proof of God’s presence.

Israel will need a sign of the Covenant, of the treaty and promise that God and the people make to one another.

Then they will need further guidance.

The sign of the Covenant we receive at this point is as un-material as the first set of Ten Commandments had been set in stone.  It is Shabbat.

Shabbat isn’t merely another day.  Infused with God’s spirit, when we observe Shabbat we bring God into our daily—weekly—life.  It is the spirit of the day that makes it Holy, which is not of any physical material, yet surrounds us as completely as air or water. 

Shabbat holiness is the glow which the candles spread, the light that gleams from the soup before us, the love that flows between us.  The words of “V’shamru,” the Shabbat song we love, come from this portion:  V’shamru v’nei Yisrael et Hashabbat… l’dorotam b’rit ‘olam (“The children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath, to observe the Sabbath throughout their generations as a perpetual covenant,” Ex. 31:16). 

As long as we observe Shabbat, God dwells within us.

And the guidance for the future?  For when we fail, which we are bound to do again and again?

For that we are given another second chance—a second set of the Ten Commandments, this one written by Moses, not God.  This is a human version, one to match our abilities as well as our frailties, one that commands us, but that also graciously accepts our attempts to understand it, to follow its words.

The Torah’s laws are meant for humans.  Many of them are for the proper observance of the holy days, but even more are for those days when we don’t surround ourselves with Torah and prayer.  These laws are meant for those long hours and days when we tread along the paths that life takes us.   They remind us of home and tradition, but they also remind us to behave in a kindly manner in any surrounding. 

The epitome of these laws is found in Ex. 34:26:  “You shall not cook a kid in its mother’s milk.”  This pillar of the dietary Kashrut laws, which we understand as forbidding the consumption of meat and milk products cooked or served together, serves two functions.  First, it reminds us of our identity as a people.  You are what you eat.  But this law also reminds us of the ability within us to be compassionate. 

We pray that God might be compassionate toward us, despite our many failings.  That’s the very least we should expect from ourselves too—to feel the pain of another living creature, to be compassionate.

Compassion is the opposite of arrogance.  In a universe described as uncaring, Moses enabled us to perceive a far greater power—a power that can forgive, a power that can give a second chance, that can grant us the ability to rise again.

©2013 by Boaz D. Heilman