The Small Aleph: Vayikra-Tzav.22

 The Small Aleph

D’var Torah by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 15, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Revelry and Duty: Celebrating Purim.22

 Revelry and Duty: Celebrating Purim

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 9, 2022

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Dwelling of the Testimony: Pekudei.22

 Mishkan Ha-Edut: The Dwelling of the Testimony

D’var Torah for Parashat Pekudei

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

March 2, 2022 

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

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

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

By all accounts, it was a magnificent edifice. 

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

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

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

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

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

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Sacred Work of Creation: Vayak’hel.22

 The Sacred Work of Creation: Vayak’hel

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 23, 2022

With this week’s portion, Vayak’hel (“[Moses] assembled the people,” Exodus 35:1-38:20), the work of constructing the Tabernacle is nearly completed. Every part has been cast, carved, molded and woven; everything is ready for the final act of putting it all together. Yet the careful attention to detail in this portion is only part of a larger vision. Vayak’hel isn’t only about the intricacies of this magnificent edifice—it’s also about the greater purpose and meaning of the Tabernacle.

Ostensibly, the Tabernacle is meant to be the focus of God’s Presence among us. It is here that prayers and sacrifices will be offered; here that God will communicate with Moses and ultimately with the People. But in its own subtle—and not so subtle—ways, the Torah also places this story in context of a much larger framework.

The first few verses of Vayak’hel repeat the commandment to observe the Sabbath and refrain from any work, any m’lakha. It’s in the use of this word that we find our first clue. For m’lakha is the word that the Torah uses for God’s work of Creation. In Vayak’hel this word is used no less than eighteen times! (In the first seven verses of chapter 36 alone the word appears no fewer than seven times.) While this may seem overly repetitious, the reference needs to be made clear. The work of constructing the Mishkan—the desert Tabernacle—parallels God’s work of Creation and can even be seen as its extension. In other words, the construction of the Tabernacle is a down-to-earth model of the Creation of the universe. And it is we, the people, who continue the sacred work that God had begun.

The Torah continues the story by listing the contributions that the people are asked to bring for this project—not commanded, but asked—"each man according to the uplift of his spirit and heart.” The response is overwhelming. Everyone brings what they can, or else participates in the work (m’lakha)—to the point where the overseers ask Moses to tell the people to stop! The donations far exceed the need!

If this seems somewhat fantastical (and far beyond the dreams of every fundraiser) that’s because the portion teaches us an important lesson: What we are tasked with is not merely the building of a sanctuary, but far beyond that—continuing the sacred work of Creation. The Sabbath, and the commandment that appears at the beginning of Vayak’hel, represents not only the cessation of God’s work, but also as a reminder that now it is up to us to carry it forward. 

It will take the effort and contribution of each one of us. It will take perseverance and dedication. And—we know too well—there will be failures. But nonetheless, as we follow the paradigm that Vayak’hel offers, we move forward. As the Rabbis will later teach, the work is great, and we may not see its conclusion. But we are not free to desist from it. It is sacred work, m’lakha, a labor of love that we took upon ourselves and, despite all obstacles, continue to this day.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Restoring Faith: Ki Tissa.22

 Restoring Faith: Ki Tissa

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 16, 2022

The most important lessons in life come with a high price. This week’s Torah portion, Ki Tissa (“When you count,” Exodus 30:11-34:35) offers us one of these lessons.

Things get broken in this portion. It wasn’t enough to witness the genocide perpetrated against the Hebrew slaves in Egypt; it wasn’t enough to watch God intervene and redeem us with wonders and miracles. It wasn’t enough to see the parting of the Reed Sea, nor to hear God’s voice thundering over Mount Sinai. Perhaps, after 400 years of being told what to do, after having our self-confidence and beliefs suppressed, the ancient Hebrews simply had nothing left to give. Whatever the reason, as Moses ascends to the top of the mountain, his people grow restless and fearful. Moses was their sole connection to God. With him gone for so long, who would lead them forward now? Where would they find inspiration and faith?

The story of the Golden Calf comes at an unexpected moment in the story of our liberation. The Israelites are in the midst of constructing the Tent of Meeting. But without Moses there to lead and show the way, they lose faith and clamor instead for a god of gold. 

When Moses finally descends from the top of Mount Sinai, he sees the Golden Calf and understands the magnitude of their failure. In anger and frustration, he smashes the two Tablets of the Law containing—inscribed by God’s own hand—the Ten Commandments. Then he proceeds to do the same to the idol the people had constructed. 

Faith, once broken, is difficult to rebuild. Yet out of the resulting mayhem, something new emerges: A new faith, a new way of “seeing” God. The gods worshipped by other people may act out of jealousy or sheer willfulness; they may require sacrifices to appease them when they are angry or tired. Other gods may seem to appear in all sorts of images of craft and imagination. Not our God. Unlike all other divine beings that people worshipped in those days, our God is not only moral and just (dayeinu—that would have been enough!). The God that Moses and the Torah teach us about is also compassionate and forgiving. 

Ki Tissa is about forgiveness and about second chances. In this portion, the Israelites rediscover something they had forgotten during the years of physical and spiritual slavery: That faith, the ability to trust and believe, is embedded within us. Relationships—even with God—can be restored if we give ourselves and one another a second chance. If, like God, we too show compassion and learn to understand and forgive. 

The work of repair might be long and difficult (it takes Moses forty days and nights to re-write the Ten Commandments), but the result is often stronger and more enduring than what was there at first. It is this lesson that enables us to persevere in the ongoing task of building the Tabernacle—a sacred space for God’s Presence in our midst. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Crown of the Priest: Tetzaveh.22

 The Crown of the Priest: Tetzaveh

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 11, 2022

Being a priest has always been a position of honor. In many cultures, utterances that come out of a priest’s mouth are perceived as the very essence of God’s Word, and people live and die by those words.

The authority a priest holds in their hands is unquestionable, and though some might set out on their careers out of a commitment to morality and righteousness, it’s easy to be seduced by the trappings of the office, to become dazzled by the splendor, riches and accompanying power.

In this week’s Torah portion, Tetzaveh (Exodus 27:20-30:10) it’s easy to see why. The portion includes a richly detailed description of the clothing of the High Priest. Made of the same materials as the Tabernacle, the various items likewise are embroidered with gold and silver thread, woven of the softest wool and cloth, and dyed with the most expensive dyes. On his forehead the priest wears a golden diadem; gemstones serve for epaulets on his shoulders, and even the breastplate has twelve precious gems set in a framework of pure gold.

As if that were not enough, while on duty the Priest uses utensils made of precious metals. The Menorah he lights every evening is made of pure gold, and when he enters the Holy of Holies he beholds the Ark of the Covenant—with enough gold there to arouse the envy of the richest kings and emperors!

But the Torah recognizes the danger that lies in these trappings, and it wisely incorporates a warning. Lest the Priest forget his responsibilities, lest he be blinded to his true purpose and service, engraved into the gems on his shoulders and the precious stones in the breastplate are the names of the twelve tribes of Israel (those shoulder epaulets must be quite big and heavy—six names etched into each of them!). The message is clear: the priest’s burden and his responsibility are to the People, not himself.

Even the rite of ordination, as Aaron and his sons are elevated to their high position, holds this warning. The Hebrew word used for this ritual is korban, a word that also means “sacrifice.” The Torah sees the priests’ role as a sacrifice. They are there to serve, not seek power.

Centuries later, recognizing the inevitable reverence in which people perceive the Priest, the Rabbis of the Mishna (Pirkei Avot 4:13) will compare the crown of the priest to the crown of the king. And yet they continue and say that “[Nevertheless] the crown of a good name outweighs them all.” What is that crown? A good name is a person’s reputation. It goes beyond the glitzy clothing and all those other signs of power and glory. The crown of a good name is what remains once the Priest has fulfilled his duty. Did he serve his flock in truth? Did his behavior match his words? Did he remain “one of us” or did he allow himself to fall prey to the seductive powers of his office? 

This lesson holds true to all of us. How we navigate between our own sense of importance and the actual service we provide determines how others see us. We can adorn our walls with any number of certificates and honors. But a simple and honest “thank you” from a person we may have touched with kindness and consideration counts far more than any of those adornments. This is how we are ultimately judged and remembered. Beyond the crowns of the king and high priest is the crown of a good name.  This is the only crown that, in the end, is worth its weight. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

The Prompting of The Heart: Terumah.22

 The Prompting of The Heart

D’var Torah for Parashat Terumah

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

February 2, 2022

With this week’s Torah portion, Terumah (“Donation,” Exodus 25:1-27:19), the second half of the story of the Exodus begins. It’s not half as exciting as the first half, with its dramatic scenes of the Ten Plagues and the parting of the Red Sea. Nor is it as momentous as the giving of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. In fact, it’s pretty repetitious and uneventful. Terumah contains a long list of materials, precious metals and jewels that will be needed in constructing the Mishkan, the holy Tabernacle (aka the Tent of Meeting) which the Israelites carry with them throughout their journeys in the Sinai Wilderness.

Some time back, a student asked me why God would need or require such valuable materials. It was a good question. In fact, why would God require any place at all to call home? God is, after all, incorporeal; and as King Solomon, centuries later, will remind us, “Behold, the sky and even the highest heaven cannot contain you; how much less this house that I have built” (1 Kings 8:27). 

The truth is, God doesn’t need either a house or riches with which to build it. But we the people do. Nothing signifies “value” more than gold and jewels. The greater the expense, the greater the value. And in this case, it isn’t the temple itself, but rather what it is meant to convey—God’s presence among us. “Let them make Me a sanctuary,” God tells Moses, “and I will dwell in their midst” (Ex. 25:8). Hopefully, all that gold would lead us to appreciate the value of God’s presence among us.

But does material value actually lead us to a greater understanding of the transcendent nature of God? It’s much more likely that the brilliance would bedazzle and overwhelm us, rather than lead us to perceive something as intangible as God’s Presence.

But human nature is as it is, and the Torah tries to teach its lessons through words and concepts we understand.

And yet there is a much greater lesson to be learned from this portion. The meaning of the word terumah is “donation,” signifying a freewill offering “from everyone whose heart so moves him” (Ex. 25:2, Sefaria translation). The Israelites are not commanded to bring so much gold, silver or copper. They are to provide these materials—or anything else they might have—only insomuch as they are moved to.

The Temple of God will not be built by slaves. It will be generosity of heart that will motivate the people to make their offerings. Some might have more and some less. Some will bring gold or jewels, while others will lend their ability to craft or create, to weave or design. 

The true value of the Mishkan, the real meaning of this Tabernacle representing God’s presence among us, is freedom. Freedom is God’s gift and blessing to us. Our response is in our generosity, that which our heart prompts us to offer in return. Yes, the end result will be magnificent; but even greater will be the pride and joy that each of us will feel in knowing that our contribution, no matter how large or small, is an essential part of the greater whole. It is through our contribution—our freewill donation, our terumah—that God’s Presence is made manifest.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman