Agents of Holiness: Kedoshim 2022

Agents of Holiness: Kedoshim 2022

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Signs posted over the first two rows of seats on busses in Israel read, “Rise before the elderly.” The meaning is clear: These seats are reserved. It isn’t law per se; but it is the way of the land and the people, ingrained in Israel’s culture and way of life. 

The words are a commandment from the Torah. They appear in this week’s Torah portion, Kedoshim ("You shall be holy,” Leviticus 19:1—20:27). The portion is meant to be a manual to living a holy life and in fact is known as the Holiness Code. Some of the commandments it contains reflect an earlier, more primitive way of thinking. Overall however, Kedoshim introduces a revolutionary way of thinking about God and what God expects/wants of us. 

Holiness, we are told, isn’t found only in our relationship with God. It is equally—or even more so—part of our interaction with one another. Most importantly, it’s about the dignity that must be afforded to the poor, the elderly and the stranger, to the weak and marginalized in society. 

The Holiness Code is read twice during the year: Once during the annual cycle of readings; the second time, on the afternoon of Yom Kippur, on the holiest day in the Jewish calendar.

The concept of holiness is key to any religion. Making a connection with the divine spirits that one perceives or imagines in the world around us is a component of being human. In the ancient world, this connection was usually achieved through the agency of priests (or priestesses), usually by offering sacrifice to the pertinent gods.

In Kedoshim, this thinking is turned on its head. Only a handful of commandments mention any sort of sacrifice at all. The great majority have to do with our own behavior. Holiness emanates from God. Each commandment reminds us of this fact. And yet the emphasis is on our individual actions, on what we do.

In this portion we understand that our behavior can be more than common courtesy. It can reach the level of holiness. There are many examples, from fairness in business and trade to tending the earth; from paying the day laborer at the end of the day to a law forbidding you from taking his coat as collateral for a loan. Holiness is in how we relate to one another. And while some of the commandments have to do with our actual actions, others refer to our emotions: Love your neighbor as yourself; do not take revenge or bear a grudge. Do not hate your brother in your heart.

This view lies way ahead of the common ancient belief systems in which it arose. The understanding of holiness that Kedoshim brings into to our own life gives us unprecedented potential. Holiness isn’t an abstract. It’s in our everyday behavior. Holiness is found in such simple acts such as supporting the weak or leaving aside a portion of our field (physically or metaphorically) for those who are less fortunate than ourselves. 

This revolutionary understanding what God expects of us is shown through one word: V’hit-kadish-tem—"You shall sanctify yourselves” (Lev. 20:7). The grammatical form of the word indicates that we are the agents of holiness in our own lives. The spark is already there. The potential for holiness is already planted within us. All we must do is give life to it with our deeds.

This is the heart of the entire Torah.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Israel at 74

Israel at 74

Reflections by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

For all its vibrance and newness, Israel is also an old country. Not only because of the long history embedded in its soil and stones, but also because the energy that Israelis bring into it on a daily basis is strenuous and draining. In the 74 years since declaring its independence, the modern State of Israel has learned to settle into old routines, to face overcrowded roads and no parking spaces; to wait in lines that are more of a chaotic scramble for air and space than a test of patience and resolve; to listen to calls to violence and rambling speeches spewing hate; and to be vigilant at every moment.

Oddly, what highlighted this “oldness” for me on my recent visit was a dust storm event, a three-day haboub driven by eastern winds from the Arabian desert.

A haboub is not an infrequent guest in the region. You wake up to an eerie yellow light instead of the usual bright daylight. That’s the color of desert sand. You know—or should know—better than exercise outdoors in these conditions. The dust gets into your eyes, your ears, and settles in your lungs. And yet joggers and fast walkers seem undaunted as they push themselves even harder to stay in shape.

After a day or two of the air and sky being filled with dust, the sand begins to settle. If it happens to be raining too, then it rains straight-out mud. Otherwise, cars, trees and sidewalks are soon covered by a veneer of dust that makes everything look old and tired.

It’s a deep contrast from the usual momentum one encounters in Israel, where energy seems boundless, where people at work and on the road seem driven by a combination of desperation, adrenaline and irrepressible joy of life.

Maybe it’s also part of the malaise that COVID has brought to the world. As one variant replaces another, people seem to have gotten tired of fighting it. If infected, you stay isolated for a few days, then bounce right back. Sometimes more than once. People have gotten used to the routine.

Israelis are tired of hypocritical world politics, where “civilized” nations such as Russia, China and Cuba—members of the enlightened club known as the United Nations Human Rights Council—lead a chorus of criticism against one of the most liberal and democratic countries in the world; where “woke” cultural “heroes” –pop musicians, fashion models and vapid movie stars—wag tongues and fingers at Israel while totally ignoring genocide and human rights violations anywhere else.

Israeli politicians have also settled into an old routine—undermining one another, whether members of their own party and coalition, or part of the opposition. Private allowances and public expenditures are examined through a magnifying glass in search of anything that might topple the government and bring about yet another rotation of ineffectual power.

Israelis are worn out by acts of terror perpetrated by desperate individuals egged on by illegal regimes that know they can’t achieve their dreams of destroying Israel and are satisfied by merely disrupting ordinary life. While Israelis converge in giving comfort to the injured and the grieving, in Gaza and in West Bank “refugee” camps candy is distributed in celebration of the latest drive-by shooting or stabbing.

Israelis are worn out by Israel’s inability—or lack of desire—to stem this violence at its roots: in mosques where preachers incite their followers to violence in weekly Friday sermons; in stately mansions where billionaire leaders of terrorist organizations teach the masses that Israel is the real culprit and cause of their poverty and misery; in corridors of international power where tyrants issue fatwas, daily calls for the destruction of the State of Israel.

And yet, underneath the thin veneer of exhaustion among Israeli citizens, there runs a deep river of humanity and compassion. The economy is booming and the malls are filled with shoppers. City parks and playgrounds are filled with children running and playing with the kind of joy and exuberance that are the unmistakable product of love and pride. The sense that “we can overcome any hurdle” is everywhere.

When I left Israel, Yom Ha-Shoah, the Day of Commemoration of the Holocaust, was just beginning. The deep pain that resides within the Jewish soul refuses to be buried and forgotten. The memories remain alive. Perhaps because of the number of refugees from the Russia-Ukraine War that Israel has taken in, many of whom are themselves Holocaust survivors.  Perhaps it’s the two-minute siren that arouses them, piercing the heart and reminding us why Israel is there: to make sure a Holocaust does not happen again, that Jews are not defenseless anymore. That Israel, and the Israel Defense Force, will be there for them—for us—wherever and whenever we need it.

This is a sad period for Israelis, yet another reason for the malaise many are feeling right now. On Wednesday Israel will celebrate its 74th Independence Day, but immediately preceding this joyous event is Memorial Day, a day set aside to remember those who fell in battle in defense of the State of Israel, as well as those who died as a result of terrorism. Soldiers and citizens, men, women and children—they all fought for the right of Jews—as all human beings—to define themselves, to live freely, to defend themselves. Israel pays a heavy price for these freedoms, and Israelis do not forget it for one minute. 

Despite the political, cultural and economic divisions that run through Israel’s population, there is a strong and persistent sense of family. Families may disagree and sometimes even quarrel. But at the end of the day, they are there for one another. Maybe that’s one reason for the strength and confidence one senses in Israel. There are times when Israelis would love to just lay down their weapons, to let tired muscles relax, to let the pain dissipate some. But then the dust clears and our purpose becomes clear again. We move forward, proving to the world—and to ourselves—that Am Yisrael Chai, the People of Israel lives. That’s the mission and goal that Israel has set for itself. That is the true force behind its still-beating heart.

Happy Independence Day, Israel. As you reach toward the three-quarter century mark, may you continue to thrive and be a light and beacon to all nations and people of this earth. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

 

Charting A New Path to Holiness: Acharei Mot.22

Charting A New Path to Holiness: Acharei Mot

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

April 28, 2022

The ancient past was a desolate place. Deserts, dusty plains, mountains and a harsh climate competed with warring invaders coming from all corners of the world, each in turn seeking adventure and treasures. Overall, people worked hard at farming and herding, and generally could do whatever they wanted—as long as they also remembered to pay their taxes to the king, temple and local magistrates. 

Even in a small country like ancient Israel, distances between villages made travel difficult, and the differences between city dwellers and those who worked the land were wide and deep.

Science was unheard of. Superstition provided enough explanation to answer most questions, to shed light on that which otherwise could not be understood. Rituals were a way of appeasing gods and demons, for whom humanity was no more than a plaything. From rampant disease to devastating famines, the gods were in charge, and their willful and even cruel nature needed to be soothed by sacrifice.

If the Torah’s weekly portion, Acharei Mot (“After the death,” Leviticus 16:1—18:30) seems to portray a primitive society, it’s because that is its primary intention. Through several examples, it paints an unflattering, but realistic, picture of a time and culture that needed to move forward. The narrative picks up where the previous portion left off—the death of Nadav and Avihu. Nadav and Avihu, two of Aaron’s four sons, were born to power. What they did to cause God’s wrath isn’t explained clearly, except for one verse that suggests that they might have overreached for supremacy, that they rebelled against Moses and Aaron, their uncle and father. Power can be intoxicating.

In the ancient world, power was a means of survival, requiring harsh rules to set bounds to its misuse. By itself, morality was a weak fence, and those who were blessed with physical strength and/or beauty didn’t shy from using their gifts. In this kind of society, sex was more than about reproduction. It was often a path to power and control.  

Evil was as real and palpable as any of the elements of life. Ridding society of evil also required physical form, such as the annual ritual of the scapegoat. As described in this portion, this involved releasing a goat into the wilderness (or perhaps hurling it over a steep precipice). This was thought to unburden the world of the evil that had accumulated in it like so much dirt and dust. It didn’t take much back then to make people feel better. 

To our own more modern sensibilities, the commandments that are listed in Acharei Mot may be obvious. We’ve come a long way since that time when people could get away with the kind of immorality that the portion describes: The wanton seizure of anyone or anything that could be used for pleasure or profit; the tyrannical overreach for power; the misuse of religion to control people and what they may think and believe.

And yet we haven’t. Our basic impulses, even today, remain identical with those of our ancestors. 

The grandeur of Moses isn’t only in that he formed us into a people and gave us the Torah. It’s also that he understood that tossing a goat over a cliff represented primitive thinking, a superstition that only limited our ability to learn, understand and develop. In this Torah portion he instructs us not only to understand better the world around us, but also ourselves—both as we are and also as we can be. We can live like simple animals, subject to basic desires and impulses, or we can treat one another with respect, dignity and consideration. In a harsh and cruel world, we can be better. 

To simply view Acharei Mot as a mirror reflecting the primitive conditions that existed three thousand years ago is to completely miss the mark. Its purpose is to shed light on a path forward, toward a better future. Its timeless teaching is that through our choices, through our everyday deeds and actions, we have the power to make God’s holiness appear even in the darkest times. 

It’s powerful teaching.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Encountering God in the Wilderness: Passover 2022

 Encountering God in the Wilderness: Passover 2022

By Boaz D. Heilman

This year, as in all but three of the past 22 years, Passover and Easter coincide. This isn’t a mere coincidence—both holidays are celebrated on or around the first full moon of spring. Passover begins on the first evening of the full moon; Easter, on the Sunday following it.

There are other commonalities. The wine, the matzah and the shank-bone—representing the Paschal lamb: These took on new meaning for Christianity as the new religion pushed further away from the common roots it once shared with Judaism.

Sadly, the convergence of these two holidays wasn’t always peaceful. But at least in recent decades, there has been wider acceptance of Passover and its traditions, to the point where today there are many Christians who celebrate a Seder with their Jewish neighbors, friends and even families. 

There are, of course, also those who celebrate a “Christian Seder.”

There are various reasons for this new phenomenon—not all legit. One belief is that since Jesus was a Jew (a view not widely accepted by all Christians), celebrating a Seder is one way of reconnecting with ancient roots, or perhaps understanding the mindset of the Christian Savior.

But of all the Jewish holidays, Passover—Pesach, in its Hebrew name—is not only the oldest, it’s also the most uniquely Jewish. From its very start, recounting the history of the Israelites, to its climax, retelling the Redemption from physical and cultural enslavement in Egypt, the narrative of Pesach follows the entire arc Jewish history, tradition, philosophy and theology. 

Avadim hayinu— “We were slaves unto Pharaoh.” So begins our story, reminding us of our humble origins. Not descended from royal stock but rather from unassuming ancestry, we persevered in our beliefs and traditions despite oppression and persecution. “A fugitive Aramean was our father,” the story continues, an understatement if there ever was. 

The Haggadah—the book we follow during the Seder meal—is centered around the account of the Exodus as it appears in the second book of the Torah. Yet even as the Haggadah describes the ten dreadful plagues brought upon Pharaoh and his subjects, it leaves out one important detail: Moses. It is God who brings about Redemption; God who causes the waters of the Nile to turn into blood; God who causes the natural disasters and then, ultimately, the most horrible affliction of all, the death of every Egyptian first-born. 

By removing Moses from the story, the focus shifts to the struggle between God and an impostor: Pharaoh. It isn’t only a new people that emerges, but also a new belief—the belief in a God whose transcendent power to redeem comes from somewhere beyond Nature itself. It’s a moral God who takes the upper Hand, a God who demands empathy, not apathy; who teaches us to live with compassion in our hearts, not cruelty. 

In its use of symbolic foods, the Seder reminds us of our Jewish history and traditions. The shank-bone and the burnt egg takes us back to the time when the Temple yet stood in Jerusalem, when the Israelites gathered to thank God with the Paschal sacrifice. The maror—bitter herbs—and the salt water in which we dip our vegetables recall the suffering we endured in the past. And the afikomen—the broken half of a matzah hidden for the children to find at the conclusion of the Seder—reinforces our belief in a future when there will be no more hunger or need. 

And yet it isn’t all in God’s hands. In many Jewish homes, the story of the Exodus from Egypt is expanded to include personal stories of heroism and survival. The ancient past comes to life year after year. “In every generation we must see ourselves as though WE were redeemed from Egypt.” The purpose of this reminder is not abstract. It’s there to remind us of what slavery and oppression feel like. To forget this means not only that we lose a part of our past, but also of our charge to redeem those who are still oppressed and enslaved, those who still endure prejudice and discrimination.

May Passover, the Festival of Freedom, inspire us to carry forward the vision of our ancestors and the purpose we took upon ourselves when we encountered God in the Wilderness of Sinai. May the spirit of the Prophet Elijah infuse all our homes with sweetness and hope. May freedom, health, joy and peace come soon to a world sorely in need of these blessings.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Passover—Festival of Foods

 Passover—Festival of Foods

Reflections by Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

Pesach goes by at least three names: Passover; Festival of Freedom; Spring Festival. Without a doubt, however, added to this list should also be Festival of Foods.

More than any other holiday in the Jewish calendar, the focus during Passover is on food. The idea here is not merely to add a particular pastry or dish, or even completely to avoid one. Passover is all about what we eat—or more specifically, what we don’t eat. Preparation for the holiday go far beyond spring cleaning: Some of us go so far as to open a special kitchen that might be closed the rest of the year; or go on a Kosher for Passover cruise, or stay at a hotel specifically equipped for the strictly observant among us. Others take out of storage whole sets of dishes, silverware and cooking utensils, and might even cover kitchen countertops with yards of aluminum foil. 

Shopping for KP (kosher for Passover) foods is an adventure. In some places, it may be somewhat more of a treasure hunt, but gradually, store managers are learning about our traditions and have become quite accommodating to our special needs.

And then we look for recipes.

Matzah is hard to chew. Its flavor is arguably existent. It may even irritate digestive systems (hence tzimmes with prunes, and all those fruit compote recipes!).

But as my wife used to say to our children when they started protesting, around the third day of the holiday: A week of a restricted diet beats a lifetime of slavery. No doubt about that. 

Of course, there are the endless transcultural arguments: Are kitniyot (legumes) kosher for Passover? Is rice a grain that needs to be avoided? Is corn syrup OK? Do you add sugar to your gefilte fish? 

But once we get past these questions, human inventiveness knows no bounds. We find substitutes for the flour and other grains that are such a staple of the regular diet many of us are used to. Matzah meal mixed with potato starch turns out not too bad at all, mixed with enough sugar, oil and eggs. It’s possible to make delicious Kosher for Pesach pancakes, rolls and cakes (though I might stay away from the factory-made boxed versions). And matzo brei—eggs scrambled with moistened pieces of matzah, then slathered with all sorts of sweet or savory toppings—is a year-round favorite in my house. Delicious and filling, easy to make, easy to clean!

True, after a week of KP foods, we might be more than ready to break Pesach at our favorite pizzeria. But it doesn’t mean that we don’t try to always improve on the blandness of our Bread of Affliction.

Ultimately, Passover is fun—and can be delicious as well. Most importantly, however, the foods we eat on this holiday should remind us not only of our humble origins as slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, but also of the ongoing plight of so many people—around the globe, but also among us, in our own communities—who are oppressed; who go hungry not seven days a week, but entire years at a time; who feel hopeless; who are confined by cultural, economic or health issues. 

Passover this year will commence on the evening of Friday, April 15. As we enter the final week of intense preparation for this Festival of Foods, let’s keep in mind the memories, traditions, and many lessons that the holiday contains for us.

A zissen Pesach: May the holiday of Passover be sweet for us all. May it bring joyful tidings of freedom, love and peace not only to Jews, but to all humanity around the world. 

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

Medicine and Metaphor: Tazria/Metzora.22

 Medicine and Metaphor

D’var Torah for Tazria and Metzora

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

The Torah portions for the next two weeks (Tazria, Leviticus 12:1-13:50 and Metzora, Leviticus 14:1-15:33) are arguably the most obsolete portions in the entire Torah. Dealing with health issues (literally and figuratively), these two portions position the priest not only as intermediator between the people and God, but also as healer of physical illness. The portions discuss various skin ailments—but they express archaic notions and use long-forgotten terminology. Viewed through modern eyes, Tazria and Metzora reflect not only ignorance, but also superstition and bigotry.

It would be easy to dismiss Tazria and Metzora as irrelevant. And yet, they not only represent a pivotal point in Rabbinic thinking, they also serve as the foundation stone for Judaism’s evolving views on health and caretaking—two of the highest and most sacred values in Jewish culture and belief. 

The early Rabbis expound the physical symptoms metaphorically. They explain the word metzora (literally defining someone who is afflicted with leprosy) as a composite of the Hebrew words motzi and ra, used to refer to someone who engages in gossip or slander. While some explain the disease as divine punishment for engaging in these sins, others express a much broader view, in which the contagion is not only physical but also social.

The Torah uses the term metzora to describe symptoms that may appear not only in an individual’s body, but also in clothing and even homes. Slander is thus explained by the Rabbis as a societal disease, as contagious and dangerous as leprosy itself. At first, the symptoms are restricted to an individual, but soon they spread in ever-wider circles. The clothing represents one’s family; the walls of the house stand for all society. The ill effects of slander and gossip are never contained only to one individual; we all are impacted by the lies and smears, starting with the person who first spreads them but quickly spreading to everyone within earshot (and today, screenshot as well). 

In this light, Tazria and Metzora aren’t only about physical health. They also contain strict warnings about our cultural and societal wellbeing.

But there is yet another aspect to these chapters, one often overlooked at first reading.

Coming from an age in which priests also served as witch doctors, the Torah gives a new, more enlightened role to the priest. From now on he is to observe and take care of those who are ill. Though the serious nature of the contagion may necessitate isolation (read: quarantine) of the sick, they are never abandoned. Every seven days they must be visited by the priest, whose duty it is to determine whether the sickness has advanced or receded.

No matter how we choose to understand Tazria and Metzora, they are among the most important in the entire Torah, at least partially explaining why medicine has always been seen as a “Jewish” profession. The search for knowledge and understanding did not stop with these portions. True, the signs and rituals they describe may be obsolete, but not so the philosophy behind them. The Torah makes it clear that healing and taking care of the sick, along with further research and observation, are nothing less than our most sacred duty and obligation.

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman

A Strange Fire: Shemini.22

A Strange Fire: Shemini.22

By Rabbi Boaz D. Heilman

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

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

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

Nadav and Avihu prove a striking contrast to this relationship. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2022 by Boaz D. Heilman