Parashat Be'Har - Be'Chu'ko'tai

This week’s two portions – Be’har (literally, “at the mountain”), and Be’Chuku’tai (literally, “in my laws”) – mark the end of the third book of the Torah, the book of Leviticus.  Among others, these portions contain the famous laws of “shmi’ta” – the innovative idea that every seventh year the land itself has to rest, just like we humans who own it do every seventh day.  They also contain other, more familiar religious laws such as the prohibition on creating idols (Levit. 26:1), the decree to keep the Shabat (26:2), and others. 

And at the end of the Chapter 26 we find this dramatic concluding remark: “These are the statutes, laws, and doctrines that God provided between Himself and the Israelite People at Mount Sinai at the hand of Moshe.”  (26:46)

But other than those well-established rules, this week’s portions also discuss two very interesting concepts that are often less discussed in Judaism – that of business cycles and that of negative incentives for inappropriate behavior.  To me, both demonstrate, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that very little has changed between the time the Torah was written and today. I will dedicate a very short discussion to each.

On Business Cycles and Old Recessions

The modern theory of business cycle – the notion that markets operate in stages, notably four: (1) expansion; (2) crisis; (3) recession; and (iv) recovery – was only developed in the twentieth century by pioneer economists like Joseph Schumpeter.  Yet the idea that economic activity operate in waves, and that sometimes people find themselves on top and sometimes on the bottom of economic success, is as old as the idea of market itself. 

This week’s portion is famous for its detail discussion of the laws of Sh’meeta, which I mentioned earlier – the careful consideration given to the soil, the main production resource of the time. In a limited sense, this too can be seen as a part of the notion of business cycle – here, the land must “rest” every seven years, and then begin again. To me, however, the more interesting part of the portion relates to the very detailed account of the rules that should apply when members of the community fall on hard economic times. For example, what is the law when your relative was forced to sell a part of their land, as he no longer can hold on to it? When a member of the community had to sell his lucrative residence located behind the protective walls of the city (the then-Upper East Side, perhaps) and to move to live outside the protective bounds of town? What happens to when out-of-protective-town homes are sold, as the owners can pay the mortgage? What happens when your relative losses his job and cannot make do? And so on and so forth. (Levit. 25:25-55) I hope that by now, some – if not all – of this sounds very familiar. An accurate description of the “biblical housing bubble,” if you will. 

Though the laws themselves are fascinating – providing, in essence, a model for market-created social safety net, including the (now famous) restriction on usury loans – I am more interested here in the very phenomenon of people who fell on hard economic times and how society should treat them (according to Judaism). This, to me, shows not only that a community-based approach and notions of shared responsibility were envisioned well before the Great Depression or the current economic crisis, but that the Jewish religion saw it as a moral and legal obligation to treat those people with dignity and fairness, and to provide them with hope for better economic times.  The message here is simple: You have to treat those people well today, because tomorrow you might be the one in need of that kind of help. The debate today over the creation of a new consumer protection agency, as well as the idea of “private” bail-out – a direct government assistance to people in need – are but a faint echo of this comprehensive set of laws created over  two thousand years ago to properly deal with the notion of business cycles and their effect. Once again, we can be proud of our wise sages (or God, or both) who identified a social issue and created a comprehensive way of dealing with it.

The “Sh’ma” and Sanctions for Bad Behavior

While business cycles are entirely a secular phenomenon – no God is involved in either their creation or the solution provided (with the proviso, of course, that everything is done in His command) – the next issue is anything but.

The Sh’ma – “Sh’ma Israel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai Echad” – is by far the most famous of Jewish texts.  It consists of two parts, as Yeshayahu Leibowitz explains in length (also in English, see The Reading of Shema in Judaism, Human Values, and the Jewish State 37 (Harvard 1992)). The first part of the Sh’ma, which is presented as an absolute demand (or as a Kantian categorical imperative, for those who are interested in modern philosophy), requires every Jewish person to love the Lord our God with all their heart, all their soul, and all their might. (And Rabbi Akiva added: “with all thy soul – meaning that even when they come to take away your soul (i.e., to kill you) – you should still love Him.”)

I would not dwell here on the beautiful issue of why the word love was chosen to portray the desired – nay, decreed(!) – relationship between the person of faith and God. I would just suggest that love is the greatest human feeling of all, the strongest, the most expressive, and thus no other human emotion could be chosen for the task.

The second part of the She’ma is framed as a conditional demand (or, in Kantian terms, a conditional imperative). It begins with the words “And if you shall hear [Me],” and promises a set of rewards for those who would follow the ways of the Jewish Lord.  Leibowitz dwells here on the notion of “Lishma” and “Lo Lishma” (a faith for its own sake, which is the one mentioned in the first part, and a lesser, though much more prevalent, form of faith, to gain a reward, appearing in the second) – an issue I dealt with in previous posts. But for my purposes today, I would like to remark on what is missing from the Sh’ma.  The two sections (I omit here the third part of the Sh’ma, dealing with the Ts’tsit) describe no sanction, no punishment, no negative reward for the person who chooses not to follow the ways of God. 

That part is supplied by today’s portion. And in droves.

The portion of “Be’Chukutai” begins with the now-familiar text of “If you shall follow my laws, and keep my decrees . . . then I shall provide your rain in time (etc., etc.)” – much like the second part of the Sh’ma.  But then the text moves onto a third part that does not appear in the Sh’ma:

"But if you shall not listen to me, and shall not follow my decrees, and if you reject my rules and despise my laws . . . then I shall do the following onto you:" And here the text provides a parade of horribles, including plagues, wars lost, becoming slaves to enemy armies, a land refusing to give fruit, the death of domestic animals, and so on and so forth, including being forced to eat the very flesh of your own descendants. (Levit. 26:29).   

To me, that shows – once again – that not much has changed since the time the text was written. Yes, it is very nice to discuss categorical imperatives – doing things because they are right in and of themselves; or even to do something for anticipation of reaping the rewards – such as “if you will follow my laws, all the best will happen to you.” (As the second part of the Sh’ma is phrased). But at the end of the day, human nature is such that nothing would happen unless and until meaningful sanctions are put in place. And those sanctions, to be sure, must be such that would deter someone from doing the act.  Serious, big sanctions (and in this case, perhaps even cruel and unusual sanctions) should be put in place in order to deter unwanted behavior. And this is the role (well) played by the portion read this week. 

I would like to leave you with the following question, however: If this section is so important, so vital, so crucial to human behavior, why was it left outside the Sh’ma itself? Put differently, If you were sitting today in the Sanhedrin’s Knesset G’dolah (a religious legislative body that ceased to exist, but that had all the required authority to change the law) would you reintroduce this part of the text into the Sh'ma? Let me know your thoughts.

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron

Parashat Emor

This week’s portion, Emor – literally, “tell” as in “tell all the priests to…” – is very unique, both to me personally and to every thinking Jewish person more generally. It is personally unique to me as this is my “bar Mitzvah” portion.  It is (or should be) unique to every thinking Jewish person as it fully represents the stark contrast between the ancient written Torah text and the more current Halachic custom. I will shortly elaborate on each of these points in my notes today.

Text vs. Halacha: When Is Rosh Ha’Shana?

Suppose you had to pick just one portion that would include as many Jewish holidays as possible. Emor would easily be a top choice. This portion is practically a “Lonely Planet Guide to Jewish Holidays.” Beginning with the somewhat dramatic statement: These are the Holidays of the Lord – Readings of holiness that you shall read in their due course” (Levit. 23:4), the portion goes on to describe in great detail each of the major holidays: Passover (23:5-8); The counting of the Omer (of which we are currently in the midst) (23:15-22); Rosh Ha’Shana (23:23-25); Yom Kippur (23:26-32); and Sukkot (23:33-44).     

I will not go here through the intricate details of each of these Torah-mandated holidays. What is important to me today are the dates: Passover, according to the explicit text, is to be celebrated “on the first month at the fourteenth day of the month.” But Passover is not celebrated today on the first month – Tishrei; it is rather celebrated on the month of Nissan, the seventh month of the year.

Conversely, Yom Kippur, is celebrated today on the tenth day of Tishrei – the very first month of the current Jewish calendar; but according to the explicit text it is to be celebrated “on the tenth day of the Seventh month.” More importantly, between these two important holidays lies yet another holiday, in the beginning of that seventh month, in which the text requires us to cease all work.  Today this holiday is called “Rosh Ha’Shana” – the beginning of the year (or, more simply, “New Year’s”) – a name, by the way, that can be found nowhere in our portion (or anywhere else in the bible, for that matter).

But how can we celebrate the beginning of the year on the seventh month? In particular, how can the year begin not in the first month as is specifically prescribed by the text itself? Have we been wrong all these years? Should we move Rosh Ha’Shana to Passover?

In a way – a textual way – we have been wrong.  The term Rosh Ha’Shana (New Year’s) does not appear in the text. The holiday – which today marks the beginning of the Jewish year – is not designated as such by the text. Moreover, the first month of the year is not up in the air. According to the text, the month in which the Israelites left Egypt – Nissan, the month of Passover (of course) – is the first month of the year. So what is going on here?

Halacha O’keret Mikra – the Halacha overrides the biblical text – is the principle used to explain these (and many other) discrepancies. This week marks one of the most explicit cases where the customs devised by our sages stand in stark contrast to the biblical text itself. Today, we receive these Halachic commands, first iterated by the Mishna, as a binding (Jewish) law.  But you don’t have to be Justice Scalia – who can’t stand a law that has no strong textual basis – in order to pose a penetrating question: What is the basis of that? Who are those sages – and who appointed them – to overrule (or override) an explicit biblical text?

I am not able to answer these questions here. I am, however, able to suggest that an acceptance of such Halachic override may have far-reaching consequences both in terms of understanding what are the real sources of Jewish law, and, more profoundly, what does it mean to accept the “yoke of Torah and Mitzvot” – to accept Jewish law as a person of faith.  More on that in future posts. 

My Bar-Mitzvah’s Haftarah

It has been long ago – way too long, over three decades – since I stood in the then-new synagogue next to my parents’ home in Ramat Aviv (a small Tel-Aviv suburb), very nervous and anxious, preparing to read aloud my first (and so far only) public Haftara.  We just welcomed, four months earlier, a wonderful addition to our family – my younger brother Uri; I was so proud to carry him on my arms to shul for the first time. I will never know how I really did that day (in terms of proper reading). Everyone, of course, sang my praises, telling me I did great. Then again, what would you tell a young Bar-Mitzvah boy who just finished his readings (for which he prepared over several months)? That he did horribly? That he was barely understood, or almost not heard? Indeed, even in Israel – the “tell-it-as-it-is-and-in-your-face” country – we have our limits. Bar Mitvah is certainly one of those.

I have been to many Bar Mitzvahs ceremonies since, but every year I love to come back to my own Haftara – by the Prophet Ezekiel, of course (Ez. 44:15-31). Initially I was disappointed to read its text – it seems to deal with the mundane issue of the type of cloths priests should (and should not) put on prior to perform the holy task of serving God.

But then it hit me, several years later, that this text must mean much more than that. And indeed, thanks to my own “Rabbi,” Yeshayahu Leibovitz, I grew to understand that the text has profound – and indeed very relevant modern-day— implications. In essence, it requires the priests and Levites, when they enter into the “inner” sanctum, the holy of holiest places, to wear special (and very specific) clothes. But when they go back outside, “to the masses” as the text puts it, these same servants of God should again put on their regular clothes: “and they shall not consecrate the people in their [special] clothes.”

Why would the priests wear special clothes when no one can see them, but regular clothes when everyone does? The answer implies a fundamental principle of religious leadership adhered to, unfortunately, only by very few religious leaders today (in all religions equally, by the way): It is the idea that a religious leader is unique only to the extent – and during the period – that he or she are serving God; in all other measures, in all other respects, they are equal to all other people – and therefore should appear like that. In that manner, both them and the people would have a constant reminder that they are not “above all others” in any respect, except for the time they serve God.

But none of the religious leaders I know today – from the Pope to the Chief Rabbis to major Mullahs – would sacrifice their uniquely-looking garbs (or robes) for the “regular clothes” of the people. They rightly fear that “the people” would quickly reveal that, behind those gilded quilts, they may not be so different from any of us…

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron 

Parashat Acharei-Mot - Ke'doshim

This week’s pair of portions are A’ch’arei Mot (which means “after the death,” as in after the horrific death of two of Aharon’s sons for sacrificing the “foreign fire,” discussed in “She’mi’ni” several weeks back, that still has a lasting effect), and Ke’do’shim (which means Holy, as in “You shall be holy for I am Holy” said God).  Both contain some of the best life-guiding advice ever provided, thousands of years before the first “self-help” book was ever published. And they all, without exception, sound as fresh today as they did 3,000 years ago. 

Take, for example, the following: “You shall not curse the deaf, and before the blind you shall not place a hurdle” (the last one being extremely versatile; think of cookie-filled closet in the house of a person trying to loose weight (Levit. 19:14); “Do not carry injustice in a trial: do not favor the poor or show deference to the well-to-do; in justice you shall judge your peers.” (notice the early warning against “social engineering” at the trial level, on both ends) (Levit. 19:15); “You shall rise before the elderly, and show deference to the old” (enough said) (Levit. 20:32); “And when a foreign resident dwells among you, do not defraud him; as a citizen like you he shall be to you.” (pointing to the undocumented employees of old and the adverse treatment they already received back then); and finally, for those who wonder about the origin of the symbol of justice – the famous balanced scale – a reminder that Wall Street moguls were not the first to commit a devastating fraud on the financial markets: “Do not carry injustice in the law – falsely measuring size, weight, or capacity; you shall have a scale of justice – stones (weights) of justice, ruler of justice, and measurement of justice.” (Levit. 19:35).

But other than containing these – and many other – important lessons for life, the two portions are centered around two themes: first, the incest restrictions; and second, the notion of holiness.  I want to dedicate today a few words to each.

The Laws of Incest: What, and Why

In both portions, the laws of incest play a major role. In the first, we learn first of the general restriction – “None of you shall come near anyone of his own flesh to uncover nakedness (for) I am the Lord.” (Levit. 18:5). This general restriction – which, in my mind, should first and foremost be understood as a complete restriction against sexual relations with one’s own descendants – either sons or daughters, is followed by a very detailed list of less obvious examples of forbidden sexual relations, including sexual relations with one’s mother or father, with other wives the father may have, with sisters, grandchildren, aunts, uncles, daughters-in-law, sisters-in-law, and others. The list concludes with more general restrictions (not incest-related) of homosexuality and – separately – bestiality (hence the frequent erroneous link made by some self-righteous moralists between the two)(Levit. 18:6-23). 

The second portion mostly repeats that list of restrictions appearing in the first, but this time also adds the penalty attached. And that penalty – no surprises here – is mostly death. For example, “And a man who shall sleep with his father’s wife, exposing his father nakedness, both of them shall die, their blood upon them.” (Levit. 20:11) The same punishment awaits both persons engaged in homosexual relations (20:13); death by fire awaits a man taking a daughter and her mother (20:14); a “regular” death penalty is prescribed for a man engaged in bestiality (20:15); and so on.  Other punishments, presumably for less than full sexual intercourse, include excommunications or “cutting off” of the persons involved.

Much more interesting than the “what” contained in these two detailed lists, however, is the “why” – the religious explanation given by God himself for these restrictions.  One explanation to the prohibition is not to replicate the laws and customs of both Egypt (from where the Israelites have arrived)  or Cna’an (to where they are destined). Apparently, it seems that in both countries these acts were prevalent. Another explanation is that the land itself, according to God, became so “unpurified” by the prevalence of these acts, that it “spewed out” those sinners, presumably allowing the Israelites (who would not commit those acts) to come and settle in its midst. This is a fascinating humanization of the land, and one worth noticing on Earth Day (which we marked just recently).   

These two explanations are in fact one. They are two sides of the same coin. And they both relate to the notion of holiness in Judaism, on which I (again) want to say very few words next. 

The Notion of Holiness in Judaism                 

“You shall be holy for I am Holy, the Lord your God.” (Levit. 19:2).  Thus opens the second portion of this week (“Ke’do’shim – Holy); it is also one of the quintessential proclamations of the notion of Jewish holiness.  As I have explained before (based on Leibowitz, who, in turn, is based on the Rambam), the notion of holiness is not based on the fact Jews are superior in any way to other people in and of themselves; indeed, this is a prevalent mistake made by many Jews across history, and one that has caused many a misunderstanding for both Jews and non-Jews. Indeed, the equation:  We are Jewish, therefore we are holy is simply not true.

In fact, the notion of holiness in Judaism is properly based solely on the notion of holiness of God Himself: He alone is the only Holy entity; He and not us.  In order to become holy, too, Jewish people are supposed to commit wholeheartedly to two things: in the affirmative manner, they must follow all of His rules, decrees, and ordinances (613 of them) as they are detailed in the text; in the negative, they should never worship other Gods, and so many other people are doing. These two facets – the positive and negative – of the Jewish faith are the building blocks on which the notion of holiness stand. To the extent that Jews are not following God, or doing “as the rest of the people do,” they cannot claim their unique status.  But, and perhaps more importantly, to the extent they do, they are only holy in so far as the relationship between themselves and their God is concerned – not in any other dimension, including the oft-invoked Jews-non-Jews sphere.

So next time you encounter a self-proclaimed “holy” person, ask them: (1) Do you follow all of God’s rules?; and, if so, (2) Do you refrain from doing what other, non-Jewish people are doing? If so – and only if so – you can proclaim yourself “holy” in your own relationship with God, but nowhere else. Now, to be sure, such a status should be considered a huge achievement to every person of faith; but that is all that the achievement is. Holiness between (and among) men is not achieved in Judaism – neither achieved nor meant to be achieved.  This is an important lesson in humility. May all of you be holy in your standing before God today.

Shabbat Shalom.

Parashat Taz'ree'a - Met'zor'a

This week’s portion – or, more accurately, two portions that are read together, Taz’ree’ah and Metzo’rah – seems, at first site, not like the most interesting of reading material: a detailed, somewhat arduous account of ordinances, laws, and requirements relating to almost every aspect of every bodily ailment – from bad skin condition to pure leprosy.  But, as was the case in other portions, a somewhat deeper examination reveals some extremely thought-provoking insights.  In this post I want to discuss three in particular.   

What’s in a Name? A Word About Portion Titles

The title of the two portions tells us something about their subject matter.  Taz’ree’ah – the title of the first of today’s two portions – is a word related to seed or sperm; in today’s context, it reads something in the vicinity of “whenever a woman becomes pregnant, she should [do the following…]” (Lev. 12:1-2). Most translations understandably took the easy route here, simply reading the text as whenever “a woman gives birth,” or whenever “a woman is with a child,” or, closer still, whenever “a woman who has conceived seed.”  Only one translation of the eleven I examined, the Douay-Rheims Bible, chose to confront the Hebrew original head-on by writing: “If a woman having received seed shall bear a [male] child… [then she should]” (they actually used “man-child,” a term I cannot accept).  In any event, the first portion begins with pregnancy – the point of departure for every human life.   

And indeed, this week’s portion – as any other portion – is named after the first meaningful word in the opening section.  By “Meaningful” I do not mean that it has a meaning – all words in the bible do; rather, it is meaningful in the sense that it is not a part of the formal introduction to the portion (as in “So said God,” or “Then God has spoken,” or, more to the point in this week’s portion: “And God spoke to Moshe and told him:  Tell the children of Israel to do the following”). What is interesting to note, however, is that the first of these meaningful words, this week, is not Taz’ree’ah, but rather “a woman” [“Ee’shah”].

Despite that, the sages chose not to name this portion, as it should have been called, “a woman,” but rather the much more convoluted term “Taz’ree’a.”  That is unfortunate.  Just imagine for a second what an important contribution a portion named “woman” can make to women’s rights and status in Judaism. Just consider the annual cause for celebration, discussion, and reflection on that day for (at least) half of the persons who are Jewish, merely because of the portion’s name.

And while it is true that in Judaism today, once the Sanhedrin ceased to exist, the formal authority to make such serious revisions – as re-naming a portion – is gone, one could make the argument that individual communities, should they so desire, may mark this week by naming the portion in public “Woman.” We should echo, therefore, Juliet’s question to her Romeo – “what’s in a name?” – and answer it anew today: Much is in a name. Let us properly restore it.

The title of the second portion – Me’tzorah, which means a leper – also tells us something about this week’s content.  In the lowest level of abstraction, reading the text as plainly as possible, both portions deal heavily with skin diseases in different stages of evolvement.  Perhaps that was a frequent condition in the desert, requiring an elaborated set of ordinances (with the priests in the role of physicians).  But perhaps there is something deeper here.  That would be the issue of my second point today.

The All-Encompassing Aspect of Judaism 

About twenty years ago, the Israeli Supreme Court was heavily divided around a major jurisprudential (=legal philosophy) issue:  Is the law ubiquitous? Is the law everywhere, all the time, all around us, whenever we go?  Or does the law have a limited role, intervening in our lives only when we do (or attempt to do) something wrong?  One side of the debate was presented by the Vice Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, a noted Torah scholar and a prolific jurist, Justice Menachem Elon. He vehemently opposed the idea of “the law is everything.” To him, (and I cite from memory, twenty years after the fact), “the law has nothing to say about love, dancing, playing with my grandchildren, and many other activities. The law is not everywhere, and the law is not everything.” 

On the other end of the debate, however, stood Aharon Barak, then an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, and later Israel’s most famous Chief Justice (think of Chief Justice Marshall for comparison).  Even then, there was no dispute about Barak’s legal brilliance.  To him, (and again, citation from memory only) “the law is not everything, but it is everywhere; everything can be examined through a legal lens.” The fact that we can “dance, love, and play with our children,” Barak explained, exists only because “the law allows it.”  More concretely, “the law sometimes allows, sometimes restricts, but is always there.” Thus, at times the law chooses to intervene through restrictions (“You shall not murder”; “You shall not steal” etc.), and sometimes through leaving “blank spaces” in the regulation map (such as “in relationship, do whatever you want to do [as long as you don’t violate the law otherwise (such as attacking your partner)]”). 

The debate was never firmly resolved.  But reading this week’s portion and thinking of the debate between these two giants – the noted Torah scholar on the one hand and the brilliant jurist on the other – it seems that the Torah itself leans towards the latter (the jurist), at least in its perspective on Jewish law.

Indeed, this week’s portions take us through a long journey of human life (“life cycle” in modern parlance) - and not necessarily the most esthetically pleasing portions of it: skin conditions, ailments, rashes, and the like. (To be exact, the portions take us through the legal rules or decrees we have to follow whenever we encounter such conditions). From post-pardom irth “impurity”; from circumcision (an eighth-day decree that the Rambam himself emphasizes comes from this portion and not from the elaborate discussion in Genesis on the Compact between Avraham and God; see Leviticus 12:3) to a variety of skin diseases in all shapes and sizes; from hair and beard infections to baldness; from contaminated clothes (and proper rules of laundry) to leprosy; from women’s menstrual cycle to men’s inadvertent semen discharge – and many, many, more.

While tedious at times, this legal journey is fascinating in the sense that it shows, on the one hand, the ubiquity of the rules of Judaism – how it may govern every aspect of our lives, from birth to death and everything in between.  But it also makes another important point, which often escapes theological observers, especially non-religious ones – and that is the subject of my third and last point today.        

What Religion Truly Is

When we talk about religion – every religion, but ours most especially – we usually think of very spiritual, dignified settings:  Shabbat Dinner; Shul Prayers; Reflections on God; Celebrating the Holidays (and realizing they are “holy” days); etc. Very few people, I would venture to guess, think about issues such as women’s cycle, skin diseases, proper laundry rules, and others when asked “what religion means to you.”  This week’s portion, however, makes the very profound point that religion – every religion, but ours most especially – in not only about those unique and glorious moments in life, but also – and perhaps mostly – about every single moment in life, from cradle to grave, and everything in between. Thus, when a person receives upon themselves the obligation of religion – the yoke of Torah and Mitzvot – they are placing an enormous responsibility on their lives: It is the responsibility to live and act like a Jewish person at all times.

The Shulchan Aruch, one of Judaism’s profound documents, demonstrates this point beautifully when it begins with the description of what a Jewish person should do immediately upon awakening every single morning (to overcome [his desire to go back to sleep] “like a lion” and to go out and serve his God by prayer [Shacharit]), all the way through going to sleep again. Indeed, the laws of Judaism are all around us, all the time – not only when we light the Shabbat candles.

That is the message of this week’s portion.

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron

Parashat Sh'mi'nee

This week’s portion – Sh’mi’nee (literally, “the eighth,” as in “In the eighth day Moshe called Aaron) – continues last weeks’ main theme, which is the notion of proper worship through offerings.  But this week’s portion also introduces us to a profound notion in Judaism, and one of its fundamental tenets – that the degree of worship in Judaism must bear an exact resemblance to God’s instructions; not an iota less, and not an iota more.  

I. The Case Against “Too Much of a Good Thing”

Can Judaism tolerate “too much” worship?  Is there “too much of a good thing” in worshipping? These classic theological conundrums, which occupied generations of commentators of all religious stripes, receive a convincing answer in this week’s portion. But before I present these answers (“no, it can’t,” and “yes, there is,” respectively) I want to introduce a term borrowed from modern-day Hebrew: “Rosh Gadol” (“Large Head”).

The term was invented – like many others in today’s Israeli slang – in the army (the Israeli Defense Force, IDF).  What it means, essentially, is the taking of responsibilities above and beyond the command given by your officer. For example, when asked to clean his weapon, a private with “Large Head” will also make sure that his entire military gear is in order. Similarly, a drill sergeant with large head, when asked by his commander to check the unit’s gun cleanliness, would also go ahead and check their entire readiness for battle.  You get the drill. Conversely, a soldier with a “small head” would do exactly as told, or the minimum required to satisfy the order; he would never attempt to perform more than he was asked.

And thus we arrive at this week’s portion. Here, the sons of Aaron – Moshe’s brother and the first Chief Rabbi – are trying to demonstrate a “Large Head.” We first read, in great detail, about the actions taken by their father during his offering ritual (including details regarding the calf’s blood, its internal organs, and certain burned parts) (Leviticus 9:8-22)). We then learn that this offering was well received by both God and men (“And fire came out before God and consumed the burned offering that are on the altar … and the entire People has seen the sights, and they were delighted, and they fell upon their faces” Id., at 24). [For an extra brownie point, compare this well-received offering to the one presented by Abel, Cain’s brother, at the very beginning of our story (see Gen. 4:3-5).]

So now it is the sons’ turn to do the same.

But instead of repeating precisely their father’s set of precise actions, these sons have preferred – like many generations before and since – to try and outdo their parent. They were trying, in other words, to exercise “large head.”

 “Now the sons of Aaron Nadav and Avi’hu each took their pan, and they put fire in each, and they placed incense on it; and they have sacrificed it before God.” (Lev. 10:1)

So far so good. Or was it?  The text changes its tone here sharply, switching from a mere description of the brothers’ actions to a harsh criticism: “[They have offered to God] a foreign fire, which God has never ordered them to.” (Id.)  As we have seen, however, those who exercise “large head” do exactly that: They don’t only do exactly as they were told, but move a step further, “enlarging” their task – usually by demanding more of themselves and others.

But God’s response to such self-improving initiative is swift, and could not have been clearer: “And a fire came out before God, and it consumed them, and they have died before God.” (Lev. 10:2).  So goes one of the Five Book’s most famous stories, of how the sons of the Chief Priest – the two Priest-designated, the chosen sons – were executed for exercising a bit of “business initiative,” a limited amount of free will, or “Large Head.”

At first, this harsh punishment seems like a tough sell.  The two, after all, seem to have not committed a sin of any serious religious magnitude; they certainly did not build a new Golden Calf or called for the worship of other gods. In fact, they never turned away from the One God they were supposed to worship. They actually followed closely both the First, Second, and Third Commandments (“I am the Lord your God”; “You shall not make any statue or mask; and “You shall not take the Lord’s name in vein,” respectively).   And yet they were executed immediately upon committing their act.

But why?

The answer lies in the concept of blind and complete obedience – Na’asse Ve’Nishma (first we obey, then we listen [or question] the command).  This concept is fundamental to the understanding of the entire corpus of the Torah teachings.  As a rule, Judaism despises dissenters.  As we shall see in the next Book in the series, the first indication of a real opposition to Moshe was also met with a deadly faith (the story of Korach and his party).  And we have yet to recover from the punishment – arguably, disproportional – imposed following the Golden Calf event, in which more than 3,000 fellow Jews were killed by their own brethren (the Levites). 

To be sure, scholars of public policy could make the argument that the desert is not the best-suited venue for disagreement.  We can even agree that at least until they have settled in Israel, the Israelites had to unite around the leadership of one leader (Moshe), their well-recognized “slave of God.” 

But how can all this justify such a harsh punishment for an act of worship? Why was the extreme punishment of death required to make the point in this case?  My guess is that these initial attempts at a new form of worship were met with the ultimate punishment because they were considered not less dangerous than the Golden Calf itself. If one were to be allowed to deviate, at will, from the prescribed method of worshiping, we might have tomorrow 600,000 different ways of worshiping – an un-tolerable situation in the desert (and, arguably, in the Land of Israel as well). Further, short of capital punishment, Moshe, waling in the desert sun, had very few options of criminal sanction. No prison, detention center, or community services were available to him. The paying of fines was also inadequate for a desert tribe. Finally, let us not forget that the notion of Separation of Powers has not been introduced yet. Moshe, for all intents and purposes, was at once the legislature, Judge, and jury. It was in his best interest to curtail dissenters, and God backed him up to the fullest extent.  

II. Can the Case Hold Water Today?

Today, however, we are no longer walking in the desert. We do have a complex set of laws and social norms, which may adequately be used against social deviants. And there is absolutely no need – either from a security standpoint or otherwise – to unite under the banner of a single person, even if he or she were truly a Slave of God. Why, then, is the Jewish religion – and almost every other religion, for that matter – still so adamant about rejecting every attempt at new thinking, other ways of worship, or any notion of “Large Head,” for that matter?

Just in the past year we have heard of a woman Rabbi who had to relinquish her chosen title (“Rabba”) so it will not offend her colleagues male Rabbies. We also heard of Reform Jewish women who wanted to prey in front of the Israeli Kotel with Talit and Tefilin, but were not allowed. And most recently we heard of the attacks – physical and others – committed by Ultra Orthodox Jews against little girls, as young as eight, in Beit Shemesh near Jerusalem, for not wearing “modest enough” clothes.

But why? What is so wrong about new female voices in Judaism? What is so wrong about worshiping the same God, in similar devotion, but in different ways? What was so wrong about the writings of Baruch Shpinoza that led to his ex-communication (or “social death”) from his own Jewish community in the 17^th century?

In my mind, this type of monolithic thinking may present one of the larger challenges to Jewish faith today. The story of the Chief Priest’s sons, to the extent it was justified during its time, no longer serves a useful purpose. We must recognize, as a group of modern people, that there is more than one way to worship our God. We must respect the dignity and liberty of other Jews to do so, as long as they respect ours. We must let a thousand roses bloom – all for the sake of one God.  And if both temples were destroyed for nothing else but “hatred among brothers for no reason,” (Sin’at Chinam), then we should focus our efforts in an attempt to ensure that this will never happen again.

Shabbat Shalom,

Doron 

Passover Part II - A Look To The Future

Passover Part II: A Look To The Future

            By now we are almost “Passovered-out.” We have practiced the restriction “not to eat leavened bread …  for seven days”(Deut. 16:3) - one of the longest restrictions in all of Judaism. We have celebrated two nights of Seder. Our kids were home from their Jewish Day Schools. Some of us even took some time off work. And all that why? This week’s reading provides the answer, succinct and clear: 

“So that you remember the day of your departure from the Land of Egypt as long as you shall live.” (Id.)

At first glance, the text seems to be confused (at best). “I have never been to Egypt,” the reader may think, “how can I ‘remember’ something that never happened to me?” To this, our Haggadah has a perfect answer: “In each generation and generation, every person must see him or herself if they left Egypt in person.” Simply put, we should put ourselves, every year, in the shoes (sandals?) of our forefathers who left Egypt in haste to follow their God. More broadly, however, we should consider, each and every year, our own process of moving from slavery to freedom; from forced decisions to self-made ones; and from coerced actions to ones initiated by our own free will. In that way, we could truly reflect – we have a full week to do so – on the changes we underwent since last year’s Seder. We also have ample time to consider the changes we would like to achieve by next year.

Now that the week is over, what’s next? “Seven weeks you will count … and you shall celebrate the holiday of Sha’vu’ot” the text tells us (Deut. 16:9). Seven weeks we are instructed to count, during which no weddings are allowed  - short of one day, “Lag Ba’Omer,” the 33^rd day of the 49-day count. Other than weddings, this special day is also marked in Israel by “Me’du’root” – camp fires lit throughout the country by kids of all ages. Indeed, as a kid growing in the ‘70s, Lag Ba’Omer was the biggest day of the year: Our parents would leave us alone around the campfire before 10:00 pm, and we would stay out all night, grilling potatoes and union on the campfire… These were the days.

Once the seven-week count is over, we finally celebrate Sha’vu’ot – the holiday of Receiving the Torah. And that is indeed fitting: First we celebrate the leaving of Egypt, with the many miracles that allowed us to move from slavery to Freedom. Then we reflect on this move, and we wait – much like our forefathers, who walked in the desert for quite some time before receiving the Ten Commandments. Then we mark that event as well. Indeed, we are no longer a band of ex-slaves awaiting redemption by miracles, but a unified people ready to receive its laws from the One God we acknowledge.

Shabbat Shalom. 

             

Passover Part I: The Cost of Freedom

            As I am about to sit at our Seder table here in Cleveland, I cannot avoid but reflecting of all the Seders I experienced as a young boy growing up in Israel. I recall my grandfather, Mattatyeho Kalir, sitting at the head of the table, assigning portions of the Hagadah to every member of the family to read. We, the young children, fiercely competed to impress the grownups with our ability to read the text properly. Though not aware of it at the time, we actually played a part in a modern miracle: We were one of the first generations to read the Hagadah in Hebrew as a first language after more than 2,000 years.

            Israel has changed a lot since then. Yet eating dozens of Matzot with chocolate spread (or any spread, for that matter), acting the ten plagues and the Exodus as part of a school play, and a prolonged spring break, are still all hallmarks of Passover in Israel today.

Yet more than anything else, the holiday of Passover signifies today, as it always has, the transition from a state of slavery to that of personal freedom.  That transition, both at the personal and national level, is complex. And yet we are told to reflect on it every year anew; we are to imagine that each of us was personally salvaged from the house of bondage and led freedom. This is especially true here, in the Land of the Free, where freedom is valued over almost all else. 

Yet freedom, like other things of value, does not come freely. Freedom comes at a cost. For the people of Israel, part of the cost was the nearly 400 years of oppression and slavery. But anther part, much less discussed, is the price paid by the then-Egyptian people to enable that freedom. In particular, the Egyptians had to endure the Tenth Plague: “And in the middle of the night the Lord has struck down every first-born in the land of Egypt, from Pharaoh’s first-born sitting on the throne to the prisoner’s first-born who is in jail, and every first born of the cattle… There was not a house with no death.” (Ex. 12:29-30)

Was the killing of every first-born an appropriate price to pay for freedom?  A tough question, no doubt. On its own, probably not. But there is a reason why the Tenth Plague was preceded by nine others, all lighter in terms of force and effect. And there is a reason why the Tenth Plague was proceeded by no other, as Pharaoh finally agreed to “let my people go.” Indeed, the principle of proportionality – a measured response in relation to the harm expected – served Moshe well then, as it still serves us today in all matters of foreign relations.

Happy Passover,

Doron