Parashat Emor -- Human Experience

A few weeks ago, I opened up the text of Parashat Emor to study with Rose Kauffman-Skloff in preparation for her fifth grade d’var torah, which she delivered to the Religious School community last Sunday. Together, we read these words, which God instructed Moses to tell the Israelites “These are My fixed times, the fixed times of the Eternal One, which you shall proclaim as sacred occasions” (Leviticus 23:1). Rose was wide-eyed to discover that many of the holidays she celebrates today were described in detail in the Torah. “Can you believe we’ve been celebrating these holidays for so long?”

This ancient Torah portion not only tells us when to celebrate but how to celebrate these holy days: Pesach, Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot. Each day has its own list of commands, reflected in their prescribed active verbs: You shall elevate, you shall eat unleavened bread, you must count, you shall bring, you shall leave, you shall observe complete rest, you shall practice self-denial, you shall make offerings, you shall rejoice, you shall live in booths.

These holy days, accented by these verbs, begin to paint a picture, in miniature, of a life fully lived and experienced. The actions of these days tell the story of our lives: We regret and we rejoice, we bring and we leave, we observe and we elevate, we eat and we live. Other Jewish holy days were added to the calendar in rabbinic times. On Tisha B’Av, we mourn and we experience loss. On Chanukah, we make light and we remember.

These holy days suggest something remarkable: that all of our human experiences—from loss to delight, from low points to high, from sickness to health—all have their place not only in an individual’s lifecycle, but also in the fabric of our communal calendar. They have been embedded in the cycle of our years since ancient times. Our tradition tells us unequivocally: No matter what life brings you, you remain in the fabric of Jewish time, and in the pattern of Jewish life.

Rose summed it up well, “Some of these holidays make you sad. On some you celebrate. Some are sort of boring.” And such is life. Each of us experiences moments of disappoint. Each of us is granted moments for rejoicing. Sometimes life rolls along, unchanged, and is overwhelmingly tedious.

Torah reminds us this week that whether we confront joy or sorrow, illness or loss, pain or healing, wellness or despair, certainty or ambiguity, or life or death, we remain in sync with the sacred rhythm of our people’s time.

In this knowledge we can take some comfort. Our life’s experiences are not ours alone, but are shared with Jewish people across the globe and through out history. As Ecclesiastes teaches, “There is a time for every season under heaven.”

Parashat Sh'mini--Strange Fire

A few years ago I was given a playlist of contemporary songs that focused on biblical themes.  The focus of the music was broad—from the irreverent to the inspired.  What was notable about the music was that it was not intended to be religious in any way.  The songs were simply illustrations that biblical images and stories weave their way into our daily lives and the art we create.  This week’s Torah Portion Parashat Sh’mini is no exception.

It’s ironic that I look forward to this Torah Portion, a portion which is, at its core, deeply troubling and quite bloody.  This Torah Portion includes the only narrative incident in all of Leviticus.  It goes like this:

Now Aaron's sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before Adonai strange fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Adonai and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Adonai. Then Moses said to Aaron, "This is what Adonai meant by saying: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy, And gain glory before all the people." And Aaron was silent (Leviticus 10:1-3).

The story is simple.  Nadab and Abihu offer “strange fire” on the altar and God responds by consuming them in fire.  Aaron, their father, is left in stunned silence.  No explanation is given. 

Where Aaron remains reticent, Jewish commentators burst forth with explanations.  For generations, our ancestors have done back-flips trying to make sense of what Nadab and Abihu possibly could have done wrong.

I don’t love this Torah Portion for the narrative or for the traditional Jewish commentaries.  I love it for the Indigo Girls’ song “Strange Fire.”  In this song, the Indigo Girls sing:

i come to you with strange fire, i make an offering of love, the incense of my soil is burned by the fire in my blood. i come with a softer answer to the questions that lie in your path. i want to harbor you from the anger, find a refuge from the wrath.  this is a message of love. love that moves from the inside out, love that never grows tired. i come to you with strange fire.

What I love about these lyrics is simple.  They take a message of pain and anguish and quite simply, by just a few words, turn it into “a message of love.”  While Nadab and Abihu’s strange fire produced wrath, their strange fire is meant to provide “softer answers” and a “refuge from the wrath.”  This is a complete reworking of Torah!  And I delight in it.

I believe that sometimes Torah’s purpose is not to instruct, but to warn.  Why is Aaron silent?  Why does Moses’ off-putting attempt to make sense of the incident feel so incongruous?  Because this is a story in which God got it wrong.  This is a story of innocent life taken.  This is a story that is meant to evoke pain and anger.  And we are not given answers.  And it is not made right.  Torah leaves us with two choices:  To justify God’s actions by blaming Nadab and Abihu, or to learn from the injustice of the act.

Ancient Jewish commentators choose the former.  The Indigo Girls choose the latter. 

We have this power too.  What messages will we draw from our Holy Texts?  Will they be messages of blame or messages of love?  Will they be justifications or new paths?  What is the purpose of Torah in our lives? 

Will we continue to condemn the strange fire or embrace it?

Parashat Vayikra--Hearts Tied Together

This week, we begin reading Leviticus, the third book of the Torah.  In the book’s first portion, Parashat  Vayikra, we are introduced to the organized sacrificial system of the ancient Israelites.  It is true that we today are far removed from the blood and guts of Leviticus in our daily lives, and it is also true that we are deeply connected to many of Leviticus’ thoughts about community.

The sacrificial system was predicated on an almost unbelievable premise:  There was only one sanctioned place in the world at which Israelites were allowed to offer sacrifices to God.  These sacrifices represent our ancestors’ primary form of worship, and so it is significant that in their entire known world they were only able to commune with God in one place:  The Temple.  The ancient Temple, which stood in Jerusalem, functioned as the center of Israelite life in the ancient world.  (And while we know today that there were quite a few renegade sacrifice sites in existence, the intent of Leviticus is clear:  In order to form a religious community, the people had to gather together together!).

In fact, the nineteenth century’s Rabbi Shmuel David Luzzatto (or Shadal) teaches that the main purpose of the sacrificial system was to build community.  He writes:

The Torah commands that each person should not build his own place for sacrifice, but rather that everyone should offer sacrifices in one singular place.  The purpose of this is not to belittle the act of sacrificing, but rather, it is for the good of the nation, for success, and in order to perfect our [communal] values.  Since there was only one Temple for the whole nation, everyone would gather to one place and, as a result, their hearts would be tied together in fellowship and they would be always as one group.

Shadal paints a beautiful image of community in his teaching.  His words allow us to understand the sacrificial system not as something that separates us from our ancestors, but rather as something that connects us.

We all are in search of meaning and community.  We too are looking to have our hearts “tied together in fellowship” with others.  As our world grows even bigger, this need starts even deeper.

For our ancestors, community was built into the system.  Do you want to worship God?  Go to the Temple!  Do you want to interact with other Israelites?  Go to the Temple.  With no options, the community was built and sustained.

Today, our choices are more varied.  Community is certainly not a given.  We have to choose our temple.  And then we have to choose to walk in its doors.  And then we have to choose to be active members of its community.  And, only with our work, do we come to find our hearts tied in fellowship.

This week, we are reminded by a nineteenth century rabbi that our efforts to build and connect are worthwhile.  Beyond even our own needs, we were intended to be “as one group.”  When we gather for learning and prayer, or for connecting and celebrating, we live out our ancestors’ legacy.  We take our place in the ever extending line of the Jewish people.  Shadal teaches this is our purpose.  It may also be our deliverance.

Parashat Ki Tissa--Reacting

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Ki Tissa, when God sees the Israelites building a golden calf and worshiping it, God is filled with anger and wants to destroy the stiffnecked people (Exodus 32:9).  Moses pleads with God, saying “Adonai, do not let Your anger blaze forth against Your people!” (Exodus 23:11).  In this first snapshot, God seems to be out of control and Moses seems to be the image of calm.

Interestingly, God is easily swayed by Moses.  God not only backs down, but “renounces the punishment” (Exodus 32:14) that had been previously articulated.

On the surface, these verses tell a story of God’s irrationality and Moses’ sage leadership.  But, this only tells part of the story.

God may have been initially enraged and even dreamed up some pretty elaborate responses to the Israelites’ betrayal, but God never goes through with them (Think of the parent who finds the child destroying a wall or table with markers).

What is interesting is what happens next.  Moses goes down the mountain, sees the people dancing around their golden calf, becomes “enraged,” smashes the tablets of law that God gave him on Mount Sinai, burns up the golden calf, and makes the people drink the ashes mixed in water (Exodus 32:19-20).

This is not exactly the reasonable Moses presented a few verses earlier!  What happened to empathizing with the people who had just emerged from slavery?  What happened to reasonable leadership and learning?

In the end, I think the real lesson of this parashah lies neither in the reaction of God or nor of Moses, but in the contrast between the two.

God initially reacts with anger and plans all sorts of responses to the people’s infractions, but in the end, God is able to hear words of reason, rethink the position, and act appropriately.  For me, what is remarkable in this account is the pause that God takes.

God waits.

God’s initial (justified?) reaction is anger, but instead of simply reacting, God asks for advice and remembers the people (who God ultimately loves deeply).

We think of our own lives: This story has no hastily fired off email dripping with rage before the author could reconsider, no voicemail message left in anger before the speaker could calm their voice.

In the end, God is the picture of grace.

And, Moses?

Well, Moses is able to look at God and see all the appropriate ways to react.  But, when faced with the people’s disloyalty to him (and that must have been what Moses imagined as he walked down the mountain), Moses lets loose.  Moses is unable to control his own rage and, in fact, enacts his own destructive plot against the people.

Moses was a well-reasoned adviser, but a violently impulsive leader.

In our own lives, I am sure each of us can see ourselves reflected both in God and Moses’ reactions.  There are moments when we are able to give reasoned advice, only to turn around and act irrationally on our own accord.  And, there are moments when we may lose control initially and are able to reign in ourselves enough to react with calm.

What I love about this week’s portion is that it is understood that sometimes we may lose control.  We are human and we get angry.  We lose our cool.  We blow up.  This week’s Torah portion is a lesson in managing these very human and natural reactions.  This is the stuff of life.

Ultimately, we are, all at once, created in the image of God, students of Moses, and descendants of those who built the calf.

Parashat Tetzaveh and Purim--Costumes

In the opening verses of this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Tetzaveh, God says to Moses, “Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment. Next you shall instruct all who are skillful, whom I have endowed with the gift of skill, to make Aaron's vestments, for consecrating him to serve Me as priest” (Exodus 28:2-3).  While studying these verses with two TIOH fifth graders in preparation for their D’var Torah, I asked them the question, “What are vestments?”

One student quickly answered, “A disguise!”

I responded, “Ok, good.  And what’s another word for disguise?”

“A costume!” they replied emphatically.

The words “disguise” and “costume” were not the first words that come to my mind when considering priestly vestments.  But, these associative definitions have stuck in my mind the past few weeks and have been insistently whispering an important link between this Torah portion and the holiday of Purim, which begins Saturday night.

There is a clear link in the Torah between the decorations made for mishkan or the Tabernacle (meant to be the dwelling place for God), which were described in last week’s parashah, and the vestments made for the priests in this week’s portion.  Indeed, our Torah scrolls of today are dressed in much the same way as the ancient priests were, thereby connecting text to people to God.

And what if all of these vestments are simply disguises?  Costumes masking something underneath?  What, we might wonder, is being hidden?

Jewish mystics teach that the stories of the Torah are a disguise for the Torah’s deeper meanings, the Torah’s essential truths.  The stories, say the kabbalists, make Torah more accessible and comprehensible.  Might the same be true for the decorations we use to cover sacred space, holy people, and sacred text?  Might the costumes we drape upon them allow us to better access and understand their true power and connection to the divine?

We think now of ourselves.  Purim is upon us.  We are busy dusting off costumes and planning our own disguises.  The Purim masks we wear do not only draw attention to silly outer costumes, but also to what we are hiding underneath.  Might these costumes, in all their silliness, point to something much truer underneath?

The disguises we wear on Purim might be a far cry from the vestments of priests and Torah, not to mention the craftsmanship of the mishkan, but they make accessible the same inner truth:  Dwelling right beneath the surface of each one of us is a divine spark that animates our life.  Burning within each one of us is a soul that has the capacity for deep wells of compassion and kindness.  The costumes we wear on Purim can barely conceal our inner resources of healing and power, of grief and joy, of resilience and flexibility.  

Sometimes when we dress up something seemingly ordinary in something seemingly extraordinary, we are invited to see that thing differently.  To see it anew.  This is the fun and power for Purim.  Disguise yourself well.  And enjoy the costume.

Parashat Terumah--If you build it...

“If you build it, he will come.” Not words of Torah, of course, but an unforgettable quote nonetheless, from the 1989 movie “Field of Dreams.” Yes, this was about a baseball diamond in a corn field. But, couldn’t it be midrash, as well?

In this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Terumah, “Adonai spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart so moves him. ...And let them make Me a mishkan, a sanctuary, that I may dwell amongst them. ...And deposit in the Ark the tablets of the Pact which I will give you’” (Ex 25:1-2, 8, 16).

Commentators note: The text does not say “let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell in it.” Rather the text reads, “that I may dwell amongst them.” Why is it that when the Israelites build a sanctuary of their own free will, they are told that God dwells amongst them? (and not in it)

In “Field of Dreams,” Chicago White Sox players from the early twentieth century show up to play baseball when an Iowa farmer builds them a baseball diamond. “If you build it, he will come.”

In Torah, God shows up amongst the people when they build God a sanctuary. (A loose connection here, I know, but indulge me!)

Here in the TIOH Religious School, we have been building a sanctuary of sorts, as well. Together (parents, students, teachers, clergy, and staff) have been dreaming about what our community can be and making our dreams into reality.

Our Sunday morning flagpole is filled with prayer, songs, blessings, and joy. Families join together weekly for this ritual.

Our Sunday morning t’fillah (services) are meaningful and aim to connect our students with the sacred in their lives.

Our classrooms are electric. Students are engaged and active learners.

On Sunday afternoons, our Teen Program is the place to be. With a “Jew-per Bowl Halftime” party, school-wide celebrations and trips, and thought-provoking class discussions, our junior high and high school students are coming together.

We have new chuggim (elective activities) on Wednesday afternoons. From Jewish Yoga to Social Action, our students are experiencing Jewish together.

Yes, we are building. Brick by brick, our sanctuary is coming together. And, we are promised, with this construction, God will dwell amongst us.

We are all searching for meaning. Looking for ways to connect. Seeking out the holy. We need no longer search. We are building it. They too will come.

Parashat Mishpatim--Step Up/ Step Back

At the Sela Leadership Training I attended last year, we were instructed to use the “Step up/ Step back technique” in our inter-group relations.  This was one of our ground rules.  We were told explicitly: for those of you prone to listening rather than speaking, step up and consider talking more.  We were told, for those of you who usually speak first or often, step back and consider listening more.  Step up or Step back, we were reminded.

The reason why this ground rule was useful is because it called upon each of us to have a level of self-awareness.  Do I talk frequently and need to step back or am I often reticent and need to step up?  In each situation, should I step back or up?  Where to stand?

I am someone who usually listens and thinks before speaking.  I have a terrible habit of turning conversations backwards once I finally catch up enough to offer my comment.  Step up, I hear my inner voice saying often during conversations.  And on the flip side, I have strong and definitive opinions.  Step back, I have come to hear my inner voice say often during conversations.  In one individual, who knew, there could be such complexity. 

Such consideration of where and how to walk in conversations is not only a useful tool for self-development, it is also at the crux of this week’s Torah portion, Parashat Mishpatim. 

Last week, our ancestors stood at the foot of Mount Sinai, as Moses ascended the mountain.  All the people engaged in a moment of profound revelation.  This is why our people left Egypt, to enter into a new and just covenant, to encounter the sacred.  And so amidst thunder and lightning, Moses descended the mountain and recited the Ten Utterances or Commandments. 

And in this week’s parashah, the recitation continues.  Mishpatim.  “These are the rules of conduct” by which you will live your lives. 

Moses finishes reciting.  And the people proclaim, “Kol ha’d’varim asher dibeir Adonai na’aseh” “all the things that Adonai has spoken, we will do” (Exodus 24:3).  Moses then offers a sacrifice of well-being, and the people repeat themselves “Kol asher dibeir Adonai na’aseh v’nishmah,” “all that Adonai has spoken we will do and we will hear” (Exodus 24:7).  At the moment of Revelation the People choose.  Step up.  We. Will.  Do. 

At the moment of Revelation, we see our stiff-necked ancestors at their finest.  Not passive, like in the moments following the recitation of the Ten Utterances when Torah tells us the people “fell back and stood at a distance” (Exodus 20:15).  Not passive aggressive, like when the people call out, “If only we had meat to eat, we remember that fish we used to eat free in Egypt” (Numbers 11:4-5).  No this is the people at their best.  We. Will. Do.  We. Will. Step. Up.  We are active partners in this relationship. 

And, Moses?  Where is Moses in this narrative?  Moses, who has been running up and down the mountain like a spiritual ski gondola since last week.  Moses, who has spent the moments of revelation praising and pacifying, listening and repeating, doing and commanding, leading and leveraging: Where is Moses in this conversation?

This week Torah tells us: God says to Moses, “Aleih eilai ha-harah veh’h’yeh sham,” “Come up to Me on the mountain and be there” (Exodus 24:12).  Be there.  Just be.  Stop moving.  Stop doing.  Don’t ascend, don’t descend, don’t act.  Step back. 

Moses and the Israelites ultimately came into covenant, entered into the deepest of sacred relationships, in ways that were opposite to their nature.  The notoriously passive people responded to covenant by doing.  The woefully impulsive Moses responded by being.

They stepped up.  He stepped back.  And that was Revelation.

We today are wise to hear this story of covenant anew.  Experiencing God and the sacred, not to mention the rest of humanity, requires a presence of mind.  A spiritual centering.  An active choice, different for each of us, different in each moment:  Step up or Step back.

We are taught that the true moment of our people’s freedom came not at the instant they fled Egypt.  It came only at this moment, at Sinai, when they entered into covenant.  The absence of law, we are taught, is not freedom, but chaos.

“We will do and we will hear,” said the people.

“[Moses,] Come up to Me on the mountain and be.”

This is the voice of Torah in our lives.  Gently pushing us this week...to rise above our basest instincts.  We are more than chaos.  In our encounters with Torah, with the holy and with God...and most importantly, in our interactions with each other (each of us who is surely created in God’s image), we are reminded: Step up or Step back.  We live our lives in the realm of the sacred when we are self-aware enough to know how to reach out and encounter the other. 

We will do.  We will be.

Easier said than done.  The people’s misguided actions will lead them to build a golden calf.  Moses’ over-zealousness in pulling back keeps him covered in cloud and alone, oblivious to the people’s infraction.  Torah never calls on us to be perfect.  Just a little better than our instincts might tell us to be.

In that one moment, which is every moment, when an encounter of the truest nature is possible, we can do our part to make revelation possible. Step up or Step back.  And who knows what blessings we might receive.