Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Emor: God's Harvest

On April 22nd, communities around the world celebrated Earth Day, a holiday created to remind us of our obligation to be mindful stewards of our planet. In an article entitled "Tending to Our Cosmic Oasis," former Chancellor of JTS Ismar Schorsch writes that Judaism obligates us to reject the notion that all our material possessions are permanent, but rather that anything we own or posses is ultimately due to God's grace. Schorsch writes:

"...Judaism pulsates with reverence for God’s handiwork. Man may embody the highest form of consciousness in the universe, but hardly merits the limitless power of an absolute monarch. His unique ability to unravel the secrets of nature does not make him the equal of its creator...Judaism is a religious tapestry designed to sharpen our eye for the divine, in nature as well as in history, and thus is laced with universal motifs relevant to our contemporary crisis" (Ismar Schorsch, "Tending to Our Cosmic Oasis," The Melton Journal: Issues and Themes in Jewish Education, Vol. 24 (Spring 1991), 3).

Chancellor Schorsch cautions anyone from assuming that our ability to have possessions means that we are permanent owners of anything, for all things in this world are subject to God's will, and anyone blessed with plenty must use their good fortune to bring divine sanctity into this world, an idea expressed in Parshat Emor's depiction of the mitzvah of the omer.

Parshat Emor describes God's command to the Israelites that, prior to eating any food that is produced in the harvest season, the Israelites should bring an omer of their harvest to the Kohanim for a sacrifice. The parasha states:

"And the Lord spoke to Moses, saying, "Speak to the children of Israel and say to them: When you come to the Land which I am giving you, and you reap its harvest, you shall bring it to the kohen an omer of the beginning of your harvest. And he shall wave the omer before the Lord so that it will be acceptable for you; the kohen shall unblemished lamb in its first year as a burnt offering to the Lord..." (Vayikra 23:9-12).

As is often the case in Sefer Vayikra, our rabbis were curious as to meaning behind the mitzvah of the omer, and how providing this portion of our harvest to God achieves certain larger aims in terms of the relationship between God and the Israelites. Beginning with our rabbinic midrashim, the bringing of an omer is considered intimately connected to something about the divine-human relationship. The midrash states:

"Do not take the precept of the omer lightly, for it was by merit of this commandment Abraham was privileged to inherit the Land of Canaan...as it is stated, "And I will give You, and to your seed after you, the Land..." (Genesis 17:8) on condition that you shall keep My covenant (17:9). What is meant by covenant? The precept of the omer" (Midrash Vayikra Rabbah 28:6).

The above midrash argues that something about the omer relates to the covenant between God and Abraham, as their covenant remains a paradigm through all of Jewish history. However, the midrash is opaque in terms of how exactly collecting the omer specifically reminds one of the covenental relationship.

Two later commentaries on the Torah offer a similar theme about the true meaning of the omer, and how bringing an omer to the kohanim makes a profound statement about the nature of our material possessions and our relationship with God. First, the Akedat Yitzhak, a super-commentary on Rashi by Rabbi Isaac ben Moses Arama, argues that collecting an omer of the first fruits acknowledges the covenant by forcing the individual to recognize that their harvest, no matter how bountiful, does not belong to them, but ultimately belongs to God:

“The declaration “When you come to the land which I give to you” collocates with the Divine promise, “For the Lord your God brings you into a good land...a land of wheat and barley...a land in which you shall eat bread without scarceness....when you have eaten are replete, then you shall bless the Lord your God...Beware that you forget not the Lord your God.”  The land was to be given to the people of Israel as a means to an end, as a necessary tool to achieve the ultimate goal and satisfaction (i.e. the appropriation of the Torah).  The omer of the first fruits reflects this idea.   Hence the prohibition to eat from the new produce before the offering up of the omer.   The priest is to wave it before the Lord in order that the offering of the people may be accepted and their awareness deepened that all this is at our disposal- not for its own sake, as fools are wont to think, but to enable us to serve God” (Akedat Yitzhak on Vayikra 23).   

According to the Akedat Yitzhak, lest one believe that a bountiful harvest is indicative of a person's own intrinsic worth, the mitzvah of the omer exists to remind each Israelite that any bounty from that harvest exists not for material wealth for its own sake, but to serve God. By extension, each time one sanctifies a piece of their harvest to God, they are not only acknowledging God's sanctity in the short-term, but making a statement about humanity's responsibility to obey God in the long-term.

Second, Rabbi Moses Alshikh, a sixteenth-century Torah commentator, writes that the omer not only reminds the Israelites that they are not responsible for indefinite material gains, but also that they are not responsible for their inheritance of the land of Israel. Alshikh states:

"Lest we succumb to pride, God has commanded us to offer up the earliest product of the Israelite harvest presenting the priest one omer as a token of our gratitude, of our acknowledgment that God is the Creator of the Land and all it produces...When you come to the Land implies no conquest but the acquisition of a legacy. This may foster the illusion that the Land belongs to Israel permanently and unconditionally, to be inherited by their children to be tilled and cultivated, and to reap the fruits of their sweat and toil" (Moses Alshikh on Vayikra 23:10).

According to Alshikh, we should not limit our understanding of the omer's significance to only the harvesting of the land, but of Israel's inheritance of the land itself. God will provide the Israelites a beautiful land with which to reap successful harvest, yet the harvests and the land itself are both depend on our willingness to accept God's Torah, and live our lives in intimate connection to the Divine.

Whether we are thinking about humanity's relationship to the environment, or how we teach our children to value people and community more than things, the above commentaries about the omer teach us what it means to maintain humility about who really "owns" our possessions, and take notice of the ways that we can allow God's presence to overcome the temptations of materialism. All of us, at any stage of life, can become convinced that we are the masters of our destiny and possessions, yet ultimately our parasha provides us a model by which we can take a step back, and give something ourselves as a means of acknowledging that God's role in providing us a bounty through which we can harvest all the goodness in our lives.

Shabbat Shalom!

Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Aharei Mot-Kedoshim: Marshmallows and Holiness

If I had to choose a single scientific experiment that significantly impacts my work as a Jewish educator, I would choose the famous Stanford Marshmallow Experiment . This experiment consisted of a group of young children who were left alone in a room with a piece of their favorite candy, and were told that they could either eat the single piece of candy now, or wait fifteen minutes and receive an entire bag of that type of candy. Ultimately, after observing the students for the next several decades, the researchers found that the students who were able to delay gratification for fifteen minutes demonstrated higher achievement in a number of areas than those who chose not to wait and ate the single piece of candy.  

As a Jewish educator, I look at this experiment and remember that we oftentimes fail to teach our children that delayed gratification is a Jewish value, and the basic practice of practicing restraint in certain areas of our lives benefits us spiritually, inter-personally, professionally, and even materially. Believe it or not, this idea can be found in Parshat Aharei Mot-Kedoshim when we closely examine how our rabbis interpret the famous verse where God says, "You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am Holy" (Vayikra 19:2).  

One of our earliest midrashim on this verse establishes the idea that holiness represents an ability to separate one's own behavior from the behavior of others. The Sifra states:

"You shall be holy"- you shall set yourselves apart. "For I, the Lord your God, am holy"- meaning that if you make yourselves holy, I shall credit you as if you had sanctified Me, but if you do not make yourselves holy, I shall view as if you have not sanctified me" (Sifra Kedoshim 1:1).  

This midrash argues that sanctifying oneself is inherently connected to sanctifying God, and our later commentators will be tasked with understanding what are the specific actions that define our capacity to attain that sanctity.

However, when our Medieval Commentators examine this verse, a famous debate takes place in the commentaries of Rashi and Ramban as to whether or not this verse should be read narrowly or broadly. Rashi writes:

"“You shall be holy”: abstain from forbidden relations and from sin.  The concept of holiness always accompanies the laws of sexual relations..." (Rashi on Vayikra 19:2).

Rashi's commentary asserts that the statement "You shall be holy" must be connected to the forthcoming prohibitions of illicit sexual relationships, since the broad principle would most likely apply to the specific prohibitions that the Torah ultimately lists. If we read the verse from our parasha narrowly, we can see the appeal in Rashi's interpretation, as it limits the principle of "You shall be holy" to that which immediately follows it.

However, when the Ramban examines the same verse, he argues that Rashi construes the verse too narrowly, and ignores the broadly principle that is explicated through this entire passage. The Ramban states the following:

"In my opinion, this "purity," is not, as Rashi holds, confined to the laws of sexual relations, but rather that associated throughout the Talmud with the pious, called Perushim (abstemious, saintly). This is so because the Torah forbids certain relations and foods, permits intercourse with one's wife and the consumption of meat and wine...Therefore, after outlining absolute prohibitions, we are given a general command of restraint from things that are permitted" (Ramban on Vayikra 19:2).

According to the Ramban, while Rashi is correct to relate the principle of "You shall be holy" to sexual relationships, Rashi ignores the fact that similar language in used in other places where holiness is connected to the importance of restraining one's behavior. Instead, the Ramban argues that we should see the principle of "You shall be holy" as introducing us to limitations placed upon for a specific act that, under other circumstances, we are permitted to perform. For example, while the Torah limits specific sexual relationships, the Torah also states that it is a mitzvah to procreate. Similarly, while the Torah describes examples when a person can or should limit or abstain from consuming alcohol, such as in the case of the nazir, the Torah does not completely prohibit alcohol consumption. In each case, the Ramban argues that the Torah is attempting to explain how placing limitations upon ourselves is an essential element towards pursuing a pathway of holiness.

In the modern commentary, Chancellor Ismar Schorsch argues that the statement "You shall be holy" expresses Judaism's promotion of self-denial as an act of spirituality. He writes:

“....holiness in Judaism begins with self-denial.  The basic thrust of the Torah is to limit our freedom of action.  In Jewish law the proverbial 613 commandments break down into 365 proscriptions and only 248 prescriptions.   The ideal is not to be governed by our impulse, nor to try out everything that we are capable of doing.   Dissipation is a danger to both health and truth.  Judaism is our Walden Pond where simplicity is the key to mastering life; less is more, and “a man is rich in proportion to the things he can afford to let alone” (Henry David Thoreau)” (Ismar Schorsch, “Aharei-Mot Kedoshim: What is Holiness?”, Canon Without Closure: Torah Commentaries, 420).

One cannot read Schorsch's commentary without seeing the echoes of Ramban's interpretation, for Chancellor Schorsch is notes that we choose not to do says a great deal about our capacity for divine connection. In each case, our rabbis articulate that the Torah aims to use prohibited acts as a means of attaining sanctity by emphasizing the value of teaching restraint, delayed gratification and impulse control.

At every stage of life, we are faced with opportunities to act impulsively, or to show restraint. Whether we are tempted to say something inappropriate to or about a friend or colleague, decide whether to have a salad or a slice of pizza for lunch, or spend our money or place it in the bank, all of us spend our lives living through moments when restraint is a value that pays short-term and long-term dividends. Fittingly, our rabbis understand the principle "You shall be holy" as imploring us to embrace restraint as a Jewish value, and may we teach that principle to children, students, and members of our community.

Shabbat Shalom!

Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Tazria/Metzora: Tza’raat, Fast and Slow

Last year, I read Daniel Kahneman’s magnificant book Thinking, Fast and Slow, which provided a window into ways our mind makes judgments that are “fast,” quick and intuitive, verses judgments that are “slow,” or deliberative and holistic.   According to Kahneman, there are major consequences for teaching people to be more slow to judgment in how they make decisions.  He writes:

“We would all like to have a warning bell that rings loudly whenever we are about to make a serious error, but no such bell is available, and cognitive illusions are generally more difficult to recognize than perceptual illusions.   The voice of reason may be much fainter than the loud and clear voice of an erroneous intuition, and questioning your intuitions is unpleasant when you face the stress of a big decision.   More doubt is the last thing you want when you are in trouble.   The upshot is that it is much easier to identify a minefield when you observe others wandering into it than when you are about to do so.    Observers are less cognitively busy and more open to information” (Thinking, Fast and Slow, 417).   

Kahneman’s theory is that one ultimately makes better, more thoughtful judgments when they think “slow,” yet thinking slow requires that we have the discipline to stop and judge our perceptions for a second time, an idea that is reflected in this week’s parasha of Tazria-Metzora.

The general consensus of our rabbinic commentators is that while we cannot ignore the literal ways in which tza’raat affects the Israelite community, the actual effect of tza’raat is meant to be a decidedly spiritual one.   In his commentary on the Mishnah, Moses Maimonides writes that tza’raat is a supernatural phenomenon:

“Tza’raat was meant as a warning and chastisement, for we are obviously not dealing here with natural illnesses, since garments and houses are inanimate.   This is rather a wondrous supernatural phenomenon...whatever happens to the garments and houses is, like the plague affecting the human being, called tza’raat figuratively...and the tza’raat becomes clean when its color turns white again--and this is the most important message and purpose, because of the spiritual nature of the entire subject of tza’raat” (Maimonides, Commentary to Mishnah Negaim 12:5).   

If we accept Maimonides’ contention that we should look at tza’raat as a spiritual, rather than literal, affliction, it would also make sense for us to see the lessons that we can take this parasha as spiritual, rather than literal.   Below, I will share how our rabbinic interpret one particular aspect of the procedure for determining tza’raat in Parshat Tazria/Metzora, and how making a distinction between the literal and spiritual can teach us something essential about the value of thinking “slow” in our relationships with one another.

When our parasha describes how a Kohen should determine whether or not a person is afflicted with tza’raat, the Torah includes a curious repetition concerning the procedure how the Kohens should check for tza’raat:

“The Kohen shall examine the affection in the skin of his body: if hair in the affected patch has turned white and the affection appears to be deeper than the skin of his body, it is a leprous affection; when the Kohen sees it, he shall pronounce him impure” (Vayikra 13:3).

When examining this passage, our rabbis note that our verse states two times that the Kohen “looks” at the garments in order to determine tza’raat.  In response, our rabbis determine that the multiple uses of the word “look” provides us a window in the spiritual message of this mitzvah.

Commenting upon a later which references the need for a Kohen to look and determine whether or not a person is afflicted with tza’raat, Rashi asserts that there exists different reasons why a Kohen might “look” for tza’raat in different situations.  He writes:

“And on the day” (13:14)” What does Scripture teach? It comes to teach that there is a day when you may see it and there is a day when you may not see it. Hence our rabbis said, “A bridegroom is granted [exemption from examination] all the seven days of celebration for himself and his garments and his house; and similarly on a festival one is granted exemption all the days of the festival” (Rashi on Vayikra 13:14).

This commentary, which alludes to rabbinic teachings that can be found in the Babylonian Talmud in Moed Kattan 7b and Bechorot 34b, implies that there exists instances where it is clear that one must declare a person to be impure, yet there are also instances where circumstances would require one not to declare someone impure, even if they might be impure according to only the letter of the law.

Regarding our verse specifically, the Meshekh Hokhmah, the Torah commentary of Rabbi Meir Simha Ha-Kohen of Dvinsk, takes a spiritual approach and writes that the repetition of “seeing” refers to two different modes of looking, each of which reflects a certain aspect of interpersonal engagement.  He writes:

“Why the redundancy? One can say that the verse refers to two different aspects. In the first, the Kohen shall examine the affection. This involves the physical act of looking, where the Kohen checks to see if there are signs of tzara’at. The second aspect, though, refers to another type of “looking.” Thus we are told, for example, that if the person is a bridegroom in the first seven days of his marriage or if a person comes to the Kohen in the middle of a festival, the Kohen does not judge the person to have tzara’at until that week or that festival has ended, so as not to disturb his joy. Thus, the Kohen must “look” at various external factors as well, for the ways of the Torah are ways of pleasantness. (Meshekh Hokhma, Rabbi Meir Simha Hakohen of Dvinsk, 1843-1926, Latvia).

In this commentary, the looking commanded of the Kohen refers to both the external physical indications of tza’raat, as well as the contextual factors surrounding that person’s life at that moment.   By implication, the Meshekh Hokhma argues that it would be possible for a Kohen to observe the external, physical characteristics of tza’raat, yet still not pronounce that person impure, if the external factors do not warrant such a ruling.   This reading of the text from Vayikra provides a powerful example of how a Jewish religious authority might think “slow” before they make a ruling with important implications.

By emphasizing the various ways in which a Kohen must “look” at a person afflicted with tza’raat, our parasha is teaching us something essential about what it means to make judgments about other people.   In our parasha, it would be easy to assume that the Kohen should simply take a quick look at a person, and make a cut-and-dry decision as to whether or not they are afflicted with tza’raat, yet, in reality, our parasha demands that the Kohen take the slow approach to pronouncing affliction.  Similarly, in our relationships with one another, most us make snap judgments that affect our entire attitude towards other people when we meet them, taking the “fast” approach, when, in reality, we must be “slow” to look at another person, trying to understand the entire person before we judge them.   By extension, as we raise our children to become caring, kind human beings, we must embrace the challenge of helping them look slowly at other people, see the whole person, and use that as a means to find the good them.    May we embrace our parasha’s call for us to make evaluations based on everything we see, and not just from a snapshot of what think we see.

Shabbat Shalom!

Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Shemini: A New Ritual, A New Name

One of my favorite novels is The Fifth Mountain by Paulo Coehlo, which is a modern retelling of the story of Elijah the prophet, where the prophet is forced to deal with the tragedy to being alone and beginning anew when no one else understands him.  At the climactic point in the novel, the main character challenges a group of villagers to see how they might tell a new story about themselves in the wake of destruction:

“Tragedies do happen.  We can discover the reason, blame others, imagine how different our lives would be had they not occurred.  But none of that is important: they did occur, and so from there onward we must aside that fear that they awoke in us and begin to rebuild.   Each of you will give yourselves a new name, beginning at this very moment.   This will be the sacred name that brings together in a single word all that you have dreamed of fighting for” (Paulo Coehlo, The Fifth Mountain, 212-213).

This passage imagines what it would be like to the past behind us, and walk into a new future with a new name, and a new purpose, a vision recognized our rabbis understanding of the opening of Parshat Shemini.   

When I read the weekly parasha, I oftentimes find myself trying to understand how an individual event or command fits into the entire narrative of the Torah, specifically how what a statement to one character at a particular time means in light of what happened previously in that character’s life.   Parshat Shemini opens with a description of God instructions to Moses and Aaron as to how one should begin preparing the mishkan for divine service.  The parasha states the following:

“And Moses said: 'This is the thing which God commanded that you should do; that the glory of God may appear unto you.'  And Moses said unto Aaron: 'Draw near unto the altar, and offer thy sin-offering, and the burnt-offering, and make atonement for yourself, and for the people; and present the offering of the people, and make atonement for them; as God commanded.'  So Aaron drew near to the altar, and slew the calf of the sin-offering, which was for himself” (Vayikra 9:6-8).

For our rabbinic commentators, the completion of and service in the mishkan is related to the aftermath to the building of the Golden Calf.    While the building of the Golden Calf represented an instance where the Israelite community came together for a profane purpose, the mishkan represented an opportunity for the community to come together for a sanctified purpose.  Aviva Zornberg summarizes the nature of this transition in her book The Particulars of Rapture:

“...in the midrashic versions of the Golden Calf episode a pockmarked future history of infidelity and intransigence has left its traces.   The essential question, then, is of the possibility of teshuva, of change.  If “love of authority” is the underlying perplexity of human experience, is an authentic relation to the other at all conceivable?”  (Aviva Zornberg, The Particulars of Rapture: Reflections on Exodus, 413).   

According to Zornberg, once the Israelites prove able to construct the mishkan and offer divine service in it, they will have demonstrated their capacity for change, a powerful example of a how person or community’s individual mistakes need not prevent them from transformative growth.

For our rabbinic commentators, no person benefited from the transformative change of building the mishkan than Aaron, who was intimately involved in the construction of the Golden Calf, yet who was also tasked with leading the people in priestly rituals and the sacrificial rites.   One midrash points out that the service in the mishkan tested the Israelites by intentionally reminding Aaron of all the acts performed when constructing the Golden Calf:

“When the Israelites made the Golden Calf, God told Moses, “Now leave Me alone...and I will destroy them.”  Moses said to God: “Test them [the Israelites] to see whether they will make the Mishkan.”  What did the Torah say regarding the failure at the Golden Calf?   “Remove the gold rings.”  And what the Israelites brings?  Rings.  And when they made the Mishkan, they made the same contribution.  And that is what is written, “All who were generous of spirit brought nose-rings and earrings, rings and bracelets”- the Israelites sinned by means of earrings, and so God would be satisfied by means of earrings” (Midrash Rabbah, Shemot 48:5).   

In this midrash, everything that the Israelites were asked to donate and bring for the construction of the mishkan were items previously used in the construction of the Golden Calf, a type of measure-for-measure decision on the part God that linked these two events in the minds of the Israelites and Aaron, in particular.

However, when our commentators analyze Parshat Shemini, they note that Aaron’s memory of the Golden Calf impedes his enthusiasm for the divine service is about commence in the mishkan during this parasha.  As a result, Moshe offers Aaron words of encouraged described in the following midrash:

“And Moses and Aaron came to the Tent of Meeting”- when Aaron saw that all the sacrifices had already been offered and all the actions had already been performed, but the Divine Presence was not descending to Israel, Aaron stood and was troubled.  He said, “I know that God is angry with me; it is because of me that the Divine Presence has not come down to Israel.   This is what my brother Moses did to me- I went out and was embarrassed, because the Divine Presence did not descend to Israel!”  Moses immediately entered with him, and they asked for Divine mercy, and the Divine Presence descended to Israel.  Therefore, it is written, “Moses and Aaron came to the Tent of Meeting” (Sifra, Parshat Shemini).   

This midrash takes a psychological approach, and invites us to empathize with Aaron’s hesitation to begin his priestly service, given the guilt he felt over the construction of the Golden Calf, and how Moses’ statement to Aaron attempted to renew Aaron’s focus and passion for divine service.    Therefore, if we are to see as the construction of the mishkan as an opportunity for the Israelites to atone for the sin of the Golden Calf, we must also see the Aaron’s service as an opportunity for him to no longer be remember as the man who constructed the Golden Calf, but the man who inaugurated divine service, a man with a “new name.”   

Similar to my Dvar Torah last year, I remained fascinated by the way in which our rabbis’ understanding of Parshat Shemini teaches us something powerful about our capacity for change, and what it means to walk into new opportunities that allow us to close less flattering chapters of our lives, and write news one of hope and opportunity.   When a student makes a mistake, they imagine that this mistake will define them forever, yet if education is a process of our growth, our task is to help students see how they move beyond their mistakes, write new chapters in their lives, and move forward.   May we embrace this task, and like Moses, walk with our students and children down pathways of growth, change, and possibility.   

Shabbat Shalom!

Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Tzav: Ashes on the Altar

One of my favorite books about time management is entitled The Power of Full Engagement, a book that views managing one’s life as a challenge of how spend our mental and physical energy, as opposed to how we manage individual tasks.   In particular, the authors argue that we manage our energy through creating what they call “positive rituals,” or routinized behaviors that convey a high sense of purpose.  The authors write:

“Positive energy rituals are powerful on three levels. They help us to insure that we effectively manage energy in the service of whatever mission we are on. They reduce the need to rely on our limited conscious will and discipline to take action. Finally, rituals are a powerful means by which to translate our values and priorities into action— to embody what matters most to us in our everyday behaviors” (Jim Loehr and Tony Schwartz, The Power of Full Engagement, Chapter 10: Taking Action- The Power of Positive Rituals).

In this passage, the authors remind us that every small act can become a meaningful ritual if the act becomes related to a deeper purpose we attempt to achieve by means of performing the ritual.   This idea is embraced in Parshat Tzav, where our commentators explain how we even the most minute ritual can contain within it the seeds of greater transformation and growth.   

Famously, the Torah commands that kohanim pay careful attention to each aspect of service in the mishkan, and Parshat Tzav specifically describes how they should tend to the burnt offering on the altar, even proscribing how one should tend to the altar’s ashes.  The parasha states:

“8 The Lord said to Moses: 9 “Give Aaron and his sons this command: ‘These are the regulations for the burnt offering: The burnt offering is to remain on the altar hearth throughout the night, till morning, and the fire must be kept burning on the altar. 10 The priest shall then put on his linen clothes, with linen undergarments next to his body, and shall remove the ashes of the burnt offering that the fire has consumed on the altar and place them beside the altar. 11 Then he is to take off these clothes and put on others, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a place that is ceremonially clean” (Vayikra 6:8-11).

In modernity, it might seem peculiar the parasha specifically states that the kohanim must remove the ashes from the altar wearing fine clothes.   However, our rabbinic commentators see this small detail as paradigmatic of the way in which all people should approach the service of God.  

In a medieval commentary, the Spanish commentator Rabbeinu Bahya writes that we can interpret the kohanim’s service of the ashes typologically, and see their service a God in the performance of this offering as a model for all service of God.   He writes:

“We see that even for the menial task of lifting the ashes, the Torah commands the Kohen to wear graceful holy garments.    The lesson to be learned from this is that all ritual or religious assignments should be carried out in a worthy and decorous manner, and that we should humble ourselves for the glory of God, blessed be He, to perform exacting tasks...” (Rabbeinu Bahya ben Asher on Vayikra 6).   

According to Rabbeinu Bahya, the fact that the kohanim were required to tend to even seemingly meaningless tasks such as lifting ashes off the mishkan must compel us to see every aspect of divine service as requiring our full and undivided attention.   

Later commentaries expanded upon the idea reflected in Rabbeinu Bahya’s commentary, and argue that we can learn essential lessons about the importance of personal renewal in divine service based on the kohanim’s service in the mishkan.   In a Hasidic commentary, Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib Ger, otherwise known as the Sefat Emet analogizes service on the alter to daily tefillah, specifically noting the challenge of making prayer meaningful each and every day.  He writes:

“This is the purpose of human worship.  Each day a new light comes down upon those who serve God, as Scripture says: “And the priest upon those who serve God, as the Scripture says: “And the priest shall burn wood upon it each morning, each morning” (6:5).  So too, it is written, “in His goodness He renews each day” (Prayerbook).   This love comes to us as a gift of divine grace.  Something of this light should remain imprinted on the heart throughout the day and night, “it may not go out”...The commandment here to remove the ashes hints that as we burn up the waste in our lives we are uplifted each day, and then we are given a new light.  This redemptive process is with us every single day...” (Sefat Emet on Vayikra 6:1, 6, in The Language of Truth: The Torah Commentary of the Sefat Emet, ed. Arthur Green, 154).

In this commentary, the Sefat Emet draws our attention to the fact that since sacrificial worship was the way the biblical Israelites served God, and thereby was the primary means for divine engagement, the service of the altar teaches us how to engage with tefillah, which is our means of divine service in a world without a temple.    Just as the Torah required that the fire on the altar to be constantly tended as a reminder of the spiritual possibilities of each day, so too must every Jew see daily tefillah as an opportunity to begin a new spiritual journey.  

Similarly, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, considered by many to be the intellectual forefather of modern Orthodox Judaism, the service of the altar can not only provide us a model for thinking about tefillah, but all mitzvot.    Regarding this, he writes:

“The daily service begins with the lifting of the ashes, terumat hadeshen, recalling the previous day’s service and their unfailing remembrance of God.  However, the clearing away of the ashes signifies that each new day renews our commitment to comply with all that is incumbent upon us.  We must perform our daily observe of mitzvot with a new zest, as if we had never performed them before” (Samson Raphael Hirsch, from Nehama Leibowitz, New Studies in Vayikra, 69).   

Hirsch emphasizes the biblical and rabbinic conceptions of how scrupulously the kohanim tended to the offering on the altar, even showing zest and enthusiasm for such menial tasks as removing the ashes from the altar.   By extension, if the kohanim saw even the removal of the ashes as an opportunity to show passion for divine service, how much more so should each of us tend to any aspect of Jewish lives with a similar passion?

Without question, every Jewish person needs to be mindful of how their Jewish practice can be stifled when monotony becomes the norm for how they approach any individual mitzvah.   By extension, Parshat Tzav’s description of the terumat hadeshen reminds us that the more we succeed in viewing each and every Jewish act as a positive rituals that facilitates divine connection, the better will be able to find freshness and newness in our Jewish lives.   May each of us embrace the task of challenging ourselves and our children to every Jewish act as a as a ritual that provides us meaning and focus, raising ourselves up in our relationship with God and one another.

Shabbat Shalom!

Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Vayikra: Our Immanent and Transcendent God

In his masterful commentary on the Torah and the state of North American Jewry, Chancellor Arnold Eisen of the Jewish Theological Seminary argues that rather that merely recounting an archaic list of sacrifices and rituals for Israelite cultic worship, Sefer Vayikra actually resonates with humanity’s desire for spiritual connection to God in their daily lives.   He writes:

“Leviticus aims to heighten and sanctify ordinary experience.  It wants us to focus on the possibilities for love and good stored up in daily life, and tries to accomplish this through a vision of community that is symbolized, and prepared for, in ritual.  Far from being irrelevant to contemporary experience, then, Leviticus concentrates on precisely the two elements [community and ritual] which many Jews find most appealing in Jewish tradition, and which are arguably most crucial to the revitalization of American Jewish life” (Arnold Eisen, Taking Hold of Torah: Jewish Commitment and Community in America, 72).  

According to Eisen, the central focus of Sefer Vayikra is the way the Israelite community will be centered around rituals in the mishkan.  As such, our task as readers of the Torah is to translate the ancient rituals into our context, and see how each mitzvah remains essential to forming Jewish community.

In Parshat Vayikra, we open with a fairly simple explanation on how a person shall make a sacrifice before God.  The Torah states that, “if his offering be a burnt offering of the herd, let him offer a male without blemish; he shall offer it at the door of the Tent of Meeting, that he may be accepted, before the Lord.”  (Leviticus 1:3).  When examining this verse, our commentators argue that sacrifices provide some of the best means by which the Israelites can connect to God through immanence and transcendence.   On the one hand, sacrifices provide tangible means by which the Israelites can sense God’s presence being near to them, thereby drawing attention to God’s immanence.   At the same time, the very act of making a sacrifice emphasizes God being apart from humanity, thereby drawing to God’s transcendence.   

In her essays on the Parshat HaShavua, Nehama Leibowitz brings a commentary from Benno Jacob, a modern German rabbi and biblical scholar, who argues that the sacrifices must be brought before the Tent of Meeting so that a person’s thought can become aware of God’s immanent presence.   Jacob writes:

“Wherever man may be, he stands before the Lord.  However, when “he brings an offering to the Lord,” he does so “before the door of the Tent of Meeting,” the place about which God said, “That I may dwell amongst them” (Exodus 25:8), where God commanded us to erect a dwelling place for the Shekhinah (Divine Presence) in the midst of His people, and where the Holy Ark and the Tablets are found.   It is from there that God’s word reaches Israel through Moses.  Here every detail remind man of his God, and nothing diverts his thoughts from God.  Owing to his constitution, man needs such assistance (i.e. a “localized,” visible sanctuary).”  (Benno Jacob)

Benno Jacob’s commentary emphasizes that the mishkan was built was so that a person could experience the divine presence in critical life moments.  By extension, since each sacrifice is offered in moments when a person requires a deeper communion with God, one must bring the sacrifice to the physical structure specifically designed to serve as a catalyst for the immanent divine encounter.

However, while the ability to approach God and offer a sacrifice implies a degree of closeness between the Israelites and God, the command itself to offer sacrifices also indicates God’s ultimate transcendence.  The Maharal of Prague describes the transcendent act of sacrifice in the following way:

"Perhaps it will seem difficult to you, if avodah (service of God) is not for the benefit of God, be He blessed, why then did He command this avoda to bring sacrifices to Him? This is no question, because even if this is not for God’s benefit, nonetheless when a person surrenders himself unto God, or even if he does not render up his soul to Him, but only his property, by bringing a sacrifice, this is still considered surrendering himself to Hashem when he gives Him his property. This is called avodah, because a servant (eved) is the property of his master... he and his property all belong to his master... When he brings a sacrifice before Him, this shows that all belongs to Him, for there is no other and He, may He be blessed, is One” (Maharal, Netivot Olam, Chapter 1).

In this commentary, the Maharal argues that by making an offering from one’s personal property, the person implicitly acknowledges that everything they posses does not belong to them, but can, and ultimately should, return to God.    As a result, the act of sacrifice emphasizes the distance between humanity and God, reminding us we make sacrifices to God because God has unique expectations and requirements of us.

At any point in our lives, we are faced with the challenge of understanding what it means to pursue a divine encounter.   However, while it may seem that Sefer Vayikra is the text least likely to help us pursue the divine, the above commentaries remind us that Sefer Vayikra’s emphasis on ritual sacrifice creates a framework to help draw us closer to God while also heightening of awareness of God’s uniqueness in this world.    Similarly, we have the opportunity to remind ourselves and our children of our parasha’s overarching message, helping one another approach God in a way that increases our sense of closeness, while using that experience of closeness to demonstrate God’s unique place at the center of our lives.   May each of embrace the challenge of experiencing God’s immanence and transcendence, letting the world of ritual sacrifice remind of what it means to pursue the divine encounter in tangible, meaningful, and powerful ways.

Shabbat Shalom!

Divrei Rav Josh- Parshat Vayakhel-Pekudei: Learning in Our Element

Recently, I read a book by Ken Robinson entitled The Element that attempts to broaden our understanding how we understand the nature of intelligence.   Robinson argues that each person needs to find their “element,” a particular skill or subject to which they mind is uniquely attuned, and this process requires that each of us broaden our understanding of what intelligence is.  He writes:

“How are you intelligent? Knowing that intelligence is diverse, dynamic, and distinctive allows you to address that question in new ways. This is one of the core components of the Element. For when you explode your preconceived ideas about intelligence, you can begin to see your own intelligence in new ways. No person is a single intellectual score on a linear scale. And no two people with the same scores will do the same things, share all of the same passions, or accomplish the same amount with their lives. Discovering the Element is all about allowing yourself access to all of the ways in which you experience the world, and discovering where your own true strengths lie” (Ken Robinson, The Element: How Finding Your Passion Changes Everything, 51).

According to Robinson, the more we understand the expansive nature of the intelligence, the better we are able to uncover our own talents and the talents of others, a vision that we also find in this week’s parasha of Vayakhel-Pekudei, which recounts the conclusion of the construction of the mishkan.

In the two sections of the Torah which mentions Bezalel’s appointment to construct the mishkan, the Torah notes that Bezalel was appointed because he possessed specific intellectual qualities.  The Torah states the following:

“And Moses said unto the children of Israel: See, the Lord called by the name Bezalel the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah.   And he has filled him with the spirit of God, in wisdom (hokhmah), in understanding (tevunah), and in knowledge (da’at), and in all manner of workmanship” (Shemot 35:30-31).

At first glance, it would appear that wisdom, understanding, and knowledge are redundant ways of saying that Bezalel was intelligent, yet our commentators argue that these three qualities each describe an essential aspect of what it means to acquire knowledge, and how God envisions that each of us might become a wise person in this world and in our spiritual callings.    

Rashi glosses on the above verses by stating that each quality of Bezalel relates to three core aspects of study that begin with the personal and end with the divine.   He writes:

“Hokhmah: What a person learns from others.

Tevunah: A wide understanding gained through intelligent application of what he has learned.

Da’at: The holy spirit.” (Rashi on Shemot 35:31)

Upon reading Rashi’s commentary, one notices two things.   First, Rashi argues that each description of Bezalel’s intelligence relates to one’s ability to learn from others, for intelligence is not confined of what an individual can learn in a book, but rather emerges from learning in a spiritual community.   Second, Rashi makes a linkage between Bezalel’s modes of intelligence and becoming joined to God on earth.   For each quality, Rashi argues that the Torah deliberately specifies different types of intelligence because humanity’s quest for knowledge involves developing different skills and capacities, both human and divine.   

In a late midrashic text, Pirke Rabbi Eliezer argues that the three types of intelligence mentioned in Sefer Shemot parallel the three qualities that formed the spiritual structure in which God created the world.   The midrash states:

“In ten sayings the world was created...and in three it was finalized and these are they: Hokhmah, tevunah, and da’at as it is stated: “The Lord in hokhmah founded the earth, by tevunah established the heavens, by his da’at the depths were split asunder.  With the same three the Mishkan was made, as it is stated: “I have filled with him the spirit of God, in hokhmah, tevunah, and da’at.  With the same three was the Temple built, as it is stated: “...his father was a Tyrean worker in bronze.  And he was filled with hokhmah, tevunah, and da’at.  With the same three it is destined to be rebuilt, as it is stated, “With hokhmah shall the house be rebuilt, and in tevunah established and in da’at the rooms furnished” (Proverbs 24:3-4)” (Pirke Rabbi Eliezer 3).

The above midrash envisions a spiritual world in which our modes of intelligence are joined together in a cosmic fabric that makes God a part of each intellectual act.  By extension, the Torah enumerates that Bezalel possessed wisdom, understanding and knowledge because the construction of the mishkan required a person whose intelligence reflected the holistic way in which God envisioned knowledge to exist in the world.

Finally, when modern Jewish philosopher Moses Mendelssohn examined this passage from Shemot in his Biur, Mendelssohn argued that the triad of qualities possessed by Bezalel correspond to the various subjects and means by which a person can perfect their intellect.  Mendelssohn writes:

“These three terms spell out what “the spirit of God” comprises.  A knowledge of the technique by which we achieve our desires is termed hokhmah.   Sometimes the desired goal is a theoretical one, at others a practical one.   In this sense the sciences are divided into pure and applied...Tevunah refers to the ability to deduce one thing from another and achieve the unknown from the unknown...Da’at refers to the ability to perceive forms as they are whether they are sensory or extra-sensory” (Moses Mendelssohn, Biur on Exodus 35).   

In this passage, Mendelssohn argues that just as there are multiple levels and modes of intelligence for every person, so too does the Torah argues that Bezalel was a perfect choice for constructing the mishkan because he possessed a multi-layered mind capable of the complex work required to construct a fitting spiritual place in which the Israelites could serve God.

Regardless of whether or not one finds more resonance in one of the three above commentaries, each commentary provides us an opportunity to expand our understanding of what intelligence means, and recognize that no form of intelligence operates independently, but rather each type feeds off other modes of intelligence.    As a result, when building a learning community, each of us is challenged to help our students understanding the multi-layered nuances to what intelligence means, and help them develop a personal for how they engage with knowledge, Torah, and the Divine.  In doing, we will ensure that our students have the opportunity to feel that every moment learning at Schechter is moment the student can be in their element.   

Shabbat Shalom!