In last week’s parsha, the commandment to keep Shabbat began with an Akh, a “but.” Yes, build the Mishkan but stop building to keep my Sabbaths.
There Shabbat was a stopping point, a pulling of the brakes. Here, though, in this week’s parsha, Shabbat appears again, and here, Shabbat is not an end, but a beginning. Here the parsha begins with Shabbat. Here it appears before the Mishkan, before Moshe passes on the Mishkan instructions to the people. Here Shabbat is not so much a resting point from work as it is an energizer before the work actually begins.
That is the way Shabbat functions. It looks backward to the week that just passed, but it also looks forward to the coming week. Indeed, the Talmud says that the days up until Wednesday belong to the previous Shabbat, whereas from Wednesday on the days belong to the next Shabbat. Shabbat is both an end-point and a starting-point.
In the story of creation, God is said to bless the seventh day because on that day He rested mikol melakhto asher bara Elokim la’asot, literally, “from all the work that God had created to do.” A famous midrashic reading understands this strange locution to refer to the future work left for mankind to do. Even the first Shabbat’s rest led inexorably into the next week’s work, this time the work of humans.
The Esh Kodesh, the Rebbe of the Warsaw ghetto, writes that the kedushah, the holiness, of Shabbat spreads outward to all the days around it, before and after. Usually, we speak of the contrast between Shabbat and the 6 work-days, but instead he suggests thinking of the connections between them, of how Shabbat’s overwhelming holiness can spill over into the week.
What is it that spills over? The experience of Shabbat teaches not just how to rest but also how to work. The Israelites, on the cusp of their first big work project in the world, needed to experience Shabbat before they could begin work. What did they learn? First, Shabbat teaches about God, that He, not we, created the world. This lesson is first learned through resting on Shabbat, but it is ultimately translated – during the week -- into work that is leshem shamayim, “for the sake of heaven.” The building of God’s house, the Mishkan, stands as a classic example of such work.
Second, the lesson of Shabbat is community. It is no accident that our parsha begins Vayakhel Moshe et kol adat Benei Yisrael, “And Moshe gathered the whole congregation of Israel together into a kehillah, a community.” He gathered them together in order to instruct them first concerning Shabbat and then concerning the Mishkan. Shabbat creates community. People stop their individual busy lives and come together to pray, to eat, to sing, to hang out at the park.
The Israelites needed this message in order to build the Mishkan together. Indeed, the verses which follow emphasize the widespread participation of the people in this project. Again and again the Torah tells us that “all the people” came, using the word kol, “all,” no less than 8 times here to refer to the people. They came ha’anashim al hanashim, literally “men on top of women,” meaning everyone, all running in a jumble to participate. The lesson of Shabbat was well-learned; the building of the Mishkan would be a truly communal project.
Where do our Shabbatot lead us? They led the Israelites to the creation of a space for God to dwell on earth, among them, as a community. Shabbat is not just an end but a beginning. Rashi says that Moshe came down from Mount Sinai and delivered this message right after Yom Kippur. The building of the Mishkan, suggests the Sefat Emet, was like our building of Sukkot right after Yom Kippur. We take the energy of Yom Kippur and channel it into a building project. Every Shabbat needs to be, for us, like a little Yom Kippur, an experience that energizes us to carry Shabbat’s messages into our weekday lives and work.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Parashat Ki Tisa: On Containment and Creativity
Akh et Shabtotai Tishmoru . But you should still keep my Sabbaths, says God in this week’s parsha. What is this Akh, this “But?” The classical interpretation explains that the Akh refers back to the work of building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. Yes, this work is important – so important that we have just spent two parshiyyot defining it and will spend two more performing it – but do not do this work on Shabbat.
The various types of work – 39 types in all—involved in building the Miskhan actually define the type of work prohibited on the Sabbath, called melakhah. What is melakhah? Melakhah is creative human manipulation of the raw materials created by God. You take gold and you mold it into a menorah. You take wool and you weave it into priestly garments.
But dangers lurk in this human creativity. The extreme form of such dangers is spelled out in the story of the Israelites’ first idolatry, the Sin of the Golden Calf, also in this week’s parsha. To worship an idol means to worship the product of one’s own hands, to worship one’s own creative powers. My youngest son Asher said to me the other day: God made us people, and then we made cows and sheep and everything, right? No. That is the mistake the Israelites made. No matter how fancy the craftsmanship, that calf can never breathe. There are limits to our creative abilities. Shabbat, with its big Akh, its big “but,” is there to point out those limitations.
Shabbat’s position in these parshiyyot communicates this Akh message as well. The Shabbat commandment appears here, between the Mishkan and the Calf, and then again in next week’s parsha, after the Calf and before the resumption of the Mishkan narrative. The order is: Mishkan, Shabbat, Calf, Shabbat, Mishkan. It is as if Shabbat stands guard on either side of the Calf, marking the border beyond which human creativity turns into idolatry.
But the Torah’s attitude toward human creativity should not be summed up by the word Akh. On the other side of that Akh is the divinely sanctioned human production of the Mishkan. The need for such human participation in God’s created universe is the other important message of the Calf story. This sin was a communication of the basic human need to participate creatively in this world, an expression of our great energy and talent. We could not sit idly awaiting the reception of God’s Torah, but needed to actively create something, to express ourselves religiously. Yes, this creative energy needs harnessing, but it also needs expression. The Calf story sits at the heart of all these parshiyyot because it represents the unbridled heart of humanity, its essential need to participate actively and creatively in God’s world.
Like a wild energetic child, what the Israelites needed was both containment – the Sabbath -- as well as an appropriate forum for expression -- the construction of the Mishkan – a way of chanelling their energies and talents into the service of God.
The various types of work – 39 types in all—involved in building the Miskhan actually define the type of work prohibited on the Sabbath, called melakhah. What is melakhah? Melakhah is creative human manipulation of the raw materials created by God. You take gold and you mold it into a menorah. You take wool and you weave it into priestly garments.
But dangers lurk in this human creativity. The extreme form of such dangers is spelled out in the story of the Israelites’ first idolatry, the Sin of the Golden Calf, also in this week’s parsha. To worship an idol means to worship the product of one’s own hands, to worship one’s own creative powers. My youngest son Asher said to me the other day: God made us people, and then we made cows and sheep and everything, right? No. That is the mistake the Israelites made. No matter how fancy the craftsmanship, that calf can never breathe. There are limits to our creative abilities. Shabbat, with its big Akh, its big “but,” is there to point out those limitations.
Shabbat’s position in these parshiyyot communicates this Akh message as well. The Shabbat commandment appears here, between the Mishkan and the Calf, and then again in next week’s parsha, after the Calf and before the resumption of the Mishkan narrative. The order is: Mishkan, Shabbat, Calf, Shabbat, Mishkan. It is as if Shabbat stands guard on either side of the Calf, marking the border beyond which human creativity turns into idolatry.
But the Torah’s attitude toward human creativity should not be summed up by the word Akh. On the other side of that Akh is the divinely sanctioned human production of the Mishkan. The need for such human participation in God’s created universe is the other important message of the Calf story. This sin was a communication of the basic human need to participate creatively in this world, an expression of our great energy and talent. We could not sit idly awaiting the reception of God’s Torah, but needed to actively create something, to express ourselves religiously. Yes, this creative energy needs harnessing, but it also needs expression. The Calf story sits at the heart of all these parshiyyot because it represents the unbridled heart of humanity, its essential need to participate actively and creatively in God’s world.
Like a wild energetic child, what the Israelites needed was both containment – the Sabbath -- as well as an appropriate forum for expression -- the construction of the Mishkan – a way of chanelling their energies and talents into the service of God.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Parashat Tetzaveh: On Light
This week’s parsha, which continues the instructions concerning the building of the Tabernacle, begins with the Ner Tamid, the “eternal light" of the menorah.
The Ner Tamid has always been the focus of great attention and interpretation. Its position in the Torah is already marked, as it stands in the center of two parshiyyot, both of which deal with instructions concerning the building of the Tabernacle. Moreover, its placement in the narrative is curious. As an instruction concerning the ingredient to be used for the lighting – clear beaten olive oil – it should have been included earlier, with the description of materials. And as an instruction concerning the process of lighting, it should have come later, together with other instructions concerning the priests’ daily jobs, in Leviticus. Standing here, at the center of the Tabernacle instructions and at the start of a new parsha, it is begging to be interpreted. As the Rabbis often say: this verse says darsheni –Interpret me!
And so it has received layer upon layer of interpretation over the centuries: The Ner Tamid is a symbol of God’s Eternal Presence in the Tabernacle. It is the divine light that was originally created on the first day of creation but then hidden away for the messianic age. It is the light of Torah that guides us through the dark world, helping us, like a little lamp, to see the potholes and stones in our way so that we do not trip and fall.
On the other hand, there are those who see this light, not as God’s light, but as our own. It is the light of the mitzvoth —good deeds – that we do. It is the shining of our little divine lights, our souls. This olive oil that was used in the Tabernacle -- it came from us. We are, according to one verse, compared to olives. And, expounds the Slonimer Rebbe, we, like olives, have a power to illuminate, a power which is hidden deep inside us. Other fruits, even if you squeeze them and process them, they still remain essentially a food (or drink). But the olive is exceptional. If you pound and beat and grind it, what emerges is a magical, creative power, the power to produce light.
Which one is it? Is the light God’s or ours? Both. God created the lights above, but also gave us the tools to make light down below. The midrash notices that the verse says leha’aolot Ner Tamid, literally, “to make the Ner Tamid go up.” The priest must light the flame until it is capable of going up on its own. The process is one of empowerment, for God and us as well. God, like a good teacher, kindles our flames in a way that helps us to produce light on our own.
Surprisingly, the help does not go in only one direction. According to another midrash, God says: Neri beyadekhat venerekha beyadi. My light is in your hands and your light is in My hands. God has entrusted His light, the Torah, into our hands, and we have entrusted our light, our souls, into His. We are partners, enmeshed and intertwined, dependent and deeply connected to one another. Together we keep the light eternally aflame.
The Ner Tamid has always been the focus of great attention and interpretation. Its position in the Torah is already marked, as it stands in the center of two parshiyyot, both of which deal with instructions concerning the building of the Tabernacle. Moreover, its placement in the narrative is curious. As an instruction concerning the ingredient to be used for the lighting – clear beaten olive oil – it should have been included earlier, with the description of materials. And as an instruction concerning the process of lighting, it should have come later, together with other instructions concerning the priests’ daily jobs, in Leviticus. Standing here, at the center of the Tabernacle instructions and at the start of a new parsha, it is begging to be interpreted. As the Rabbis often say: this verse says darsheni –Interpret me!
And so it has received layer upon layer of interpretation over the centuries: The Ner Tamid is a symbol of God’s Eternal Presence in the Tabernacle. It is the divine light that was originally created on the first day of creation but then hidden away for the messianic age. It is the light of Torah that guides us through the dark world, helping us, like a little lamp, to see the potholes and stones in our way so that we do not trip and fall.
On the other hand, there are those who see this light, not as God’s light, but as our own. It is the light of the mitzvoth —good deeds – that we do. It is the shining of our little divine lights, our souls. This olive oil that was used in the Tabernacle -- it came from us. We are, according to one verse, compared to olives. And, expounds the Slonimer Rebbe, we, like olives, have a power to illuminate, a power which is hidden deep inside us. Other fruits, even if you squeeze them and process them, they still remain essentially a food (or drink). But the olive is exceptional. If you pound and beat and grind it, what emerges is a magical, creative power, the power to produce light.
Which one is it? Is the light God’s or ours? Both. God created the lights above, but also gave us the tools to make light down below. The midrash notices that the verse says leha’aolot Ner Tamid, literally, “to make the Ner Tamid go up.” The priest must light the flame until it is capable of going up on its own. The process is one of empowerment, for God and us as well. God, like a good teacher, kindles our flames in a way that helps us to produce light on our own.
Surprisingly, the help does not go in only one direction. According to another midrash, God says: Neri beyadekhat venerekha beyadi. My light is in your hands and your light is in My hands. God has entrusted His light, the Torah, into our hands, and we have entrusted our light, our souls, into His. We are partners, enmeshed and intertwined, dependent and deeply connected to one another. Together we keep the light eternally aflame.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Parashat Terumah: God's Mobile Home
My youngest son Asher, upon being asked what materials he thought would be necessary for the building of the Tabernacle described in this week’s parsha, replied: “Cement.”
It’s true. One would have expected the building of a house of God to require cement, something to hold the pieces together in a permanent way. But no, it turns out that the building of this temple was to be more like building a Lego structure, something that could be easily disassembled and reassembled. This was to be a mobile house of God and its entire structure was determined by this fact, its walls built with detachable nuts and bolts and its major appurtenances constructed with attached poles for carrying. Concerning the Aron, the ark which housed the Torah tablets, the Torah says specifically, as if to emphasize how essential mobility is to its very nature: “The poles shall remain in the rings of the Ark: they shall not be removed from it” (25:15).
Eventually, of course, many years later, in the time of King Solomon, the Israelites did build a permanent Temple, based upon the model of this Tabernacle. Why, then, does the Torah bother to describe this mobile one? Why not merely wait till the Israelites get to the land, and deal with (permanent) Temple building then? Why is the whole prototype of a house of God given here as a mobile one?
Perhaps because giving God a house on earth is a complicated and dangerous thing. On the one hand, people want to feel that one specific place is holy; we want and need a place to come to worship and feel close to God. On the other hand, God is everywhere. He cannot be contained in any one space. Cassuto suggests that part of the purpose of the Tabernacle was to help the Israelites cope with their separation from the holy place of Mount Sinai. Here was a place in which they had experienced incredible intimacy with God. If they left this place, what would happen to their connection to God? The Tabernacle was to sit in the midst of the camp, like Mount Sinai, as a symbol of God’s continuing presence among them.
The Israelites knew from cement. Not long ago, they had been slaves working with “mortar and bricks” for Pharaoh’s great building projects. What God was offering them here was an alternative type of building project, one which, like the outstretched wings of the cherubs atop the Ark, was meant to have a kind of lightness and mobility, to be untied to any specific place.
Untied to place, and also, untied to time. Concerning both the bread and the light of the Tabernacle, the Torah uses the word tamid, “always.” The connection to God established at Mount Sinai was meant to be something that can be carried on wherever and whenever one exists. Ironically, by creating a structure that was, unlike Egypt’s mortar and bricks, impermanent, something truly permanent and eternal was established.
Permanent? Eternal? But here we are, in 2011, without a Temple. Maybe the message of this mobile Temple, the message of this Tabernacle, this Mishkan, is that one is never really without a Mishkan, never really without God’s presence. The rabbis say that if one studies the Torah portions concerning the Tabernacle, God considers it as if one has actually brought sacrifices. No, we have no actual building structure, but we do still read the words describing that structure – they are eternal. It is through them and through all the words of the Torah that we do have a kind of Mishkan, a portable entryway to connecting to God.
It’s true. One would have expected the building of a house of God to require cement, something to hold the pieces together in a permanent way. But no, it turns out that the building of this temple was to be more like building a Lego structure, something that could be easily disassembled and reassembled. This was to be a mobile house of God and its entire structure was determined by this fact, its walls built with detachable nuts and bolts and its major appurtenances constructed with attached poles for carrying. Concerning the Aron, the ark which housed the Torah tablets, the Torah says specifically, as if to emphasize how essential mobility is to its very nature: “The poles shall remain in the rings of the Ark: they shall not be removed from it” (25:15).
Eventually, of course, many years later, in the time of King Solomon, the Israelites did build a permanent Temple, based upon the model of this Tabernacle. Why, then, does the Torah bother to describe this mobile one? Why not merely wait till the Israelites get to the land, and deal with (permanent) Temple building then? Why is the whole prototype of a house of God given here as a mobile one?
Perhaps because giving God a house on earth is a complicated and dangerous thing. On the one hand, people want to feel that one specific place is holy; we want and need a place to come to worship and feel close to God. On the other hand, God is everywhere. He cannot be contained in any one space. Cassuto suggests that part of the purpose of the Tabernacle was to help the Israelites cope with their separation from the holy place of Mount Sinai. Here was a place in which they had experienced incredible intimacy with God. If they left this place, what would happen to their connection to God? The Tabernacle was to sit in the midst of the camp, like Mount Sinai, as a symbol of God’s continuing presence among them.
The Israelites knew from cement. Not long ago, they had been slaves working with “mortar and bricks” for Pharaoh’s great building projects. What God was offering them here was an alternative type of building project, one which, like the outstretched wings of the cherubs atop the Ark, was meant to have a kind of lightness and mobility, to be untied to any specific place.
Untied to place, and also, untied to time. Concerning both the bread and the light of the Tabernacle, the Torah uses the word tamid, “always.” The connection to God established at Mount Sinai was meant to be something that can be carried on wherever and whenever one exists. Ironically, by creating a structure that was, unlike Egypt’s mortar and bricks, impermanent, something truly permanent and eternal was established.
Permanent? Eternal? But here we are, in 2011, without a Temple. Maybe the message of this mobile Temple, the message of this Tabernacle, this Mishkan, is that one is never really without a Mishkan, never really without God’s presence. The rabbis say that if one studies the Torah portions concerning the Tabernacle, God considers it as if one has actually brought sacrifices. No, we have no actual building structure, but we do still read the words describing that structure – they are eternal. It is through them and through all the words of the Torah that we do have a kind of Mishkan, a portable entryway to connecting to God.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Parashat Mishpatim: On the Unloading of Burdens
“When you see the ass of your enemy lying under its burden and you think to refrain from raising it for him, you must nevertheless raise it with him!” (Ex 23:5).
This is one of the many laws – dealing with subjects as far-ranging as slavery, the Sabbath and judicial procedure-- in this week’s parsha, fittingly called Mishpatim,”Laws.” This particular law describes a situation in which one comes upon one’s enemy and sees that his beast of burden has collapsed under the weight of its heavy load. The Torah spells out a natural response – not to help one’s hated enemy – and then insists that one nevertheless lend a hand.
The word used here for the “raising” of the burden is azov, which also means “to leave behind.” “Leave behind what is in your heart concerning him,” says Targum Onkelos, an ancient translation of the Torah into Aramaic. “Leave behind at that moment the hatred in your heart concerning him and take apart the burden and carry it with him,” says Targum Yonatan, another classical translation.
The ass, then, is not the only one who needs his burden unloaded! This commandment is also intended to help you relieve or “leave behind” your own burden, the burden of your hatred of another human being. If you have an enemy, then you, like that donkey, are falling down under a heavy burden. Stop and help relieve your fellow ass’s burden, and you will find that your own burden has also been relieved.
In the children’s book Zen Shorts, a panda bear tells a story about two monks who were travelling together. When the older monk stops to help carry an arrogant demanding rich woman across a puddle and receives no thanks for this task, the younger monk becomes angry and remains so for hours. When he finally expresses his anger, the older monk says: “I put that woman down hours ago. Why are you still carrying her?” The question is not whether one is right to feel anger or hatred at another human being, but rather what effect it has on the one who feels the anger or enmity, how such emotions weigh us down.
The point of this Torah law – like many others -- is not only to provide aid for those in need, in this case the animal and its owner, but also to train the person doing the aid, to teach him to act righteously -- despite his hatred-- and thereby to find some relief from that hatred. After all, the Torah could have stated the law more simply: Help your fellow when his animal is collapsing under his burden. The mention of hatred indicates that what is important here to the Torah is not just the net result of aid given but also the state of mind of the giver.
Perhaps it is for this reason that the Torah bothers to tell us the initial thoughts of the one who sees this animal. He first thinks he will refrain me’azov lo, “from raising it for him.” His first thought is that the action will be solely for the benefit of his enemy. No, says the Torah. Azov ta’azov imo. Imo, “With him,” not “for him.” With him. Together. You will both be benefiting, you as well as he.
The Hasidic Rebbe of Piaseczno is said to have told his young students every Shabbat eve, between every single course, the same exact message – “The most important thing in the world is to do something good for another person.” And when you do, do not think that the only person who is gaining from this do-gooding is the other. It is you. Azov ta’azov imo. Together. When you help another, it changes you, too, lifting both your burdens at the same time.
This is one of the many laws – dealing with subjects as far-ranging as slavery, the Sabbath and judicial procedure-- in this week’s parsha, fittingly called Mishpatim,”Laws.” This particular law describes a situation in which one comes upon one’s enemy and sees that his beast of burden has collapsed under the weight of its heavy load. The Torah spells out a natural response – not to help one’s hated enemy – and then insists that one nevertheless lend a hand.
The word used here for the “raising” of the burden is azov, which also means “to leave behind.” “Leave behind what is in your heart concerning him,” says Targum Onkelos, an ancient translation of the Torah into Aramaic. “Leave behind at that moment the hatred in your heart concerning him and take apart the burden and carry it with him,” says Targum Yonatan, another classical translation.
The ass, then, is not the only one who needs his burden unloaded! This commandment is also intended to help you relieve or “leave behind” your own burden, the burden of your hatred of another human being. If you have an enemy, then you, like that donkey, are falling down under a heavy burden. Stop and help relieve your fellow ass’s burden, and you will find that your own burden has also been relieved.
In the children’s book Zen Shorts, a panda bear tells a story about two monks who were travelling together. When the older monk stops to help carry an arrogant demanding rich woman across a puddle and receives no thanks for this task, the younger monk becomes angry and remains so for hours. When he finally expresses his anger, the older monk says: “I put that woman down hours ago. Why are you still carrying her?” The question is not whether one is right to feel anger or hatred at another human being, but rather what effect it has on the one who feels the anger or enmity, how such emotions weigh us down.
The point of this Torah law – like many others -- is not only to provide aid for those in need, in this case the animal and its owner, but also to train the person doing the aid, to teach him to act righteously -- despite his hatred-- and thereby to find some relief from that hatred. After all, the Torah could have stated the law more simply: Help your fellow when his animal is collapsing under his burden. The mention of hatred indicates that what is important here to the Torah is not just the net result of aid given but also the state of mind of the giver.
Perhaps it is for this reason that the Torah bothers to tell us the initial thoughts of the one who sees this animal. He first thinks he will refrain me’azov lo, “from raising it for him.” His first thought is that the action will be solely for the benefit of his enemy. No, says the Torah. Azov ta’azov imo. Imo, “With him,” not “for him.” With him. Together. You will both be benefiting, you as well as he.
The Hasidic Rebbe of Piaseczno is said to have told his young students every Shabbat eve, between every single course, the same exact message – “The most important thing in the world is to do something good for another person.” And when you do, do not think that the only person who is gaining from this do-gooding is the other. It is you. Azov ta’azov imo. Together. When you help another, it changes you, too, lifting both your burdens at the same time.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Parashat Yitro: Standing Alone Together
Vayihan sham Yisrael neged hahar. “Israel encamped there opposite the mountain,” opposite Mount Sinai in preparation for receiving the 10 commandments in this week’s parsha. The Hebrew verb Vayihan is in the singular here, causing the rabbis to say that, unlike other encampments, this one was done belev ehad, “with one heart,” as a single peaceful unified people.
As an American, raised in a culture where individuality is a core value, too much unity scares me. What happens to individuals in such a group setting? Do they lose the ability to express themselves differently from the group? Does “with one heart” imply a lack of individuality?
The ten commandments are also given in the singular, beginning with Anokhi Hashem Elokekha, “I am the Lord your” –the word “your” is in the singular –“God.” Here the midrash takes a different approach, saying that God spoke to each individual according to his or her individual ability and personality, appearing to each one as if He were looking and speaking to her alone. The Sefat Emet carries this midrash one step further, saying that during the Mount Sinai experience, each person was able to see his individual connection to God, to see the part of himself that was a piece of God.
These two traditions – seemingly contradictory, one with its emphasis on unity, the other with its emphasis on individuality – are actually complementary. Peaceful togetherness can only happen when each individual feels valued, when each individual feels he has a special place with God, and therefore also a special place in the community. The 2 commandments which stand at either end of the 10 commandments, forming a kind of envelope around the whole, convey precisely this message. “I am the Lord your – individual – God.” And “Do not covet” the possessions of your neighbor. Do not desire to be someone else. Know that you, as an individual, were created in the image of God and have your own special place in God’s universe. Be, therefore, not jealous of your neighbor, but at peace with yourself and with others.
Directing oneself toward God helps this effort. In the eyes of man, all kinds of hierarchy exist, and society tends to value some individuals more than others. But in the eyes of God, all hold a piece of God within them. All have a place. The people encamped belev ehad – with one heart – neged hahar -- opposite the mountain. It was standing opposite this mountain of God that helped them each feel valued and therefore at peace with each other.
Perhaps the feeling at Mount Sinai was not unlike the feeling of praying the silent Amidah together with a minyan (a prayer quorum). Each person speaks quietly and personally to God, but the whole group does so in the same room at the same time, with the knowledge that all are directing their hearts in the same direction. We stand before God--as individuals--“with one heart.”
As an American, raised in a culture where individuality is a core value, too much unity scares me. What happens to individuals in such a group setting? Do they lose the ability to express themselves differently from the group? Does “with one heart” imply a lack of individuality?
The ten commandments are also given in the singular, beginning with Anokhi Hashem Elokekha, “I am the Lord your” –the word “your” is in the singular –“God.” Here the midrash takes a different approach, saying that God spoke to each individual according to his or her individual ability and personality, appearing to each one as if He were looking and speaking to her alone. The Sefat Emet carries this midrash one step further, saying that during the Mount Sinai experience, each person was able to see his individual connection to God, to see the part of himself that was a piece of God.
These two traditions – seemingly contradictory, one with its emphasis on unity, the other with its emphasis on individuality – are actually complementary. Peaceful togetherness can only happen when each individual feels valued, when each individual feels he has a special place with God, and therefore also a special place in the community. The 2 commandments which stand at either end of the 10 commandments, forming a kind of envelope around the whole, convey precisely this message. “I am the Lord your – individual – God.” And “Do not covet” the possessions of your neighbor. Do not desire to be someone else. Know that you, as an individual, were created in the image of God and have your own special place in God’s universe. Be, therefore, not jealous of your neighbor, but at peace with yourself and with others.
Directing oneself toward God helps this effort. In the eyes of man, all kinds of hierarchy exist, and society tends to value some individuals more than others. But in the eyes of God, all hold a piece of God within them. All have a place. The people encamped belev ehad – with one heart – neged hahar -- opposite the mountain. It was standing opposite this mountain of God that helped them each feel valued and therefore at peace with each other.
Perhaps the feeling at Mount Sinai was not unlike the feeling of praying the silent Amidah together with a minyan (a prayer quorum). Each person speaks quietly and personally to God, but the whole group does so in the same room at the same time, with the knowledge that all are directing their hearts in the same direction. We stand before God--as individuals--“with one heart.”
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Parashat Beshallah: The Beginning of the Journey
The children of Israel, on the eve of their departure from Egypt in last week’s parsha, paint their doorposts and lintels with the blood of the paschal lamb. The Sefat Emet suggests that the image of the doorway is significant. They are on the cusp of a new life. God has created a doorway into the Torah for them.
It turns out the door does not simply open into a place of residence, but leads instead to a long twisting pathway, a road to be travelled. The path created by the parting of the two walls of the Red Sea symbolizes this road, and God’s choice of the “long way around” the desert mentioned in the first verse of this week’s parsha makes it clear that the road will be a long one.
This sense of journey is an important counter-point to the exhilaration of the exodus of last week’s parsha. Even after 10 plagues, the job is not done. One’s enemies, and in the classic Hasidic interpretation, one’s spiritual challenges, will continually follow one around. Steps forward are made. The Israelites see the Egyptians lying dead on the banks of the sea, believe in God, and, overcome by clarity and gratitude, sing the great Song of the Sea. But what next? Even this great moment – during which the midrash says that a maid-servant saw God with greater clarity than the greatest of prophets – does not last. Changes, spiritual changes, must happen slowly and gradually. Immediately after the parting of the Red Sea, the people complain of thirst.
Thirst is their next challenge. Facing the Red Sea, there was too much water; what they needed then was dry land. Now they are on the other side of the Sea, facing the next spiritual challenge, a problem of the other extreme, a lack of water. Later in the parsha, they will confront problems of hunger , a return of thirst, and another enemy attack, Amalek.
The problems and challenges of the long road through the desert continue throughout most of the rest of the Torah. Such is life. Such is a Torah life. It is not without moments of exhilaration and clarity, moments of standing in one place and singing out one’s praise to God. But it is mostly a journey. Like the waters of the Sea, the image of life here is not stagnant, but continuously moving, moving and growing, always with an eye to the Promised Land, but never actually getting there.
The ability to travel this journey is a privilege and a blessing. Slaves cannot travel, cannot move forward or upward, always chained to their place in society. The exodus was a door not to the land itself – with all its implications of settling down-- but to a road, an opening and an opportunity to travel this challenging yet rewarding journey.
It turns out the door does not simply open into a place of residence, but leads instead to a long twisting pathway, a road to be travelled. The path created by the parting of the two walls of the Red Sea symbolizes this road, and God’s choice of the “long way around” the desert mentioned in the first verse of this week’s parsha makes it clear that the road will be a long one.
This sense of journey is an important counter-point to the exhilaration of the exodus of last week’s parsha. Even after 10 plagues, the job is not done. One’s enemies, and in the classic Hasidic interpretation, one’s spiritual challenges, will continually follow one around. Steps forward are made. The Israelites see the Egyptians lying dead on the banks of the sea, believe in God, and, overcome by clarity and gratitude, sing the great Song of the Sea. But what next? Even this great moment – during which the midrash says that a maid-servant saw God with greater clarity than the greatest of prophets – does not last. Changes, spiritual changes, must happen slowly and gradually. Immediately after the parting of the Red Sea, the people complain of thirst.
Thirst is their next challenge. Facing the Red Sea, there was too much water; what they needed then was dry land. Now they are on the other side of the Sea, facing the next spiritual challenge, a problem of the other extreme, a lack of water. Later in the parsha, they will confront problems of hunger , a return of thirst, and another enemy attack, Amalek.
The problems and challenges of the long road through the desert continue throughout most of the rest of the Torah. Such is life. Such is a Torah life. It is not without moments of exhilaration and clarity, moments of standing in one place and singing out one’s praise to God. But it is mostly a journey. Like the waters of the Sea, the image of life here is not stagnant, but continuously moving, moving and growing, always with an eye to the Promised Land, but never actually getting there.
The ability to travel this journey is a privilege and a blessing. Slaves cannot travel, cannot move forward or upward, always chained to their place in society. The exodus was a door not to the land itself – with all its implications of settling down-- but to a road, an opening and an opportunity to travel this challenging yet rewarding journey.
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