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As a Torah reader who likes the long ones, I regularly find myself in the rotation to read the tochechah, the litany of curses that appears at the end of the book of Vayikra, which we read from this week. (A longer tochechah section appears toward the end of Devarim, in Parashat Ki Tavo - I frequently read that one too.) As you might expect, reading this section is a troubling pursuit. Reading of the horrifying punishments that will befall the Israelites, and us by extension, if we do not follow God’s ways is bad enough on its own. But to chant those words to the community in my own voice is another proposition altogether.
Recently, I learned that one of my children didn’t understand how the threat of negative consequences was supposed to work. After offering him lots of opportunities to correct a particular behavior, and after him not taking me up on any of them, I would tell him that he would be losing a privilege if he didn’t stop whatever he was doing *now.* I was surprised time and time again that this threat often didn’t get him to stop the offending behavior. Instead, he would break down, becoming extremely upset at the thought of losing the privilege, as if he had no power to stop it. Some good conversations taught me that he believed that the threat of negative consequences wasn’t meant to inspire a change in behavior. He thought it was simply a tool for punishing him, and that there was no turning back from it once it was raised as a possibility. What an amazing insight into the way my kid was thinking! While our conversations have helped significantly in these kinds of situations, the whole matter is really making me think about the value of negative consequences overall, whether they are actually imposed or merely meant to inspire change. As a teacher, I typically stay away from them. Assigning punishments like detention doesn’t really make sense to me and I only give them out in response to the most egregious behavior. Looking at the text of the tochechah, I am always reminded of the times throughout Jewish history when our people have undergone these kinds of devastating experiences and seen them as God meting out punishment. Framing political upheaval, war, famine, and natural disaster as punishment puts our relationship with God in a precarious position. This is not the way I want to relate to God. As a parent, teacher, and person of religious sensibility, logical and natural consequences seem so much more appropriate and can be so much more effective. Using a toy as a weapon? You can’t play with that toy. Neglect to study for your vocabulary quiz? Earn a poor grade. Why then, does the Torah provide us with not one, but two, lengthy examples of curses and punishments that will come if we disobey God’s commands? On a basic historical level, the Torah is often similar to other texts of the time and place. Law treaties of the Ancient Near East ended with hyperbolic lists of curses. This was done so that both parties felt the significance of their agreement as well as the promise of utter destruction if they did not follow through on their part. At the very least, the inclusion of curses and punishments in these treaties sent a strong message about the irrevocable nature of the agreement. This may have been effective at that time, but it strikes a dissonant note for my contemporary ears. Remaining faithful to God’s ways out of fear of unspeakable consequences is not a theology that works for me. The threats are indeed terrible and they don’t support the development of a relationship with the divine that I want for myself or my community. At the same time, I’m not advocating for excising the tochechah from our public readings. Here’s how I make my peace with it: I find meaning in this section in the way we read it. Traditionally, the Torah reader chants each tochechah in an undertone, making their way through the text quickly and quietly. You’ll hear me read it this way on Shabbat if you’re able to be in shul. The tochechah is also bookended on each side by promises of blessing and success. We read these sections at full volume and regular speed, sharpening the contrast between the punishment and the reward. Our way of chanting this section serves as a reminder - to us and perhaps even to God - that our preferred way of being in relationship with each other is not built upon a foundation of threats and curses, but one of blessing and love. Shabbat shalom.
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Last week, when I wrote about the Yoms, I omitted one special day that takes place during this time of the year. As I write this, we are in the waning hours of Pesaḥ Sheni, which takes place each year on the 14th of Iyar. Differing from the Yoms in several respects - it originates in the Torah, rather than in modern times, is not meant to be celebrated by everyone, and has little practical application today - it is admittedly a minor observance, but one worthy of our continued attention.
First, a bit of background: We read in Chapter 9 of the book of B’midbar of the first “regular” Pesaḥ. Now one year into their journey out of Egypt, it is time for the Israelites to observe their holidays as annual commemorations, rather than as rituals accompanying major historical events. Moses instructs the people to offer the Pesaḥ sacrifice on the anniversary of the first Pesaḥ sacrifice, the 14th of Nisan, reenacting the night of the exodus. This time, however, the Israelites are not in the midst of their dramatic escape from Pharaoh, but in the midst of their everyday lives. Not surprisingly, a number of people, through no fault of their own, are not able to be ritually pure at the appointed time and cannot offer the Pesaḥ sacrifice. They approach Moses and Aaron, concerned about being excluded from this important moment in the ritual life of the people. Moses seeks counsel with God, and Pesaḥ Sheni is born: those who are not fit to celebrate on the 14th of Nisan will get a second chance - they will offer the Pesaḥ sacrifice in the traditional way on the 14th of Iyar instead. I want to zoom in on the details of the interaction between Moses and the people who are unable to celebrate Pesaḥ due to their ritual purity status. Looking at the people who were excluded - we don’t know who they are. They are unnamed and the only detail we learn is that they are not ritually pure. When they hear of this new ruling that excludes them, they immediately go to Moses and Aaron and speak up. This is unsurprising. I often refer to the book of B’midbar as the “Book of Kvetch.” The Israelites spend a great deal of time complaining during this part of the Torah, and this is no exception. The people come to Moses and Aaron to complain about the unfairness of being excluded from celebrating Pesaḥ. As contemporary Jews - and I say this with great love - we also know the very real tendency of our people to complain when a communal decision rubs us the wrong way. Sometimes we do this well, approaching our leaders with curiosity and patience. Sometimes we do this with indignation and accusation. It’s not clear from the text exactly which approach these particular people took and commentators are similarly divided on the issue. A good number of the classical commentaries I looked at as I was studying this section do, however, note that these people were challenging Moses’s authority, either seeking out exceptions to the rules or simply suggesting a solution to their problem. It’s not easy to have your authority as a leader questioned, and Moses’s response here gives us a tremendous model of openhearted leadership. He tells the people to wait for God’s instruction on the matter. His words convey (at least) two important messages. By letting the people know that he was seeking God’s advice on the matter, he validated their experience and their complaint. Their concern was worthy of being heard by no one less than God. Their experience mattered and their problem was a real one. And by turning to God for the answer in this situation, Moses showed his humility and his willingness to be wrong, to learn new things. He didn’t have all the answers, but he was going to find them, and was willing to possibly diminish himself in the eyes of his people in order to do so. Last week we held our state’s primaries. Leadership and new elections are on our minds and all over the news. The story behind Pesaḥ Sheni gives us the opportunity to consider the qualities we want in our political leaders. Moses’s example here seems like a good place to start. Shabbat shalom. We’re now in the period of the Jewish calendar sometimes called “The Yoms.” After the conclusion of Pesaḥ, we have a number of modern commemorations and celebrations that happen in quick succession: Yom HaShoah, Yom HaZikaron, Yom HaAtzmaut, and Yom Yerushalayim. All four of these days mark events in the more recent history of the Jewish people. And all of them feel different this year.
Gil Preuss, the CEO of the Jewish Federation of Greater Washington, picked up on the complicated nature of these days in a recent piece he published. He wrote: “This year, we will gather a little over seven months after the horrific attacks of October 7th. The war in Gaza continues amid significant loss and suffering. There is a deep sense of instability and insecurity in Israel and Jewish communities around the world. Moreover, the politics dividing Israel, the American Jewish community, and the broader American public are becoming more complicated by the day.” We are weathering a time of heightened sensitivities and intense emotions. It’s only natural that this impacts our observance of these special days. And it has. On Yom HaShoah, our national day of remembrance and mourning for the horrors of the Holocaust, we couldn’t help but notice the parallels between the pogroms of early 20th-century Europe and the pogrom of October 7, 2023, between the rising antisemitism we see in the world today and what we saw as the Nazis were coming to power. Yom HaShoah’s call of Never Again felt more urgent this year. And our ability to heed that call felt somehow less in our control. Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s memorial day for those who fell in battle and in terrorist attacks, memorialized losses far more fresh and painful than in recent memory. With the weight of the current situation being felt so deeply, we needed both to grieve together and to try to find glimmers of hope and solidarity. At the Krieger Schechter memorial ceremony, our students sang Latzeit MeDika’on, by Yagel Oshri, a popular Israeli song that both acknowledges the painful feelings of this time and also expresses hope that good days will yet come. Yom HaAtzmaut, Israel’s independence day, also felt different this year, more subdued, more complicated. Here in our community, we gathered for an erev shirah, an evening of singing together, which allowed us to celebrate our connection to Israel through classic songs, while at the same time giving soulful voice to our current fears and feelings. It was uplifting to be together, in a space where it felt safe to hold the complexity of this moment. It’s not only the Yoms that have been impacted by our current crisis. Our more established holidays, those that originate in the biblical tradition, also felt different this year. We slowed our dancing on Simḥat Torah, paid attention to the existential fear underlying Purim, focused on the elusiveness of freedom during Pesaḥ. Reading of the holidays in Parashat Emor this week, we are reminded, however, that our Torah holidays have set rituals and customs associated with them. On Pesaḥ we eat matzah; on Shavuot we offer our first harvest; on Rosh Hashanah we have the shofar; on Yom Kippur we fast; on Sukkot we dwell in the sukkah and take the lulav and etrog. The text prescribes clear to-dos for each holiday. While the holidays feel different to us each year, particularly when something significant is happening in our world, the specific rituals provide a sense of stability for each holiday, serving as a constant that links our celebrations this year to those of all the years before and all the years to follow. Being newer observances, the Yoms have no biblically ordained ritual or liturgy like the holidays we read about in the Torah this week. I have to acknowledge that, with so much feeling like it’s up in the air right now, it would be comforting to have firmly rooted practices to structure our journey through this time in the Jewish calendar. These days are so filled with uncertainty and pain that it can feel overwhelming to figure out exactly what to do to participate in them meaningfully. At the same time, their status as modern holidays gives us the flexibility to respond authentically to our current situation, to create new rituals and transform older ones, tailoring our observances to match the emotions of this moment. So this year, the Yoms this year are different - as they should be. May next year find us able to mark these days in peace and in unity. Shabbat shalom. For those who struggle with the litany of rituals, rules, and regulations in the book of Vayikra, Parashat Kedoshim often serves as a welcome reprieve. While there’s no compelling narrative to speak of, this week’s Torah reading is packed with the kinds of ethical mitzvot that serve, for many of us, as the backbone of our Jewish worldview.
The parashah opens with God’s command that we be holy, just as God is. It sounds beautiful, to be sure, but this instruction, taken on its own, is wonderfully vague. What exactly does it mean to be holy? What follows in the ensuing chapters of Parashat Kedoshim is not a definition of holiness, but a listing of mitzvot, which (from the Torah’s perspective) would help one fulfill the command to be holy. Even that, though, is not straightforward. Reading through the parashah, we see at least two conceptions of holiness emerge. For Parashat Kedoshim, holiness is separation. And for Parashat Kedoshim, holiness is caring for others. We see separation in the mitzvot that describe boundaries in our relationships with God (don’t make idols, for example) and with each other. We see caring for others in the requirement to leave the corners of our field for the poor, providing them with food and preserving their dignity, and to render impartial judicial decisions. Sometimes, these two approaches to holiness butt up against each other. We are enjoined (Leviticus 20:23-24) not to follow the practices of the nations among whom we dwell, because God has set us apart from other peoples. And we are also told: “The strangers who reside with you shall be to you as your citizens; you shall love each one as yourself” (Leviticus 19:34) Both commandments I cited acknowledge the reality of living in a blended society, in close proximity to people of different backgrounds and orientations, but they have very different opinions about that reality. The first commandment is suspicious of others, fearful of the corrupting influence of different religious practices and national identities. The second commandment preaches inclusivity and presumes deep and abiding connections between people of diverse national origins. Both of these approaches resonate with our experiences today. As Jews and as compassionate citizens of the world, we strive to be welcoming to visitors to our homes and communities, regardless of their Jewish status or lack thereof. We see massive numbers of people in many parts of the world - including in our own country - displaced from their homes, trying to make their way in a land that is not their own. We respond with love, offering help and support, donating our money, our food, our extra clothing and household goods to be of assistance to those who know what it is to be a stranger. Especially in this time of increased vulnerability as a Jewish community, we also know well the desire to close ranks, to turn toward the safety of the people and institutions we know best, those we call our own. In seeking to protect ourselves and lean into our Jewishness, not just now, we have also at times cast those outside our community as potential threats, minimized their perspectives, distanced ourselves from them. How can we possibly love and demonize the stranger simultaneously? Obviously, we cannot. And while fear and suspicion are often natural outgrowths of our most traumatic experiences, our tradition is one that teaches love and compassion as core values. “Love your neighbor as yourself,” (Leviticus 19:18) our parashah teaches. Rabbi Akiva famously said that this verse is the central tenet of the Torah (Sifra Kedoshim 4:12). With this in mind, I am so grateful that our shul is participating in Refugee Shabbat this week. A program of HIAS, Refugee Shabbat, brings congregations together in solidarity with the global Jewish movement for refugee protection and welcome. Our world is currently one where asylum seekers are turned away around the world. At least 110 million people worldwide have been forcibly displaced from their homes. Refugee Shabbat provides us with the opportunity to build on our tradition’s commitment to caring for those in these kinds of dire situations and reflect on what we can contribute to their cause. Motivated by the message of Parashat Kedoshim, that we can strive to emulate God by being holy, let us do so motivated by the holiness that stems from the compassionate, welcoming care we offer to those among us who need it most. Shabbat shalom. My love/hate relationship with my kitchen always rears its ugly head around Pesaḥ. First, the hate: both taking my kitchen apart and putting it back together right before and after the holiday. The seemingly incessant schlepping of dishes off of shelves and out of cabinets, plus having to figure out where to put it all to leave enough room for my Pesaḥ supplies only serves to highlight for me any dissatisfaction I have with my kitchen setup and my anxiety about preparing for Yom Tov. Dragging it all out again just over a week later, usually at some ungodly hour of the night after the conclusion of the holiday, is its own stressor, as I can never quite remember where everything goes, or where I stowed every item. Nothing ever fits exactly as it did before, and even when I remember to take pictures before unloading my cabinets the first time around, I still can’t get it to go back quite right.
Next, the love: when my cabinets are empty and wiped out, my countertops rid of any appliances or chazerai that seems to accumulate there of its own accord, I look at my empty kitchen and feel the promise of a new beginning. The same happens at the end of the holiday, after I’ve packed away all of my Pesaḥ supplies and am ready to reclaim my kitchen until next Passover. I appreciate the space I have, how I’m able to celebrate the holiday in line with my religious orientation, and how my kitchen can accommodate my family’s needs. And once I’ve successfully put everything back together, I even find appreciation for the slight differences in where everything lives in the cabinets. I always manage to come out of Pesaḥ with a little more space and slightly better organization than I went into it with (although I still can’t find that one dairy pasta pot…). Looking over Parashat HaShavua in these few short days between Pesaḥ and Shabbat, I didn’t expect to find a connection between my lingering engagement with all things Passover and the themes that run through our return to our weekly Torah reading cycle, particularly since Parashat Aḥarei Mot begins with the elaborate atonement ritual of the Kohen Gadol for a different holiday, Yom Kippur. And yet, it was my continued focus on the emotional impact of reassembling my kitchen that helped me find something to highlight for us this week. The details of the atonement ritual from the beginning of our parashah, Leviticus chapter 16, focus entirely on sacrifices. Aharon, the Kohen Gadol, offers several sacrifices throughout the ritual to atone for his sins, the sins of his household, and the sins of the entire community. There is fire, incense, and blood. And while these visceral rituals may no longer resonate with our approach to atonement, they are right in line with the rest of the book of Vayikra. But the entire ceremony is not merely about the sacrifices themselves. Aharon must also purify the sanctuary - the altar, the covering for the Ark, and the Tent of Meeting. In order to effect full atonement for himself, his household, and the entire community, Aharon must clean his kitchen, as it were. Like the intense clearing out that accompanies Pesaḥ, the goal of atonement is a clean slate, a fresh start. Especially given how we live and relate to our tradition today, largely in the realm of the cerebral and symbolic, it’s easy to keep our focus on these ideas in our minds, and pay less attention to the role of the physical spaces we inhabit. Both Pesaḥ and our parashah remind us that what’s around us matters. It both reflects our emotional state and impacts our spiritual well-being. May our post-Pesaḥ spaces bring us joy and peace this Shabbat. Shabbat shalom! |
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November 2024
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