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An open road, on a beautiful day, your kids in the back
seat, perhaps a packed picnic lunch; what could be more
perfect? What thoughts go through your mind at such
times? Is your mind focused on all the challenges tomorrow
always seems to bring, or do you take the time to appreciate
the moment? Are you listening to the news about a recent
referendum vote, the country's economic woes, and the
ever- looming threat of terrorism, or do you take the
time to appreciate the gift of the moment?
I imagine the radio was on, but maybe it wasn't tuned
to the news; instead, maybe the achingly beautiful sounds
of Shlomo Artzi's voice wafted through the car singing
of love to be found, and joy to be discovered.
I will always wonder what Tali Hatuel, eight months
pregnant, with her four daughters Hila, Roni, Hadar
and Meirav, ages 11 to 2 in the back seat, was thinking
in those last moments. Was she considering what she
and her husband David would name their soon- to- be
born child? Was she wondering how Meirav, their two-year-old,
would accept the newest addition to the Hatuel family?
Or was she just appreciating the pure joy of the open
road, the dunes of the beach in the distance, and her
growing family with her in the car? Were they singing
songs together as Israeli families on the road are wont
to do, or were they playing a game, debating what their
favorite moment of the week was?
And what went through her mind; their minds, as the
sounds of gunfire filled the air and bullets tore through
the car? What does a mother think as armed terrorists
walk calmly over to a car lying on the side of the road,
and one by one, shoot each of her children while she
lies helplessly watching? Is she lost in the moment,
or is she still capable of seeing the future, and dreaming
of a day when the guns will finally be melted down into
plowshares?
Indeed, coming from a community that lives with the
future hanging by a thread, and the sounds of mortars
and gunfire never far away, how do these people nonetheless
succeed in plowing their magnificent fields and harvesting
their bio-ponic gardens? How do you find the balance
between learning to live in the moment, and yet remaining
aware of the challenges of tomorrow?
On a road near Gush Katif, south of Ashkelon and Ashdod
along Israel's coastline, the beautiful sounds of a
family on a road trip gave way to the horrible silence
that follows gunfire when terrorists opened fire on
the Hatuel family and murdered Tali Hatuel and her four
children and unborn baby.
How do you fill that silence? What words can break the
barrier of such a tragedy? What can one say to David
Hatuel, a husband and father who has lost his entire
world? Can a person whose entire future just die on
the side of the road ever succeed in stepping outside
the pain and tragedy of the moment he must be locked
into?
During the mourning period, a heartrending meeting took
place as Boaz Shabo, who lost his wife and three of
his children in a terrorist attack in Itamar two years
earlier, came to comfort David Hatuel. He struggled
to find the words, but of course, there are no words.
During their meeting, David Hatuel asked Boaz Shabo
the unanswerable question: "Boaz, how, how am I
supposed to get up in the morning?" And Boaz responded:
"You get up in the morning, and you get up - to
no one. But ...Tali [your wife] is looking at you from
above, spurring you on to continue."
This week's Torah portion,
Emor, has much to say on the both the challenge
and the nature of this question.
In general, every weekly portion contains a theme to
which all the topics of that portion are connected.
This week, however, the divergence of the topics leaves
us wondering what common thread could bind these different
ideas together as a thematically connected portion.
Usually, the first and last topics of any given portion
are the 'bookends' that allude to the message of that
portion. But that seems to be a challenging prospect
this week.
Emor opens with an exhortation to the Kohanim
(the priestly class) not to come into contact with a
dead body:
"Vayomer Hashem el Moshe: 'Emor el ha'kohanim,
b'nei Aharon, ve'amarta' aleihem: 'Le'nefesh lo yitama'
be'amav'."
"And G-d said to Moshe: 'Say to the Kohanim (Priests),
sons of Aaron, and tell them: he (each Kohen) may not
become Tameh (defiled) to a (dead) person amongst his
people." (Vayikra (Leviticus) 21:1)
And it closes with a story that seems completely unconnected
to this idea. In short, an Israelite whose mother was
Jewish (an Israelite) and whose father was Egyptian,
argued in the camp with another Jew. In the course of
the argument, this son blasphemed by cursing G-d's name
in public. He was brought before Moshe, who, unsure
of what to do, placed him under guard, until he could
receive guidance from Hashem (G-d) as to what to do.
G-d's response was to direct Moshe to remove him from
the camp and have anyone who heard the blasphemy (cursing
of G-d) actually place their hands upon his (the blasphemer's)
head, whereupon he was subsequently killed, by the
entire congregation.
What connection can there possibly be between the beginning
of the portion advising Kohanim (priests) they
are not allowed to become impure by direct contact with
a dead body, and the story at the end of the portion
describing the death of a blasphemer?
Equally confounding is the content of the rest of the
portion, which forms the 'middle of the sandwich' or
the 'meat' of the parsha. After fifty some odd verses
(chapters 21 and 23 of Vayikra) specifically
addressed to the Kohanim, the portion then
switches (in Chapter 23) to a review of all the Jewish
festivals: Pesach (Passover), the counting
of the Omer (during the seven weeks following Pesach),
Shavuot, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Sukkoth, and
the festival of Shemini Atzeret. Lastly, it describes
once again the process whereby the eternal flame (ner
tamid) is lit in the Beit HaMikdash (Temple)
every day, before concluding with the story of the blasphemer.
Again, what is the common theme that binds these seemingly
divergent, even incongruous topics of Priesthood, the
festivals, the Menorah, and the case of blasphemy?
Perhaps one detail will help us to shed light on this
entire topic: in describing the mitzvah of counting
the days and weeks from the offering of the Omer sacrifice
leading up to Shavuot, the Torah tells us:
"U'Se'fartem Lachem, Mi'Macharat HaShabbat,
Mi'Yom Havi'achem et Omer Ha'Te'nufah, Shevah Shabbatot
Temimot..." (Leviticus 23:15)
"And you shall count for yourselves, from the
day after Shabbat, from the day you bring the waved
Omer offering, seven complete weeks..."
It is interesting to note that the day we bring (and
wave before the altar) the Omer sacrifice is called
here "Macharat HaShabbat", "the
day after Shabbat". Our oral tradition teaches,
however, that Shabbat here refers not to the seventh
day of the week, but rather to the first day of Pesach,
also called Shabbat.
This important point was the source of great controversy
in Jewish history. Over two thousand years ago, a sect
of Jews who believed only in the literal translation
of the Bible, known as the Sadducees, understood this
verse to mean that the counting of the Omer always began
on the first Sunday after Passover, a point bitterly
contested by the Rabbis of the time.
So if this wording became the source of such controversy,
one wonders why the Torah chose to use such ambiguous
terminology. Why not just say that the counting of the
Omer begins on the day after Passover? Alternatively,
as is done with each of the other festivals listed here
in our portion, it could simply have said that the counting
begins on the sixteenth day of the first month (of Nissan),
which would have left no doubt as to the day specified.
Obviously, as witness to the fact the Torah also terms
this day "Macharat HaShabbat" in discussing
the Omer offering itself (v. 11), there must
be some connection between this mitzvah of the Omer
and the theme of Shabbat. So what does Shabbat have
to do with the Omer, and for that matter with
Pesach (Passover)?
Further, a closer look at the portion begins to uncover
other allusions to Shabbat: In discussing the mitzvah
of blowing the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah, the Torah tells
us:
"...Ba'chodesh ha'shevi'i, be'echad la'chodesh,
ye'hiyeh' la'chem zichron teruah, mikra kodesh."
"...In the seventh month, on the first of the month,
you shall have a rest day (Shabbaton), a remembrance
of Shofar, a holy calling."
The Talmud in tractate Rosh Hashanah (fourth chapter)
explains that this 'remembrance' of the Shofar refers
to the fact that when Rosh Hashanah falls on Shabbat,
the Shofar is not blown, and only remembered. And one
wonders why, in the midst of teaching us both the mitzvah
of Rosh Hashanah itself, as well as the central mitzvah
of the day (blowing the Shofar), the Torah feels a need
to allude to the mitzvah of Shabbat. What is the connection
between Rosh Hashanah and Shabbat?
There is yet another topic briefly mentioned here which
again seems difficult to connect to the rest of the
portion: Sandwiched in between the discussion of Rosh
Hashanah, which follows it, and the Omer and Shavuot
preceding it, the Torah suddenly jumps to a mitzvah
that doesn't seem to have any connection to either of
them:
"U've'kutzre'chem et k'tzir artzechem, lo techaleh
pe'at sad'cha, be'kutzrechah', ve'leket ke'tzircha'
lo' telaket; le'ani ve'lager ta'azov o'tam, Ani Hashem
Elokeichem."
"When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall
not remove completely the corners of your field as you
reap and you shall not gather the gleanings of your
harvest. For the poor and the stranger shall you leave
them; I am Hashem your G-d." (23:22)
Now, certainly, this is a beautiful mitzvah,
which tells us that we are not simply enjoined, but
obligated, to set aside a corner of our field
for the poor and needy. And we are not allowed to pick
up sheaves that drop or are forgotten in the fields
and on the threshing floor. Indeed, most of us when
thinking about kosher food usually think of kosher hamburgers
or chicken. In Israel, however, an entire field and
all its crops are unkosher and cannot be eaten until
a portion of it is set-aside for the poor. What does
this mitzvah have to do with the Omer and Rosh
Hashanah, and why is it inserted here?
Even more strange, the Talmud (Rosh Hashanah 32a) when
searching for the Biblical source for the notion of
Malchuyot, or G-d's Kingship on earth (a part
of the Rosh Hashanah liturgy), actually quotes the last
three verses of this verse: "Ani Hashem Elokeichem."
"I am Hashem your G-d.", (presumably
because of its proximity to the verses on Rosh Hashanah.)
What does this verse have to do with the idea of G-d
being our King? If anything, I would have expected a
verse with at least the word Melech (King)
in it! What does this verse, concerning the crops I
set aside for the poor, have to do with Hashem as King,
much less Rosh Hashanah?
The truth is, it makes a lot of sense that there are
so many references to Shabbat in this week's portion,
because the theme of this entire Parsha is
time, and Shabbat, just like the festivals,
is all about time.
When the Jewish people left Egypt, the greatest gift
Hashem gave them, was the gift of time. In fact, the
very first mitzvah given to the Jewish people, while
they were still in Egypt, was the counting of the months,
and the fact that:
"This month (Nissan, when the Jews left Egypt)
will be for you the first of the months..." (Exodus
12:2)
A slave, you see, has no time, because his time is not
his own, it is his master's. A slave doesn't spend much
time thinking about what he wants to do, because his
master decides that for him, every day. Even when he
thinks he has a little time, he is ever- conscious of
the fact that in an instant, his master can decide,
often on the spur of a moment, that he wants his slaves
to do something else. There is no thought given to building
a future, because the slave has no future, he lives
only in the present, which is really part of the future
and the present of someone else.
And then one day, the Jewish people were suddenly free,
with no one else deciding for them what they had to
do with every hour and every minute of the day. On the
one hand, this must have been an intoxicating experience,
much like the student who graduates and can suddenly
decide to sleep in; the Jews had the ability to get
up in the morning not to satisfy the desires of someone
else, but to live for themselves.
At the same time, however, it must have been somewhat
frightening, because now they had to decide what they
were going to do. There is a certain security and comfort
in the knowledge that someone else is worrying about
where tomorrow's food will come from, and even how the
day will be filled. A slave has no budget to balance,
no bills to pay, no worries about whether the crop will
come in; it's all in the hands of the master.
And this was the challenge facing the Jewish people
as they journeyed forth towards the land of Israel,
knowing the miracles of the desert would soon be behind
them, and a land needed to be conquered, and then its
fields plowed and planted.
Indeed, a slave, with no time, also has very little
purpose, he lives from day to day, and his purpose is
wrapped up in the daily struggle for a piece of bread
or a drink of water, a few hours of sleep, or even a
comforting word.
The Jews became a nation only when they left Egypt,
because now they had a mission and a purpose: to be
a "Mamlechet Kohanim Ve'Goy Kadosh", a
"Kingdom of Priests and a holy Nation"
(Exodus 19:6).
And the great question facing them was what to do with
this endless supply stretching ahead of them into the
future; could a people that had been focused solely
on the challenge of the moment, become a nation looking
towards and building the future? Indeed, this very same
challenge faced the Jewish people three thousand years
later after the Holocaust and after the Israeli war
of Independence. After years of living in the camps,
and struggling to survive, could this people become
a nation, building a future, which would make a lasting
contribution to the entire world?
Indeed, it is no accident that this portion follows
the completion and dedication of the Mishkan
(Tabernacle) (which we read about a few weeks ago in
the portion of Shemini, and which was alluded to again
last week in Acharei Mot). The Jews, still
struggling with the challenge of building their own
future and making their own decisions, wanted nothing
more than for someone to tell them what to do. Indeed,
after centuries of idolatry which gave them just that,
the idea that G-d wanted them to be partners
in building this world (one of Judaism's central themes),
must have terrified them, and may well have been at
the root of their struggle with Hashem's direct communication
with them at Sinai. They wanted to hear the rest of
the Ten Commandments from Moshe, because Moshe could
tell them what to do, and life could remain as simple
as it had always been.
And then Moshe disappeared up on the mountain, so they
built themselves a golden calf. Now the golden calf
could tell them what to do. And then, when that proved
to be a disaster, G-d tells them to build a Mishkan
(Tabernacle). Indeed, they throw themselves into the
building and the donating to such an extent, that Moshe
finally has to tell them to stop (Shemot (Exodus)
36:3-7), because again they have become so immersed
in the moment, they have lost sight of the goal. And
now, with the completion of the Mishkan, they
are, perhaps, again faced with the challenge of what
to do.
Perhaps that is why this portion begins with the Kohanim,
the Priests: Because the concept of the Priesthood is
really meant to be a model for the Jewish people. The
Kohanim are our educators, who lead by example,
and their lives are wrapped up in the service of a higher
purpose, the challenge of bringing G-d into the world
and into our lives.
Too often, we have difficulty finding the balance between
the present, and the future. Sometimes, we get so wrapped
up in the moment, in the car accident, the spilled milk,
or the news on CNN, we lose sight of what life is really
all about, and how meaningful it can be when we are
imbued with a sense of purpose, and a connection to
something higher than the dividends on the stocks, or
getting the kids to school in the carpool. Yet, at the
same time, sometimes we become so enthralled and excited
with the grand mission and the purpose, we may lose
touch with the need to sanctify every given moment.
And that is what Shabbat is all about: On the one hand,
we become so involved with our week, filled with work,
we lose sight of where all that work is supposed to
take us. Shabbat teaches us to step off the bus and
take stock of where we are headed and why we are doing
all that we spend so much time doing. At the same time,
sometimes, we become so caught up in the objective,
determined to achieve whatever goals we may have set
for ourselves, be they noble or otherwise, we lose track
of the beauty of every given moment.
I still remember vividly the day I learned the power
of this idea from a visiting student.
One day at Isralight in Jerusalem's Old City, I
had just begun teaching a class when an odd looking
fellow whom I had never seen before and was not part
of the program walked in and sat down. It is a statistical
fact that the last seat open is always the one next
to the teacher (probably as a result of some deeply
rooted trauma most people experience in kindergarten...)
so he sat down right next to me.
Isralight prides itself on being an institution open
to all, but when you teach in the Old City, you develop
a sixth sense that alerts you to the occasional characters
that may wander in on their spiritual journeys (we once
had a fellow who came into class and was convinced he
was King David!). I had the sense that something was
a little 'off' with this fellow, a fact that was confirmed
when he began staring at my coffee cup. And I don't
mean he was looking at it, I mean he was staring at
it, bringing his face to about six inches from my half-filled
mug sitting on the table.
Not wanting to embarrass him, but neither wishing to
lose the audience's attention, I took a few steps to
my left away from this fellow, hoping it would draw
people's attention away from him. A moment later, this
proved to be futile, as he actually picked up my coffee
mug to further his analysis of both it and its contents.
Now, this is not a common thing to do. The average person
would not walk into a lecture and pick up the lecturer's
half-filled coffee mug, and as I was debating whether
to ignore it, he took it one step further an actually
took a sip of my coffee!
At this point, there was no point in trying to continue
my thought, as no one was paying attention; they were
too busy watching 'Mr. Coffee-mug'. So, wanting to make
light of it without embarrassing him, I told him he
was more than welcome to the coffee and there was plenty
more in the back! By this time I was wondering whether
he was a bit mad, especially as one of his eyes had
an oddly glazed look to it.
Suddenly he appeared to come out of whatever space or
thought he had been in, and realized everyone was looking
at him. At which point, apologizing, he explained:
"I am sorry; I was trying to see if this is what
I thought it was. You see, I was born blind, and three
days ago, I underwent experimental laser surgery, which
restored sight in one of my eyes. So I decided to take
some time to travel through the country and see all
the places I've been, but never really seen. Naturally,
I wanted to come and see the Kotel (Western Wall), and
as I was on my way back up I noticed this group heading
into this building and decided to follow my eye and
see where it could take me. And looking at this mug,
I realized this must be a coffee mug. Don't get me wrong,
I'm not crazy, I know what a coffee mug is, but I've
never actually seen one...."
Here I had thought he was mad when in reality, he was
the sanest person in the room. Needless to say, he taught
us all more in that one moment than most of us learn
in a year.
And this too, is the essence of Shabbat: can
I learn to live in every moment, and appreciate its
beauty and it power and the gifts that exist alongside
its challenges.
And this of course, is why Pesach here is called 'Shabbat',
and the counting of the Omer is begun on the day after
'Shabbat', because the Omer is all
about appreciating each day of each week as we move
from Pesach and the Exodus from Egypt, towards Shavuot
and the giving of the Torah. On the one hand, we count
each day, to appreciate its gifts amidst all the little
and sometimes very large challenges that may come our
way, while never losing sight of the goal, represented
by Shavuot, when we receive the Torah and with it our
mission and purpose as a people.
And this is at the heart of all of the festivals, which
are also all about appreciating each moment of each
season, and each stage in our journey as a people, while
never losing sight of the fact that each season and
step in the journey is also part of a larger reality,
with a starting point of embarkation, and a destination.
Perhaps this is also why the Talmud extrapolates the
idea of Malchuyot, or G-d's Kingship, from the verse
containing the mitzvah of setting aside a corner of
the field for the poor. We get so wrapped up in harvesting
our field; we actually start to think it's our field.
But in truth nothing in this world is really ours; we
can't take it with us. In fact, the only things we really
have in this world are the things we give to others.
So, as a prelude to Rosh Hashanah, Hashem gives us the
opportunity to share what we have been given with others,
which may well be the reason it was given to us in the
first place. And again, we are challenged to both live
in the moment, and get the field harvested, because
G-d isn't going to do it for us, while recognizing that
the value of the harvest really depends on how aware
we are of why we are really harvesting it.
And this too, is the meaning of the Ner Tamid, the light
which constantly burns: we need to be willing to light
the flame, and be in the moment, while recognizing that
everything is about what the light is really for in
the first place.
This is also at the root of the beginning and the end
of the portion: the defilement by contact with death
on the one hand, and the blasphemer on the other.
Death is the ultimate reminder that we are all here
today and gone tomorrow. It tends to suggest to us that
we are merely physical beings, and that we should live
only for the here and now, and so the Kohen especially,
whose mission is to remind the Jewish people that there
always has to be a higher purpose, avoids contact with
death wherever possible.
(Interestingly, he is allowed to come into contact with
the dead body of a close relative, perhaps because when
the relationship is so deep, it is clear, even in the
moment of death, that there was and is much more to
the person than the physical reality....)
And as for the person who curses G-d's name, in the
midst of an argument, perhaps he represents the danger
of being so wrapped up in the moment, and consumed by
his anger, that for him G-d, (and with Him all sense
of a higher purpose) becomes dead. (Indeed, the Talmud
compares a person consumed by anger to a person who
worships idols, for this very reason.) And while there
is certainly much more to consider on this topic, it
is worth noting that the Torah takes this question so
seriously precisely because the loss of an objective
purpose (which can only stem from a relationship to
an objective source, i.e. G-d), would mean an undermining
and loss of everything the Jewish people, and indeed
the world was created for in the first place. Without
faith, or Emunah, there is no future; there
is only the present.
Sixty years ago, as a people, we made a decision to
build a future and not get stuck in the moment. If there
ever was a people with the right to curse G-d, and become
consumed by the anger of the moment, or to escape the
challenges of the future, it was the Jewish people of
1945.
Yet, driven by the passion of a three thousand year
journey, we accepted a partnership with G-d in building
a homeland, against seemingly insurmountable and often
undeniably cruel and unfair odds. And in the midst of
it all, we did not sink into the temptations of the
moment and the challenges of fighting a war and moving
on in a post-Holocaust world; we built a land based
on the principles of being a "Kingdom of Priests
and a holy nation."
Sixty years later, we still have a long way to go, as
a nation, and as a people. There are no words that can
give strength to a David Hatuel. It is hard for us to
imagine the challenge of this one man's struggle to
get beyond the present and move forward into an uncertain
future. But somehow, perhaps the knowledge that without
words, we as a people continue to embrace the future
amidst all the struggles of the present, will give strength
and hope to us all.
Shabbat Shalom,
Binny Freedman
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