Achareit Mot-Kedoshim: Children and Cherubs

·      As much as we love to see children at shul, we understand the challenge that their presence poses of maintaining the decorum appropriate for a synagogue. So we run youth groups, hold junior congregation, and create other ways of bringing them into the building, yet keeping them outside the sanctuary until they are old enough to treat it with the respect it deserves. Yes, we love children and recognize the importance of their participation in synagogue events, but that doesn’t translate into an invitation to hang out in the sanctuary during services. If this is true of a weekly Shabbat service, how much more so of Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year. If ever there was a day to ensure that only adults be present at services, it would be Yom Kippur, when we try to create as awesome and serious an atmosphere as possible. With that in mind, the image conjured up by the beginning of our parsha is disturbing. We read a description of the Yom Kippur service as it existed in the times of the Tabernacle and Temple, with the High Priest entering the Holy of Holies—the innermost chamber of the Sanctuary which could only be entered one day a year, by only one person: the high priest on Yom Kippur itself. This chamber held the holy ark which meant that on this most holy day in this most holy location, the high priest who acted as the holy messenger for the holiest of nations would be greeted by the image of children. As we learned back in Parshat Terumah, the golden lid that covered the ark was adorned with two cherubs—child-like angels—that were beaten and formed from the gold of the lid itself. Why cherubs? Why an image of children—of immaturity, of irresponsibility, of noise and distraction—at this most holy moment, at this most awesome location?

·      The mental image we have of a cherub—of a plump little baby with angels attached to his back—is the product of the artistic renditions we’ve seen in museums and elsewhere. But from a Jewish perspective, this image is incorrect. In describing the appearance of the golden lid that fit atop the holy ark, Rashi explains in Parshat Terumah that the cherubs on the lid, “D’mut partzuf tinok lahem—they had the facial appearance of children.” According to our tradition, the cherubs were by no means babies with wings. They had the same appearance as other angels, save for one feature: their faces—and their faces alone—appeared child-like. Their bodies were mature, adult bodies, yet their faces were those of youths.

·      That becomes a very different image, one that is completely appropriate and important to be viewed on Yom Kippur. The image is not one of a child who cannot sit still, and of whom proper behavior is not even expected. Rather, the angels that adorned the ark were primarily adult-like, reminding us of the importance of assuming responsibility with full adult maturity. Yet the faces of these angels are those of children, reminding us that maturity should never come at the expense of the vigor and enthusiasm of youth. That becomes an important question to ask ourselves, both on Yom Kippur and each day of our lives. Has the role of adulthood sapped us of the enthusiasm we once had as children? It is critical to recognize that we can fulfill our duties to G-d and man with a blend of these two attributes. We must treat these duties with the seriousness and responsibility that are the hallmark of the adult, but perform them with the energy and vigor of a youth.

Tazria-Metzora: The Making of a Man

·      As Hebrew is the Holy Tongue, a language presented by G-d in full, not subject to the haphazard development of other languages, we should expect no redundancy. Two different words that may seem to have similar meanings should be understood as being slightly nuanced, each term conveying a slightly different idea from the other. This is the case with two Hebrew words which could both be translated as “man,” namely, “adam,” and “ish.” Both refer to a human being, but the term “adam,” also being the proper name of the very first man, connotes man’s elevation over the rest of creation. If “ish” refers to a human being, “adam,” speaks of the human being in a refined state.

·      With this in mind, we should be troubled by the Torah’s introduction to the topic of tzara’at, the affliction discussed at length in the parshiot of Tazria and Metzora. Tzara’t is not an ordinary disease; it is an ailment that arises as a physical manifestation of a deeper spiritual problem. A soul that became marred by improper speech—slander, gossip, and the like—would become affected by tzara’at. The Torah introduces us to this discussion with the following words: “When an adam shall have upon his flesh a mark of tzara’at…” If tzara’at is a physical reflection of a blemish that actually exists on a person’s soul, why would the Torah introduce us to such a person with the title of “adam,” a term that connotes man’s refinement and exalted status?

·      Rabbi Nisson Alpert explained that the answer to this question lies in the very same verse. The Torah continues, “and he shall be brought to the Aaron the kohen, or to one of his children, the kohanim.” The Torah describes not an individual who has an affliction on both body and soul and wishes to remain that way. He is, rather, someone who approaches the kohen, the priest who can diagnose the blemish, and serve as counsel to set him on a proper course of rehabilitation. The person we meet is not someone who resigned to live with his flaws, he is someone who wants to correct that flaw and to achieve more than he already has. An “adam,” the refined human being is not defined as one who is perfect, one who is flawless. The refined human being is one who is aware of his flaws and wishes to correct them.

·      This was a lesson that Rabbi Alpert learned first hand, from one of the greatest teachers imaginable. Rabbi Alpert had the distinction of being one of the foremost students of Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, on of the greatest scholars and leaders of the past generation. In his personal life, Rabbi Feinstein shunned materialism, feeling that the “finer things in life” would only serve as a distraction from his Torah study, his duties to the community, and his relationship with G-d. There was, however, one luxury item that he allowed himself: a “Shulsinger Shas.” This was a full set of the Babylonian Talmud published by the Shulsinger Brothers Publishing Company. Compared to all other editions of the Talmud available at the time, the Shulsinger edition was far more legible and sturdy. Though more expensive than any other edition, when Rabbi Feinstein was presented with it is a gift, he accepted it graciously, believing that it would serve as a great aid to his study. The set of books quickly become his most beloved earthly possession. One day, a student was meeting with Rabbi Feinstein in his office, when the rabbi had to step out for a moment to speak with someone who had come to see him. The curiosity getting the better of him, the student tiptoed around to the other side of the desk to take a look at Rabbi Feinstein’s Talmud. What notes and comments must be inscribed in the margins of the book used by the foremost rabbinic authority on earth! As the student hovered over the book, his arm brushed against a bottle of blue ink sitting on the rabbi’s desk, and the next thing he knew, Rabbi Feinstein’s precious book was covered in ink. When Rabbi Feinstein came back into the room, he found the student sitting back in his chair, head buried in his hands, and an ink soaked volume of his Shulsinger Shas sitting on the desk. Sizing up the situation, Rabbi Feinstein smiled and said simply, “Doesn’t the Talmud look so beautiful in blue!” Immediately, the story spread around the yeshiva like wild fire and it wasn’t long before Rabbi Feinstein overheard a student who reacted to it by saying, “If only I was born with that kind of patience.” Rabbi Feinstein interrupted the conversation and thundered, “Born with that kind of patience? It took me my whole life to learn how to do that!”

·      The student in the story was none other than Rabbi Nisson Alpert. He understood all too well that to be an “adam,” a refined and distinguished human being is not to be born with flaws and imperfections. It is to spend one’s entire life dedicating himself to removing them.

Shavuot: Calf, Countdown and Connection

As we count down towards the holiday of Shavuot, the festival that commemorates the giving of the Torah at Sinai, our minds become flooded with spectacular imagery of the scene that evolved as G-d reached out to His beloved nation. We see the lightning and the smoke, the flower-bedecked mountain and the awestruck faces of three million Jews. The image we tend to ignore is the one that came forty days later—the image of those same individuals who turned their gaze from the peak of the mountain to the valley below, where a graven image had been created. A mere forty days after hearing the voice of G-d and experiencing all the miraculous splendor that went along with it, the Jews had done a complete one-eighty, turning away from worshipping G-d and focusing instead on the Golden Calf they had created. How could they have fallen so far and so fast?

            The Torah tells us that Golden Calf was produced in response to the perceived delay in Moses’ return from Sinai. Due to an error in calculation, the Jews had believed that the day for Moses’ return to the camp had arrived, and yet he had still not descended from the mountain. Fearing the worst—that Moses’ encounter with G-d had proved too much to handle even for him, and that he had perished atop the mountain—the Jews set out to find a replacement. Interestingly, though the Golden Calf was certainly an idolatrous image, its purpose was not to replace G-d, but to replace Moses.

            The Jews could not imagine a world without Moses. If Moses was gone, who would serve as the intermediary between themselves and G-d? Who would approach G-d on their behalf? Who would pray for them? Who would see to it that the relationship between them and the Almighty would endure? These were the issues that compelled them to create the Golden Calf—the item that would serve as a bridge between themselves and the Divine. Therein lay their error. Even had their miscalculation been correct, even if Moses would in fact never return to serve as their leader, the Jewish people would have been more than capable to connect to G-d on their own. The sin of the Golden Calf was the sin of underestimating their own ability to achieve personal connections to G-d without any intermediary. Each and every Jewish soul is fully capable of developing a relationship directly with G-d. The Jews thought of religion as a relationship by proxy—the masses connect to the leader, the leader connects to G-d. While there would always be a place for especially holy people to serve at the helm of the nation, it is incumbent upon each Jew to realize his own potential in achieving a unique closeness to his Creator.

            This is part and parcel of the message of Shavuot. The aftermath of the Sinai experience—the construction of the Calf and the Divine wrath that it incurred—is a reminder that it is not enough to have faith in G-d, we must have faith in ourselves. G-d considers every Jewish soul fully capable of a direct relationship with him. We need not feel compelled to outsource our ties to G-d to individuals who are holier and more pious than we are. Every Jew can connect directly to G-d through prayer, study, and the observance of his mitzvot. As we count down towards Shavuot, let us be reminded not only that G-d has reached out to us, but that we are capable of reaching out to Him.

Shemini: "Taste and See"

·      For all the hoopla surrounding the inauguration of the Temple, the man who was to serve as its CEO doesn’t seem to get his due. Our parsha begins by telling us that Aaron, who would serve as high priest—the highest ranking position within the Temple hierarchy—didn’t begin to serve until “Yom ha’shemini,” “the eighth day.” For the first seven days, it was Moses, not Aaron, who served as the high priest of the Tabernacle. Why the delay in allowing Aaron to begin his service? Is the Torah making the point that he was unworthy to serve from the outset? If, rather Moses’ week-long service was meant to honor Aaron—serving as an elongated inauguration ceremony, why does the Torah emphasize that Aaron’s first day in office was not day one, but day eight?

·      Rabbi Isaac Bernstein explains by referring to a midrash on the episode of the burning bush. In this first conversation with Moses, G-d informs him that he has been chosen to lead the Jews out of Egypt. Far from accepting this role willingly, Moses proceeds to argue with G-d, insisting that he is the wrong man for the job and that his older brother, Aaron, would be far more suitable. The midrash teaches that this debate lasted a full week, as Moses proclaimed his own unsuitability for the position for a full seven days. As a result, the midrash explains, Moses was punished. Whereas initially G-d had intended that Moses would serve as Kohen Gadol, as high priest of the tabernacle, he would now be passed over for the brother of whom he spoke so highly. Aaron, not Moses, would be appointed as high priest.

·      Tell a man that he was being considered for a position of royalty but was then passed over and his life will go on as before. He will easily go back to his humdrum routine, having never known anything else. The news alone serves as no distraction. But place a man in a position of royalty—allow him to be king for a day—and he his ability to return to his previous lifestyle will become quite difficult. Once he has tasted the kingly lifestyle, once he becomes aware of the power and luxury that such a lifestyle affords, he will truly appreciate what he is missing when things return to normal.

·      That Aaron’s service begins only on the eighth day is not a critique of his ability to adequately fill the role of high priest. Moses serves for the first seven days not to dismiss Aaron, but to fully appreciate the consequence of being passed over for the position. The Torah emphasizes that Aaron begins on the eighth day not to teach us about Aaron, but about Moses; that to properly understand what it meant to be passed over as high priest, he had to first fill that position for a brief period, only to be removed from it.

·      One can only fully appreciate something by experiencing it first hand. Words invariably fall short of adequately describing the full magnitude and scope of so many situations. In Psalm 34, recited every Shabbos morning, we say, “Ta’amu u’reu ki tov Hashem,” “Taste and see that G-d is good.” In authoring these words, King David was making the point that to fully appreciate G-d’s goodness—the beauty of His Torah, the satisfaction of observing his mitzvot—it must be tasted and experienced firsthand.

·      That becomes a critical concept for us to keep in mind, both for our conversations with others, and with ourselves. We often find ourselves in conversations with colleagues or friends in which we have the need to explain a Jewish practice or ritual. And as we do, as we begin to explain concepts as seemingly bizarre as Sukkot, Shabbat, tefillin, or Passover, it’s only natural that we begin to view these practices through the eyes of those we’re explaining them to and wonder, “Maybe this really is crazy!” But it’s important to remember that “Ta’amu u’reu,” that only after tasting any of these mitzvot can their beauty truly be appreciated. If these practices come across as sounding bizarre or even archaic, it is only so because words alone cannot do justice to the meaning experienced when they are actually performed.

·      And it is equally critical to keep this in mind when we have conversations with ourselves—conversations about our own spiritual growth and taking the next step in our observance. When we consider that step, we may slide into feelings of complacency with where we already are, concerned and apprehensive over the difficulty of taking on yet more. But as we look at the steps we’ve already taken, and how those steps have provided us with a dose of “Ta’amu u’reu,” of tasting the significance and fulfillment of those mitzvot and laws firsthand, we can be encouraged that the next step will provide us with the same.

Parshat Behar

The parsha informs us that there is no such thing as a permanent sale of land in Israel. When a piece of land trades hands, the transaction is temporary, and the land will revert back to its original owner at the fiftieth, Jubilee year. In giving the reason behind this phenomenon, we find an unusual statement: “V’haaretz lo timacher b’tzmitut ki gerim v’toshavim atem imadi,” “And the land shall not be sold in perpetuity for you are sojourners and residents with Me.” In understanding this clause, two issues need to be addressed. Firstly, the two descriptions of the Jews, “sojourners” and “residents,” stand in complete contradiction of one another. A sojourner is in the land for only a short while, merely passing through, whereas a resident has established himself for the long haul. Secondly, how is the Jews’ status as residents an explanation for their inability to effect a permanent transaction of Israeli property. If the Jews are, indeed, residents of the Land, if the Land belongs to them, it should be theirs to do with as they please. If someone should desire to rid himself of the land by selling it to another, why shouldn’t that transaction be permanently upheld?

The Chasam Sofer explains that to understand these issues, we must first understanding the difference between ownership and belonging. Ownership is a status that is defined by rights. If I own something, it is my right to do with that item as I see fit. I can alter it, manipulate it, even destroy it or get rid of it if I wish. There is, however, another sort of belonging that can occur between an individual and an item, whereby the individual does not have the ability to do with the item as he wishes. In this case, the relationship is defined not by rights, but by responsibilities. In this case, the item is not something external to the person, such that it can be changed or even done away with; it is so intrinsically bound up with his very essence that to distort the item would be to distort himself. When the belonging is not mere ownership, when it is a belonging that so fundamentally defines the person himself, he cannot be given the right to do with the item as he pleases, only the responsibility to protect it and maintain its integrity.

One example of such a phenomenon is the relationship between the Jewish People and the Land of Israel. Our relationship to Israel defines who we are; it is part of our very essence. To be sure, we are residents of the Land; our presence is permanent and established. Yet it is so established, so fundamental that we cannot cheapen that presence by defining it as mere ownership. Israel belongs to the Jewish People in a way that defines the Jew’s very essence. A Jew, therefore, must operate under the guise of a sojourner in terms of the way in which he treats the land. Like a sojourner, one who is simply passing through, he can be in no position to sell the Land with any kind of permanence. Ultimately, he cannot give up the Land, because the Land he is bonded to and defined by it.

Another such example is the Torah itself. Vis-a-vis the Torah, as well, we must assume the role of both resident and sojourner. We are, on the one hand, residents; we enjoy an attachment to the Torah that is of a permanent nature. Yet that attachment is of such significance to our very essence, that we cannot act towards the Torah as though we own it. The Torah is not a house that we, as homeowners, can renovate redecorate according to our will. To accommodate our specific lifestyle, we cannot break down walls and draft new blueprints. We may not, to adhere to social fads, decide that the walls need to be repainted a different color. In order to preserve the Torah’s integrity, and, in turn, preserve our own, we are granted the only the rights of a sojourner, yet the responsibility of a resident.

You may have heard by now that we are planning to create our own religious school for the coming year. What we hope to accomplish with the creation of this school is the philosophy of “Sojourners and residents are you with Me.” Our children will be taught that Jewish education is of such paramount importance, that the Torah is so inextricably bound up with their very essence, that it is not our right to bend it to suit our needs. The Torah will not manipulated to accommodate popular social values, and will not be distorted for the sake of our personal comfort. The education that we offer our children will not be watered down—neither quantitatively nor qualitatively—as a means of allowing them the freedom to engage in activities far less critical to their spiritual wellbeing and Jewish identity.

My words are measured when I say that the religious school will be the single most important initiative that our synagogue will be engaged in. The brand of Jewish education that we offer our children will not only shape their lives, but will serve as a defining factor for the entire congregation. “Sojourners and Residents are you with Me” is not only an educational philosophy, it is a mission statement for our synagogue. As such, it is imperative that every member of our congregation support this undertaking. Support it with your words, your time, and your resources. Help to create a culture that recognizes the supreme importance of maintaining an unadulterated version of the Torah for us and our children to live by. As both sojourners and residents, may we see Torah observance and Torah education strengthe

Kedoshim 5772

·      Parshat Kedoshim begins with what seems to be a mixed message. The Torah states, “Kedoshim tihyu,” “You shall be holy,” and the Sages in the Midrash explained that the intent is “Perushim tihyu,” “You shall be separated.” The method of becoming holy through separation is easily understood.  Holiness and sanctity are born out of an attachment to spirituality and to the other-worldly qualities of the Divine. It is understandable, then, to call for a de-emphasis of connection to the realities of this world in order to achieve a state of true holiness. The Torah apparently calls for separation—separation from the physical world, from society itself—as a means to achieving holiness.  Yet, as mentioned, we encounter mixed messages. For G-d tells Moses to bestow this mitzvah upon the Jews by speaking “to the entire assembly of the Children of Israel.”  This mitzvah—the one that encourages separation from the physical and social sphere—is given specifically at a time when all the Jews are gathered together, thus emphasizing, not downplaying, social contact. Why choose a context in which to teach this mitzvah, that undermines the mitzvah itself?

·      The Chasam Sofer (Rabbi Moshe Sofer, 1762-1839) explains that there is no contradiction between these two messages. It is not the role of the Jew to separate himself from society; it is the role of the Jew to be separate within society. It is not the role of the Jew to become sanctified through disengagement from reality; it is the role of the Jew to become sanctified while engaging reality. The Torah teaches the concept of being holy in a context of a social gathering specifically in order to do away with the notion that true holiness can only be found in a monastic lifestyle. Though it is true that engagement with society may expose us to certain spiritually detrimental behaviors—jealousy, greed, ruthlessness, materialism, and so on—through that engagement we gain far more than we lose. We gain in chesed, in our ability to care for our fellow human beings, in sensitivity to the needs of others, in social responsibility, and in countless other opportunities that express themselves only in a social context. The Torah insists that we not hide behind closed doors in order to find holiness, but that we make it our business to create holiness in the public arena.

·      This is a lesson that must keep in mind both for our wellbeing as a community and synagogue, as well as for our own personal spiritual fulfillment. For the sake of our synagogue, we need to remind ourselves of what draws someone to a community. The most common questions I receive by people thinking of joining our synagogue are not about the services or the prayers or even the mechitzah. They are about the social atmosphere and whether or not new members are made to feel welcome. For the sake of our synagogue, we need to ensure that we maintain an atmosphere of “social kedusha,” “social holiness,” as the Torah prescribes in our parsha. Every single person who walks through the doors of our shul needs to be met with the warmth, care, concern, and sensitivity that the Torah demands when telling us that holiness must be exhibited not only in isolation, but in a public, social, context.

·      For our own sake, we need to make sure that we don’t sell ourselves short. We’ve grown so accustomed to thinking that the paradigm of holiness is a Tibetan monk meditating on a hilltop or, more appropriately, a scholar in Jerusalem who is completely disengaged from this world. We study that paradigm, and, knowing that it’s one we could never fulfill, forfeit holiness entirely. What the Torah asserts here, is that holiness can belong to the most socially engaged, and, moreover, that it is with such a person that holiness will find its most sincere expression. We need not give up on the comforts of a socially active lifestyle in order to achieve holiness; we need only work at uncovering the innumerable opportunities that such a lifestyle creates to live with holiness and sanctity.