"וראה הכהן את־הנגע בעור־הבשר ושער בנגע הפך לבן ומראה הנגע עמק מעור בשרו נגע צרעת הוא וראהו הכהן וטמא אתו - And the Kohen shall see the affliction on the skin of his flesh: If hair in the affliction has changed to white, and the affliction's appearance is deeper than the skin of the flesh - it is a Tzara'at affliction; the Kohen shall see it and contaminate him."
(יג:ג)
Following the creation of the State of Israel, Jews around the world, and those in Israel specifically, we have reason to believe that the Ge'ulah - the end of the 2,000 year exile - is truly around the corner. We finally have (at least part of) historic Eretz Yisrael back in our hands; Hebrew, the only language in the world to have been successful revived, is the spoken language of the Israeli people, and Jewish culture is flourishing here in the Holy Land. But there are some effects of this two-millenium-long exile that we have to shake off, like the fact that the overwhelming majority of Jews around the world have very real trouble in understanding their prayer.
A friend of mine made a comment to a Rabbi a few years ago, a comment that I perceived as somewhat radical. He suggested that we should pray in the way that Quakers do - that each person should speak to Hashem as he wants, without needing to turn to the fixed texts of the Siddur. In that way, argued my friend, our prayers would be more personal and more relevant. I can't remember the answer that the Rabbi gave, but I do tender an answer of my own now.
In this week's Parsha, we read of the condition called Tzara'at - an affliction that affected those who were spiritually ill. Upon discovering that a person was suffering from this ailment, certain conditions were imposed. For example, they would have to go through a quarantine process, amongst other things. However, all prohibitions and procedures would only start after the sufferer was diagnosed by a Kohen. The Kohen would essentially fulfill the role of "spiritual doctor" and inform the "patient" of the required course of action.
There are many complicated halachot pertaining to Tzara'at, but surely one of the most interesting comes from the words "וראהו הכהן וטמא אתו," which roughly translates as "And the Kohen shall see it and contaminate him." These words are troubling - how can it be that the Kohen would render a person spiritually impure? Obviously a straightforward reading of the text does not suffice, and thankfully Rashi explains this to mean, "יאמר לו 'טמא אתה' - he shall say to him, 'You are impure'", meaning that the Kohen would declare the man to be impure. (As opposed to actually making that person impure by himself.) The problem is that this reading of the text leads to an inner contradiction - why are the words "טמא אתו" used - they are causative and imply that the Kohen makes the sufferer Tamei?
The resolution to this problem is hinted to by Rashi. He states that the Kohen must declare the sufferer to be ill with Tzara'at. We can take this to mean that from the moment the Kohen pronounces a man a "מצורע" (the technical name for one who suffers with צרעת). It is important to note that no matter how evident it is that someone is suffering from this condition, none of the procedures are followed until a Kohen declares the sufferer to be a Metzora. This is even the case when an expert declares a man as having Tzara'at - it is only halachicly regarded as Tzara'at once it has been pronounced as such by a Kohen, even if that Kohen is so unlearned as to practically be a boor.
There are many lessons one can learn from this, but the one I pick out is that the words of the Kohen have tremendous power here, for they effect the condition of Tzara'at. So important are the Kohen's words that we treat someone who is clearly suffering with Tzara'at as spiritually pure monents before the Kohen declares his diagnosis, even if it is abundantly obvious prior to his statement that he will only confim what is readily apparent.
In Parshat Kedoshim we read the famous phrase, "קדושים תהיו - You shall be holy." These words epitomise the Judaic belief that mortal humans can rise to tremendous spiritual heights, and that we are not "eternally damned" as Christians believe. These words imply the Jewish concept that everything in this world is to be used in our mission to attain closeness with Hashem. We believe that when we eat food, we eat it so that we may have gain the sustenance required to perform our task in this world. In a similar manner, we believe that we have been given the blessing of speech for a specific reason - for spiritual use. For this reason we thank Hashem for the food we eat, for the aromas we smell and the when we see sights of natural beauty, amongst other things. This concept is known as "elevating the mundane," of realising that everything in this world was created not out of coincidence, but by a supreme Creator. We learn that Hashem created the world with "עשר מאמרות - ten sayings," something we attest to when we say the Bracha, "שהכל נהיה בדברו - that everything was created by his word."
As Jews we try to emulate Hashem. To this end, we must understand the importance of everything that Hashem has given to us. We can maybe now understand the reason why the correction of the mistake made by one who is not careful with their speech is only initiated once a Kohen speaks and declares their condition - we have to appreciate the true value of each and every gift Hashem gives us. The question my friend posed all those years ago was a good one, but if he had known the meaning of this verse, he would never have been led to ask it. There's tremendously deep meaning contained within the words of the prayers set out for us by Chazal, and even if we don't understand their words, we are still commanded to say them.
We might think why this is, but if we understand the parallel of the Kohen who does not know the laws of Tzara'at, we know that even if one does not understand the words, their merely being spoken still calls significant spiritual forces into action. Of course it is important to understand that which one is saying, but even if one doesn't, we must be aware of the tremendous latent power in prayer. The Pasuk is worded "וטמא אתו," for it is only once the Kohen has spoken that the Tzara'at can come into force, even if the Kohen has no understanding of what actually constitutes Tzara'at. Such is the power of speech.
Wishing you a שבת שלום ומבורך!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
Parshat Shmini - פרשת שמיני
"וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה אֶל-אַהֲרֹן, קְרַב אֶל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ וַעֲשֵׂה אֶת-חַטָּאתְךָ וְאֶת-עֹלָתֶךָ, וְכַפֵּר בַּעַדְךָ, וּבְעַד הָעָם; וַעֲשֵׂה אֶת-קָרְבַּן הָעָם, וְכַפֵּר בַּעֲדָם, כַּאֲשֶׁר, צִוָּה יְהוָה - And Moshe said to Aharon: 'Draw near to the altar, and ryour sin-offering and your burnt-offering, and make atonement for yourself, and for the people; and make the offering of the people and make atonement for them, as Hashem commanded."
(ויקרא ט:ז)
Two parshiot ago, in the opening word of the book of Vayikra, we note how the letter א of the word ויקרא is written in superscript so as to make the word look likeויקר and then have a small א next to it. The reason Rashi gives there is that Moshe felt that the word ויקרא, he called, which has warm and affectionate connotations, shouldn't be used so that he would not appear to be closer to God than any other person. From that episode we learn that the root letters of that word, קרא, which reappear here, are ones that betray a sense of warmth.
In his commentary on this pasuk, Rashi explains that Aharon was embarrassed and so, calling out affectionately, Moshe gently reminded his brother that he had no need to feel embarrassed by the command as this was merely his job. The problem is, although this explanation serves us well enough to shed light on why there remains a slight difficulty; it is not entirely clear what it is that causes Aharon to feel so embarrassed.
Picking up on the same issue, Rav Moshe Feinstein writes in D'rash Moshe that the expression that Moshe Rabbeinu uses above, "קְרַב אֶל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ - Draw near to the altar," is an interesting one. Rav Feinstein explains that although Aharon, his sons and all their descendents obviously had no problem in obeying this directive and would surely fulfill this mitzvah, this particular command was quite unlike any other. Aharon and his children were aware that the mitzvot they were commanded to do in conjunction with the Avoda were given to them specifically because they were invested with a higher degree of sanctity that the rest of the Jewish people.
It is for this reason that before the Kohanim bless the congregants in synagogues around the world on Chagim, and daily in Israel, the words אשר קדשנו בקדשתו של אהרן, Who sanctified us with the sanctity of Aharon, are used; these words are not part of the formula of any other blessing, and with good reason. Although the firstborn sons of the Jewish people were originally given the honour of performing the sacrificial service before the Kohanim were formally appointed to fulfill that role, they did not have a similar blessing to recite. The reason is clear; the Kohanim have been invested with a special type of holiness, and that is something that is special and unique to them. The source of this holiness can be traced back to Aharon, the first Kohen Gadol, the very first Kohen ever.
Because of his unique stature and role, Aharon felt ashamed. Not because of any trivial reason, but because it meant his assuming a superior sanctity; something which he did not feel totally at ease with. Seeing this, his brother, Moshe, attempted to both calm him and tell him that this was what God had chosen for him, and that he need not feel embarrassed.
I think we can learn a tremendous amount from this episode. As Jews, we believe that we have a special mission in this role. To that end, we are the recipients of a special type of sanctity; one that sets apart from the other nations of the world, in much the same manner as the Kohanim are set apart from the rest of the Jewish nation. But it is crucial to note that this special attribute is not to be used as a source of excess pride or something to brag about. Similarly, I note two brachot in the morning liturgy; one for males to thank God that they were not 'made' (to translate as accurately as I can) female, and a second one in which both male and female Jews thank God that they were not 'made' non-Jewish.
At first, one might think that these blessings are highly discriminatory and offensive, but that it absolutely not the case. The point in both blessings is that each and every person on this world has their own challenge and that the role that they are tasked with fulfilling is one that is suited to them. There is obviously nothing wrong with being a woman; in fact, we can all agree that a world without women would be a fairly miserable one! The real issue being highlighted is that the person reciting the prayer is referring to the role that he has to play and is thankful for not being given one that he would be entirely unsuited to. In many, many ways, it seems to be a lot harder to be woman than a man, and I only thank God that I was not made a woman. So too with the blessing of being non-Jewish. Just like Aharon was reminded by his brother that he need not be embarrassed by his being mentioned in the Kohanim's blessing, I must understand and readily fulfill my role as a Jew. All the same, it is crucial that I must not let myself become distracted and allow my ego to overtake me; my being a Jew merely means that I am equipped to do a specific job in this world.
(ויקרא ט:ז)
Two parshiot ago, in the opening word of the book of Vayikra, we note how the letter א of the word ויקרא is written in superscript so as to make the word look likeויקר and then have a small א next to it. The reason Rashi gives there is that Moshe felt that the word ויקרא, he called, which has warm and affectionate connotations, shouldn't be used so that he would not appear to be closer to God than any other person. From that episode we learn that the root letters of that word, קרא, which reappear here, are ones that betray a sense of warmth.
In his commentary on this pasuk, Rashi explains that Aharon was embarrassed and so, calling out affectionately, Moshe gently reminded his brother that he had no need to feel embarrassed by the command as this was merely his job. The problem is, although this explanation serves us well enough to shed light on why there remains a slight difficulty; it is not entirely clear what it is that causes Aharon to feel so embarrassed.
Picking up on the same issue, Rav Moshe Feinstein writes in D'rash Moshe that the expression that Moshe Rabbeinu uses above, "קְרַב אֶל-הַמִּזְבֵּחַ - Draw near to the altar," is an interesting one. Rav Feinstein explains that although Aharon, his sons and all their descendents obviously had no problem in obeying this directive and would surely fulfill this mitzvah, this particular command was quite unlike any other. Aharon and his children were aware that the mitzvot they were commanded to do in conjunction with the Avoda were given to them specifically because they were invested with a higher degree of sanctity that the rest of the Jewish people.
It is for this reason that before the Kohanim bless the congregants in synagogues around the world on Chagim, and daily in Israel, the words אשר קדשנו בקדשתו של אהרן, Who sanctified us with the sanctity of Aharon, are used; these words are not part of the formula of any other blessing, and with good reason. Although the firstborn sons of the Jewish people were originally given the honour of performing the sacrificial service before the Kohanim were formally appointed to fulfill that role, they did not have a similar blessing to recite. The reason is clear; the Kohanim have been invested with a special type of holiness, and that is something that is special and unique to them. The source of this holiness can be traced back to Aharon, the first Kohen Gadol, the very first Kohen ever.
Because of his unique stature and role, Aharon felt ashamed. Not because of any trivial reason, but because it meant his assuming a superior sanctity; something which he did not feel totally at ease with. Seeing this, his brother, Moshe, attempted to both calm him and tell him that this was what God had chosen for him, and that he need not feel embarrassed.
I think we can learn a tremendous amount from this episode. As Jews, we believe that we have a special mission in this role. To that end, we are the recipients of a special type of sanctity; one that sets apart from the other nations of the world, in much the same manner as the Kohanim are set apart from the rest of the Jewish nation. But it is crucial to note that this special attribute is not to be used as a source of excess pride or something to brag about. Similarly, I note two brachot in the morning liturgy; one for males to thank God that they were not 'made' (to translate as accurately as I can) female, and a second one in which both male and female Jews thank God that they were not 'made' non-Jewish.
At first, one might think that these blessings are highly discriminatory and offensive, but that it absolutely not the case. The point in both blessings is that each and every person on this world has their own challenge and that the role that they are tasked with fulfilling is one that is suited to them. There is obviously nothing wrong with being a woman; in fact, we can all agree that a world without women would be a fairly miserable one! The real issue being highlighted is that the person reciting the prayer is referring to the role that he has to play and is thankful for not being given one that he would be entirely unsuited to. In many, many ways, it seems to be a lot harder to be woman than a man, and I only thank God that I was not made a woman. So too with the blessing of being non-Jewish. Just like Aharon was reminded by his brother that he need not be embarrassed by his being mentioned in the Kohanim's blessing, I must understand and readily fulfill my role as a Jew. All the same, it is crucial that I must not let myself become distracted and allow my ego to overtake me; my being a Jew merely means that I am equipped to do a specific job in this world.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Rite of Passage
First came the explosion. Then, more tellingly, followed the wail of the sirens. In the intervening gap of just under a minute, I stopped in my tracks, as did everyone else around. In perfect silence we listened together, hoping beyond hope that we'd heard something else.
Although I've been living in Israel for five and a half years, have served in the army as a combat soldier, and even been in Jerusalem at the time of other terror attacks, I still found myself shocked and indescribably raw yesterday. I had just left home to go to university (via a local synagogue so that I could pray Mincha), but as I was nearing the top of my road, I heard a distant, yet clearly very loud, explosion.
The other people around stopped in their tracks and peered down the road in the direction of the noise. Some of them immediately identified its source. "Pigu'a," one or two people said after but a few seconds. Unfortunately, they were correct; it was indeed a terror attack. It's horrible to realise that people here are so used to terrorism that they are able to so easily discern the noise made by a bomb. Naively, I tried to convince myself that this was just another loud noise - the type that can be heard in any industrial city around the world. Someone else pointed out a crane a block away that was raising something in the air. "I think maybe he dropped something there - that's what the noise was." But the claim was contradicted seconds later by the distant wail of ambulances screeching into action. And as they got louder and ever more insistent, all doubt was removed from our minds.
I felt myself slip at once into my own world of silent depression, and simultaneously was overcome with a communal sense of anger and fear. My head felt heavy with the awful realisation that some unfortunate soul had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. I am sure that everyone else present felt the same way. People all around me were shocked. Although we were roughly half a kilometre away from the incident itself, everyone stopped talking. The street was eerily quiet. We only resumed to discuss in hushed tones what might have occurred.
I'm not the type to cry. I didn't yesterday. But I feel, even now, ready to. My eyes didn't behold the explosion or even see any smoke, but I was close enough to feel a sensation akin to taking a punch to the solar plexus. It's horrible to think of it as such, but I have now passed through another rite of passage in Israeli life. I have now had to text my parents, and other concerned family members, to reassure them that I am alive. Isn't that an awful, awful reality to live in?
I continued on my way to the synagogue. The news was semi-confirmed when a concerned friend texted to ask what was happening. People on their phones sporadically filled in their fellow worshippers with more details as the minutes passed by. As the news filtered in, the injury count rose steadily from 12, to 20, upwards past 25, 30, then finally settling on somewhere between 40 and 50. And at some point, one of those injured succumbed to her injuries.
People here are tired of all the fighting. We don't want war. We really don't. But we are also confronted with an enemy that has repeatedly demonstrated a lack of respect for human life. Two weeks ago, a friend of mine called Batzion wrote a note on Facebook after the brutally savage and utterly senseless murder of five Israelis, the youngest of whom was less than six months old. She explained that "There is one thing you cannot contest - Israeli soldiers do not murder children, and they do not target civilians... when you try to name the good guys and the bad guys, remember this. We do not murder children in their sleep. No, the murderers of children are on the other side."
Before anyone indignantly points out that this is an over-simplified depiction of events, please note that that's exactly what it's supposed to be. But such a message is still relevant. Israel certainly does shoulder some of the blame for the ongoing conflict in the Middle East. No country is perfect and Israel is not an exception to that rule. Nevertheless, it is not only inaccurate, but does a grave disservice to the supposed "peace process", if we equate Israeli actions with those of terrorists. Israel might or might not illegally occupy Arab land - and many believe that Israel's case is actually legally sound - and it is fair to discuss whether such a policy might be helpful, but it cannot be said that this is equal to a blatantly evil act such as witnessed yesterday in Jerusalem.
Another Facebook friend, Didi, a left-wing campaigner for Palestinians, posted a quite frankly horrific status update following the attack: "Note to Jerusalem bomber(s): Not only have you perpetrated a crime against civilians, you have also given the Status Quo Lobby a rare gift."
On the one hand, I was hugely relieved that Didi had made an unequivocal statement against terrorism. On the other, I am deeply perturbed by the willingness to dismiss Israel's policy of not giving land away to its enemy for free and signing a peace treaty with a people that is clearly unready for peace and normal relations with us. People here fervently hope for peace. But we have basic security needs and concerns. The update accused the Israeli government of exploiting terrorism for its own aims; that those who oppose making peace now are needlessly stalling for more time; that Israel is looking forward to using this as an excuse to ignore the plight of the pitiful Palestinians while we make hay.
But the truth is that terrorism isn't an excuse by Israel; it's the reason why we are so concerned. Yes, it is important that we treat Palestinians with respect. But as Batzion pointed out, we have to make the distinction between the side that sees children as fair game for being killed in their sleep and the side whose army is used to attack military targets. As long as Israel has an enemy that seeks to kill civilians, we have a genuine right to resist signing phoney peace contracts. It would be the height of foolishness to make pretend-peace without confronting the very real differences and problems that so plague this conflict. And first among them has to be absolute rejection of terrorism by Palestinians. How can we expect to make peace with a people who glorify terrorism and the murder of innocents? It is not like your average Israeli doesn't want peace. But we would be fools, nothing less than fools, if we were to ignore the reality.
Did you know that last week, a rally in Gaza attracted thousands of people to gather under one flag and demonstrate as one? No, me neither. But here's the proof. 25,000 Gazans stood together to call for national unity. Now, if that kind of level of activism and desire is achievable, why do we not see even half as many people demonstrating against terrorism? After all, Israel regular witnesses protests against the far more contentious issue of IDF conduct against the Palestinians. Why can't these be reciprocated? Terrorism is almost universally condemned. Why do we make excuses for its continued acceptance in Arab society? No, not all Arabs are evil or want to see us Jews killed. But it is fair to generalise to some extent and say that we cannot make peace with people like this. Not every Arab is a terrorist, but each and every Arab has a responsibility to condemn terrorism. Without that base to build on, Israel cannot make peace, no matter how much it wants to. Period.
Although I've been living in Israel for five and a half years, have served in the army as a combat soldier, and even been in Jerusalem at the time of other terror attacks, I still found myself shocked and indescribably raw yesterday. I had just left home to go to university (via a local synagogue so that I could pray Mincha), but as I was nearing the top of my road, I heard a distant, yet clearly very loud, explosion.
The other people around stopped in their tracks and peered down the road in the direction of the noise. Some of them immediately identified its source. "Pigu'a," one or two people said after but a few seconds. Unfortunately, they were correct; it was indeed a terror attack. It's horrible to realise that people here are so used to terrorism that they are able to so easily discern the noise made by a bomb. Naively, I tried to convince myself that this was just another loud noise - the type that can be heard in any industrial city around the world. Someone else pointed out a crane a block away that was raising something in the air. "I think maybe he dropped something there - that's what the noise was." But the claim was contradicted seconds later by the distant wail of ambulances screeching into action. And as they got louder and ever more insistent, all doubt was removed from our minds.
I felt myself slip at once into my own world of silent depression, and simultaneously was overcome with a communal sense of anger and fear. My head felt heavy with the awful realisation that some unfortunate soul had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. I am sure that everyone else present felt the same way. People all around me were shocked. Although we were roughly half a kilometre away from the incident itself, everyone stopped talking. The street was eerily quiet. We only resumed to discuss in hushed tones what might have occurred.
I'm not the type to cry. I didn't yesterday. But I feel, even now, ready to. My eyes didn't behold the explosion or even see any smoke, but I was close enough to feel a sensation akin to taking a punch to the solar plexus. It's horrible to think of it as such, but I have now passed through another rite of passage in Israeli life. I have now had to text my parents, and other concerned family members, to reassure them that I am alive. Isn't that an awful, awful reality to live in?
I continued on my way to the synagogue. The news was semi-confirmed when a concerned friend texted to ask what was happening. People on their phones sporadically filled in their fellow worshippers with more details as the minutes passed by. As the news filtered in, the injury count rose steadily from 12, to 20, upwards past 25, 30, then finally settling on somewhere between 40 and 50. And at some point, one of those injured succumbed to her injuries.
People here are tired of all the fighting. We don't want war. We really don't. But we are also confronted with an enemy that has repeatedly demonstrated a lack of respect for human life. Two weeks ago, a friend of mine called Batzion wrote a note on Facebook after the brutally savage and utterly senseless murder of five Israelis, the youngest of whom was less than six months old. She explained that "There is one thing you cannot contest - Israeli soldiers do not murder children, and they do not target civilians... when you try to name the good guys and the bad guys, remember this. We do not murder children in their sleep. No, the murderers of children are on the other side."
Before anyone indignantly points out that this is an over-simplified depiction of events, please note that that's exactly what it's supposed to be. But such a message is still relevant. Israel certainly does shoulder some of the blame for the ongoing conflict in the Middle East. No country is perfect and Israel is not an exception to that rule. Nevertheless, it is not only inaccurate, but does a grave disservice to the supposed "peace process", if we equate Israeli actions with those of terrorists. Israel might or might not illegally occupy Arab land - and many believe that Israel's case is actually legally sound - and it is fair to discuss whether such a policy might be helpful, but it cannot be said that this is equal to a blatantly evil act such as witnessed yesterday in Jerusalem.
Another Facebook friend, Didi, a left-wing campaigner for Palestinians, posted a quite frankly horrific status update following the attack: "Note to Jerusalem bomber(s): Not only have you perpetrated a crime against civilians, you have also given the Status Quo Lobby a rare gift."
On the one hand, I was hugely relieved that Didi had made an unequivocal statement against terrorism. On the other, I am deeply perturbed by the willingness to dismiss Israel's policy of not giving land away to its enemy for free and signing a peace treaty with a people that is clearly unready for peace and normal relations with us. People here fervently hope for peace. But we have basic security needs and concerns. The update accused the Israeli government of exploiting terrorism for its own aims; that those who oppose making peace now are needlessly stalling for more time; that Israel is looking forward to using this as an excuse to ignore the plight of the pitiful Palestinians while we make hay.
But the truth is that terrorism isn't an excuse by Israel; it's the reason why we are so concerned. Yes, it is important that we treat Palestinians with respect. But as Batzion pointed out, we have to make the distinction between the side that sees children as fair game for being killed in their sleep and the side whose army is used to attack military targets. As long as Israel has an enemy that seeks to kill civilians, we have a genuine right to resist signing phoney peace contracts. It would be the height of foolishness to make pretend-peace without confronting the very real differences and problems that so plague this conflict. And first among them has to be absolute rejection of terrorism by Palestinians. How can we expect to make peace with a people who glorify terrorism and the murder of innocents? It is not like your average Israeli doesn't want peace. But we would be fools, nothing less than fools, if we were to ignore the reality.
Did you know that last week, a rally in Gaza attracted thousands of people to gather under one flag and demonstrate as one? No, me neither. But here's the proof. 25,000 Gazans stood together to call for national unity. Now, if that kind of level of activism and desire is achievable, why do we not see even half as many people demonstrating against terrorism? After all, Israel regular witnesses protests against the far more contentious issue of IDF conduct against the Palestinians. Why can't these be reciprocated? Terrorism is almost universally condemned. Why do we make excuses for its continued acceptance in Arab society? No, not all Arabs are evil or want to see us Jews killed. But it is fair to generalise to some extent and say that we cannot make peace with people like this. Not every Arab is a terrorist, but each and every Arab has a responsibility to condemn terrorism. Without that base to build on, Israel cannot make peace, no matter how much it wants to. Period.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Parshat T'tzav - פרשת צו
"צו את אהרן ואת בניו לאמר זאת תורת העלה היא העלה על מוקדה על המזבח כל הלילה עד הבקר ואש המזבח תוקד בו - Command Aharon and his sons saying: This is the law of the elevation-offering: It is the elevation offering that stays on the flame, on the altar, all the night until the morning, and the fire of the altar should be kept aflame on it." (ויקרא ו:ב)
In his commentary on the Torah, Rashi points out that the tersely worded: "Command Aharon," implies that there should be a certain urgency and zeal to get on with the task at hand. He goes on to explain that though this particular mitzvah incurs a "Chesron Kis" a loss of money, (the offering was to be burned rather than eaten by the Kohanim) it should be performed with the same joy as a mitzvah that is enjoyable.
This seems rather sensible. But the person being commanded here is no less than Aharon, the first Kohel HaGadol. The person being told to regard this mitzva is one of the holiest people Am Yisrael ever had; surely he knew all too well the importance of serving Hashem with real joy? There has to be an added level of meaning that we don't understand straight away.
If we pay close attention, we also note that Rashi says that this is applicable not only then but "ולדורות - And for all the generations". What does this mean exactly?
The answer can be found in the Lekach Tov, which cites Pirkei Avot, "ואל תאמין בעצמך עד יום מותך - Do not believe in yourself till the day of your death." (ב:ה) The meaning of this teaching is that one should realise the root of everything in this world, and be careful not to accredit himself with anything, but rather make a point of acknowledging Hashem's role as the orchestrator of all that goes on in this world.
Beyond that, every Jew is human, and every single one of us is continually struggling with our Yetzer Hara. No matter how high we have risen, we all have the basic inclination to relax and say, "I deserve it!" There will always be a challenge, and it is imoportant to realise that one has never reached his final destination in this life - we can never stop and relax; that is something reserved for the next world. We only have a limited amount of time in this world, and for that reason alone, we should make every mitzvah count.
We must remember that the Rabbis and great people spoken about in the Torah were not demi-gods like those found in other religions, but were flesh and blood like us. They had their only battles, and were made great by winning over their wills. They were not created great; they forged themselves into true servants of Hashem by battling their evil inclination.
Aharon was a human being too, and we must realise that in his generation (and as Rashi points out, in all generations,) those who were pious had just as much responsibility as the common people to be careful to fulfill Hashem's word. Even one who has climbed the ladder to greatness must not believe that they have "achieved it all" - not even on one's dying day must on relent from the pursuit of self-betterment and mitzvot.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom and a Purim Sameach :)
In his commentary on the Torah, Rashi points out that the tersely worded: "Command Aharon," implies that there should be a certain urgency and zeal to get on with the task at hand. He goes on to explain that though this particular mitzvah incurs a "Chesron Kis" a loss of money, (the offering was to be burned rather than eaten by the Kohanim) it should be performed with the same joy as a mitzvah that is enjoyable.
This seems rather sensible. But the person being commanded here is no less than Aharon, the first Kohel HaGadol. The person being told to regard this mitzva is one of the holiest people Am Yisrael ever had; surely he knew all too well the importance of serving Hashem with real joy? There has to be an added level of meaning that we don't understand straight away.
If we pay close attention, we also note that Rashi says that this is applicable not only then but "ולדורות - And for all the generations". What does this mean exactly?
The answer can be found in the Lekach Tov, which cites Pirkei Avot, "ואל תאמין בעצמך עד יום מותך - Do not believe in yourself till the day of your death." (ב:ה) The meaning of this teaching is that one should realise the root of everything in this world, and be careful not to accredit himself with anything, but rather make a point of acknowledging Hashem's role as the orchestrator of all that goes on in this world.
Beyond that, every Jew is human, and every single one of us is continually struggling with our Yetzer Hara. No matter how high we have risen, we all have the basic inclination to relax and say, "I deserve it!" There will always be a challenge, and it is imoportant to realise that one has never reached his final destination in this life - we can never stop and relax; that is something reserved for the next world. We only have a limited amount of time in this world, and for that reason alone, we should make every mitzvah count.
We must remember that the Rabbis and great people spoken about in the Torah were not demi-gods like those found in other religions, but were flesh and blood like us. They had their only battles, and were made great by winning over their wills. They were not created great; they forged themselves into true servants of Hashem by battling their evil inclination.
Aharon was a human being too, and we must realise that in his generation (and as Rashi points out, in all generations,) those who were pious had just as much responsibility as the common people to be careful to fulfill Hashem's word. Even one who has climbed the ladder to greatness must not believe that they have "achieved it all" - not even on one's dying day must on relent from the pursuit of self-betterment and mitzvot.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom and a Purim Sameach :)
Friday, March 11, 2011
Parshat Vayikra - פרשת ויקרא
"ונפש כי תקריב קרבן מנחה ליהוה סלת, יהיה קרבנו; ויצק עליה שמן, ונתן עליה לבנה - When a man will bring a meal-offering to Hashem, his offering shall be of fine flour; and he shall pour oil upon it, and put frankincense thereon."
(ויקרא ב:א)
In Rashi's commentary on the verse above, we read that "It doesn't say 'Nefesh' [literally meaning "a soul"] with the other voluntary offerings, but only [in this instance] with the Mincha offering. Who is it that gives the Mincha? A poor person. So Hashem says, 'I will consider it on his behalf as if he offered his own soul.'"
Rashi makes a profound point here, namely that the Hebrew word for soul is employed here for a specific reason. Whereas it would normally use Adam (man) to refer to a person, here the word Nefesh (soul) is used to show that the sacrifice of a poor person is considered to be of the highest value in Hashem's eyes; so much so that he considers an offering of this kind to be as if the giver had given of their very soul, whatever that may mean. Now, we can certainly understand why the word "Nefesh/soul" is employed here, but it still seems a little odd. What bothered Rashi so much that he had to explain this usage?
To answer, I'd like to refer to a point made by Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch in his commentary to the Torah. He explains that the opening words of the pasuk "When a soul will bring" can be read in more than one way. We can either read this phrase literally as "when a soul brings a mincha offering," or we can interpret these words to mean "when a soul is brought as a mincha offering." In the offerings that are described preceding this one, the blood of a slaughtered animal, it's very lifeblood, was a part of the sacrifice. This blood made up the "soul" of the offering that was given to Hashem.
The word Mincha, when used in it's regular sense, can be taken to mean a gift, a present. This seems at odds with the Mincha offering itself, for in actuality it was only a very simple thing, consisting of nothing more than wheat flour, oil, frankincense and sometimes some water added — hardly a fancy five course meal. Despite this, because the person deprived himself so that he could to give something, despite his circumstances, Hashem finds this seemingly meagre gift to be a real source of pleasure.
As such, whereas the soul of an animal is the essence of those previous offerings, compared to this offering that consists of but a few ingredients, none of which are expensive or require the (costly) slaughter of an animal, this offering is still regarded highly by Hashem. Perhaps this is because, in Rav Hirsch's words, or at least in the words of his translator, "the Nefesh is not the Korban, but the Makriv," meaning that the soul of this offering is not found in the offering, but in the one who comes to offer it.
Isaac Levy, the man who translated Rav Hirsch's commentary from German to English, points out something intriguing in the English version of the Rav Hirsch's edition of the Torah. He explain there that in the section detailing the sin offerings, the name of Hashem used above, the name that is associated with absolute justice (as opposed to another name of God which refers to mercy) is not referred to even once. It's absence serves to teach us that each and every time we sin, Hashem mercifully temporarily suspends true justice.
Rav David Feinstein makes a similar observation on the second pasuk of the parsha. There we read the words, "אדם כי-יקריב מכם קרבן לה, When a man shall bring from you an offering to Hashem." Rav Feinstein notes that one word, מכם, from you, seems to be superfluous. The reason it is written, he says, is so as to indicate that when one brings an offering to the slaughter, he should realise that truly the one who should be slaughtered is none other than himself. Hashem grants us a chance at repenting, but it is only through His mercy that we are permitted to survive so much as a second after sinning. The word מכם teaches that when one brings such an offering, he must have the conviction that he should really have brought the offering literally from himself, and not from some animal "surrogate".
Even though we no longer have a Bet Hamikdash, we can still learn a valuable lesson in regret. When we wrong a human we often go out of our way to apologise to and placate them. But when it comes to lapses in our spiritual obligations it seems that all too often we shrug and say, "Oh well." We might also pause to think about the number of times we upset other people carelessly. Even if that person forgives us quickly, we should be careful to think about how to rectify the source of our mistakes. If we understand the message taught here, and adopt a genuine and serious attitude towards correcting our mistakes, hopefully we can do our best to avoid lapses in the future.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
(ויקרא ב:א)
In Rashi's commentary on the verse above, we read that "It doesn't say 'Nefesh' [literally meaning "a soul"] with the other voluntary offerings, but only [in this instance] with the Mincha offering. Who is it that gives the Mincha? A poor person. So Hashem says, 'I will consider it on his behalf as if he offered his own soul.'"
Rashi makes a profound point here, namely that the Hebrew word for soul is employed here for a specific reason. Whereas it would normally use Adam (man) to refer to a person, here the word Nefesh (soul) is used to show that the sacrifice of a poor person is considered to be of the highest value in Hashem's eyes; so much so that he considers an offering of this kind to be as if the giver had given of their very soul, whatever that may mean. Now, we can certainly understand why the word "Nefesh/soul" is employed here, but it still seems a little odd. What bothered Rashi so much that he had to explain this usage?
To answer, I'd like to refer to a point made by Rav Shimshon Rephael Hirsch in his commentary to the Torah. He explains that the opening words of the pasuk "When a soul will bring" can be read in more than one way. We can either read this phrase literally as "when a soul brings a mincha offering," or we can interpret these words to mean "when a soul is brought as a mincha offering." In the offerings that are described preceding this one, the blood of a slaughtered animal, it's very lifeblood, was a part of the sacrifice. This blood made up the "soul" of the offering that was given to Hashem.
The word Mincha, when used in it's regular sense, can be taken to mean a gift, a present. This seems at odds with the Mincha offering itself, for in actuality it was only a very simple thing, consisting of nothing more than wheat flour, oil, frankincense and sometimes some water added — hardly a fancy five course meal. Despite this, because the person deprived himself so that he could to give something, despite his circumstances, Hashem finds this seemingly meagre gift to be a real source of pleasure.
As such, whereas the soul of an animal is the essence of those previous offerings, compared to this offering that consists of but a few ingredients, none of which are expensive or require the (costly) slaughter of an animal, this offering is still regarded highly by Hashem. Perhaps this is because, in Rav Hirsch's words, or at least in the words of his translator, "the Nefesh is not the Korban, but the Makriv," meaning that the soul of this offering is not found in the offering, but in the one who comes to offer it.
Isaac Levy, the man who translated Rav Hirsch's commentary from German to English, points out something intriguing in the English version of the Rav Hirsch's edition of the Torah. He explain there that in the section detailing the sin offerings, the name of Hashem used above, the name that is associated with absolute justice (as opposed to another name of God which refers to mercy) is not referred to even once. It's absence serves to teach us that each and every time we sin, Hashem mercifully temporarily suspends true justice.
Rav David Feinstein makes a similar observation on the second pasuk of the parsha. There we read the words, "אדם כי-יקריב מכם קרבן לה, When a man shall bring from you an offering to Hashem." Rav Feinstein notes that one word, מכם, from you, seems to be superfluous. The reason it is written, he says, is so as to indicate that when one brings an offering to the slaughter, he should realise that truly the one who should be slaughtered is none other than himself. Hashem grants us a chance at repenting, but it is only through His mercy that we are permitted to survive so much as a second after sinning. The word מכם teaches that when one brings such an offering, he must have the conviction that he should really have brought the offering literally from himself, and not from some animal "surrogate".
Even though we no longer have a Bet Hamikdash, we can still learn a valuable lesson in regret. When we wrong a human we often go out of our way to apologise to and placate them. But when it comes to lapses in our spiritual obligations it seems that all too often we shrug and say, "Oh well." We might also pause to think about the number of times we upset other people carelessly. Even if that person forgives us quickly, we should be careful to think about how to rectify the source of our mistakes. If we understand the message taught here, and adopt a genuine and serious attitude towards correcting our mistakes, hopefully we can do our best to avoid lapses in the future.
Wishing you a Shabbat Shalom!
Friday, March 04, 2011
Parshat Pikudei - פרשת פקודי
"ותכל כל עבודת משכן אהל מועד ויעשו בני ישראל ככל אשר צוה ה' את-משה, כן עשו - All the work of the tabernacle of the Tent of Meeting was completed, and the Children of Israel did according to all that Hashem commanded Moses, so they did."
(Exodus 39:32)
The most obvious way to read the verse above is that it makes a simple statement: that the Jews finished building the Mishkan in accordance with the commandments laid down by Hashem. There is, however, another way we may look at this short passage that I'd like to share in this D'var Torah.
There is a well-noted Jewish concept taught in Gemara Sukkah known as "העוסק במצווה פטור מן המצווה - One who is currently involved in performing a mitzvah is exempt from performing another mitzvah." Rationalising this command, we can see that there is a lot of logic in this dictum. Instead of jumping from mitzvah to mitzvah, we learn that so long as one is busy seeing to one mitzvah, one is completely exempt from performing other mitzvot.
Returning to the context of the verse above, we may note that for last few Parshiot in the Torah, we have been reading about how the Mishkan was built. As the Imrei Shefer explains, the Jews were involved in this mitzvah intensively and did not participate in other mitzvot. However, the moment that they finished the work on the Mishkan, they did not rest, but immediately resumed their normal tasks and roles. Instead of allowing themselves to rest contented with the work that they had done, they realised that they were no longer exempt from other mitzvot and it was incumbent upon them to continue working.
I think we may take two rather important lessons from this. First and foremost, if we have a number of tasks to do, it is better to do them each properly than to try and do as many as possible, to the detriment of the quality of each. Far better would be to tackle each task on its own. The person who tries doing five things at once will inevitably do none of them well.
Second, we may also recognise that often after an achievement, we think that we may take things easy. While this may or may not be true in the academic world, when it comes to working on and bettering oneself, and when it comes to Jewish responsibilities, we know that the task demands our undivided attention and energy. There's not a second to lose and we cannot afford to lie back and bask in our earlier achievements. Just like the Children of Israel went back to work on the other mitzvot, so too must we not allow ourselves to rest any more than is necessary. Onwards and upwards!
Shabbat Shalom :)
(Exodus 39:32)
The most obvious way to read the verse above is that it makes a simple statement: that the Jews finished building the Mishkan in accordance with the commandments laid down by Hashem. There is, however, another way we may look at this short passage that I'd like to share in this D'var Torah.
There is a well-noted Jewish concept taught in Gemara Sukkah known as "העוסק במצווה פטור מן המצווה - One who is currently involved in performing a mitzvah is exempt from performing another mitzvah." Rationalising this command, we can see that there is a lot of logic in this dictum. Instead of jumping from mitzvah to mitzvah, we learn that so long as one is busy seeing to one mitzvah, one is completely exempt from performing other mitzvot.
Returning to the context of the verse above, we may note that for last few Parshiot in the Torah, we have been reading about how the Mishkan was built. As the Imrei Shefer explains, the Jews were involved in this mitzvah intensively and did not participate in other mitzvot. However, the moment that they finished the work on the Mishkan, they did not rest, but immediately resumed their normal tasks and roles. Instead of allowing themselves to rest contented with the work that they had done, they realised that they were no longer exempt from other mitzvot and it was incumbent upon them to continue working.
I think we may take two rather important lessons from this. First and foremost, if we have a number of tasks to do, it is better to do them each properly than to try and do as many as possible, to the detriment of the quality of each. Far better would be to tackle each task on its own. The person who tries doing five things at once will inevitably do none of them well.
Second, we may also recognise that often after an achievement, we think that we may take things easy. While this may or may not be true in the academic world, when it comes to working on and bettering oneself, and when it comes to Jewish responsibilities, we know that the task demands our undivided attention and energy. There's not a second to lose and we cannot afford to lie back and bask in our earlier achievements. Just like the Children of Israel went back to work on the other mitzvot, so too must we not allow ourselves to rest any more than is necessary. Onwards and upwards!
Shabbat Shalom :)
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