The Ideal Dinner Table / Parshat Vayikra

Why did God want – or why did our ancestors understand God to command – the sacrifice of animals and grains, with their accompanying incense offerings and wine libations? How does this serve God? How does this ennoble Israel? In what way does this promote kedushah (holiness)? Torah asserts often that God enjoys the “sweet savor” of the sacrifices offered by humans. But does this mean that God “needs” or “wants” the sacrifices?

Sefer Vayikra (the Book of Leviticus), which we begin this week, reads much like a pocket manual for kohanim (priests) ministering in the Mishkan: when, under what circumstances, and how each sacrifice is to be made in the minutest detail. For some, this material is fascinating. For others, it is a major yawn. For yet others, it is a major embarrassment: the image of slaughtering animals, sprinkling their blood on the altar or against the curtain to the Holy of Holies, and burning their entrails so the smoke will rise to heaven – sounds brutal, primitive, irrational, and barbaric.

How might we think about the animal sacrifices that were the cornerstone of our people’s worship from Sinai until 70 C.E., from the completion of the Mishkan until the destruction of the Second Temple?

Rambam (Moses Maimonides, 1135-1204), the consummate rationalist, makes a radical suggestion in his Moreh Nevuchim (“Guide for the Perplexed”). God ordained animal sacrifices to wean Israel off the idolatry they witnessed among the surrounding nations, and particularly to separate them from the abomination of human sacrifice:

They were used to a form of worship that included fire, and they were raised [in an environment that included] sacrificing animals on which they placed idols… It was for this reason that God preserved these kinds of worship, but transferred them from creatures and imaginary matters, and commanded us [to sacrifice] to God, may God be praised. (Moreh Nevuchim, section 3, chapter 32)

Rambam is saying that God never desired sacrifice for God’s own sake, and indeed it has no intrinsic religious value. The entire sacrificial system is a concession designed to provide Israel a stepping stone along the path from primitive paganism to ideal worship, comprised of prayer, study, and deeds of kindness. Rambam further suggests that the particular animals sacrificed in the Mishkan, and later in the Temple, were chosen to correspond to the deities worshiped by ancient peoples. Sheep, he held, were worshiped in Egypt; goats were worshiped in Chaldea; and cattle were worshiped in India. Israel would thereby uproot idolatry in the very act of sacrificing sheet, goats, and cattle to God.

Ramban (Rabbi Moses ben Nachman Girondi, 1194-1270, also known as Nachmanides) claimed that the Rambam’s explanation was sheer nonsense. Torah affirms frequently that God enjoys the “sweet savor” of the sacrifices. Abel and Noah offered sacrifices yet they were not Jews and their sacrifices had nothing to do with idolatry. Rather, Ramban tells us, offering sacrifices acknowledges our subservience to God because through sacrifice, we substitute an animal life for a human life. Moreover, Israel’s sacrifices ensured that the Shechinah (God’s divine presence in our world) would remain among them and not depart.

Curiously, we find in Vayikra Rabbah a midrash that seems to span the seemingly unbridgeable abyss between Rambam (Maimonides) and Ramban (Nachmanides). The midrash addresses Leviticus 17:3 which seems to suggest that the only permissible consumption of meat is that which was slaughtered by the priests in the Tabernacle. The midrash presents an argument between R. Yishmael and R. Akiba in which the former says that Leviticus 17:3 comes to permit the non-sacred slaughter of meat, which had previously been forbidden, and the latter claims the inverse. R. Yishmael, who claims that Torah limits slaughter and consumption of meat to sacrifices, teaches:

It was taught by R. Yishmael: Owing to the fact that in the wilderness Israel were forbidden to eat flesh of desire, Scripture exhorts them that they should bring their sacrifices to the priest, and the priest would slaughter them and receive the blood. Although the owners sat and thought all day long [that they intended their offerings for idols] everything depends only on the one who slaughters [i.e. the priest, not the person who brings the sacrifice]… R. Pinchas said in the name of R. Levi: This is analogous to a king’s son who thought he could do what he liked and habitually ate the flesh of all types of carrion. The king said: “I will have him always [eat] at my own table and he will become habituated to eating [as we do at this table].” Similarly, because Israel were passionate followers after idolatry in Egypt and used to bring their sacrifices to the goat-demons, as it is written, And they shall no more sacrifice their sacrifices to the goat-demons (Leviticus. 17:7)… the Holy One blessed be God said: “Let them offer their sacrifices to Me at all times in the Tent of Meeting and thus they will be separated from idolatry and be saved from punishment.” (Leviticus Rabbah 22:7, 8)

The king seeks to inculcate new habits in his brutish son, but as a parent he also cherishes the company of his child and the communion their time together makes possible. There is sacred meeting at the dinner table – just as there is sacred time at the family dinner table today. The king takes pleasure in his son’s company and his son’s progress.

For our ancestors, the Tabernacle was the nexus of heaven and earth. Imagine a cone (representing heaven) with the large side opening up and the small end downward, touching a second cone (representing earth) whose small end faces upward and whose bottom opens downward. What joins the realms of heaven and earth? Where do they meet? The nexus is the Mishkan, where sacrifices are offered. Torah, the Book of Leviticus especially, reflects an idyllic memory of the Mishkan – complete, perfect, ideal. Earth as a reflection of heaven; sacrifice as a conduit between heaven and earth. The ideal family dinner table at which are seated God and God’s children, loving one another talking with one another, sharing what is most precious with one another.

If we do not long for a return to sacrifices (and while some do, many of us do not), we nonetheless long for the idealized vision of connection with heaven, an open conduit for our thoughts and prayers, and God’s presence and compassion. That, our Sages have taught, comes through Torah, prayer, and gemilut chasadim (deeds of loving kindness). What have you done this week to open the conduit and keep the flow moving?

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Mirror, mirror on the laver / Parshat Vayakhel

The ritual of washing our hands before eating bread derives from the requirement of the kohanim (priests) who washed their hands and feet prior to service in the Mishkan (wilderness Tabernacle) and later in the Temple in Jerusalem. The Rabbis transferred this ritual from the sacred precinct into the home, the mikdash m’at (small sanctuary) so we would all be “priests” and could all participate.

This week’s parashah, Vayakhel (which we read coupled with Pekudei) continues the description of the furnishings and rituals of the Tabernacle. Among these was the laver, where the kohanim washed their hands and feet. The laver stood between the altar and the entrance to the Ohel Mo’ed (Tent of Meeting).

He made the laver of copper and its pedestal of copper, from the mirrors of the women who performed tasks [tzav’u] at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. (Exodus 38:8)

What are these mirrors and what did the women do that was so noteworthy?

Rashi, drawing on Sotah 11b, comments:

The daughters of Israel had in their possession copper mirrors that they would look into when they would beautify themselves. Even these they did not withhold from bringing to contribute to the Mishkan. But Moses rejected them because they were made for [accomplishing acts of] the evil inclination. The Holy One, blessed be God, said [to Moses]: “Accept [the mirrors] because these are the dearest to Me of all, for by means of them, the women established many legions [tz’vaot rabot] in Egypt.” When their husbands would be exhausted by the oppressive work, they would go and bring them food and drink and feed them. Then they would take the mirrors, and each would view herself with her husband in the mirror and entice him with words, saying, “I am more beautiful than you.” By these means, they would bring their husbands to desire and would have sexual relations with them, and conceive and give birth there, as it is said, Under the apple tree I aroused you (Song of Songs 8:5).

Moses is concerned that the mirrors are used only for vanity, and vanity leads to lewdness and immortality. Moses sees them as instruments of the Yetzer Ra (the evil inclination) and thereby unsuitable for the purifying laver. But God sees the situation differently: when Israel was enslaved in Egypt, the women used the mirrors to entice their exhausted husbands into having sexual relations with them so that children would be born and the people would survive. They saved the Jewish people through flirtation, love, tender care paid to their husbands, and a commitment to bringing forth another generation. Given all that negativity and judgmentalism that surrounds sexuality in our society, this is a wonderfully positive and affirming midrash. It tells us that sexuality that leads to stable, loving relationships and households is desirable and praiseworthy. This speaks to the current controversy surrounding same-sex marriages.

Yoma 69b fancifully recounts that on one occasion, people captured the Yetzer Ra and imprisoned it in a sealed lead container, hoping to rid the world of evil.

They imprisoned him for three days, then looked throughout the whole land of Israel for a fresh egg and could not find one. They said: What shall we do now? Shall we kill him? They world would then go down. Shall we beg for half-mercy? They do not grant halves in heaven. They put out his eyes and let him go. It helped insofar as he no longer lures men against relatives. (Yoma 69b)

The midrash Rashi cites, as well as the one from Yoma remind us that the Yetzer Ra is an urge deriving from our natural biological-sexual energy. Certainly there is the possibility of doing much evil, but so too can it be harnessed for positive purposes. The Rabbis understood that that without the energy of the Yetzer Ra, “no man would build a house or marry a wife” and no constructive work would be done. The goal then, is to use sexual energy for good.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

How much is a half-shekel really? / Parshat Ki Tissa

Rabbi Elimelech of Lizensk (1717-1786) taught, “Money is like fire. Like fire it can destroy and annihilate, or illuminate and warm, depending on how it is used.” An economic downturn is an appropriate time to revisit the questions how we use our financial resources, and the meaning of money in people’s lives.

The Israelites, newly freed from Egyptian bondage, have generously contributed their resources – as we are told in Terumah and Tetzaveh – to build the Mishkan (wilderness Tabernacle) to invite God’s presence into their lives. They have invested the little they possess in creating community, investing community with spirituality, and assuring that future generations would have a stake in the Covenant forged at Mt. Sinai. They did not ask: does this meet my personal needs right now? They acted out of generosity, considering the needs of the community and future generations, a most inspiring model for us.

In this week’s parashah, Ki Tissa, we are told that every Israelite contributes equally each year to the Mishkan:

This is what everyone who is entered into the records shall pay: a half-shekel by the sanctuary weight – twenty gerahs to the shekel – a half-shekel as an offering to the Lord… the rich shall not pay more and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel when giving the Lord’s offering as expiation for your persons. (Exodus 30: 13, 15)

The half-shekel is a nominal amount, but all matters related to money have the potential to be either divisive or unifying. We have all seen this in families, in synagogues, and in civic society. But what does it mean that the half-shekel was given as expiation, or ransom, for one’s soul?

Menachem Mendel, the Kotzker Rebbe (1787-1859) explained: Moses could not understand how a mere coin could serve a person as "a ransom for his soul to God.” God answered him by showing him a "coin of fire." God was saying that when a person performs even a modest act of charity with the fire of passion and enthusiasm, he is indeed giving a piece of his soul. As we learn to live on less, we must learn to appreciate each act of generosity more – a good idea at all times, but a necessity now. At a time when finances are tight, it is all the more important that our synagogues, societal institutions, and political institutions be more responsive to the needs of its members, and not only the goals and desires of those in positions of power.

Midrash HaGadol says that the essence of the half-shekel mitzvah is that each person should contribute half the value of the dominant coin at the time, be it a takal, a selah, or a darcon. A Hasidic master asked: Why not a complete coin? To teach that no person is complete unto him or herself. Only by joining with another can a person become a “whole being.”

In the case of the half-shekel, two half-shekels combined to make one whole are not sufficient either. The contributions of the entire community are needed: the creativity, strength, enthusiasm, participation, and caring of everyone is needed for the Tabernacle to function properly. So too our institutions and communities. Our task is to encourage everyone to see that their half-shekel is worth intrinsically more than its nominal monetary value.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Feel the Light / Parshat Tetazveh

Although the Egyptians discovered how to fashion candles of beeswax 4000 years ago, in Eretz Yisrael during the biblical period clay oil lamps and olive oil provided illumination. Antiquities shops throughout Israel today offer such lamps for sale and many people I know display them in their homes. No doubt, every home in ancient Israel sported such lamps and, as Torah tells us, the menorah in the Mishkan (wilderness Tabernacle) was composed of seven oil lamps.

Our Torah portion begins:

You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of crushed olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. (Ex. 27:20)

The eternally burning lamp stand is the model for the Ner Tamid (eternal light) that hangs above the ark of every synagogue, symbolizing our eternal covenant with God and reminding us that every synagogue is a mikdash m’at (a Mishkan in miniature).

The verse quoted above tells us that clear oil of crushed olives was required for lightning the menorah. Why does Torah bother with these details? Would we not have known that oil is made by crushing olives and must be clear and pure?

Concerning the requirement for clear, refined oil to fuel the menorah, traditional commentators tell us this teaches that just as the oil must not be contaminated, neither should we allow ourselves to be contaminated by selfishness, pride, and avarice. We should seek to refine ourselves through patience, chesed (loving kindness), and tzedakah (righteousness).

Midrash Exodus Rabbah 36:1 learns another lesson from the clear, refined olive oil about preserving a strong Jewish identity: “Even as the oil of the olive does not mix with other liquids with which it comes into contact, so has the people Israel kept its own identity when it came into contact with other nations.” The best way to preserve our unique values, worldview, and sacred texts is to cultivate in ourselves and in our children a strong and vibrant Jewish identity.

What about the crushed olives? Rashi interprets these words katit l’ma-or v’lo katit la’menuchot (literally: “for the menorah and not for the meal offering”). Rashi’s words have been understood (out of context) to be a psychological message: “crushed for light, and not for depression.” Life deals crushing blows to us. Sometimes these crushing blows affect us as individuals. Certainly loss and death are the most staggering. At many times in history, we as a people experienced crushing blows. Yet our response – Rashi tells us – should be to look for the light, and to be a light to others. The response to darkness is to light a candle. The response to loss is love. The response to despair is to kindle hope.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Nuggets of Gold in the Ark / Parshat Terumah

What did the wilderness Tabernacle look like? What was it made of? How was it constructed? A myriad details of the Tabernacle, as well as its furnishings and vessels are contained in parshat Terumah. Sages and scholars have poured over this parashah in an effort to understand every detail of the complex structure our ancestors built in the wilderness and regularly dissembled and moved to a new location where they reassembled it. The material list alone gives us pause to consider the project with awe: fine twisted linen, cloth woven of goats’ hair, dolphin skins, acadia wood planks (some overlaid with gold), silver sockets, an acacia wood altar overlaid with copper, pails, scrapers, basins, hooks and firepans of copper, and much more.

Here’s a broad view: the wilderness Tabernacle consisted of a Ohel Moed (Tent of Meeting), and within that the Mishkan (Tabernacle). The Mishkan consisted of two chambers: the Kodesh (Holy) and the inner sanctum, the Kodesh ha-Kodashim (Holy of Holies). In the Holy of Holies the aron (ark) containing the tablets Moses brought down Sinai rested.

Parshat Terumah’s details, like the aron itself, contain treasure. Here are two nuggets of gold:

Overlay [the ark] with pure gold – overlay it inside and out – make upon it a gold molding round about. (Exodus 25:11)

Why cover the inside of the ark with gold? No one will ever see it because the ark is sealed and never opened. The Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 72b comments, “Any Torah scholar whose interior is not like his exterior is no Torah scholar.” Yoma’s message applies to scholars, to be sure, but to us all, as well. We all seen people whose slick façade covers a lack of integrity or morality; we see them in positions of leadership, in business, in the community. They use the world and others for their purposes, taking far more than they give. Talmud reminds us to be sure it doesn’t describe us.

Another nugget of gold:

Make for it [the ark of acacia wood] a rim of gold round about (Exodus 25:24).

Again, the Babylonian Talmud, Yoma 72b comments: “R. Yochanan said: There were three crowns: of the Altar, of the Ark, and of the Table. The one of the Altar [representing the priesthood], Aaron deserved and received. The one of the Table [representing royalty], David deserved and received. The one of the Ark [representing Torah] is still available, and whoever wants it, may come and receive it.” We can continually receive Torah as we continually increase our learning. As Hillel taught (Pirke Avot 2:5): Fix a time for study. Thus the Talmud continues: “R. Yochanan pointed out a contradiction. It is written zar yet we read it zir [crown or wreath]: If he deserves it, it becomes a wreath for him; if not it remains alien to him.”

Talmud is reminding us all that Torah study is essential to a full Jewish life. The Talmud doesn’t prescribe precisely what or how to study, only that we should all be involved in the process. These days, with all the resources available to us in adult education classes, the shelves of bookstores and on the internet, it is easy to earn the crown of Torah and through it broaden our horizons and deepen our understanding of life’s purpose. It’s never too late to start, and always rewarding.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

An eye for an eye / Parshat Mishpatim

The Torah is filled with passages that have been misunderstood and misinterpreted, sometimes due to ignorance and sometimes out of malice. One such passage occurs in parshat Mishpatim, which is also known as Sefer haBrit (“the Book of the Covenant”), a collection of civil, criminal, moral, and religious laws following on the heels of the account of revelation and the Eser Dibrot (Ten Commandments) of parshat Yitro.

The first section of Sefer haBrit (Exodus 21:2 – 22:16) deals with civil and criminal matters. There it is stipulated that if two men become engaged in a brawl and one of them shoves a pregnant woman, causing her to miscarry, the man responsible must pay the husband of the woman compensation to be determined in court that will take into account the demand of the husband. In contrast (and here comes the oft-misunderstood passage):

But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise. (Exodus 21:23-25) (See also Leviticus 24:19-20.)

The term for this legal formulation is Lex Talionis (the law of retributive justice). A similar formulation is found in the Code of Hammurabi, who ruled Babylon in the 18th – 17th century B.C.E. The Code calls for death and disfigurement on the basis of an “eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth.” (At the same time, it also calls for a presumption of innocence – the earliest example on record – and the presentation of evidence in court.) We do not know if the Lex Talionis of Hammurabi’s Code was carried out literally in ancient times. There are scholars who believe that the Code itself was not the law code by which the society operated, but rather the fulfillment of a divine mandate by the gods to the king: a law code to prove he was divinely ordained to rule, but not one which was operative in ancient Babylon.

In the Torah, however, “an eye for an eye…” was never understood literally. Leviticus 18:9 is very clear on this point:

You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your countrymen. Love your fellow as yourself: I am the Lord.

Talmud is also clear: “eye for an eye” means that one who causes physical injury pays compensation in proportion to the extent of the injury, no more and no less. Torah’s laws apply to all equally, and so the notion of literal physical retaliation is absurd: if a blind man put out the eye of a sighted man, how could the law be fulfilled if understood literally? The actual monetary amount to be paid was determined by a court.

It was taught [in a baraita]: R. Shimon b. Yochai says: "Eye for eye" means pecuniary compensation. You say pecuniary compensation, but perhaps it is not so, and actual retaliation [by putting out an eye] is meant? What then will you say where a blind man put out the eye of another man, or where a cripple cut off the hand of another, or where a lame person broke the leg of another? How can I carry out in this case [the principle of retaliation of] "eye for eye" seeing that the Torah says, You shall have one manner of law, implying that the manner of law should be the same in all cases? (Baba Kamma 84a)

Those who insist that Torah mandates physical retribution either do so out of ignorance or malice. In the case of the latter, they wish to paint the God of Israel as permitting barbaric vengeance, and Jewish law is inherently cruel and savage. In fact, the law of “an eye for an eye…” renders bodily injury in retribution impermissible. Rather, the case must be adjudicated by a judge who determines fair monetary compensation to settle the matter and hopefully prevent the possibility of future violence.

Far from testifying to a “cruel God” or sanctioning vigilante justice and violent retribution, the biblical law of Lex Talionis is the law of a compassionate God who seeks to mitigate the human propensity for vengeance and violence. Recourse and compensation are found in the courts, a place of justice and peace.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Path to Holiness / Parshat Yitro

We read the Eser Dibrot (the Ten Commandments) this week. In congregations throughout the world, people will rise to hear them read. The Eser Dibrot were also recited in the Temple in Jerusalem, in early synagogues, and in some synagogues in the modern period, as well. In reality, the Eser Dibrot do not stand alone in Jewish tradition; they are a gateway to the rest of halakhah. But just what is halakhah? Usually translated “Jewish law,” I would argue that this is an unfortunate misunderstand with wide-ranging repercussions.

Two questions arise: Is the purpose of Torah to convey law? Is law the essence of Judaism? I would answer “no” to both questions.

We live today in a secular society tinged with antinomianism. We object to externally imposed behavioral restraints, moral standards, and what we consider unnecessary rules. At the same time, there is a movement in the Jewish world toward Judaism-through-law, as if living Jewishly is all about intense focus on what is permitted and what is forbidden – a pushback against secular distaste for rules? Increasingly restrictive and absurd kashrut standards are a prime example of this movement.

Torah is about our people’s experience of, and relationship with, God. It is about life immersed in the Divine. Therefore, it speaks to our individual, and collective, relationship with God. Every deep and abiding relationship obligates. My relationships with my husband, children, friends, congregants, and colleagues all impose obligations on me. That is the nature of a committed relationship. It is the nature of the specific relationship that determines the parameters of those obligations.

In our tradition, commitment is expressed as halakhah, which as I mentioned is incorrectly understood as “Jewish law” and more accurately translated “a path one walks.” Torah is not “Law” but “Guide.” There is a world of difference between “Law” that begets “Jewish law” and “Guide” that gives rise to “a path one walks.” The latter is active, dynamic, evolving, because it reflects an active, dynamic, and evolving relationship with God. To calcify halakhah or use it as a battleground for establishing the authority of one group over another, is to miss the beauty, love, and spiritual nature of our tradition, and to bury opportunities for experiencing holiness beneath a mountain of permitted-and-prohibited regulations. Jewish practice should be an opening to experience holiness in our lives, not a matter of holier-than-thou.

There is an allegory: The doves complaint to God that they are defenseless because their beaks are weak and they cannot run. God provides them with wings so they can fly, but they then complain that with wings they are even more burdened. “Fools!” God says, “If you use them correctly, you’ll take flight and command the skies.”

So it is with us. If we use our tradition correctly, we too can soar spiritually. Shabbat can free us from work and the pressures of daily life to enjoy our families, reconnect with God, and consider what is most meaningful to us. Regular prayer can help us gain control over our lives, directing our efforts toward that which is purposeful and monitoring the relationships in our lives that are so important. Kashrut can help us attune our lives to the environment and world beyond our homes and workplaces, a way to connect at the most elemental level to God’s universe. Closing shabbat with Havdalah can help us recognize and appreciate that not all time is the same qualitatively and that holiness is something we bring to the times, events, and relationships in our lives.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman