The mystery of the red heifer / Parshat Chukkat

On my desk sits a “red heifer” – in reality, it is a bright red plush ox with small horns, so quite possibly male. Close enough for a stuffed animal. It reminds me of the mysterious paradox of the parah adumah (red heifer). Torah tells us that ashes of the parah adumah (red heifer) alone affected ritual purification due to contact with the dead. However, those who came into contact with the red heifer’s ashes because they are involved in its preparation, burning, and cleanup, are made impure through this contact. I don’t pretend to understand this paradox. Even King Solomon, according to the Sages (Numbers Rabbah 19:3) admitted, “I have labored to understand God’s teaching, and have understood it all except the ritual of the red heifer.”

Here are the verses from Parshat Chukkat that describe the ritual of the red heifer:

This is the ritual law that the Lord has commanded: Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a red cow without blemish, in which there is no defect and on which no yoke has been laid. You shall give it to Eleazar the priest. It shall be taken outside the camp and slaughtered in his presence. Eleazar the priest shall take some of its blood with his finger and sprinkle it seven times toward the front of the Tent of Meeting. The cow shall be burned in his sight – its hide, flesh, and blood shall be burned, its dung included – and the priest shall take cedar wood, hyssop, and crimson stuff, and throw them into the fire consuming the cow. The priest shall wash his garments and bathe his body in water; after that the priest my reenter the camp, but he shall be unclean until evening. He who performed the burning shall also wash his garments in water, bathe his body in water, and be unclean until evening. A man who is clean shall gather up the ashes of the cow and deposit them outside the camp in a clean place, to be kept for water of lustration for the Israelite community. It is for cleansing. He who gathers up the ashes of the cow shall also wash his clothes and be unclean until evening. This shall be a permanent law for the Israelites and for the strangers who reside among you. (Numbers 19: 1-10)

How can something that is innately purifying render those who deal with it impure?

A wise and loving friend recently reminded me of something in another context that perhaps sheds light on the paradox of the red heifer. Someone who faces a medical, emotional, or personal challenge – one that evokes pain, anxiety, and fear –needs the “purifying” love of those closest to them. Love and support, however, are costly to those who generously give them; they absorb some of the pain, anxiety, and fear. Perhaps that is the cost of love. But who would have it otherwise?

In ancient times, those who were in a state of tum’ah (ritual impurity) due to contact with a corpse could not participate in the life-affirming rituals of the Wilderness Tabernacle or later, the Temple in Jerusalem, until they were purified. It was through being sprinkled with the ashes of the parah adumah (red heifer) – which brought tum’ah (ritual impurity) to those who made the purification possible – that the impure one could become pure again.

The sustaining love of those closest to us is as enigmatic as the ashes of the red heifer. It is emotionally cleansing and spiritually purifying. It is the touch of God. Could there be a greater blessing amidst such mystery?

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Returning to Sinai / Parshat B’midbar and Shavuot

Ironically, we begin reading Sefer B’midbar (the Book of Numbers) this shabbat. Shavuot, the occasion in our liturgical calendar when we relive our people’s sojourn at Mt. Sinai, where they received Torah and entered into an eternal covenant with God, begins this coming Tuesday at sundown. Yet before that, this coming shabbat, we read parshat B’midbar, which opens with our people preparing to depart Mt. Sinai after the revelation. Seems backwards, doesn’t it?

The Rabbis often explained difficult passages by saying ain mukdam v’ain me’uchar ba-Torah (“there is no early or late in the Torah”) meaning that the accounts in Torah are not always chronologically arranged. That is not our problem here (if, indeed, we have a problem), since reading Parshat B’midbar this shabbat occurs merely as a coincidence of our cycle of reading. However, it would have been nice to celebrate Shavuot – when we will roll the Torah back to Exodus 19 and reread the account of Matan Torah (the Giving of the Torah), and then the following shabbat read Parshat B’midbar.

This occasions several thoughts:

First, for Revelation to be meaningful, it might be sufficient to relive it publicly and communally twice each year – when we read Parshat Yitro (which contains Exodus chapter 19) and with even greater celebration and attention on Shavuot, but it is not sufficient to relive it personally and privately only twice a year. Revelation is continual: it is the ceaseless suffusing of Torah values through our lives so the direction of our lives and the choices we make are informed by Torah and in response to God. It’s difficult to maintain this kind of mindfulness, but there is much in our tradition to help us. Our Torah liturgy – each time Torah is read publicly, but especially on shabbat – is intended to help us achieve a semblance of that experience – perhaps as “booster shots” from one Shavuot to the next. Torah study can help us achieve the experience of Torah al levavcha (“in our hearts”). Private prayer and meditation is grounding for many people.

Second, Parshat Bemidbar begins with an account of a census taken in the Wilderness. Ostensibly for the purpose of determining how many men were available to bear arms and defend the nation, the census reminds us that Jewish spirituality is not a solo sport, it’s a group endeavor. We live in a society that promotes rugged individualism in every realm, from sports to spirituality. But Judaism is a team sport, and life is best lived with other people in healthy interdependent relationships. We count people to make sure everyone counts. The manner in which the Tabernacle was dissembled and transported through the Wilderness by many, many people, each of whom carried a critically necessary part, and then reassembled together, is a magnificent model. Torah comes not only from Sinai, but from the midst of peoplehood and community; that is why when the Israelites set up camp, the Tabernacle is in the center (see Numbers, chapter 2).

Third, for Revelation to have depth and sticking power, we need teachers who will open new doors for us and keep the experience of revelation flowing. For most of us, truly learning Torah doesn’t happen either automatically or by ourselves. Rabbi Yehoshua b. Perachyah taught Aseh l’kha rav, u’k’nei l’kha chaveir (“Get yourself a teacher and acquire a friend to study,” Pirke Avot 1:6). Parshat Bemidbar closes with a description of the election, organization, and service of the Levites, who were charged not only with sacrificial service in the Tabernacle, but also with teaching Torah and leading worship. This is a reminder that we need to find opportunities to learn that will stretch us, challenge us, and help us grow in Torah.

What combines all three observations? They all require effort and, and if we have isolated ourselves, breaking out of our shells and joining with others to study and celebrate.

Shabbat shalom and Chag sameach.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Slavery in the Torah / Behar-Bechukkotai

We close out the Book of Leviticus with this week’s double portion: Behar and Bechukkotai. In parshat Behar we find laws concerning indentured servants and slaves. It’s hard to know if we should be relieved and inspired, or chagrined and embarrassed. How do we resolve the contradiction between ancient institutions (such as slavery, but slavery is not the only troubling institution permitted or required by Torah) and the elevated ethical values that seem utterly at odds with these institutions?

We read in parshat Behar that Torah places restraints on the institution of indentured servitude, encouraging the redemption of one who, because of financial straits, must sell himself into servitude. Having known the suffering of slavery, the Israelites are prohibited from enslaving one another. We would like to see this prohibition extended to non-Israelites, but the Torah does not go this far. It further instructs that when Israelites are pressed into indentured servitude by foreigners, they should be redeemed by their families.

Torah does not obliterate servitude and slavery, which were rife in the ancient world, but rather limits them and continually reminds us to show compassion to others, strongly suggesting that slavery should fall by the wayside, For it is to Me that the Israelites are servants: they are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt, I the Lord your God (Leviticus 25:55).

How can Torah, which teaches that each and every human being is created in the divine image, countenance slavery? Why didn’t Torah abolish slavery once and for all, in one valiant, dramatic, radical sweep?

It has often been explained that ancient agricultural economies would have collapsed without the staples of indentured servants and slaves. That claim was made far more recently when our own country faced the debacle of the Civil War in the mid-19th century. Torah, the explanation goes, limits slavery, promotes redemption of indentured servants, and lays a groundwork for eventually ending all slavery and servitude as a matter of justice and compassion, rather than legislative caveat.

And so we find in the Mishneh Torah of the Rambam (Moses Maimonides) the laws concerning slavery couched in ethical terms that rely on us to “do the right thing.”

It is permissible to work a non-Jewish servant harshly. Yet, although this is the law, the way of the pious and the wise is to be compassionate and to pursue justice, not to overburden or oppress a servant, and to provide them from every dish and every drink.

The early sages would give their servants from every dish on their table. They would feed their animals and their servants before sitting to their own meals. Does it not say, As the eyes of the servant to the hand of his master; as the eyes of the maid to her mistress [so our eyes are towards the Lord our God...] (Psalms 123:2).

So, too, you should not denigrate a servant, neither physically nor verbally. The Torah made him your servant to do work, not to be disgraced. Do not treat him with constant screaming and anger, rather speak with him pleasantly and listen to his complaints. Such were the good ways in which Job took pride when he said, Did I ever despise the judgment of my servant and my maid when they argued with me?... Did not my Maker make him, too, in the belly; did not the same One form us both in the womb? (Job 31: 13, 15)

For anger and cruelty are only found among other nations. The children of Abraham, our father – and they are Israel, to whom the Holy One, blessed be God, has provided the goodness of Torah and commanded us righteous judgments and statutes – they are compassionate to all. This is one of the attributes of the Holy One, blessed be God, that we are commanded to emulate: God has compassion for all God has made (Psalms 145:9).

Furthermore, all who have compassion will be treated compassionately, as it is written, God will give you compassion and God will have compassion upon you and multiply you (Deuteronomy 13:18).

(Mishneh Torah, Laws of Indentured Servants 9:8)

Rambam has faith that those who take Torah seriously, internalizing its values, will come out on the side of compassion and justice. August Bondi, an immigrant to Nebraska from Austria in 1848, was active in the Free State movement, which advocated that Nebraska become an anti-slavery state. The vote was stolen by heavily armed pro-slavery factions, and Bondi joined John Brown’s raid in 1856. Bondi survived the battle and continue to champion the anti-slavery movement. Michael Heilprin immigrated from Europe in 1858. A biblical scholar, critic, and writer, he was appalled by the infamous proslavery sermon preached by Rabbi M. J. Raphall from the pulpit of Congregation B’nai Jeshurun in New York City on January 4, 1861. A week later, Heilprin published a passionate editorial in opposition (you can read it here). Heilprin rightly distinguishes what Torah permitted in the ancient world from the values it inculcated and later traditions that teach us to create a better world. Rabbi David Einhorn was among those who did just what Rambam trusted many Jews would do. He spoke vehemently and vociferously against slavery from his pulpit at Har Sinai in Baltimore. In 1861 an angry mob threatened him with violent – tarring and feathering – and he fled to Philadelphia But he did not relent in the pursuit of Abolition. These three, and many more, fulfilled Rambam's expectation.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Flasks, wine, and bodily perfection / Parshat Emor

In this week’s parashah, we learn that in order to minister at the altar in the Tabernacle, the priests (the sons of Aaron) must be free of any physical defects:

The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too short or too long; no man who has a broken leg or a broken arm, or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes. No man among the offspring of Aaron the priest who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the Lord’s offering by fire; having a defect, he shall not be qualified to offer the food of his God. (Leviticus 21:16-21)

The classical commentaries seek to understand each defect specified: Rashi thinks a boil-scar is scurvy. Nahmanides thinks the growth in the eye is a cataract. Gersonides goes so far as to say that any deviation from the norm is considered a defect even if it does not impair the individual’s ability to perform priestly functions. None thinks to ask a question that is obvious to modern sensibilities: Why does a priest need to be a perfect physical specimen of a human being?

Before we jump to condemn the Torah for its “ancient,” “primitive,” “outmoded” emphasis on human bodily perfection, we would do well to acknowledge that the ideal of physical perfection is as alive today as it was in ancient times. Each day we are bombarded with images of physical perfection on TV, in movies, in magazines, on billboards, all over the internet. Never mind that many of these are air-brushed images and hence a only virtual perfection. Every day throughout America people spend literally millions of dollars on products and even surgical procedures to improve their looks and hide their blemishes.

All this occurs simultaneously against the background of a growing realization that characterizing physical differences as “defects” is offensive. Moreover, the belief that there is, as Gersonides claims, a “norm” is often an illusion. Yet, Torah holds not only that there is a state of perfection for animals (Parshat Re’eh says they must be without mum, “defect”) failing which they cannot be offered on the altar, so too must the sons of Aaron who minister at the altar be without mum (“defect”). Torah’s dictate does not pertain beyond the altar: it applies only to animals sacrificed and humans who make the offerings. Physical perfection is not a Jewish ideal. Quite to the contrary: learning, wisdom, compassion, and a yearning for justice are Jewish ideals.

In fact, our Rabbis celebrated individuality and difference. Mishnah Sanhedrin 4:5 tells us:

[Only one human being was created at first] to proclaim the greatness of the Holy One blessed be God because a human being stamps many coins with one mold and they are all identical. But the Holy One blessed be God stamps us all from the same mold of the first man yet each of us is unique.

Rambam (Moses Maimonides) in Mishneh Torah (Hilkhot Berackhot 10:12, drawing on B. Berakhot 58b) writes:

One who sees… people with disfigured faces or limbs recites the blessing, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who makes people different.” One who sees a person who is blind or lame, or who is covered with sores and white pustules recites the blessing, “Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who is a righteous judge.” But if they were born that way [i.e. with the disability], one says, “…who makes people different.”

Rabbi (and some say R. Meir) taught us:

Do not look at the container but rather at what is in it. You can find a new flask with old wine and an old flask that does not hold even new wine. (Pirke Avot 4:27)

We must learn to look within, to see the divine spark in each neshamah (soul). Then we will glimpse the face of God.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

God and humanity: who's imitating whom? / Parshat Kedoshim

When we read Western literature we know just where to find the climax. It’s in the penultimate chapter, very near the end, with just enough after it to resolve unanswered questions. But Biblical literature is often structured differently: the essence is in the middle. Picture Mt. Sinai, its peak in the center. Hence many scholars have pointed out that the central “high point” of Torah – the Five Books of Moses – is Leviticus. Leviticus delineates the rites and requirements of the sacrifices made in the Mishkan, and later in the Temple in Jerusalem. Ironically, Leviticus has the least amount of narrative (only two small portions) and is weighed down with rules and rituals.

Leviticus itself has a fascinating structure, but for our purposes here, let us consider the book as another Mt. Sinai. The peak is chapter 19, which has been dubbed “The Holiness Code.” It begins:

The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy. (Leviticus 19:1)

The content of chapter 19 is a mix of laws that we moderns would say fall into various (and sometimes overlapping) categories: ethics, rituals, agricultural laws, social legislation, and business law. These categories are meaningless to the Torah because everything we humans do matters to God. There is no distinction between ethical and ritual laws for the Torah. It is all a matter of aligning our lives and behavior with God’s vision of the world as it should be.

The phase, You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy encapsulates a radical idea: we can be, and should be, like God. How is that possible? Is not God wholly other, completely removed, at a far distance from us and our world? Not at all! God is as near as the air we breath and continuous reality in our lives to the extent that we permit God into our lives.

Our Sages went further and offered and even more radical notion: Not only do we imitate God, but God imitates us! In the Talmud, R. Yochanan learns from a verse in Isaiah that God prays, muh as we humans pray. This leads to a question we might well be inclined to ask: what prayer does God pray?

R. Yochanan says in the name of R. Yosi: How do we know that the Holy One, blessed be God, prays? Because it says: Even them will I bring to My holy mountain and make them joyful in My house of prayer [literally: “the house of My prayer”] (Isaiah 56:7). It does not say “their prayer” but rather “My prayer”; hence [we learn] that the Holy One, blessed be God, says prayers.

What does God pray? R. Zutra b. Tobi said in the name of Rab: “May it be My will that My mercy may suppress My anger, and that My mercy may prevail over My [other] attributes, so that I may deal with My children through the attribute of mercy and, on their behalf, stop short of the limit of strict justice.” It was taught: R. Ishmael b. Elisha says: I once entered into the innermost part [of the Sanctuary] to offer incense and saw Akathriel Yah, the Lord of Hosts, seated upon a high and exalted throne. God said to me: Ishmael, My son, bless Me! I replied: May it be Your will that Your mercy may suppress Your anger and Your mercy may prevail over Your other attributes, so that You may deal with Your children according to the attribute of mercy and may, on their behalf, stop short of the limit of strict justice! And God nodded to me with his head. From this we learn that the blessing of an ordinary person must not be considered lightly in your eyes. (Babylonian Talmud, Berakhot 7a)

Did you guess the answer to the question: what prayer does God pray? Are you surprised that God prays for self-control? What an exquisite and remarkable view of God! It is one thing to conceive of God as a model for human behavior, but here the Rabbis imagine human behavior as a model for God.

This is a dynamic view of God. This is not the God of Maimonides: the Unmoved Mover, the First Cause, the Active Intellect. This is a God who engages in deep relationship with people and the world God created, who cares deeply, loves intensely, and seeks self-improvement – teaching us to care deeply, love intensely, and seek self-improvement. You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.

Dr. Yochanan Muffs writes in The Personhood of God (pages 192-193):

It is almost tragic that in order to liberate the religious from religion, the God of the common faith from the God of supernaturalism, it should be necessary to demythologize religious literature, thus draining off its poetic power, and to depersonalize religious doctrine, thus draining it of its educational power. A model of divinity that does not partake of personhood can hardly be expected to cultivate personhood in man. Further more, a boring and unevocative model, no matter how correct philosophically, is certainly of little “world-creating” value. The problem, therefore, of the modern religious humanist is how to demythologize the model without sapping its poetic force and psychological profundity.

I believe that many of these pitfalls could be avoided if we remythologized our theology rather than demythologized it. Fully realizing that the anthropomorphic God is to a very great degree a projection of man’s understanding of his own psyche (not merely of his own intellectualized and abstracted ideals), we must turn up the mythical decibels of the old personal God.

Parshat Kedoshim offers us a doorway into that process. Shabbat shalom.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Who's worth caring about? / Tazria-Metzora & Yom HaShoah

Who should we care about – only the people we know (and not even all of them) or everyone everywhere? That is the question lying behind this week’s recondite double portion, Tazria and Metzora.

People often wriggle with discomfort at the detailed description of tzara’at, erroneous translated “leprosy” but actually an umbrella term covering a wide array of skin diseases that affect people, their clothing, and their homes.

When a person (adam) has on the skin of his body a swelling, a rash, or a discoloration, and it develops into a scaly affection on the skin of his body, it shall be reported to Aaron the priest or to one of his sons, the priests. (Leviticus 13:2)

The use of the term adam (“person”) here is curious. Torah would usually use ish (“man” or “person”). What is the difference? The plural of ish is anashim and connotes the Jewish people, but adam implies both singular and plural; kol adam means “all humanity.”

The plague of tzara’at renders a person an outsider, a pariah for a time. The metzorah (the person afflicted with tzara’at) must move outside the camp because he is ritually impure while the skin affliction is active. It is an experience of exile, banishment, expulsion, ostracism.

Our society is brimming with people who experience a sense of Otherness in our midst: the homeless, those who lack adequate resources for food and medical care, those who are unemployed or underemployed, undocumented immigrants. Torah provided a safety net that many in our society lack. Priests would check on the metzora weekly, bringing comfort and sustenance. When the metzora was healed, he was welcomed back into the embrace of the community with a purification ritual.

Perhaps Torah uses adam rather than ish to remind us of the importance of seeing ourselves connected not only to those we know and love, or those who live in our neighborhood or subscribe to the same religious tradition, but to all those around us, as far as we are capable of spreading a net of caring. That’s a tall order, to be sure.

There is a disagreement in the Jerusalem Talmud between R. Akiba and and Ben Azzai that echoes the distinction between ish and adam:

You shall love your neighbor as yourself (Leviticus 19:18). Rabbi Akiba says: This is the great principle of the Torah. Ben Azzai says: This is the book of the generations of man (Genesis 5:1) – this is a greater principle of the Torah. (Yerushalmi, Nedarim 9:4)

For Rabbi Akiba, love and loyalty are the overriding obligation of Torah, the force that transform us and binds us to one another. But we can only achieve that with our “neighbor” – with those close enough to use that we have something important in common. Ben Azzai, however, believes that the highest principle of Torah is to recognize in a meaningful way the humanity of everyone on earth. He chooses a verse from Genesis, chapter 5, before there were Jews, when there was only undifferentiated humanity. Ben Azzai dramatically broadens the scope of those we are to care about. He wants us to embrace all humanity, just as God does.

Numbers 12:15 recounts that when Miriam was afflicted with tzara’at, she was shut out of the camp for seven days, and the people did not march on until Miriam was readmitted. They waited for her. The Babylonian Talmud expands on this story by telling us in Sotah 9b that the Israelites waited for Miriam because she had once waited for Moses by the Nile River (Exodus 2:4). Her act of love and loyalty toward her infant brother was repaid by the Israelites’ love and loyalty many years later. But perhaps what we learn is that narrow circle of caring can be enlarged from the model we learn in our nuclear families to include many others: the Israelites in the wilderness numbered well over two million people. They could not all have known Miriam personally, yet they had learned to care about the Other.

Who do you include in your circle of caring? Who else can you include in that circle? How far can you enlarge the circle?

I write this on Yom HaShoah, a day devoted to recalling the darkness chapter in our history, indeed in the history of human kind. What bigger message is there in the Holocaust than the danger implicit in treating anyone, or any group, as "Other?"

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

"How could God do such a thing?!" / Parshat Shemini

What kind of God strikes down loyal worshipers in the act of honoring God? That is the troubling question lying behind the account of the first sacrifices offered by Aaron and his sons in the wilderness Tabernacle.

Parshat Shemini opens with a description of the eighth day – the first day following the seven-day ordination ceremony of the priests. There is great significance to the eighth day. Seven days connotes Creation completed, the universe, as depicted in Genesis chapter 1, whole. The eighth day – the day following the completed Creation – suggests beginning anew on a higher plane. On the eighth day, Aaron and his sons assume their priestly duties: they offer sacrifices for the first time. (So, too, a Jewish boy assumes his place in the community through brit milah on the eighth day of his life.) It is a momentous occasion for both Aaron and his sons, and the People Israel.

First Aaron slaughters a calf as a sin offering, followed by a burnt offering, to make expiation for himself and for the people. Next Aaron offers a goat as a sin offering, as well as a burnt offering, on behalf of the people. More sacrifices follow. Finally, Aaron lifts his hands toward the people and blesses them. He and Moses adjourn to the Tent of Meeting and when they emerge, together they bless the people and va’yeira ch’vod Adonai el kol ha-am (“the Presence/Glory of God appeared to all the people”). Fire bursts forth and consumes the offerings, a sign that God is pleased.

It seems that things are off to a great start. Yet in the very next moment, tragedy strikes.

Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the Lord alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord. Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what the Lord meant when God said: Through those near to Me I show Myself holy and gain glory before all the people. And Aaron was silent. (Leviticus 10: 1-3)

In an instant, the perfect celebration, the ideal beginning, becomes a tragedy. Ordered creation returns to chaos. Joy is shattered by catastrophe. How often have we experienced this in our lives? “Just when things were going perfectly…” Where fire had burst forth to consume the sacrifices offered by Aaron and his sons (Lev. 9:24), confirming God’s acceptance, now fire bursts forth menacingly and lethally (Lev. 10:2).

On the surface, this story reflects the ancient belief that God strikes those who deviate from prescribed behavior. A similarly bewildering incident is recounted in Second Samuel, chapter 6. King David has decided to bring the Ark to Jerusalem. It is loaded onto an ox-cart. At one point while traveling along uneven terrain, the oxen stumble and the ark begins to teeter and slip off the ox-cart:

But when they came to the threshing floor of Nacon, Uzzah reached out for the Ark of God and grasped it, for the oxen had stumbled. The Lord was incensed at Uzzah. And God struck him down on the spot for his indiscretion, and he died there beside the Ark of God. David was distressed because the Lord had inflicted a breach upon Uzzah; and that place was named Perez-uzzah, as it is still called. (II Samuel 6:6-8)

Here, too, a human being oversteps sacred boundaries. As Nadab and Abihu lacked the authority to ordain sacrifices, so too Uzzah lacked the authority to touch the Ark. Just as God alone ordains sacrifices, so too God alone will protect the Ark.

Perhaps what distinguishes these two accounts is motivation, or perhaps not. Uzzah’s motivation is clearly to prevent the ark from toppling onto the ground. His motive strikes us as pure. We are unsure what inspires Nadab and Abihu to make an unauthorized incense offering. Many commentators have ascribed negative motives to Aaron’s sons (they were drunk, they disrespected their elders and eagerly anticipated their demise so they might assume control of the Tabernacle, they entered the Tabernacle inappropriately attired, they lacked faith in God). But we might also presume that, caught up in the religious fervor of the moment, their motivation is as pure as Uzzah’s: they seek to serve God.

Those who believe God intervenes in the quotidian of the universe often find these passages troubling. God appears excessively strict and vengeful, territorial and uncompromising.

Those whose conception of God does not conform to the micromanaging image portrayed in these accounts, who do not believe God looks down from heaven and abrogates the laws of physics and biology to intervene in our world on a continuous basis, who do not believe God is a cosmic being whose emotions often erupt into catastrophic events, find these passages difficult to interpret.

Perhaps one answer is found in the responses of Aaron and King David to inexplicable tragedy. Aaron remains silent. David is distressed. Neither can fully comprehend the meaning of what has just transpired. They can only feel pain coursing through them. And although both are inclined to attribute their tragedies to God – this is how they see the world and God in their time – they do not rail against God, shutting themselves off from God’s consolation and strength.

I cannot count how many people have said to me, “How could God…?” as they recounted a tragic event or terrible loss in their lives. Often, these same people are unwilling to attribute to God the blessings they have enjoyed. In their pain, they seek Someone to blame when things go grievously wrong. It is not the philosophical or theological inconsistency that worries me; it is that the prospect of cutting themselves off from God’s healing Presence, consolation, and strength to go on. Perhaps this is why the quintessential Jewish response to loss of life is to say Barukh dayan ha-emet (“Blessed is the judge of truth”) and Kaddish. God is inherent in the creativity, dynamism, and energy of the universe, but is not a coercive power that micromanages and coeres. Barukh dayan ha-emet then acknowledges that life, while precious, is not infinite, and Kaddish affirms God’s holiness.

Aaron and David model for us how to continue in relationship with God, whether you believe God caused your tragedy or not.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman