The burnt offering: sacrifice, altruism, and evolution / Tzav

Charles Darwin’s writings extend far beyond his classic, On the Origin of Species. In The Expression of Emotion in Man and Animals (published in 1872, 13 years later), Darwin explored the evolution of human expressions of emotion. He concluded that all mammals suffer, and they all feel empathy when another suffers, which they express in patterns of tactile contact. He had already argued in previous books that communities populated by empathetic members could more successfully raise offspring to the age of reproduction, a pillar of evolutionary theory.

We’re reading Sefer Vayikra, the Book of Leviticus. Leviticus reads like a pocket guide for priests. Not much plot, no character development, lots of rules. There are eight animal sacrifices and they fall into three categories, based upon who is permitted to eat them: First are those that are eaten by the person who brings it: the Shelamin, Ma’aser, Todah, and Pesach (peace, or well-being offering, tithe, thanksgiving, and paschal offering). Second are those that are eaten by the priests: The Chatat and Asham and B’chor (the guilt offering, sin offering, and firstborn). Finally, there is the Olah (burnt offering), which is, as its name suggests, entirely burned on the altar. Its smoke rises to heaven. This one is for God, and God alone.

To many people, the details of the sacrifices are tediously boring. If you’re still with me at this point, I hope you’re wondering what Charles Darwin’s observations of human expressions of emotion have to do with the sacrifices mandated in Leviticus. It’s coming.

Our parashah describes several of these sacrifices, introducing each section with the words, “This is the Torah (law) of the…” and then details where the sacrifice is to be slaughtered, what should be done with the blood, how various internal organs are to be disbursed, and so on. In the case of the olah, however, Torah says only this:

God spoke to Moses saying, “Command Aaron and his sons saying: ‘This is the Torah (law) of the olah (burnt offering); it is the olah which shall burn upon the altar all night until the morning, and the fire of the altar shall burn in it. (Leviticus 6:2)

Now, I’m not a huge fan of animal sacrifice. (We have a dairy kosher kitchen in our home.) I take comfort in knowing that no less than Rambam (Moses Maimonides) believed that the purpose of animal sacrifices was to wean the Israelites off idolatry; having served its purpose, animal sacrifice is no longer necessary. Isaac Abarbanel said that God prescribed animal sacrifices for Israel specifically to wean them off the idolatrous sacrificial practices of Egypt. Rashi goes further. He says God didn’t particularly desire animal sacrifice at all; it was Israel that wanted it. How does Rashi know this? From a verse in the Haftarah for Shabbat Vayikra: I have not burdened you with a meal-offering, nor wearied you with frankincense (Isaiah 43:23).

If Rambam, Abarbanel, and Rashi — who are certainly no lightweights — are correct, why would the olah be burned entirely? God doesn’t need it. It’s a waste of meat that could nourish priests or Israelites, and more, it’s a waste of a life.

Perhaps the meaning and value of the olah is not in the details of where and how it is sacrificed, but that it is a total sacrifice. Giving up something entirely, without any reward or recompense, is difficult. Many of us would consider it a loss. The olah trains the Israelites in altruism, the disinterested and selfless concern for the wellbeing of others: people learn to surrender to God something of great monetary value and practical significance.

Philosophers are divided concerning whether we humans can ever truly exhibit altruism. After all, could we not say that the gratification that comes of knowing I have done a good thing is in itself an intrinsic reward? That’s not an argument I wish to enter. I’m content with a definition of altruism that includes doing the right thing because it’s the right thing to do. 

Charles Darwin, 1809-1882

Finally, we return to Charles Darwin. He observed that mammals naturally empathize with the suffering of others and respond accordingly, and that this quality is crucial to the successful rearing of offspring to the age of reproduction. In other words, we are evolved to exhibit altruism.

Neurologists concur. In 2006 using magnetic resonance imagining, Jorge Moll and Jordan Grafman, showed that acts of altruism light up the subgenual cortex and septal region of our brain, both of which are connected with social attachment. Subsequent studies have confirmed these findings and expanded on them. It turns out that we are hard-wired for altruism. Neurologists have identified in us what they term “mirror neurons” which are the biological source of human empathy. (Robert Krulwich explains mirror neurons nicely for NOVA here.) It is our capacity for empathy that makes altruism possible and indeed a basic human behavior. Darwin’s thinking has yet again been confirmed.

The Yerushalmi (Jerusalem Talmud) recounts two stories of altruism, both in tractate Ta’anit 1:4. The context is a discussion of whether and when prayer brings rain in a time of drought; these stories illustrate the Rabbis’ contention that the prayer of a simple person brings rain. In the first story, R. Abbahu learns through a dream that although his prayers do not bring rain, when a certain donkey driver prays for rain, the rains fall. Upon questioning him, R. Abbahu learns that on one occasion, the donkey driver’s client was a woman weeping for her imprisoned husband. The donkey driver sold his donkey — sacrificing his livelihood — and gave her the money to use to free her husband. In the second story, the protagonist is Pentakaka, so named because every day he committed five sins connected with the brothel he ran. Pentakaka was unquestionably a reprobate. When he encountered a woman weeping for her imprisoned husband, he sold his “bed and cover” and gave her the proceeds to use to redeem her husband (and not without irony) so she could avoid becoming a prostitute to raise the funds needed. Like the donkey driver, Pentakaka sacrificed his livelihood, an act of altruism. The Rabbis are not telling us that we, too, should sacrifice our very livelihoods when a stranger in need enters our lives, but these stories convey deep admiration for genuine altruism and the power of such righteousness to repair lives.

The term olah means “ascend” and connotes the smoke of the sacrifice that ascends to heaven. An altruistic act ascends straight to heaven, which is to say that it is sacred and repairs the world. The olah offered daily in the Mishkan (Wilderness Tabernacle) and later in the Mikdash (Temple in Jerusalem) trained people to act according to the better side of their nature: with compassion and generosity. Rather than worrying with psychologists and philosophers whether we are truly capable of altruism, or whether deriving satisfaction from doing the right thing obviates the altruistic quality of the good we do, perhaps we should take comfort from biologists and neurologists in knowing we are evolved and wired for it. And then take that knowledge and run with it.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

Self-sacrifice of another sort / Vayikra

Humanitarian and political activist Dr. Thomas Dooley said, "Dedicate some of your life to others. Your dedication will not be a sacrifice. It will be an exhilarating experience because it is an intense effort applied toward a meaningful end." Dooley had in mind public service, which is highly admirable, and I agree that it is not a sacrifice. But at the moment, I’m pondering his words as they apply to human relationships: Is what we invest in a relationship — and particularly in a deeply meaningful relationship — a sacrifice? And if so, what is the nature of the sacrifice required?

Dr. Thomas Dooley

The Book of Leviticus is all about sacrifices. Parshat Vayikra opens with instructions concerning the olah, the only sacrificial offering that is not eaten by either priest or Israelite, but rather is burned entirely (with the exception of the skin) on the altar. It is dedicated in its entirety to God’s “pleasure” and “benefit.”

If your offering is a burnt offering from the herd, you shall make your offering a male without blemish. You shall bring it to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, for acceptance in your behalf before Adonai. You shall lay a hand upon the head of the burnt offering, that it may be acceptable in your behalf, in expiation for you. The bull shall be slaughtered before Adonai, and Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall offer the blood, dashing the blood against all sides of the altar, which is at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting. (Leviticus 1:3-5)

Not only is the olah the first offering discussed in Sefer Vayikra (the Book of Leviticus), but it is also the first offered on occasions when a variety of sacrifices are being offered at the same time. A commentary in The Torah: A Women’s Commentary, which addresses the relationship of the person who brings the sacrifice to God who receives it, got me thinking about the olah in connection with personal relationships, as well as our relationships with God. Here’s the commentary:

“The fact that the burnt offering usually appears first in a series of sacrifices suggests that its purpose may be to open up communication with the Divine; if so, then that goal would be accomplished by manifesting generosity — giving part of one’s wealth to God.” (p. 572)

How do we open up communication — initiate meaningful relationship — with God and with other people? Another way to ask the question, using Martin Buber’s idiom, is: How do we move beyond an I-It relationship, and enter into an I-Thou relationship?

Beginning with our relationships with other people: People continually parade through our lives (as we do through the lives of others), but every once in a while, someone enters our lives who is different — someone to whom we are drawn to create an opening that turns our I-It encounters into I-Thou encounters. We want to go past conversations about politics, philosophy, children, culture, and all the other things that we are delighted to discuss. We want to touch souls.

Does that require a sacrifice? I think it does. To reach another’s soul, we have to open ours. We bring our olah to the altar. Our olah takes the form of entrusting this person with something that makes us feel vulnerable, something deeply personal and meaningful, and knowing that the outcome of that trust is that we are going to be changed. From the other side, when someone reaches out to us to create such an opening and we want to accept their olah, we must suspend judgment, which is to say, sacrifice the stereotypes and pre-conceived notions we harbor to make ourselves feel safe, and be open. From this side, as well, we will be changed.

This opening is, as the passage from A Women’s Commentary suggests, a generous gift. It is the gift of the self. What is more, Torah requires the olah to be tamim — pure and without blemish. How does this translate into our efforts to open up deep, meaningful, and transformative communication with another person? Certainly we are not without blemish (no person is) but our sacrifice — our gift of self — can be tamim. When we offer our true selves, unvarnished and detached from the projection of an image of how we would like others to see us, we are offering an olah that is tamim.

The sacrificial cult is long gone and has been replaced by prayer. In fact, shacharit and minchah, the morning, and afternoon services, are direct replacements for the morning tamid and afternoon minchah offerings. The word for prayer in Hebrew, l’hitpalel, is a reflexive term meaning “to judge or examine oneself.” This suggests that to a very great degree, praying is introspective. (It’s difficult to square this with the high degree of petitionary prayer found in the siddur, but that’s a subject for a separate discussion.) Can prayer that is l’hitpalel — introspective self-examination — provide a way to “[open] up communication with the Divine”? The genuine spiritual connection requires sacrifice: it requires us to look deep within and reveal to God-within, our whole and true selves. Introspection of this sort is difficult and makes us feel vulnerable. When it is honest, it is tamim. If the divine in us can accept our sacrifice — that is to say, if we can accept ourselves with love and with gentleness, we will emerge changed, transformed.

Charles Du Bos

The French essayist Charles Du Bos (1882-1939) wrote in his book Approximations (published 1922): "...premier tressaillement vital; surtout il s'agit à tout moment de sacrifier ce que nous sommes à ce que nous pouvons devenir." "The important thing is this: to be able at any moment to sacrifice what we are for what we could become." A worthy exchange indeed!

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

You think it's so easy to rest? / Vayakhel-Pikudei

Vayakhel begins on a confusing note:

Now Moses assembled the entire community of the Children of Israel and said to them: These are the things that the Lord has commanded you to do. For six days work is to be done, but on the seventh day, it will be holy for you, a Sabbath of complete rest for the Lord; all who do work on it shall be put to death. Do not kindle any fire throughout your settlements on the day of the Sabbath. (Exodus 35:1-3)

Anything here strike you as peculiar? More than one commentator has pointed out that Moses tells the Israelites, “These are the things that the Lord has commanded you to do…” and then proceeds with the mitzvah of shabbat, whose primary observance is not doing: shabbat menuchah (sabbath rest) is the crux of keeping shabbat. We are we commanded to not do. (This reminds me of the irony of the commandment to remember to wipe out the name of Amalek.)

It’s no longer news that we live in a 24/7 world, continuously plugged in via cell phones, iPads, and laptops. The boundary between work and home life is obscured by our connectivity, and email follows us on our smart phones. I recently heard about a group of 20-something friends who meet regularly at a restaurant for dinner. They put their cell phones in the middle of the table and the first to touch his or her phone picks up the tab for everyone at the table. I wondered: why not just put the phone away for two hours? The answer is obvious: if they feel it vibrate, it’s hard to resist checking for a call or a text. How many of us can’t unplug?

We are workaholics. We’re often exhausted, but we are imbued with the sense that all our emails, texts, postings, writings, reports, reviews and all the rest are critically important.

Are all the things we do of earth-shattering importance? The answer is both yes and no. Rabbi Simcha Bunem of Pshishke (19^th century) told his disciples: Everyone must have two pockets, with a note in each pocket, so that he or she can reach into the one or the other, depending on the need. When feeling lowly and depressed, discouraged or disconsolate, one should reach into the right pocket, and, there, find the words: “Bishvili nivra ha'olam / For my sake was the world created." But when feeling high and mighty one should reach into the left pocket, and find the words: "Ani eifer v'afar / I am but dust and ashes." Rabbi Simcha Bunem’s prescription for emotional balance works well for our efforts to achieve balance between work and rest: In the one pocket is the message that says that our work is very important and we do make a difference in the world. In the other pocket is a message that says the world will keep spinning if we let email and projects sit for a day, and take time away from our gadgets to spend with our loved ones, with God, and with our own thoughts.

Albert Einstein said: “Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited.” Imagination is rooted in the soul and rest nourishes the soul. Every athlete knows that you have to take rest days to allow your muscles — broken down by strenuous exercise — to rebuild. The soul is no different. Perhaps that is what the Rabbis had in mind when they taught that we are given a neshamah yeteirah / an additional soul on shabbat (B.Beitzah 16a, B.Ta’anit 27b). It’s tough to focus on that part of our being during the week; we need to take time off to appreciate our innermost selves.

The Sages taught that there are five different names for the soul: nefesh, ruach, neshama, chaya, and yechida. Rav Sadya Gaon, living in the tenth century, understood this at face value: there are five different terms that refer to the soul. But the Kabbalists understood the five terms to allude to five levels of self-awareness that a person can achieve, the highest being yechida (union, or communion). This is the highest level of self-awareness. To achieve that we need to turn off the gadgets and white noise and dig deep within.

The Kiddush we recite on Friday evening tells us that Shabbat is a commemoration of creation, which culminated with the first shabbat (Genesis chapter 1), and the Exodus from slavery in Egypt where we had no rest. The Kiddush for Shabbat morning includes these words from Torah:

Remember to make the day of Shabbat holy. Six days shall you labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of Adonai your God; on it you shall not do any work — you, your son and your daughter, your male and female servant, your cattle, or the stranger who is among you — for in six days Adonai made the heavens, the earth and the sea, and all they contain, and rested on the seventh day.” (Exodus 20:8-11)

In the ancient world, Greeks and Romans scoffed at Jews for being lazy and slothful because their religion decreed that they were forbidden from working and required to rest. But note that the prohibition is not for us alone; it’s for everyone: children, servants, strangers in our midst, and even animals! What a gloriously civilized idea: no one should be a slave; everyone is entitled to rest and to renew themselves. What a wonderful expression of respect for human and animal life this is!

Shabbat can be magic time when we attune ourselves to its rhythm. Shabbat happens according to the clock of the world, not our mechanical timepieces. The sun sets; the stars appear. Rather than creating and changing the world, we step back and appreciate the world and our blessings. We make time for self-review: what are we doing with our time, with our lives, with our energy? We take time to think our own thoughts, unprompted by TV, newspapers, and commentators. We can enjoy the unencumbered company of family and friends, with no other agenda beyond love and joy. Our souls hunger for this.

Do we really need to be commanded to rest? The answer to the irony that what we are commanded to do is not do is that it’s very difficult for us to slow down, let alone stop and rest. We don’t know how to do it. What is more, as Judith Shulevit, author of The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time, suggests, imposing some structure helps:

Most people mistakenly believe that all you have to do to stop working is not work. The inventors of the Sabbath understood that it was a much more complicated undertaking. You cannot downshift casually and easily. This is why the Puritan and Jewish Sabbaths were so exactingly intentional. The rules did not exist to torture the faithful. They were meant to communicate the insight that interrupting the ceaseless round of striving requires a surprisingly strenuous act of will, one that has to be bolstered by habit as well as by social sanction.[1]

There is a nice forum in The Chronicle for HigherEducation in which a number of university professors — Jewish and Christian — share their struggles and views on the notion of a day of rest.

There are many ways to create shabbat for yourself and your family and friends. Here are more approaches. Find what works for you.

• Agentle and encouraging approach.
• For families.
• Ideas for family discussions (check the archives).

The internet is rife with commentaries that can spark great table conversation.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel likened shabbat to a cathedral in time, an indestructible Holy of Holies. As much as our actions can be sacred, so too our rest.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

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[1] http://www.nytimes.com/2003/03/02/magazine/bring-back-the-sabbath.html?pagewanted=all&src=pm

The divine anger-meter / Ki Tissa

How many us who are blessed with children have turned to our partner in a moment of anger or annoyance and said, “Your son…” or “Your daughter…” If we haven’t said it, surely we’ve heard it. Why say “your” rather than “our”?

God, the “cosmic parent,” does this and more. The Lord spoke to Moses, “Hurry down, for your people, whom you brought out of the land of Egypt, have acted basely…” (Exodus 32:7-8). The Israelites have built the Gold Calf, so suddenly the Israelites are Moses’ people, and it is Moses who brought Israel out of Egypt? Not long before it was, And I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God. And you shall know that I, the Lord, am your God who freed you from the labors of the Egyptians (Exodus 6:7).

Why does God now say that it is Moses who brought Israel out of Egypt. Perhaps God now regrets that move and wants to disassociate from it. This is another instance among many in Torah of God going from zero to sixty in a millisecond on the Anger-meter in response to something the Israelites do, and what is more, this bout of anger is followed by the threat of utter annihilation.

Israel, in worshiping the Golden Calf, has seemingly rejected God. At least that’s how God sees it. In return, is God to some small degree rejecting them? Is the underlying psychological purpose to distance oneself from the offending child, Israel? Or is it to distance oneself out of anger and resentment, in which case it is punitive in nature?

Perhaps you have observed, as I did when my children were very young, that when I displayed anger, my children were fixated on my emotions rather than their own behavior, and that eclipsed any possibility of holding a productive conversation.

If you peruse a book or website on parenting, you will find this advice: Anger is a biological reaction generated in our amygdala. In the case of children who provoke our anger, we often feel the need to get them under control, but a more appropriate response is to sidestep the amygdala’s input as much as possible, and get ourselves under control first. After all, when our children are fraught with anger, we first help them regain self-control so they can face what caused the anger rationally.  But the whole problem with anger is that we are out of control to some degree, so how are we supposed to do that?

The Rabbis discuss the issue of God’s temper and the danger inherent in God’s anger in b.Berakhot 7. There God visits the High Priest, R. Yishmael b. Elisha, in the Holy of Holies and asks him for help. R. Yishmael gives God a blessing and a prayer to recite in order to get control of his anger.  What’s curious and perhaps even shocking here is that R. Yishmael plays the role of parent, and God (the cosmic parent) plays the role of the child.

A similar role reversal happens in the incident of the Golden Calf in this week’s parashah, Ki Tissa.

The Lord further said to Moses, “I see that this is a stiffnecked people. Now, let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and make of you a great nation.” (Exodus 32:9-10)

I hear in God’s insertion of “let Me be” a subtle or perhaps masked plea to Moses to, in fact, do the opposite: Don’t let me be. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t let me continue on this path of destruction. Torah continues:

But Moses implored the Lord his God, saying, “Let not Your anger, O Lord, blaze forth against Your people, whom You delivered from the land of Egypt with great power and with a mighty hand. (Exodus 32:11)

Moses has turned God’s words around: they are Your people whom You brought out of Egypt. That is to say: You have a deep and abiding commitment to them, God. Do not distance yourself. Come back.

Moses continues:

Let not the Egyptians say, “It was with evil intent that He delivered them, only to kill them off in the mountains and annihilate them from the face of the earth.” (Exodus 32:12)

Here Moses helps God step back from the divine anger that shrinks God’s view, and take a broader view. What will others think? What will they say? How will God look? And finally, having calmed God down and helped God to think rationally, Moses delivers his final and culminating pièce de résistance — and it does indeed prove irresistible to God:

Turn from Your blazing anger [Moses tells God] and renounce the plan to punish Your people. Remember your servants, Abraham, Isaac, and Israel, how You swore to them by Your Self and said to them: I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven, and I will give to your offspring this whole land of which I spoke, to possess forever.” (Exodus 32:12-13)

Moses brings God back into emotional proximity with the Israelites and helps God regain a sense of balance. God is now cool, calm and collected.

And the Lord renounced the punishment He had planned to bring upon His people. (Exodus 32:14)

Moses, like R. Yishmael b. Elisha has taken on the role of the parent calming down the furious child. Here, too, in parshat Ki Tissa, we find a kind of role reversal.

What is the message here for us? Certainly Moses is a role model for us in his ability to help God overcome intense fury and destructive intention. But God, too, is a role model for seeking and accepting help. God doesn’t need to consult Moses. God could wipe out the Israelites with the smite button on his keyboard without ever speaking to Moses. But here, as in the story recounted in b.Berakhot 7, God seeks help and allows another to rescue him from his own inclinations. Can we do the same? Can we do as Moses did for someone else?

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

The beautiful underbelly of liminal lunacy / Purim

Some years ago, in a Jewish museum, I saw a photograph of villagers in a small town in Eastern Europe dressed in Purim costumes. Not so strange if they were Jews, but they were not. The Jewish population of the town had been utterly decimated during the Holocaust. Not one survived. Yet every year on Purim, the Gentiles of this town don Purim costumes and dance in the streets in commemoration of their lost neighbors, whom they had not made any effort to save. What a bizarre reversal!

I dug through a lot of images to find this one. Striking, isn't it?

But perhaps this is no more bizarre than the holiday of Purim as Jews celebrate it: wearing costumes and masks (often grotesque) to shul, making a cacophonous racket during the reading of scripture, buffoonery and drunken revelry, children taking the places of rabbis and teachers… Does this sound Jewish?

Purim in Jerusalem

 
Purim reflects the experience of liminality. A liminal moment is one at a boundary or threshold, neither here not there, neither this nor that. Hermes, the Greek god, was liminal, shuttling between Zeus and mortals, mortals and the underworld, the underworld and Zeus; Hermes operated at the boundaries. I recall the summer between high school and college as a liminal period in my life: I was no longer a high school student, but not yet a college student. Moving to a new city throws one into a liminal state. Friends in California described to me their congregation’s search for a new rabbi and it is clear that the entire community is in a period of liminality, betwixt and between.

Cultural anthropologist Victor Turner wrote that during liminal periods social hierarchies are temporarily dissolved or reversed, and the continuity of tradition is unstable and not assured. Normal social relationships, structured hierarchically by power, authority, and status, give way to a period during which social position is not a function of connections and power. This can go in one of two directions: (1) Communitas, which is equality and a leveling of social positions; and (2) Status Inversion, where the powerless become powerful, and those in authority come to have none. Purim is packed, through and through, with inversions and reversals[1]:

• The Gentile queen is jettisoned and replaced by a Jewish woman.
• Esther is a Jew, but pretends to be a Gentile, and saves herself not by concealing her identity, but by revealing it.
• Mordecai saves King Ahasuerus from assassination, but Haman (not Mordecai) is promoted to vizier or prime minister.
• Haman, the prime minister, must lead Mordecai, the “lowly Jew,” through the city dressed in the king’s robes and riding the royal steed.
• Haman is hanged on the gallows he built for Mordecai.
• Haman’s property (plundered from the Jews) is given over to Mordecai and his position in the palace is reassigned to Mordecai.
• Haman is, in the end, vanquished by a woman (and a Jewish woman, at that).
• The true hero — who displays the greatest ingenuity, cunning, and courage — is a woman. Not a man, and not God.

Our celebrations reflect these reversals:

• Drinking in synagogue is not only allowed, but even encouraged.
• Noisemaking with groggers — however intolerable — is a must. 
• Children are permitted to run wild.
• Male and females often cross-dress (despite the prohibition in Deuteronomy 22:5).
• To the extent that there is a synagogue service at all, it is often a parody of Jewish prayer (I once rewrote ma’ariv in the style of Dr. Seuss).
• Leading up to the holiday we share “Purim Torah” — humor that parodies everything and everybody, even Torah, Talmud, and revered scholars and leaders.

Historically, Jews have often been marginal, vulnerable, at the threshold of danger. Liminality has been a prominent feature of our experience in the world. The folk tale quality of The Book of Esther is highly appealing. The evil and powerful enemy is routed. The Jews rise up against their enemies, prevail over them, and even kill a good many. In the end, the Jews end up with Haman’s wealth and authority. What could be better? Raise a glass in celebration!

Purim shpiel

The role of God in Esther is yet another reversal. Throughout Hebrew Scripture, God has the power, calls the shots, and reserves the role of savior. But God is never mentioned in Esther. Human courage and ingenuity win the day, though not without great peril. In several midrashim, the Rabbis attempt to insert God into the story.

A midrash on Psalm 22 paints the scene for us of Esther’s visit to King Ahasuerus’ throne room. The king sits on his throne pining for Vashti, his queen whom he had executed. Note that Esther — at this dangerous and liminal moment — is saved by standing in a liminal location, the fourth of King Ahasuerus’ seven courts.

Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help (Psalm 22:12). When did Esther speak these words? At the time when Ahasuerus decreed to destroy, or slay, and to cause all the Jews to perish (Esther 3:13). At that time, Esther came into the king’s house without permission, as it is said, Esther… stood in the inner court of the king’s house (Esther 5:1). The king had seven courts: Esther went through the first court, the second, and the third. But as she came into the fourth court, Ahasuerus began gnashing his teeth and grinding them in rage, and said, “Oh for those who are gone and cannot be replaced! How I wished and implored the queen Vashti that she come into my presence! And because she would not come, as it is said, But the queen Vashti refused to come (Esther 1:12), I decreed death for her. But this one comes like a harlot without permission!” Since Esther was standing in the middle of the fourth court, however, the guards of the outer courts had no right to lay hands upon her because she had already gone beyond their authority, while the guards of the inner courts had no right to lay hands upon her because she had not yet come into their authority. R. Levi said in the name of R. Hama: It was on account of Esther that David composed a psalm containing prayers in which both creatures above and below praise the Holy One Blessed be God: the psalm beginning Hallelujah, praise You the Lord from the heavens; praise Him in the heights (Psalm 148:1) At that moment Esther spoke the words, Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help (Psalm 22:12). (Midrash Tehillim Rabbah 22:24)

Esther’s physical liminality mirrors her existential liminality.  Purim is, in some senses, a colossally crazy celebration of liminality. But we also mark many liminal moments and places with far more sublime rituals. The mezuzot on our doorposts mark the threshold of our houses, the juncture between homes and the outside world: liminality in space. Havdalah marks the boundary between holy and mundane time: liminality in time. Shiva is liminal time between the burial of a loved one and returning to the world; mourners remain sequestered in their homes: liminality in religious status and inner emotions. Standing under the chupah: liminality in social status. And perhaps mikveh is the ultimate liminal ritual. One enters the water in one state and emerges in another — one can even enter a Gentile and emerge a Jew.

Arnold van Gennep, Victor Turner and many others (in particular sociologist Arpad Szakolczai) have written about two sides to liminal periods: The ugly underbelly is their inherent danger. The door is open to insidious tricksters and charlatans, charismatic leaders who exploit the moment for their own gain. Hitler, Mussolini, Lenin, and Stalin jump to mind.

The beautiful side is the inherent potential for constructive change during liminal periods. When rigid hierarchies and social structures are dissolved, new possibilities emerge for political, cultural, and religious changes in the malleable, liminal moment. Modern Zionism among the early chalutzim is an example of an extended liminal period. The pioneers created communitas in the form of kibbutzim, and shaped new political and cultural norms.

Purim in Tel Aviv

The caterpillar must emerge from the cocoon — risking its life in its liminality — to become a butterfly. If liminality is unsettling, and often unavoidable, it is also exhilarating because it carries on its wings the possibility of change. We’ve all experienced it. If we can aim for constructive change, and not be overcome by fear, the beautiful underbelly of liminality can be a blessing.

© Rabbi Amy Scheinerman

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[1]Jeffrey Rubenstein has pointed out many of these in his article: “Purim, Liminality, and Communitas,” AJS Review, Vol. 17, No. 2. Autumn, 1992, pp. 247-277.

Which way to the Tabernacle? / Terumah

Parshat Terumah illustrates the quintessential problem of studying Torah in the modern age: what are we to believe? Terumah describes the mishkan (Wilderness Tabernacle) in such fine detail that many people have constructed models on the basis of the description in Exodus. Every part of the structure and apparatus is delineated, right down to the sockets that connect the planks of the Tabernacle, and the colors of the threads in the tapestry that covered the Holy of Holies. Yet scholars debate whether there actually was a Wilderness Tabernacle, or whether what we read in Terumah is an imaginary retrojection of the Temple in Jerusalem.

So we might ask: what value is there in spending our time exploring the minutiae of the mishkan if it hasn’t existed for more than 1200 years and perhaps never really existed at all? Abravanel (1437–1508) explains:

Do not think that the commandments about the Tabernacle, which do not apply to us here in the exile, have no value for us today. The Torah is a book of elevated wisdom and divine teaching. What we understand of these matters today, in terms of their allusions to higher things, is of as much value as when they were in practice. The same is true of all Torah matters. The Torah is a tool to prepare the way for us to become “like God, knowing good” (Genesis 3:5), to keep us alive in every place and at all times.

Torah is sacred scripture. Rather than asking, “Did it happen?” when we cannot discern the answer with certainty, or most likely the answer is no, is far less helpful than asking, “What does it mean? What can we learn from this?” So my question is: What does the description of the mishkan teach us about how to live our lives?

Terumah opens:

The Lord spoke to Moses saying: Speak to the Israelites: take/accept (ikchu) for Me gifts; from every person whose heart so moves him. And this is the contribution (v’zot ha-terumah) you shall take/accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yards, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense, lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece. (Exodus 25:107)

The verb in the first two verses is ikchu, which is usually translated “accept” but which actually means “take.” The classical commentators noticed this. Nachmanides, for example, acknowledges the literal meaning of ikchu and tells us:

According to the true interpretation, v’zot (“this” in v. 2) refers to the Shekhinah and the wisdom provided by it, as when God said to Solomon, Because you want this (zot) and have not asked for wealth, property, and glory… but you have asked for the wisdom and the knowledge to be able to govern My people… (2 Chronicles 1:11).

Nachmanides (1194-1270) tells us that “this” in our parashah can be understood to refer to the Shekhinah, God’s indwelling presence in the world. He notices that the wording is peculiar. God tells Moses to speak to the Israelites, but then describes what the Israelites are to do, not what Moses is to say to them. He reads the verse this way:

The Lord spoke to Moses saying: Speak to the Israelites. They will take/accept for Me [as a] gift…

 Nachmanides then explains “from them” by citing a marvelous passage from midrash Exodus Rabbah, which reads “take/accept for Me” as “take/accept Me”: It is not that the Israelites bring donations to the Tabernacle, but that the Tabernacle is the locus where God gifts Israel with the Shekhinah. The midrash tells us:

“The Holy One told Israel, ‘I have sold you My Torah, and I, as it were, am included in the sale. The gift will be Mine and I will be with it, as in My beloved I mine and I am his (Song of Songs 2:16).’” (Exodus Rabbah 33:1)

Abravanel got it right: there is much to glean from Torah that seems not to apply to us today. The mishkan is only superficially “where God lives” — everything lives within God, and the mishkan is the place where the Israelites come to be reminded of, and experience, God within. The in-dwelling presence of God (the Shekhinah) dwells in them. We all need reminders of our holiness and our potential to sanctify the world around us. It’s hard to keep that in the forefront of our minds when life is not pure unalloyed joy, but rather punctuated with chores and challenges, pressures and deadlines, sickness and conflicts.

Leonard Cohen captured the challenge beautifully in a verse of his famous song, Hallelujah, popularized by the movie Shrek and recordings by Jeff Buckley and KD Lang:

I did my best, it wasn't much

I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch

I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you

And even though it all went wrong

I'll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah

The mishkan was the place where a person could come and say: I did my best, but it didn’t amount to much; but that doesn’t diminish my value and potential. It was the place a person could “feel” and “touch” God because the mishkan was so tangible: a place of sights, sounds, smells, tastes, and textures. Even with all one’s imperfections, foibles, and failings, the mishkan provided a place one could stand “in the presence of God,” sing Hallelujah, and praise God — the holy spark within each soul — with a full heart, and recapture that sense of the Shekhinah dwelling within.

It is entirely human and natural to need something concrete to remind us of what is intangible: the divine spark and sacred potential within. Do you have a place, or memory, or song, or quotation that is your mishkan, transporting you to where you can spiritually stand in God’s presence, recognizing God’s presence in you? Is there someone who is your mishkan? Is there something you do that revitalizes your soul and reminds you of your value? Visit your mishkan as often as possible, as often as you need. Abravanel was right — Torah is a book of “elevated wisdom and divine teaching.” It speaks to us eternally.

(c) Rabbi Amy Scheinerman