130316 – Parshat VaYikra

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VORTIFY YOURSELF

Reb Yosil Rosenzweig

rebyosil@gmail.com

PARSHAT VAYIKRa

VaYikra (Leviticus) 1:1-5:26

Haftarah – Isaiah 43:21-44:23

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What does it mean to be human? What is it that defines our essence? Are we the social animal described by Aristotle, or the thinking animal proposed by Descartes?

Clearly, one can come up with a variety of definitions for the human being, from the notion of the creature who loves for no reason, to that being which hates for no reason at all. But I would like to suggest that the opening verses of Sefer VaYikra, the Book of Leviticus, present us with a different, somewhat surprising idea of what it really means to be human, and it is certainly not the usual first–choice definition for the human spirit.

It is tied, in essence, to the theme of this Biblical book, namely that of sacrifice: “I sacrifice, therefore I am.” I refer to this as surprising because we are, as part of this exercise, searching for a universal, human definition, and the sacrificial cult detailed in Leviticus is rather particularistic; it is parochial in its scope, and according to some, even primitive. So great is this perception that large segments of modern Jewry, intent on erasing all barriers between Jews and the rest of humankind, endeavoring to put only Judaism’s best foot forward, have practically edited out all references to sacrifices from time–honored prayers in the prayer book and from the festival Torah readings. These are decisions that have been made by the liturgical authorities in other denominations in Judaism. But I might contend that in their haste to whitewash Jewish texts and to remove them of any last vestige of the sacrificial cult, they sometimes overlook concepts and possibilities in the text, whose underlying message strikes at the heart of the human existential need.

Sefer VaYikra, the Book of Leviticus, begins with HaShem calling to Moses, and presenting a command which is the theme of the entire book, and perhaps of all of life: “Speak to the children of Israel, when any man of you shall bring from themselves a sacrifice to HaShem, from the cattle, from the herd or from the flock…” (Lev. 1:2).

“When any person from among you” doesn’t really do justice to the original Hebrew term, namely the word Adam – human. “Human beings, when they shall bring from themselves a sacrifice” is how it really should read. Adam is, after all, the most universal term for humankind, for personhood, since it evokes the first human who ever lived and from whom every single person in existence is derived and descended, and it is the root word of Adamah – earth, from which all life emanates and originates. Not only does Adam seem out of place in this particular context, but if we remove the word “Adam,” the verse still makes perfect sense.

Hence, the Torah is teaching us that the essence of the human being is his/her or her need, and ability to sacrifice. And the logic behind this concept inheres in the most fundamental aspect of the human predicament/condition. It is after all, only the human being, among all other physical creatures of the world, who is aware of his/her own limitations, who lives in the shadow of his/her own mortality, and since the time of Adam is aware of the painful reality that no matter how strong, powerful or brilliant he/she may be, he/she will ultimately by vanquished by death. his/her only hope is to link themselves to a Being and a cause which is greater than them, which was there before they were born and which will be there after they dies.

I once had a discussion in one of my evening class discussing the issue of whether or not we can change HaShem’s plan. We might call this our struggle with Bashert – predestination, and our ability to be the architects of our own destiny. Many of these very questions were raised by participants in the group: What is the purpose of life? What does it mean for us to be human? What is it all for? Why live? Because in the end, we decay and rot away. And yet, so many of us are smitten with the bug to amass wealth and material goods in this world, to achieve and create fame and fortune. Many people collect and assemble their wealth in order to utilize it for themselves, in order to enjoy these material means in the here–and–now. However, our mortality teaches that our material possessions do not really belong to us; one day we will be forced to leave them and the entire world behind, and in fact they often fall into the very opposite hands from those we would have liked to have received them. Hence the real paradox of life: only those objects which we commit to a higher, more sublime cause and purpose, which we give to HaShem, to a sanctuary, to a study hall, to a home for the sick and aged, to a shelter and haven for the poor and disadvantaged – only those are truly ours, because they enable us to live beyond our limited lifetime, perhaps to all eternity. Only that which we sacrifice is really ours. Only that which we give of ourselves to others has a lasting significance and purpose.

The expressions of sacrifice, or sharing and giving, are, and can be, various; but common to building a synagogue or a Yeshiva, or funding a new hospital wing or a scholarship fund, and assuming other tasks to ease the sufferings and the challenges of humankind, is that all link us to a greater good, a hope for the future. I may die, but to the extent that I devoted my life to causes that will not die, that live on and endure, I also will live on. Sacrifice makes it possible to bathe in the light of eternity.

Jewish history, and the city of Jerusalem, the center of the universe, emanate from this fundamental truth, as seen and reflected in HaShem’s initial command to Abraham to sacrifice his beloved Isaac on Mount Mori’ah, the eventual site of the Temple. Yitzchak – Isaac was the first “Olah – whole burnt offering.” In effect, HaShem was teaching Abraham that his newfound faith would only endure in history eternally if he, Abraham, were willing to commit to it his most beloved object, paradoxically his very future. In his willingness to make that sacrifice, Abraham secured his religions and his own eternity.

But the Torah teaches that the most significant sacrifices of all that we can make are not our material goods, but are rather our own selves, our time and our effort, our intellects and our unique abilities. People must sacrifice “MeKem – from themselves” (Lev. 1:2). Giving a child the gift of a check is hardly as significant as giving a child the gift of our time, of our personalities, of our thoughts and of our struggles. And this, too, HaShem teaches Abraham. HaShem ultimately instructs Abraham not to slay Isaac, but to allow Isaac to live because the greatest sacrifice we can make is not in dying for HaShem; we do not believe in Jihad, in religious war and struggle, but rather in living in accordance with His commands and desires. Isaac, in life, is called an Olah – a whole burnt offering.

Strangely enough, RaShI, the well–known and celebrated Biblical commentator, suggests another reason for the seemingly superfluous use of the term “Adam” in our text. The Torah, he contends, is teaching us that just as Adam, the first human being, never sacrificed stolen goods, since everything in the world belonged to him, so are we prohibited from sacrificing anything which is stolen and is not our own. Such a lesson certainly protects Jewish society against a Robin Hood mentality, which steals from the rich in order to give to the poor. In our faith and in our ethical teachings, we do not believe that the ends justify the means, and we must always pursue justice by means of justice.

Perhaps, then, RaShI is protecting us against an even deeper and more demonically appealing, danger inherent in the identification that we might make with Divine service. We can only sacrifice objects or characteristics which technically, if even in a limited sense, belong to us. We dare not sacrifice innocent human beings, even if we believe that such a sacrifice will prevent the murder of Jews. We cannot offer up ourselves on a funeral pyre, commit suicide with a dying gasp of “let my soul die together with the Philistines,” or the Palestinians. Our lives belong to HaShem, and we dare not steal that which is His, even in our gift to Him. Judaism is not Machiavellian. And the ends can never justify the means. We are each an end unto ourselves and not a means for the achievements of others.

Let us celebrate our potential, the opportunities we have to properly sacrifice for just and noble causes; to give of ourselves to serve purposes that go beyond our earthly existence, and ensure the eternity of our souls and the enduring value of our earthly existence.

Shabbat Shalom,

Reb Yosil

121229 – Parshat VaYiChi

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VORTIFY YOURSELF

Reb Yosil Rosenzweig

rebyosil@gmail.com

PARSHAT VAYICHI

Bereishit (Genesis) 47:28-50:26

Haftorah I Kings 2:1-12

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This week we read the final chapters of the Book of Bereishit. In the synagogue, prior to the reciting of the last few words of the Pasha, the congregation rises and when the reading is completed, they call out in unison, Chazak, Chazak, V’NitChazek – Strengthened, strengthened, may we be strengthened.

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The running debate throughout much of Jewish history has been the heated battle about who is the authentic Jew – Sadducees or Pharisees; Kabbalists or Rationalists; Chasidim or Mitnagdim; Reform, Conservative or Orthodox.

Some see this as a threat to Jewish unity, while others claim that it is a necessary lubricant and built–in guarantee assuring that no one group in particular becomes dominant.  No one group should risk the malady of success and its symptoms of laziness, self–righteousness and triumphalism and self-destruct. Some contend that pluralism or the presence of different expressions in Jewish life is necessary to maintain the vitality of the Jewish experience.

Watching how these struggles align themselves on the battlefield of Jewish history is a fascinating exercise, because so much of the tension and the excitement in modern Jewish life is the discovery of parallels between NOW and THEN. We might be able to take some comfort in seeing that that the fissure in the Jewish community today it is nothing new, and that history is but repeating itself.

In watching the battle from the sidelines, I often come away with the feeling that due to assimilation, apathy and indifference, the Yeshiva and Chassidic worlds, where so much of the outside world is held suspect, are surprisingly predicted to still be Jewish by the year 2,050 and all others will disappear.

The fact is that whatever little enters into this world from the outside, is either a modern convenience or a course of study that will yield a good living. The philosophy of Torah and Madah (literally, Torah and Science – the religious philosophy of the “Rav” – Rabbi Yosef Soloveitchik of Yeshiva University, a philosophy that embraces areas of worldly knowledge), does not sit well with much of the Yeshiva world. Latin, Greek philosophy and English literature, for example, are not subjects that the typical Yeshiva trained individual tries or cares to master.

Yet we find in the Gemara (Tractate Shabbat 75a), the statement: “Anyone who is able to study astronomy and does not do so is chided by the prophet who says about him, `the world of the Lord they do not explore, and the creation of His hands they do not see.‘”

Every Friday night, Jewish parents bless their children with the time–honored blessing, “May HaShem make you like Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah.” This is the blessing given to a daughter. But to our sons, we say, “May HaShem make you like Ephraim and Menasheh” (48:20). Of course, we know that Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel and Leah are the four matriarchs, the founders of our people. But why are Menasheh and Ephraim, the two sons of Yosef, cited in this blessing and therefore seen as the paradigms of Jewish manhood?

One interpretation is that Menashe and Ephraim were the first of the family of Ya’acov to have been born and brought up outside of Eretz Yisra’el and outside the home of Ya’acov, second–generation Diasporians; yet they remained true to the traditions of their faith, despite their exposure to animals gods, the cult of the dead, and the other enticing and inviting elements of Egyptian decadence.

Note for a moment how Ya’acov actually blesses his grandsons. He places his left hand on the head of the older, Menashe, and his right hand on Ephraim, giving the younger son precedence in the blessing. Yosef, for a moment, thinks his blind and ailing father has made a mistake, but Ya’acov actually knows what he is doing and he tells Yosef that the younger boy will, in the end, be greater (48:19). The Midrash explains and resolves this issue with the comment: that when the people of Egypt approach Yosef to buy wheat, there was a translator, and that man was Menashe, a sophisticated linguist, a cosmopolitan PHD we might say, from the Nile University. And Ephraim? Well, he is the unnamed figure who brings Yosef the news that his father is ill. He is the one who, from the time that Ya’acov first arrived in Egypt, devotes himself exclusively to the study of Torah with his grandfather, and sits at his feet and cleaves to the message of his elder. Thus, from the positioning of the hands, we understand exactly why Ya’acov chooses to rearrange the blessings. Ephraim comes first, because without Torah, without a grounding in religious life and ethical teachings, everything else turns into the tools of cruelty. But Ya’acov also blesses Menashe because he values his work and his achievements in the court of Pharaoh.

So, my friends, we parents on Friday night pray to HaShem that our sons should be the synthesis of both Ephraim and Menashe – growing to be people capable of combining Torah learning with worldly wisdom. In this manner, they become full and integrated individuals who are able to appreciate the world and what it has to offer, all the while diverting that knowledge and wisdom through the lens of Torah teaching. Indeed, it is Torah which gets top billing, for it has the capacity to take the best of the material world and sanctify it, ennoble it and transform it; but only if we take Torah and spread its message and its relevance to the academies of science, and politics, to the humanities and the arts. Only then will we have fulfilled the vision which Ya’acov dreamed.

I say this with all due respect to other approaches which might take exception to my feelings on this matter. Nonetheless, I feel that this is a bona fide definition and representation of what it is that we should strive for to be authentic Jews. Perhaps one can embellish and amplify this point by looking back for a moment to the Menorah, the centerpiece of our recently celebrated Chanukah festival. In one of the Torah’s several descriptions of the Menorah lighting procedure, we are told that: “when the flames are kindled, they should light up the central staff of the Menorah, and thus shall all seven lights be illuminated” (Numbers 8:2). This verse gives primacy to the center light; it is the essential Menorah, flanked by the other six lights, three on each side.

Evidently, the six side lights were oriented in such a way as to cast a reflection onto the center. And most of the classical commentaries accept this approach. Rabbi Ovadiya Seforno of 15th century Italy expands this explanation by likening the three lights of the right to those who concern themselves with “eternal matters,” and the three lights of the left to those who are involved with “temporal matters.” Seforno teaches that both of these groups have an overriding and compelling responsibility to turn inward toward the center staff, so that the illumination of the Menorah can be complete. We urgently need this message of the Menorah today, when we see so pronounced and obvious the divisions that exist between the various factions of Jews and the rancor that we hear and read of in the public press.

The center of Torah Judaism has been obscured within the shadows of infighting, to the extent that the entire Menorah may be cast into darkness. Not for this did the Maccabees struggle in the past, and not for this have our ancestors struggle in their efforts to perpetuate Jewish life and provide for its future. And not for this have we come so far in our efforts to build a thriving Jewish community in Israel and in the Diaspora.

So, when looking for inspiration, for enlightenment, one should be able to feel and appreciate the warmth of this approach to Judaism. By no means should the primacy of Torah be diminished, but the realization that Torah can interface and intersect all levels of life. In this way, we bring meaning to our existence and honor our spiritual mission.

Chazak, Chazak, V’NitChazek – Strengthened, strengthened, may we be strengthened.

Shabbat Shalom,

Reb Yosil

Parshat Vayeitzay

This week’s Torah portion, Parshat VaYeitzay covers a lot of territory. Our Parsha begins with a penniless Ya’akov departing from his home in order to escape his brother’s wrath and ends after with the departure of a wealthy man, husband of four and father of 12, from the house of Lavan, his father-in-law. In between, we have so many important events that occur in Ya’akov’s life that it is hard to choose what to write about. This week however, I would like to shed some light on Ma’aseh Sulam – the episode of the ladder

The verse reads:

And he came upon a certain place and remained there all night because the sun had set; and he took of the stones of that place and placed them for his pillow and lay down to sleep in that place. And he dreamed, and behold a ladder was implanted on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven; and behold the angels of G-d were ascending and descending on it. And, behold, HaShem stood above it, and said, I am the L-rd, G-d of Abraham your father and the G-d of Isaac; the land on which you lie, to you and to your seed will I give it (Bereishit – Genesis 28 11-13).

This strange dream of a ladder and angels ascending and descending is clouded with mystery and has been the subject of numerous commentaries.  Some deal with the number of steps between the angels, others deal with the order of the angels ascending and descending, even about the nature of angels.  There are too many to site, but one Midrash strikes me as very relevant to both ancient and modern Jewish history.

Rabbi Yissachar Frand quotes a Midrash that teaches that when the verse refers to the ladder being “implanted on the earth,” the evil Korach about whom it is written, “and the earth opened its mouth (to swallow Korach – Numbers 26:10)” prophetically appeared before Yaakov. The Midrash goes on to say that when the verse says that “the head of the ladder reached the heaven,” it refers to the fact that Yaakov was prophetically shown Moshe about whom it is written “Come up to HaShem [G-d in Heaven] (Shemot – Exodus 19:20).”

The early stages of the Nation of Israel are ripe with struggle. Yitzchak and Yishma’el, Ya’akov and Eisav all vie to establish a fledgling nation that begins with infertility yet is promised to be “numerous like the stars of the heavens and the sands of the earth (Bereishit 13:16).” Ya’akov/Yisra’el, whose children all follow in his ways becomes the final patriarch and the namesake of this nation.

Ya’akov’s prophetic vision of the ladder expresses the true nature of the Jewish people. Like Korach, who through jealousy and dissention was swallowed by the earth, we often quarrel and debase ourselves in conflict that only weakens us. Likewise, Moshe, who rose to the heavenly heights and encountered HaShem face to face, we too can accomplish anything thrown our way when unified. There is no middle ground for the Children of Israel, we either rise or fall. Stagnation is not an option for us. We either display our weaknesses by quarreling among ourselves and fall from the ladder and descend to the earth or, when unified, we raise ourselves up the ladder to the very heavens.

The stars of the heavens and the sands of the earth are our destiny, there is no middle ground, and immobility is not an option.

Shabbat Shalom,

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VORTIFY YOURSELF
Rabbi Yosil Rosenzweig
rebyosil@gmail.com
PARSHAT VAYEITZAY
Bereishit (Genesis) 28:10 – 31:3
Haftorah – Hosea 12:13 – 14:10
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