Weekly D'var Torah

Behar/Behukotai: Our Wake-up Call
Ms. Amy Pincus
Torah and Tefillah Specialist/Middle School Judaic Studies Teacher
apincus@grossschechter.org

This week’s Torah reading is a double portion including Behar and Bechukotai, which are the final two sidrot of Vayikra. It is common in final sidrot  to see a review of blessings and curses. We have a final reminder that we must follow God’s commands if we want to prosper, but if we don’t, there will be consequences. As we have just finished a series of spring celebrations – Purim, Pesach, Yom ha-Shoah, Yom ha’Atzmaut and Lag b’Omer – and Shavuot is just around the corner –          these parashiyot can serve as a wake-up call for us. With the exception of Yom ha-Shoah, we could lose ourselves in all of the celebrating this season brings, coupled with the excitement of springtime. It is good for us to feel spiritually renewed after having relived our being saved from the wicked Haman and the Egyptian bondage, reliving the birth of our nation and soon receiving the Torah at Sinai, but it is not enough.

The lessons in these parashiyot force us to pause, before simply coasting into summer, to recognize that while we are celebrating, we are not excused from our responsibilities. We must continue to behave in ways that are ethical, moral and just. While we celebrate the joy of freedom at a Passover Seder, we must remember who we are or how we got to this place in time. These parashiyot remind us of the importance of God’s commandments and that it is through them that we actualize the spiritual, social and moral agenda of the Torah in our daily lives.

Specifically, I would like to focus on the laws of Shmittah and Yovel explained in parashat Behar. In Behar, Moses speaks to B’nei Yisrael about some laws that are to take effect in the land that God will give them. For six years, the people will be allowed to plant and to harvest from their fields and vineyards, but the seventh year will be a year of complete rest for the land. This seventh year, the Sabbatical year, is referred to as the Shmittah. During this year B’nei Yisrael will not be allowed to work their fields, and the land is considered to be hefker (ownerless) and may be picked by anyone. The Israelites are also commanded to count seven sets of Shmittah  marking the fiftieth year as a Jubilee (Yovel), a year of release for the land, its people and any debts owed.  Not only was this an early form of soil conservation, but there are moral lessons to be gained from this practice. Although a person may “own” fields, he is not the true owner. The Sabbatical and Jubilee years make us realize that God is the ultimate power.  In this instance, the ta’amei ha-mitzvah (flavor or taste of the commandment) is experienced through this heightened awareness that can lead to a stronger ecological consciousness –raising our level of responsibility to what Christians have called, “integrity of creation.” We, as Jews, understand this through the mitzvah of Bal Tashhit – not wasting any part of God’s creation.

The second contemporary expression of the ta’amei ha-mitzvah of Shmittah deals with questions of social justice and removing the gaps between rich and poor. Forgiving debts in the year of Shmittah allows a wealthy person to put himself in the place of a poor person, by experiencing what it feels like not to have some of the basic material things that perhaps they have taken for granted.  This may encourage them to support the poor beyond what they are required to do.

Behar tells us twice that people are “servants” of God. In the text (Leviticus 25:42 and 55) these words seem to refer specifically to the treatment of slaves and servants, but we usually think of our relationship to God as working to complete God’s world through the commandments.  We must ask ourselves how can we take the values of the Torah and apply them to our families, our friendships, our business transactions, and our relationships with people at work.  Most of us live outside of Israel, so the Sabbatical and Jubilee laws do not apply to us. Perhaps, however, the Sabbatical year can raise our awareness of God, of creation, our treatment of the very soil upon which we live, and of humankind.

Finally, in Behukotai, the second parasha read this week, we are reminded of Heshbon ha-nefesh, the accounting of the soul. In these parashiyot God and Torah teach us that there is a clear and ethical path for achieving a holy life. As we take in the beauty of springtime and look ahead toward summer quickly approaching, let us be mindful of who we are, from where we have come and how we will continue our journeys ahead.

This week’s D’var Torah was written by Ms. Amy Pincus.  She can be reached at apincus@grossschechter.org

 Parshat Emor: The Fruits of Our Labor
Daniel R. Weiss
Middle School Judaic Studies Principal/K-8 Judaic Program Coordinator
dweiss@grossschechter.org

Last week, as I sat in shul at Shira Chadasha in Jerusalem, we read Parshat Emor.  This week as I sit in shul in Cleveland, we will again be reading Parshat Emor.   In Israel, the Torah reading is one week ahead of the readings outside of Israel.  This happens occasionally when the eighth day of Pesach (only celebrated outside of Israel) is on a Shabbat.  In Israel, there is no eighth day; that day is basically the day after Pesach, so the Torah reading for that day is from the regular Parsha rotation.  When this happens, the readings equal out in the weeks leading up to Shavuot. For instance, next week we will read a double portion, but in Israel the same portion will be spread over two weeks.

One section that strikes me in the Torah reading is the focus on the period of the Omer, the seven cycles of seven that we count from Pesach to Shavuot.  These weeks have become a period of mourning and preparation for receiving the Ten Commandments (Shavuot).  There are certain days during this period that we have a reprieve from our mourning and an opportunity to schedule happy events (weddings, parties, bonfires, shave and get haircuts).

This year, on Lag B’Omer (May 10th), my family celebrated the first haircut for our youngest son, Dotan.

I would like to share a few words from our ceremony –

This ceremony is known in Hebrew as a חלאקה, from the root word חלק, part.  In Yiddish it is often referred to as an אפשערן, from the word scissors or cut off.

The cutting of a person’s hair has long been associated with sacred activities in various religions and cultures.  In ancient Babylonia, Syria, Greece and the Arab world, the cutting of hair came to represent a form of consecration, or rite of passage.  Indeed, the offering of one’s hair to God indicated a deeper personal relationship with God, while also serving as a public welcoming ritual for the greater community.  For example, the historian Lucian records that in Syria, young men and women would cut their hair before marriage, place them in containers and nail them up to the temple.  Also, pre-Islamic Arabs would deposit their shorn hair at a tomb of a revered saint as a sacrificial act.  Even King David’s son, Avshalom, cut his hair yearly, weighed it, and some believe offered its monetary value at the Sanctuary.

The modern custom dates back to the 16^th century when a student of the ARI, Rabbi Isaac Luria, an early Kabbalist, recorded that his teacher cut his son’s hair on Lag B’Omer.

Lag B’Omer is also the day upon which Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, the author of the Kabbalistic source, the Zohar died.  He asked that his students mark the day of his death as a day of joy and celebration.  It is also the day upon which the plague that had wiped out 24,000 of Rabbi Akiva’s students ceased.  The plague was caused by the infighting among the students, going against the teaching of R’ Akiva, who taught in the name of Rabbi Hillel– V’Ahavta Lereacha Camocha (love your neighbor as yourself).  We try as parents to teach this value to our children.

Bonfires are lit on this day to remind us of the power of our soul and that each of us has the responsibility to light a spark in those around us.  In Kabbalistic tradition, light symbolizes knowledge.

The tradition of an Upsherin is often interpreted as being related to the mitzvah of Orlah, the prohibition of harvesting the fruits of a tree during its first three years of life is found in last week’s parsha–

כג וְכִֽי־תָבֹ֣אוּ אֶל־הָאָ֗רֶץ וּנְטַעְתֶּם֙ כָּל־עֵ֣ץ מַֽאֲכָ֔ל וַֽעֲרַלְתֶּ֥ם עָרְלָת֖וֹ אֶת־פִּרְי֑וֹ שָׁל֣שׁ שָׁנִ֗ים יִהְיֶ֥ה לָכֶ֛ם עֲרֵלִ֖ים לֹ֥א יֵֽאָכֵֽל: כד וּבַשָּׁנָה֙ הָֽרְבִיעִ֔ת יִֽהְיֶ֖ה כָּל־פִּרְי֑וֹ קֹ֥דֶשׁ הִלּוּלִ֖ים לַֽיהוָֹֽה:

“Now when you enter the land, and plant any kind of tree for eating, you are to regard its fruit as forbidden.  For three years it is to be considered forbidden for you, and you are not to eat it.  At the fourth year all its fruits shall be set aside as holy for jubilation for God (Vayikra 19:23-24).”

For the first three years we are forbidden from harvesting the fruits of this tree we have planted, upon the beginning of its fourth year, not only do we harvest, but we dedicate these fruits to God.  The Midrash interprets these verses to refer to a young child.  In Devarim chapter 20 verse 19 we read  כִּי הָאָדָם עֵץ הַשָּׂדֶה “a man is like a tree of the field”.  For the first three years our responsibility as parents is to nurture our child physically and make sure that he has what he needs in order to grow.  The Midrash explains that the fruits of our labor are unattainable because our child cannot speak well and is not at a cognitive stage to begin serious learning.  Now that we have entered the fourth year, our child is ripe for learning and we are able to “harvest” our fruits as he begins his formal Jewish Education.

While in Israel with the 8^th grade this past month; we had the opportunity to plant a tree in the Lavi forest.  We each picked the type of tree we wanted to plant.  I chose a carob tree, as I was reminded of a famous story told by one of my favorite Jewish storytellers, Penina Schram –

Honi and the Carob Tree

A Talmud Tale
Told by Peninnah Schram

Honi the Wise One was also known as Honi the Circle Maker. By drawing a circle and stepping inside of it, he would recite special prayers for rain, sometimes even argue with God during a drought, and the rains would come. He was, indeed, a miracle maker. As wise as he was, Honi sometimes saw something that puzzled him. Then he would ask questions so he could unravel the mystery.

One day, Honi the Circle Maker was walking on the road and saw a man planting a carob tree. Honi asked the man, “How long will it take for this tree to bear fruit?”

The man replied, “Seventy years.”

Honi then asked the man, “And do you think you will live another seventy years and eat the fruit of this tree?”

The man answered, “Perhaps not. However, when I was born into this world, I found many carob trees planted by my father and grandfather. Just as they planted trees for me, I am planting trees for my children and grandchildren so they will be able to eat the fruit of these trees.”

Our group stood in a circle and each participant shared for whom they were planting their tree.  As each person spoke, you could feel the emotion and connection to the Land and to their loved ones.  I didn’t share – not because I didn’t want to, just because.

As I planted my tree I thought about the day of Dotan’s first haircut.  I also thought about the day of Dotan’s Brit Milah.  On that day we honored my grandfather Marvin Snyder as the Sandek, the one who held Dotan on his lap. As I planted my tree, a carob tree, I thought of how proud my grandfather was that day. How he tried to keep still and said the words of blessing along with the Mohel.  I know that if my grandfather were here today, he would be just as excited, just as proud, knowing that the seeds that he planted when he married my grandmother would bring forth the fruits that we see today.

Today we plant another tree – a peach tree.  We will nurture it and aid in its ability to bring forth fruit.  This tree will grow in our yard and forever be a reminder of gathering here today.  Just as my students and I picked beets as part of our Leket project in Israel, fruits from this tree will be donated to those in our community who are less fortunate.

Sin or Sign?
Tazria Metzora
Rabbi Jim Rogozen
Headmaster
Rogozen@grossschechter.org

One of those things you learn in Rabbinical School is “the more Midrash, the more difficult the text.” In other words, the Rabbis of the first few centuries found some Torah texts really hard to understand or explain to others. In some cases, when they found the Torah’s subject matter difficult or strange, their “explanations” got longer and loftier as they talked about everything…except the topic at hand.

This week’s double parshiyot of Tazria/Metzora contain four long chapters with gory details about childbirth, blood, body sores, molds…not pleasant stuff. However, if you check out the Midrash, the Rabbis’ commentaries spend little time on actual content, focusing instead on morality.

Let’s focus on Tzara’at – leprosy, for lack of a better translation – which was considered a physical manifestation of sin. It was a “sign” of God’s displeasure with a person, causing him/her to be separated from the group for a week. The Kohen checked the person out, announced his diagnosis, and, after a week, helped reintegrate the person back into the group.

This part of the Torah has four challenges for the reader. One, it’s yucky (that’s the technical, scholarly term!). Two, there’s an amazing number of details about things we don’t practice any more. Three, there are clearly elements of an earlier religious sensibility (involving purity, blood, and seemingly magical forces) that seem strange to us. And four, there are beliefs about behaviors and illness (the “sin-sign connection”) that are hard to swallow.

The Torah isn’t big on details in Vayikra (Leviticus) about the causes of Tzara’at, so commentators have looked at other parts of the Torah to find a “cause.” Miriam and Aaron are punished with Tzara’at after they criticize (gossip) Moshe for his choice of wife. In the Second Book of Chronicles, King Uzziah is punished with Tzara’at for his unauthorized (arrogant) offering of incense on the altar. The Rabbis added murder, uttering a vain oath, illicit relations, theft and miserly behavior to the list of things that lead to Tzara’at. Because the words for gossip (motzee shem ra) sound like the word Tzara’at, it is considered the number one cause of this affliction.

In addition to looking for the cause, the Rabbis link the rituals for removing Tzara’at to the sins that led to Tzara’at in the first place. For instance, the Talmud explains that a bird is sacrificed because a person who gossips sounds like a bird chirping. The Midrash Pesikta D’Rav Kahana explains that a piece of cedar wood is dipped in the bird’s blood because the tallest tree (cedar) is like the arrogant person who holds himself above others. Finally, Midrash Vayikra Rabba teaches that the miserly person has to empty his house prior to it being treated for Tzara’at so everyone can see just how much he owns, indicating just how stingy he’s been.

The linkage is interesting and instructive, but in this last example, it’s not the whole story. The person who has Tzara’at actually empties his house before the Kohen checks it, so that the contents won’t be diagnosed as having signs of Tzara’at – which carries a potentially large cost to the owner. This attempt to avoid financially overburdening a person is a very common and humane attribute of Jewish Law. I’ll admit, however, that the explanation in the Midrash is much more dramatic.

As I mentioned before, the fourth challenge we have in studying this section of the Torah is the connection between sin and illness. For many centuries there was a common belief that physical illness was the result of bad behavior or attitudes. In her book Illness as Metaphor, Susan Sontag wrote that people used to think cancer and TB were caused by repressed passion. Austrian Psychiatrist William Reich said that cancer is a disease following emotional resignation, a giving up of hope.

People have always wondered why people suffer, why illness and tragedy strike some but not others.

Immediately following the big tsunami of 2004, several Rabbis attempted to justify the loss of life by pointing out improper behaviors of the people who suffered the most. One Rabbi said it was because the people of a particular country were anti-Israel. Another Rabbi said that the tsunami was a punishment from God because people ignored the boundaries between water and land that God had fixed at the Creation.

I’m happy to report that most Rabbis did not view the tsunami as divine punishment, but this kind of linkage between sin and God’s reaction is a common belief, though we’re a bit confused about the way it works. We want to believe that we deserve the good things that happen to us, but not the bad things. We also don’t like to believe that tragedies can be random. The majority opinion among Rabbis over the centuries is that the appropriate responses to tragedy are humility and an offer to help those in need. In fact, Rabbi Akiva said we should bless God for the good and the bad. He doesn’t say we “deserve” either one, just that we acknowledge that God exists and that we don’t always understand God’s plan.

A way to take this parsha into the 21^st century is to break the “sin-sign” connection and focus on wellness.

“The ancient Greek mind parsed body, mind and spirit out as separate, but Judaism never split them,” says Rabbi Eric Weiss, executive director of the Bay Area Jewish Healing Center in San Francisco. “It’s always been an assumption that all three are part of an integral whole.”

This interrelatedness of body, mind and spirit derives from the broader Jewish concept of wholeness or shleimut. In this context, physical illness is understood to have psychological and spiritual effects. Similarly, spiritual suffering or emotional turmoil may manifest itself in physiological symptoms. Perhaps that’s why Jews traditionally wish a sick person a refuah shlema, “complete healing”.

If the detailed analysis of Tzara’at symptoms could be replaced by concerted efforts to attend to the many ways we can take care of ourselves, maybe we could live healthier, more productive lives. Then illness would be a “sign” of needing to pay more attention to our health rather than serve as a judgment of our morality.

Shabbat Shalom

This week’s Parsha was written by Rabbi Jim Rogozen, Headmaster.  He can be reached at Rogozen@grossschechter.org

 Parshat Tzav – Connections to the Hunger Games
Daniel R. Weiss
Middle School Judaic Studies Principal/K-8 Judaic Program Coordinator
 dweiss@grossschechter.org

This past weekend’s movie release of Hunger Games made me think of this week’s Parsha.  Though I have not yet seen the movie, I did read the trilogy’s page turning books.  If you have not read the books, you have not been introduced to a world in which teenage tributes (a young boy and young girl from each of the twelve districts) are pitted one against another in a fight to the death, while the entire country must watch the action unfold.

What follows is my attempt to view the Hunger Games through a Jewish lens and attempt to tie it to this week’s Parsha, Tzav.  I admit that you may need to stretch your imagination (I did) in order to see these connections.

Shabbat HaGadol/Pesach

This week’s Shabbat is a big Shabbat.  In fact it is referred to as Shabbat HaGadol, the Big Shabbat.  It is the final Shabbat before Pesach.  Pesach is our opportunity to recount our travels out of Egypt, out of a land of slavery into freedom.

In the Hallel prayers we recite the words Min Hameitzar Karati Ya, Anani b’Merchav Yah.  “From the narrow straits I called out to God, from wide-open spaces he answered me.” The Hebrew word for Egypt, Mitrayim, according to some wordsmiths, demonstrates the notion of travelling through a narrow (difficult) situation (life in Egypt) to the wide open (freedom/life in the wilderness) – similar to the concept of walking through the sea, out of slavery into a world of freedom.  The following illustration may help.

 In the land of Panem (the fictional nation in the Hunger Games), the citizens are in narrow straits – their faces show trouble and distress (the Hebrew equivalent of Panem, is פנים, which means face).  They do not have the freedom to travel from one place to another, to live their lives, as they deem fit (much like the Jewish people living in Egypt).  As the Hunger Games begin, pitting young adult against young adult, everyone must face the action, watching the events unfold live on TV – reality TV to its fullest.

Rabbi Avi Friedman in his blog Shalom RAF, suggests a special connection between the holiday of freedom and the struggle for freedom exhibited by those in Panem.  He suggests the strong influence of bread in the lives of those living in Panem and the Matzah we eat on Passover.  Matzah is seen as the poor man’s bread, it was similar to the bread eaten in all of the districts of Panem aside from the capital, where there were extravagant breads, evidence of their freedom and wealth.

Tzav, the command to sacrifice

In this week’s parsha we focus on the idea of sacrifice.  The opening words teach us that we are commanded (tzav) to bring sacrifices.  In each of the twelve districts of Panem, male and female children were commanded to serve as sacrifices, tributes.  Unlike the animal sacrifices of biblical times, these tributes could volunteer to save another (as Katniss does for her sister Prim).

The animals selected for sacrifice had a value.  They had a purpose.  To sacrifice means to give up something of value.  Our tributes must be of value; otherwise they are meaningless.  The same is true in the Hunger Games.  Only those tributes that show a value, survive the longest.  Only those tributes that see the value in others ultimately, survive.  As a people we cannot be out for ourselves.  We must see the value in others.

The Kohanim performed sacrifices while wearing specially designed outfits.  Betzalel and Oholiav had specific instructions when creating the bigdei Kehuna, Kohen garments.  This is similar to the character of Cinna, who created the clothing for Peeta and Katniss.  The outfits served a specific purpose, to inspire the people.

The role of the tributes in the Hunger Games serves a dual purpose.  They can be seen both as the sacrifice itself and as the performer of the sacrifice, the kohen.

In last week’s D’var Torah, Ms. Holly Litwin shared the root of the Hebrew word Korban (sacrifice).  The root, Karov means close.  Our sacrifices were commanded in order to bring us closer to God.

To wrap it up

Obviously I do not advocate child sacrifice.  Far from it! What I do emphasize is our struggle for freedom, a connection to those around us, and our desire to find closeness to God.

I’m not sure any of the tributes in the Hunger Games were truly able to find freedom, community or God – but they can inspire each of us to search out freedom, connection to our community or closeness to God in our own way.  As Pesach is quickly approaching, we must see ourselves as though we are journeying to freedom, from dire straits to the land of openness, as though we are calling out to God, crossing the sea and witnessing the power of our people.

Vayikra
Ms. Holly Litwin
Middle School Tanakh Teacher
hlitwin@grossschechter.org

This week’s Torah portion of Vayikra is the beginning of the book of Leviticus with its details about the five different kinds of sacrifices brought in the tabernacle by the kohanim.  We learn in great detail about the burnt offering, meal offering, well-being offering, sin offering and the guilt offering.  Sacrifices, especially the animal offerings, which involve detailed instructions about how the animals were killed and their various organs were meant to be arranged, is both unpleasant and alien to many Jews today.  However, I still believe that while the details may disturb us, the general concept of sacrifices has much to teach us even now.  In Hebrew they are called korbanot from the root word karov, because their purpose was to bring us closer to G-d.  A properly given offering meant that something of great value such as an animal was given up by its owner and donated to the sacrificial work in the tabernacle either to atone for sin or acknowledge a personal change in status.  In an agrarian society, this was a major financial burden to endure for the sake of religious commitment.  Poorer Jews were able to sacrifice less expensive animals such as turtledoves so that korbanot did not become the exclusive realm of the financially elite.

Most importantly, even in the ancient world at the height of sacrifices in the temple in Jerusalem, the biblical prophets admonished the people to never lose sight of the ultimate goal or think that bringing sin offerings devoid of true repentance would redeem them and atone for their transgressions.  In chapter 1 of Isaiah verses 11-17 the prophet describes G-d’s disgust at how corrupt and devoid of meaning the ritual sacrifices have become.  Verse 11 begins, “Why do I need your numerous sacrifices?” Says God.  I am sated with burnt offerings of rams and the fat of fatlings; the blood of bulls, sheep and goats I do not desire.”  Verses 16 and 17 conclude powerfully, “Wash yourselves, purify yourselves, remove the evil of your deeds from before my eyes; cease doing evil.  Learn to do good, seek justice, vindicate the victim, render justice to the orphan, take up the grievance of the widow.”  It appears that G-d does not tolerate hypocrites well at all.  Enacting the rituals of sacrifices while continuing to engage in sin and corruption is the very height of hypocrisy, and is, therefore, repugnant to G-d.  As prayer has now replaced sacrifice in Judaism, we can apply this same powerful message to all of our personal and communal prayers.

Interestingly, there is a major dispute between the commentators Rambam and Ramban about whether or not animal sacrifices will return to the third temple in Jerusalem during the messianic era.  While sacrificing fruits, grains and animals may seem alien to us, the concept of wanting to become close to G-d through the sacrifices that we make to live meaningful Jewish lives and through sincere prayer, are challenges and privileges we can still deeply connect to in our own era.

This week’s D’var Torah was written by, Ms. Holly R. Litwin, Middle School Tanakh Teacher.  She can be reached at hlitwin@grossschechter.org

Vayakhel-Pekudei: Our Crowning Achievement
Daniel R. Weiss
Middle School Judaic Studies Principal/K-8 Judaic Program Coordinator
dweiss@grossschechter.org

This week we read the double portion of Vayakhel-Pekudei, completing the book of Shemot (Exodus).  Over the course of the past month, our portions have focused on the instructions for building the Mishkan (portable tabernacle), instructions of creating the priestly vestments, a reminder about the sanctity of Shabbat (no work associated with the building of the Mishkan allowed), and this week, the construction of the Mishkan and priestly vestments.

In a course that I am currently taking, we have set out to better understand change and change leadership.  A few weeks ago, in Tetzaveh and Terumah, we read about the content of the change (what the Mishkan and vestments will look like).  Last week we read of the context and reaction to the change (the building of the golden calf and the over-abundance of donations made by the Jewish people, through their nedivut, generosity).  Much of what we read this week is the process of this significant change (how we built it and who the architects and designers were).

In looking at change leadership, I noticed an interesting connection.  In the middle of the second portion this week, we read; “a half-shekel of the Sanctuary for everyone who passed the counters from twenty years of age and up (Shemot 38:26). “  Rabbi Moshe Chayim Levinson interpreted the meaning of the Hebrew for half-shekel, Machatzit in an interesting manner. The following illustration will help:

The letter in the middle of the word is Tzadi, the letter that is used to describe a Tzadik, a righteous person.  It stands taller above the other letters as a reminder that each person has the opportunity to be righteous, be a leader, and be a role model.  The green letters on opposite sides next to the Tzadi spell the word Chai, life.  Through our actions, our lives are lengthened.  As we begin to move farther away from righteous acts, we move closer to the red letters, Met, death.  This death may not be physical; it could be spiritual.  Levinson’s interpretation could also suggest that the closer we connect to a Tzadik, the more spiritually alive we find ourselves.

Above the letter Tzadi in the illustration is a three-pointed crown.  Our sixth graders have recently studied sections of Pirke Avot.  In chapter 4, mishna 17, they read:

“Rabbi Shimon taught: There are three crowns: the crown of Torah, the crown of Priesthood, the crown of Royalty.  The crown of a good name is superior to them all.”

Over the course of the past several weeks, the D’vrei Torah that you have read focused on the idea of Kehilla, community, becoming a Mamlechet Kohanim, a nation of priests.  The Kohen of old served as our leader, helping us to stay on course through the many changes and challenges that life might throw our direction.  Each of us has the opportunity to rise up and be the Tzadik, the righteous one, to lead our community.

To sum it all up: In the building of the Mishkan, the Machatzit, half-shekel, was used to take a census, to count the people – How many of us today make our lives count?  How many of us will stand tall to be righteous?  How many of us will lead our people through these times of change?  How many of us will be crowned with a good name?

 Parashat Kee Tisa –
Elevating One Another Through Kehilla
Rabbi Jim Rogozen
Headmaster
rogozen@grossschechter.org

While we can learn a lot from the big, dramatic events of the Bible, we can also learn something from what occurs immediately following those big events.

After the incident of the molten or “golden” calf, God issues a set of instructions to the Israelites. Included are: Don’t get caught up in idolatry.  Instead, we should observe the holidays, bring our bikkurim or first fruits to the Mishkan, keep Shabbat, eat kosher.

Some scholars think of this quick set of laws as almost another “Decalogue” or 10 commandments. This group of laws, following the incident of the Golden Calf, has two main ideas:

One: To truly be an “am kadosh, mamlechet kohanim” a nation imbued with holiness in which each person is a representative of God, we can’t split our loyalty among various gods, and we can’t try to bribe a variety of idols to get our way. We have to choose God.

Two:  If we want to have this special relationship with God, we have to do things that show we are different. We have to take certain days off from work, we have to eat special foods, we have to give of ourselves and our time so that we can have a kesher – a connection to God.

The Torah recognizes that there is intention, and there is action. Like so much in life, we often have the first, but not the second.

Given the distractions and temptations we all face, how do we keep from being pulled away from our goal of becoming an “am kadosh, mamlechet kohanim” ?

Through kehilla – community. Not just any kehilla, but a community made up of people who share our values and who are committed to the other people in the group. We see ourselves in the faces of others. When we are with others who are pulling together, we feel validated.

Being a Schechter parent is a special experience. While our school has the most diverse parent body of any day school, there are common, core commitments among our parents that are profound and inspiring. In addition to wanting our children to have a phenomenal General Studies education, we want our kids to be mentsches; we want them to have an impact on the world; we want them to be proud and knowledgeable members of the Jewish and larger communities.

Schechter parents know that this takes sacrifice, hard work, and a lot of energy. It takes intention and action.

The words “kee tisa” are translated as “when you take a census of the Israelites” but literally mean “when you raise up the head” of each person. When we elevate one another we all “count,” we are all enabled to be our best. What a special experience it is to be surrounded by people who strive for such lofty goals!

Shabbat Shalom!

This week’s D’var Torah was written by Rabbi Jim Rogozen, Headmaster.  He can be reached at rogozen@grossschechter.org

Parshat Tezaveh: I Want to be a Kohen Too
Daniel R. Weiss
Middle School Judaic Studies Principal/K-8 Judaic Program Coordinator
dweiss@grossschechter.org

A man once went to his rabbi and demanded that the rabbi make him a Kohen.  The rabbi replied that such a request was impossible.  The man begged, offering him millions of dollars in endowment money to the synagogue, but the rabbi still said “no.”  After hours of pestering, the rabbi asked the man “why do you want to be a Kohen so badly?” to which the man replied, “My father was a Kohen, my grandfather was a Kohen, I too want to be a Kohen.”

I recently read a wonderful book called The Last Ember, by Daniel Levin.  The book is similar in style to The Da Vinci Code, in that it takes the reader on an adventure to discover an ancient relic (in this case the Menorah, built by the Israelites at the end of last week’s parsha, Terumah and the beginning of this week’s, Tezaveh).

The premise of the story is based on the life of Josephus Flavius and his role in hiding the Menorah before the Romans destroyed the second Holy Temple.  The book takes you on a modern day adventure, searching for the lost Menorah.  As a Jewish history buff, I found the book captivating.

The role of the Menorah throughout history can be seen as a spark of hope, an eternal connection to Hashem.  The Menorah of the Holy Temple can only be lit from the purest oil, opened by a Kohen (priest).  Without a Kohen capable of lighting the Menorah, it is relegated to a beautiful gold ornament.

A few weeks ago, in Parshat Mishpatim, we are told to be a Mamlechet Kohanim, a nation of priests, yet this week we are told of the line of Aaron, who were chosen to serve as our Kohanim.

In looking at the obligations, including the clothing that the Kohen had to wear, we see that this is a difficult job, a tough burden to carry on one’s shoulders – one I am sure many of us are happy not to have.

In his message to Rabbi Kosak, of Congregation Shaarey Tikvah, during his installation this past Sunday evening, Rabbi Rudin-Luria of B’nai Jeshurun, focused on the shoulder straps that held the Choshen (breastplate) in place.  On each shoulder strap were the names of the 12 tribes.  Rabbi Rudin-Luria explained that this signified that the Kohen had to carry the nation on his shoulders, much the same as a rabbi with their congregation.

This seems quite a responsibility for one person: to carry the nation on their shoulders and be responsible for lighting the Menorah (the spark within all of the people).

In the time of the Holy Temples, the Kohanim lived close to the Holy Temple.  Since its destruction, much like the rest of the Jewish world, Kohanim are spread out all over the world, including Russia, Ethiopia, China, India, Israel and America.

In 1997 a study was conducted to determine if in truth all Kohanim could be the descendants of one person (Aaron).  Dr. Karl Skorecki along with Professor Michael Hammer conducted a study of the DNA found in Kohanim in order to determine if there was a similarity on their strands.  The results of their study show “the Y chromosome markers of the Kohanim and non-Kohanim were indeed significant. A particular marker, (YAP-) was detected in 98.5 percent of the Kohanim, and in a significantly lower percentage on non-Kohanim.”

We live in a society today in which we bestow honor upon people.  Honor is given to those who achieve status, to those who wear a uniform and more importantly, to those who carry us on their shoulders.

Without the Holy Temple, Kohanim have been relegated to the sidelines, bonded together by DNA, the occasional synagogue blessing on holidays and a job they can no longer perform (in the Holy Temple). This change of status gives all of us, those not part of the “DNA” connection, to step up and create a Mamlechet Kohanim, a nation of priests.  This can be achieved when we carry others on our shoulders and light a spark in those around us, to learn more and to live better.

Parashat Trumah – Where is Today’s Mishkan?
Rabbi Jim Rogozen
Headmaster
Rogozen@grossschechter.org

This week’s parasha begins a very long description of the building of the Mishkan, a portable “tabernacle” or place of worship, which the Israelites transported on their journeys in the wilderness.

One of the most famous verses in the Torah is in Exodus, Chapter 25, verse 8: “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell (shakhanti) among them.”

Commentators have debated whether God would physically live in this structure or whether He would sort of “hover” in the camp of the Israelites. Some say the verb “shakhan” is to “rest” not the more permanent “dwell.” After all, to limit God to a building is to both define His physical nature to a particular space, and to limit His power. It also implies that without the building (the Mishkan), God couldn’t be “among” the Israelites.

Some say that the most important part of this building project was the people’s united effort to arrange for God’s presence (Shekhina) to reside among them. The verse immediately following (“Exactly as I show you…so shall you make it.”) indicated that it wasn’t just the design that was important, but also the way the Israelites followed God’s commands.

The Mishkan was later re-imagined and built in Jerusalem. The building was called the Bet HaMikdash (The House of Holiness). The First Temple was destroyed in the 6th century BCE and was quickly rebuilt. When the Second Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, no new Temple was built. As a result, the Jewish People moved away from a sacrifice-based ritual in a Temple, and focused more on the synagogue, the school and the home as the places where Judaism would be studied and practiced. From that time forward, our verse (“let them make Me a sanctuary”) came to be understood as “let them build a sanctuary in their hearts and homes.” Namely, if we follow the Torah, and transform our homes into places of Jewish values, God will dwell among us. This adaptation to new realities led to a new “design” and a new “way” to be Jewish.

Over time the transformation of “doing Jewish” in different venues has been very successful, but there is one practice that continues to pose challenges: prayer. The original Mishkan was a place where people experienced God in very dramatic and physical ways. Going to the Temple was a special event in their lives: they didn’t go there on a regular basis and they didn’t have much of a role. In fact, they were overwhelmed by the physical grandeur of the place, the Kohanim (priests), the choirs, the drama of the sacrificial service. Regular prayer in synagogues could never match the Jerusalem Temple experience.

So what can we do in our places of prayer to ensure that God will dwell among us? How do we prepare ourselves to connect with God? The answer, according to Professor Abraham Joshua Heschel, a theologian who taught at the Jewish Theological Seminary, might surprise you.

“How do our people pray? They recite the prayer book as if it were last week’s newspaper; as if worship were an act that came automatically.” Heschel wrote that the question is “not how do we attract bodies to enter the space of a synagogue but how to inspire souls to enter an hour [or two] of spiritual concentration in the presence of God. The problem is time, not space.” Heschel is saying that “where” we pray isn’t the issue, it’s how we fill “prayer time” that makes the difference.

His advice: “[Prayer] depends upon the total spiritual situation of man and upon a mind within which God is at home.” In other words, we need that internal Mishkan to be developed so that our prayer experience will be worthwhile. But, says Heschel, “if our lives are too barren to bring forth the spirit of worship, if all our thoughts and anxieties do not contain enough spiritual substance to be distilled into prayer, an inner transformation is a matter of emergency. And such an emergency we face today. The issue of prayer is not prayer; the issue of prayer is God. One cannot pray unless he has faith in his own ability to accost the infinite, merciful eternal God.”

Heschel goes on to teach that prayer involves not only reciting the prayers in our prayer book, but also opening ourselves up to the possibility of encountering God. That Godly encounter will only happen if we are armed with the knowledge of our tradition and the willingness to experience God.

To summarize: we “live” Judaism in several locations, only one of which is the synagogue (or anywhere else we pray). While we certainly need the skill set necessary for public prayer, to fully appreciate the prayer experience we need to cultivate a full-time inner, spiritual life. By acquiring “knowledge of our tradition” and by always being open to the encounter with God we will have “enough spiritual substance to be distilled into prayer.” In other words, prayer doesn’t lead to the spiritual “moment,” it is the product of ongoing spiritual openness.

This is the opposite of what some people expect from their time in shul. They believe that the service should “move them” or that if they say the “magical words” great things will happen to them. Heschel is saying that “services” shouldn’t have to carry the burden of inspiring you to pray; it’s your ongoing, daily experience of God that makes you to want to go to shul to pray.

Says Rabbi Aaron Gaber, “We refer to our worship experiences as services as if it is a service rendered or provided instead of an experience in which we open our hearts to God and open ourselves to the mysteries of the world.”

Again, Rabbi Heschel: “If God does not have the power to speak to us, how should we possess the power to speak to God?”

The Talmud says that prayer is “avodah she’be’lev” – the service/work of the heart. Here’s our home-work:

• Strengthen our T’filla skills.
• Study Torah.
• Cultivate and nurture our spiritual side on a regular basis.
• Be open to experiencing God at all times.

This is how we build a new Mishkan.

This week’s D’var Torah was written by, Rabbi Jim Rogozen. He can be reached at rogozen@grossschechter.org

 Parshat Mishpatim
Thought, Speech and Action
Daniel R. Weiss
Middle School Judaic Studies Principal/K-8 Judaic Program Coordinator

dweiss@grossschechter.org

In last week’s Parsha, Yitro, we read that God gave the Ten Commandments to the Jewish people.  Much has been written about the Ten Commandments: their order, significance and how they were divided onto the two tablets.

Before we go any further, here’s the complete list of Ten Commandments.

1. Believe in God
2. Don’t pray to idols
3. Don’t use God’s name in vain
4. Observe Shabbat
5. Honor your parents
6. Don’t murder
7. Don’t commit adultery
8. Don’t steal
9. Don’t bear false witness
10. Don’t covet

According to Rabbi Shimshon Raphael Hirsch the first five commandments deal with the relationship between people and God (bein adam laMakom). The second five deal with commandments that are bein adam l’adam (person to person relationships).  This theory seems problematic since the fifth commandment (honoring your parents) appears to be a person-to-person issue.  If we consider, however, that our parents were God’s partners in our creation, we can better understand that God is part of the parental relationship.

Another theory regarding the division of the commandments is that one tablet had the first commandment and the second had the last nine. This would imply that if you do not believe in the first commandment, you don’t need to go any further.

Rabbi Hirsch suggests another interesting perspective.  He suggests that one must look at them side by side.  The following illustration will help.

We begin with thought: belief in God, not believing in idols.  We then move to speech: not using God’s name in vain.  Finally to action: keeping Shabbat, honoring our parents.  When it comes to our relationship with God, we move from “think” to “speech” to “act.” In other words, we think before we act.

When it comes to our relationship with people, we act (don’t murder, don’t commit adultery, don’t steal) before we speak (don’t bear false witness), and certainly before we think things entirely through (don’t covet).

In looking at this approach, we can see the interplay and cyclical nature of the commandments:  we internalize main ideas before we speak; we speak before we act; we return to our speech and finally internalize our speech and actions.

Here are ways this interplay works out:

• If we believe in God and trust that He will provide for us, we don’t need to covet what our neighbor has (one and ten).
• Slandering and misrepresenting our neighbor is similar to worshipping idols, in that we are misrepresenting our belief in man and God (two and nine).
• When we use God’s name in vain, we are stealing from the sanctity of His name (three and eight).
• If we do not realize that Shabbat is a symbol of our relationship with God and with creation, much like adultery, we are cheating on our partner (four and seven).
• Finally, the commandment of honoring our parents is given the reward (the only one of the ten with a reward) that our days will be lengthened.  Dishonoring them is in effect limiting our days, which could be tantamount to murder (five and six).

This interplay among the Commandments can apply to other laws in the Torah. In Mishpatim we are taught, “One who strikes his father or his mother shall surely be put to death.”  According to Rashi, the cause of this death would be strangulation – making our words unintelligible.  We carry a heavy mantle both in our speech and through our action.  We are the legacy of our parents.  By showing them dishonor we are destroying their legacy.

The mitzvah of shooing away the mother bird before one takes her eggs is also given the reward of the lengthening of days.  It seems odd that such an easy mitzvah of shooing away a bird and such a difficult mitzvah of honoring our parents would carry the same reward.  One answer to this dilemma is that it teaches us that each mitzvah is equally important, from the easiest to the hardest, whether we understand their meaning or not.

When looking at the various laws in the Torah some appear to make sense based on our reason, while others seem to be “beyond” reason. In reality, all of the mitzvot are important and linked.  As a complete system, they require us to weigh our thoughts, speech and actions, and they all assume a belief in God and the spark of the divine that exists in every human being.