הַעִדֹ֨תִי בָכֶ֣ם הַיּוֹם֮ אֶת־הַשָּׁמַ֣יִם וְאֶת־הָאָ֒רֶץ֒ הַחַיִּ֤ים וְהַמָּ֙וֶת֙ נָתַ֣תִּי לְפָנֶ֔יךָ הַבְּרָכָ֖ה וְהַקְּלָלָ֑ה 

וּבָֽחַרְתָּ֙ בַּחַיִּ֔ים לְמַ֥עַן תִּֽחְיֶ֖ה אַתָּ֥ה וְזַרְעֶֽךָ׃

I call heaven and earth to witness against you this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—so that you and your offspring will live.

This verse appears at the very end of the first of the double Torah portions we read this Shabbat. In parashat Nitzavim, God calls the Israelites to attention and urges them to choose life. The question is - if this is God’s command, is it a choice? 

Bechor Shor (France, 12th century) suggests that God is laying out two possible paths and that God’s instruction to choose life is not a requirement but rather an עצה טובה - a piece of good advice. In Midrash Rabbah, Rabbi Chaggai suggests that it would have been enough for God to have laid out the two paths, but God goes above and beyond and acts לִפְנִים מִשּׁוּרַת הַדִּין (beyond the firm letter of the law). 

This term לִפְנִים מִשּׁוּרַת הַדִּין appears many times throughout the Talmud. 

In one example, in tractate Brachot 7b, Rabbi Yishmael who served as the the High Priest in the Temple, shares a story of a time when he entered the קודש קודשים the Holy of Holies on Yom Kippur and saw God sitting on the exalted thrown. God asked Rabbi Yishmael to bless Him. Rabbi Yishmael’s blessing went as follows:

יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלְּפָנֶיךָ, שֶׁיִּכְבְּשׁוּ רַחֲמֶיךָ אֶת כַּעַסְךָ, וְיִגּוֹלּוּ רַחֲמֶיךָ עַל מִדּוֹתֶיךָ, וְתִתְנַהֵג עִם בָּנֶיךָ בְּמִדַּת הָרַחֲמִים, וְתִכָּנֵס לָהֶם לִפְנִים מִשּׁוּרַת הַדִּין.

May it be Your will that Your mercy overcome Your anger, and may Your mercy prevail over Your other attributes, and may You act toward Your children with the attribute of mercy, and may You enter before them beyond the letter of the law.

Rabbi Yishmael reports that God nodded God’s head. Earlier in the Talmud as an answer to the question what does God pray, we learn that God internalizes these words of blessing from Rabbi Yishmael and turns them into God’s own tefillah. 

It is not easy to act לִפְנִים מִשּׁוּרַת הַדִּין - above and beyond what is expected of us. If it were easy, God would not need to remind God’s self to act in this manner.  In another source Rabbi Yochanan teaches that the Jews inability to act לִפְנִים מִשּׁוּרַת הַדִּין was what led to the destruction of the 2nd Temple. 

The high school had the privilege of hearing from Tal Becker, senior Vice President at the Hartman Institute in Israel. Tal represented Israel at the International Court of Justice earlier this year. One of the many insights Tal shared was about the way we Jews hold ourselves to a particular standard. He referenced this source and reminded us all that the reason the 2nd Temple was destroyed was the Romans destroyed it. Just as the reason the hostages are in Gaza is because Hamas took and is holding them captive there. Tal reflected on the phrase “Bring them Home” and wondered why we don’t shout “let them go!” Tal shared that he saw it as our expression of each and every one of our shared commitment to do our part - even if not required of us and even if not expected of us - to bring them home. 

This week’s Torah portion begins with Moshe confirming the covenant between God and all those present on that day. And then the Torah states:

וְלֹ֥א אִתְּכֶ֖ם לְבַדְּכֶ֑ם אָנֹכִ֗י כֹּרֵת֙ אֶת־הַבְּרִ֣ית הַזֹּ֔את וְאֶת־הָאָלָ֖ה הַזֹּֽאת׃

I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone,

כִּי֩ אֶת־אֲשֶׁ֨ר יֶשְׁנ֜וֹ פֹּ֗ה עִמָּ֙נוּ֙ עֹמֵ֣ד הַיּ֔וֹם לִפְנֵ֖י יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֵ֑ינוּ וְאֵ֨ת אֲשֶׁ֥ר אֵינֶ֛נּוּ פֹּ֖ה עִמָּ֥נוּ הַיּֽוֹם׃

but both with those who are standing here with us this day before our God and with those who are not with us here this day.
 

Our covenant is strong. We are mindful every day of the hostages who are not with their families. We pray for their return. 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Dahlia Kronish
High School Associate Head

 

How often do we do something because of its inherent meaning to us – to derive satisfaction from the action itself – rather than out of concern for a particular outcome? In other words, where the action is the end in itself? This week in Parashat Ki Tavo we are told:

וְהָיָ֗ה אִם־שָׁמ֤וֹעַ תִּשְׁמַע֙ בְּקוֹל֙ יְהֹוָ֣ה אֱלֹהֶ֔יךָ לִשְׁמֹ֤ר לַֽעֲשׂוֹת֙ אֶת־כָּל־מִצְו‍ֹתָ֔יו אֲשֶׁ֛ר אָֽנֹכִ֥י מְצַוְּךָ֖ הַיּ֑וֹם…: וּבָ֧אוּ עָלֶ֛יךָ כָּל־הַבְּרָכ֥וֹת הָאֵ֖לֶּה וְהִשִּׂיגֻ֑ךָ כִּ֣י תִשְׁמַ֔ע בְּק֖וֹל יְהֹוָ֥ה אֱלֹהֶֽיךָ:

It will be if you diligently listen to the Lord, your God, to observe to do all His commandments I command you this day… All these blessings will come upon you and reach you, because you listen to the Lord, your God. (Deut. 28:1-2) 

Nechama Leibowitz notes that it seems superfluous at the end of this passage to reiterate the idea of listening to God that was already mentioned at the beginning. The first time, listening leads to observing the commandments which then brings blessings, and at that point the thought seems complete; so why mention listening again? Leibowitz offers the commentary of Moshe Alshich (Tzfat 1508-1593) to explain: “Worldly blessings are not meant as an end in themselves, as the final reward for obedience, since there is no earthly reward for obedience; they constitute the means facilitating our progress towards eternity.” In other words, we are reminded to listen to God a second time, after the blessings are mentioned, so we don’t mistake those blessings for the ultimate goal. The ultimate goal is to be able to listen even more. (Devarim p. 284)

For Leibowitz, this lesson is reminiscent of a teaching by Ben Azzai in Pirkei Avot that, “one commandment leads to another commandment, and a transgression leads to another transgression; for the reward for performing a commandment is another commandment and the reward for committing a transgression is a transgression / שֶׁמִּצְוָה גּוֹרֶרֶת מִצְוָה, וַעֲבֵרָה גוֹרֶרֶת עֲבֵרָה. שֶׁשְּׂכַר מִצְוָה, מִצְוָה. וּשְׂכַר עֲבֵרָה, עֲבֵרָה.” (Ethics 4:2) Our system is not one where we should think in terms of performing a commandment to be rewarded, and avoiding transgression to avoid punishment. Rather, the purpose of any action is the action itself, and an action of one type begets more actions of that same type.

There is a minhag embedded in the reading of the Shema at the end of the third paragraph that echoes this same message. One of the passages we read tells us to tie tzitzit to our garments so “you remember and perform all My commandments; and you will be holy to your God / לְמַ֣עַן תִּזְכְּר֔וּ וַֽעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֶת־כָּל־מִצְו‍ֹתָ֑י וִֽהְיִיתֶ֥ם קְדשִׁ֖ים לֵאלֹֽהֵיכֶֽם.” (Nu. 15:40) When the second word is recited – tizkeru/תִּזְכְּר֔וּ – it is customary to emphasize the “z” sound, lest one instead say the word with an “s” or ״שְּׂ״ sound, because that would change the meaning from “so you remember” to “so you are rewarded.” Even with all the blessings we are promised for fulfilling mitzvot, and the warnings of what will happen if we do not, those potential blessings and curses are not meant to be our motivation.

In his book “Drive,” Daniel Pink explores in depth the importance of intrinsic, rather than extrinsic, motivation. He writes: “For artists, scientists, inventors, schoolchildren, and the rest of us, intrinsic motivation – the drive to do something because it is interesting, challenging, and absorbing – is essential for high levels of creativity.” (p. 46) He proceeds to make an observation that is directly on point here: “When the reward is the activity itself – deepening learning, delighting customers, doing one’s best – there are no shortcuts. The only route to the destination is the high road. In some sense, it’s impossible to act unethically because the person who’s disadvantaged isn’t a competitor but yourself.”

This clearly sets a very high standard for what should ideally motivate us. While it is hard to think of when we have any chance of finding the space to meet this standard without the distraction of extrinsic motivators, to me it seems that in our religious lives such space is abundant. Divine reward and punishment are real to those of us who believe in them, but they are so abstract as to make them much less influential than intrinsic meaning and motivation. Whether outside the context of religion or within, may we find intrinsic motivation and meaning in more aspects of our lives, especially during this season of reflection, repentance and renewal.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jack Nahmod
Middle School Judaic Studies Head
Rabbinic Advisor

 

כִּי־יִקַּח אִישׁ אִשָּׁה חֲדָשָׁה לֹא יֵצֵא בַּצָּבָא וְלֹא־יַעֲבֹר עָלָיו לְכל־דָּבָר נָקִי יִהְיֶה לְבֵיתוֹ שָׁנָה אֶחָת וְשִׂמַּח אֶת־אִשְׁתּוֹ אֲשֶׁר־לָקָח׃

When a man has just married, he shall not go out with the army or be assigned to it for any purpose; he shall be exempt one year for the sake of his household, to give happiness to his wife. (Deuteronomy 24:5)

Our parasha creates an exemption from military service for men in the first year of marriage.   It seems likely that the reason for this exemption is so that husbands are not killed in battle just after marrying.  

The rabbis seem to have given a lot of thought to the relationship between weddings and death.  The Talmud (Ketubot 17a) teaches that If two processions arrive simultaneously at an intersection, a funeral procession must yield to a wedding procession (Ketubot 17a).  Again, the joy of the wedding is seen to take precedence over the need for mourning. 

However, our tradition also dictates that sadness and mourning are not banished from our most joyful moments.  According to tradition, a groom wears a kittel on the day of his wedding – the same garment he will be buried in.  And of course, there is the famous ending of a Jewish wedding – the breaking of the glass, which bids us to remember our mourning for the destruction of Jerusalem.

I find these teachings so compelling at this moment in time.  On the one hand, as we opened school only days after the execution of six hostages, I had to remind myself that a wedding procession precedes a funeral procession – that even as I felt overcome by mourning, my job was to welcome the students back to school with joy.  By the same token, I feel such appreciation for the rabbinic decision to include a symbol of mourning at a wedding.  It reminds me that in these days of sadness and fear, there is nothing to be ashamed of if even in my joyful moments, there is a tinge of mourning.

In a few weeks, we will mark Yom Kippur.  The rabbis teach that Yom Kippur, also called Yom Ha Kippurim, should be כפורים – as joyful as Purim.  At the same time, on Yom Kippur we enact our own deaths – not eating and wearing a kittel.  Our tradition continues to remind us that in life, joy and sadness are inextricably linked.  

May we soon see the day when the words of the Psalmist are fulfilled:

הַזֹּרְעִ֥ים בְּדִמְעָ֗ה בְּרִנָּ֥ה יִקְצֹֽרוּ

Those who sow in tears will reap in joy.

Rabbi Anne Ebersman
EC/LS Director of Jewish Life/Director of Hesed (Community Service) and Tzedek (Social Responsibility)

 

In a meaningful coincidence, this year we began school on Rosh Chodesh, the beginning of the month of Elul. During this month, we build towards the Yamim Noraim, the High Holidays, starting with the sounding of the shofar every morning. Ramban, Rabbi Moshe ben Nachman (Spain 1194-1270), points out that the shofar actually does not exist as a shofar in the natural world. Rather, it exists as the horn (keren) of an animal until we change it into a shofar. As Rabbi Moshe Lichtenstein explains, this change according to Ramban is an improvement to the horn, or a “shipur,” a word that shares a root with shofar. Therefore, the act of changing a horn into the shofar embodies what the shofar then reminds us to do: change for the better.

The Ramban believes this change to the horns of an animal is so powerful, he associates it with a statement by Job in reference to the world’s creation, that “by God’s spirit the heavens were calmed / בְּרוּחוֹ שָׁמַ֣יִם שִׁפְרָ֑ה.” (Job 26:13) He says the third word of that phrase, shifra, is an allusion to the words shofar and shipur, mentioned above. In other words, what we do to improve an animal’s horn, and what we are reminded of when we sound the shofar, is that we have powers akin to those exercised by God in creating the world. Or, as Rabbi Lichtenstein phrases it, when “God took the first material and shaped it into form / לקח הקב"ה את החומר ההיולי הראשון ועיצב הימנו צורה.”

While we clearly must not confuse our own powers with God’s, we can – we must – still recognize the power we have within ourselves to create, and the responsibility we have to bring about change. Still, it is also worth noting that the story of Job from which Ramban takes his quote doesn’t usually evoke visions of human power. Quite the contrary! And the context of this quote brought by Ramban is actually a chapter in which Job describes time and again – in a not altogether reassuring way – how omnipotent God is. As the chapter concludes: “Who can absorb the thunder of His mighty deeds? / וְרַ֥עַם גְּ֝בוּרֹתָ֗ו מִ֣י יִתְבּוֹנָֽן.” (Job 26:14) Not I, perhaps. So then what useful message can we understand from this teaching of Ramban?

While I am not comfortable thinking in grand terms about my own creative power or my ability to cause dramatic change, I can still learn to take any steps that are within my power to be creative or cause change. This idea brings to mind a poem I read over the summer that I found meaningful, especially for starting a new year during an especially difficult time for us as a people. It is by Ashley M. Jones, Poet Laureate of Alabama, and it is entitled “Lullaby for the Grieving, at the Sipsey River.” I will share its opening and closing lines: 

make small steps.

in this wild place

there are signs of life everywhere.

sharp spaces, too:

the slip of a rain glazed rock against my searching feet.

small steps, like prayers–

each one a hope exhaled

into the trees…

maybe there are angels here, too–

what else can i call the crown of light

atop the leaves?

what else can i call my footsteps forward,

small, small, sure?

May we feel empowered in this new year to take steps forward, large or small, to create and cause change in meaningful ways, and may we have many opportunities together to appreciate and celebrate the “signs of life everywhere.”

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jack Nahmod
Middle School Judaic Studies Head
Rabbinic Advisor

 

When studying Parashat Bamidbar, the search for meaning can prove challenging.  The vast majority of the Torah portion describes a census in painstaking detail - who oversaw the census for each tribe, how many men of fighting age were in each tribe, in what configuration did the tribe camp, etc.  As if this challenge weren’t daunting enough, careful readers of the Torah will recall that a similar census took place in the last few chapters of Shemot, further begging the question of why this additional census was necessary at all.

My teacher, Rabbi Yehuda Amital offers an insight that sheds light on the deeper meaning of the census that opens Bamidbar.  R. Amital observes that the census of Bamidbar is conducted “by their families, by their households.”  What is the significance of this phrase?  R. Amital explains:

On the one hand, every one of us is a human being, and thus similar to everyone around him.  On the other hand, each person has his or her own personality and characteristics, and as such is a whole world in his own right. (“By Their Families, By Their Households,” sermon from 2005)

According to R. Amital, counting individuals - especially when done for military purposes - risks reducing individuals to mere numbers, erasing their unique personalities and character traits. By instructing Moshe to count the people, “by their families, by their households,” God was reminding him to treat every member of his people as a unique individual, who comes from their own particular background.

At the same time, a census also reminds us that every individual is one miniscule component of a larger nation and society and bears responsibility to that society.  R. Amital points to Hillel’s famous dictum (Pirkei Avot 1:14), “If I am not for myself, who is for me? And if I am for myself alone, then what am I?” While people must advocate for their individual needs, they should never limit themselves to only caring about their own wellbeing. They must always remain sensitive to societal needs even if that demands some measure of sacrifice from them. 

Hence, the manner in which Moshe conducted the seemingly mundane matter of counting the people reminds us to pursue the appropriate balance between valuing our own individual traits and putting aside our individual needs for the benefit of the greater good.  

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Ezra Frazer
High School Limudei Qodesh Teacher

 

“I will grant peace in the land - וְנָֽתַתִּ֤י שָׁלוֹם֙ בָּאָ֔רֶץ”

It is hard to imagine a chapter describing our greatest tefillot and our greatest fears more vividly than the one that opens BeChukotai this week. Here, at the end of Sefer VaYikra, after the many important details and discussions about kedushah, the Torah, it would seem, returns to basics. What do we want our daily lives to be like? What are our most essential needs?

We are first reassured by God that “I will give your rains in their time, the Land will yield its produce, and the tree of the field will give its fruit / וְנָֽתַתִּ֥י גִשְׁמֵיכֶ֖ם בְּעִתָּ֑ם וְנָֽתְנָ֤ה הָאָ֨רֶץ֙ יְבוּלָ֔הּ וְעֵ֥ץ הַשָּׂדֶ֖ה יִתֵּ֥ן פִּרְיֽוֹ.” (Lev. 26:4) We need food! As Ramban (Spain/Israel 1194-1270) explains, “when all are physically hearty and healthy, they can exist like in the days of Adam; thus this is the greatest of all blessings/ כי בהיות הגופים גדולים ובריאים יתקיימו כימי האדם והנה היא גדולה שבברכות.”

Rashi, however, has a different view of what is most important. After the promise of food, God tells us, “I will grant peace in the Land / ve’natati shalom ba’aretz / וְנָֽתַתִּ֤י שָׁלוֹם֙ בָּאָ֔רֶץ.” (Lev. 26:6) According to Rashi, quoting Sifra 1:8, “The Torah says after all that [about food], ‘I will grant peace in the Land,’ because peace is equal to everything else / תַּלְמוּד לוֹמָר אַחַר כָּל זֹאת ׳וְנָתַתִּי שָׁלוֹם בָּאָרֶץ׳; מִכָּאן שֶׁהַשָּׁלוֹם שָׁקוּל כְּנֶגֶד הַכֹּל." Ibn Ezra (Spain 1089-1167) understands this peace to be “among you / ביניכם,” within the Jewish people, as Ramban explains further “that no one shall fight against a brother / שיהיה שלום ביניכם ולא תלחמו איש באחיו.”

This is surely a meaningful tefillah for today. And in a way that also resonates today, the Malbim (Ukraine 1809-79) explains this passage more expansively: “After God promised them the blessing, God will promise the vessel that holds blessing, which is peace, which holds all the blessings; peace includes all the good things that exist in reality, while evil is the separation and conflict that exists / אחר שהבטיח להם הברכה, יבטיח על הכלי המחזיק ברכה שהיא השלום, שהיא מחזיק כל הברכות. כי השלום כולל כל הטובות אשר במציאות שהרע היא הפירוד וההתנגדות אשר למציאות.”

If “ve’natati shalom ba’aretz” sounds familiar, it is because we include it in our tefillah for the State of Israel: “May you grant peace in the land, and the happiness of the world to its inhabitants / וְנָתַתָּ שָׁלוֹם בָּאָרֶץ, וְשִׂמְחַת עוֹלָם לְיושְׁבֶיהָ.” There, however, the second phrase is very different from the phrase that follows in the original pasuk, which is, “and you shall lie down untroubled by anyone / וּשְׁכַבְתֶּ֖ם וְאֵ֣ין מַחֲרִ֑יד.” Why might this change have been made? What is the difference between an assurance in the Torah that we will not be troubled and a request in our tefillah for the happiness of the world upon Israel’s inhabitants?

In the Torah, the concern for safety seems very local, a reference to peace in the land followed by a reference to being untroubled. As the pasuk continues, that local focus continues as well, as God further says, “I will give the land respite from wild beasts, and no sword shall pass through your land / וְהִשְׁבַּתִּי חַיָּ֤ה רָעָה מִן־הָאָרֶץ וְחֶרֶב לֹא־תַעֲבֹר בְּאַרְצְכֶם.” (Lev. 24:6) We also see that most of the pasuk is about protection from the negative, from fear and physical threats.

By contrast, our tefillah follows up the request for peace with something positive, happiness. And instead of being local, the language is globally ambitious, seeking “the happiness of the world.” I think this can mean two different things. Perhaps, we are asking that the world be happy with us, a variation on the idea that we are a “light to the nations / לְאוֹר גּוֹיִם.” (Is. 49:6) Or, perhaps, we are asking to experience a world of happiness, as in, a tremendous amount of happiness. Either way, what an incredible tefillah, as we can truly feel the need for both today.

However, there is one important caveat to all of the above, one aspect of this parashah that cannot be overlooked: we are told at the outset that a precondition of God’s beneficence is, “if you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments / אִם־בְּחֻקֹּתַ֖י תֵּלֵ֑כוּ וְאֶת־מִצְותַ֣י תִּשְׁמְר֔וּ וַעֲשִׂיתֶ֖ם אֹתָֽם.” (Lev. 26:3) But “if you reject My laws and spurn My rules / וְאִם־בְּחֻקֹּתַ֣י תִּמְאָ֔סוּ וְאִ֥ם אֶת־מִשְׁפָּטַ֖י תִּגְעַ֣ל נַפְשְׁכֶ֑ם” (Lev. 26:15), God says, “I will turn against you / וְנָתַתִּ֤י פָנַי֙ בָּכֶ֔ם.” (Lev. 26:17) The possible consequences of the wrong choice are horrible – so horrible that we read them in a hushed and hurried tone. Finally, at the end of the perek, we are told that Bnei Yisrael will eventually reach the point when they “admit their sins and their ancestors’ sins / וְהִתְוַדוּ אֶת־עֲונָם וְאֶת־עֲון אֲבתָם” (Lev. 26:40). Then, at long last, God “will remember My covenant with Jacob; I will also remember My covenant with Isaac, and also My covenant with Abraham; and I will remember the land / וְזָכַרְתִּי אֶת־בְּרִיתִי יַעֲקוֹב וְאַף אֶת־בְּרִיתִי יִצְחָ֜ק וְאַף אֶת־בְּרִיתִ֧י אַבְרָהָם אֶזְכֹּר וְהָאָרֶץ אֶזְכֹּר” (Lev. 26:42).

The purpose in making this last point is not to endorse a strictly biblical or linear understanding of divine reward and punishment. It does not seem to me that anybody can, or should, attempt to understand God’s ways. Rather, it is to say: we have choices to make. And when we make our choices, let us make them with the intention of increasing peace in the land – in Israel, wherever we live, in the world. May those choices sustain us and bring us health, may they protect us, may they bring us greater peace within our communities and outside of them, and may they somehow bring ever increasing happiness to the world.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jack Nahmod
Middle School Judaic Studies Head
Rabbinic Advisor

וְקִדַּשְׁתֶּ֗ם אֵ֣ת שְׁנַ֤ת הַחֲמִשִּׁים֙ שָׁנָ֔ה וּקְרָאתֶ֥ם דְּר֛וֹר בָּאָ֖רֶץ לְכל־יֹשְׁבֶ֑יהָ

And you shall hallow the fiftieth year. You shall proclaim Deror (freedom) throughout the land for all its inhabitants.

This week’s Torah portion Be’har begins with a discussion of the Shemita (the Sabbatical year) and Yovel (the 50th Jubilee year). As the 50th year enters, we are instructed to sound the shofar and declare Deror. The word Deror is complicated. Rashi suggests that it means liberty from slavery and that it is connected to the word to dwell (לדור). Rashi states: it is the freedom to reside in any place that one pleases, and is not under the control of others.

Ibn Ezra (12th century Spain) connects our pasuk about Deror (freedom or liberty) with a pasuk from Mishlei (Proverbs): 

כַּצִּפּ֣וֹר לָ֭נוּד כַּדְּר֣וֹר לָע֑וּף

Like a fluttering sparrow, like a darting swallow

Ibn Ezra teaches that Deror refers to a small bird that sings a song when it is free. When it is not free, this bird does not sing and does not eat. 

This week, I had the tremendous responsibility of accompanying our 11th grade students as they visited the Nova exhibit downtown. The visit deeply impacted the students and yet they all approached it with the utmost respect, sensitivity, and maturity. At the very beginning of the exhibit, we watched a video that sought to convey the message and the culture of the Nova festival. What stood out to me was the participants' explanation that the music doesn’t enter their being through their ears but rather through their body, and specifically through their heart. Dancing together to the music connected them to each other, to people they had never met. They created a community that celebrated freedom by elevating the power of music. 

There is a famous Israeli children’s book titled ציפור הנפש by Michal Snonit. One could translate the title of the book as the bird of the soul. However, the content of the book suggests that it could be translated as the Bird of Freedom. This bird is the bird that is deep inside of us. She is the one who feels all our emotions, who responds - either appropriately or inappropriately – to situations we confront, and she is the one who encourages us to be our true and free selves. I wonder if the book could have been titled ציפור הדרור (The Bird of Deror - Freedom).

The book ends with the following lines (my translation):

It is most important to listen carefully because sometimes it happens that the Bird of the Soul (or the Bird of Freedom) calls us and we don’t hear. That’s too bad. She wants to tell us about ourselves. She wants to tell us about our feelings that are locked in the drawers inside her.  There are those who hear her often and there are those who hear her only seldomly. And there are those who hear her only once in their lives.

הכי חשוב זה להאזין היטב לציפור כי קורה שציפור הנפש קוראת לנו ואנו לא שומעים. חבל. היא רוצה לספר לנו על עצמנו. היא רוצה לספר לנו על הרגשות שנעולות במגירות שבתוכה.  יש מי ששומע אותה לעיתים קרובות. יש מי ששומע אותה לעיתים רחוקות. ויש מי ששומע אותה רק פעם בחיים.

May this be the Shabbat of freedom. May we merit the privilege to hear the song of the hostages’ birds. We are ready! 

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Dahlia Kronish
High School Associate Head

 

In what way did the menorah that is described in Emor, our parasha this week, need to be pure in order to illuminate the mishkan, the Tabernacle? After Moshe is told to instruct Bnei Yisrael to provide the oil, we learn that Aharon will set up the ner tamid, continuous light, “outside the dividing curtain of the testimony in the Tent of Meeting / מִחוּץ֩ לְפָרֹ֨כֶת הָֽעֵדֻ֜ת בְּאֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵ֗ד.” (Lev. 24:3) Then, “upon the pure menorah, he shall set up the lights, before the Lord, continually / עַ֚ל הַמְּנֹרָ֣ה הַטְּהֹרָ֔ה יַֽעֲרֹ֖ךְ אֶת־הַנֵּר֑וֹת לִפְנֵ֥י יְהֹוָ֖ה תָּמִֽיד.” (Lev. 24:4)

The different understandings of purity that are offered in the commentaries, and how the presence or absence of purity can impact the worthiness of the menorah to illuminate the mishkan, provide insight into our own potential for purity and for sharing our light with others. The first understanding offered by Rashi (France 1040-1105) is the most daunting: the menorah “was pure gold / זָהָב טָהוֹר,” and according to Ibn Ezra constructed by Betzalel. This perfection, brought to us by a man possessing “the spirit of God / ר֣וּחַ אֱלֹהִ֑ים” (Ex. 35:31), seems well beyond our reach.

Thankfully, Rashi and others also offer understandings of what is meant here that are more within our reach and helpful in setting standards for ourselves. Rashi’s second explanation is to read “on the pure menorah” as “on the purity of the menorah / עַל טָהֳרָהּ שֶׁל מְנוֹרָה,” meaning that it “must first be cleaned and the ashes removed / שֶׁמְּטַהֲרָהּ וּמְדַשְּׁנָהּ תְּחִלָּה מִן הָאֵפֶר” before the candles are placed there. This is obviously a far cry from the perfection demanded by the first interpretation, so far that it might even seem too simplistic and concrete to learn from. However, this can serve as an important reminder that care and concern – even the most basic level of conscientiousness – is elevating, and should not be taken for granted.

Rabbeinu Bahya (Spain 1255-1340) quotes the Sifra to deepen the significance of cleanliness, to say that “‘on the purity of the menorah’ means there cannot be any container or wrap with them / עַל טָהֳרָהּ שֶׁלַּמְּנוֹרָה – שֶׁלֹּא יִסְמְכֶם בְּקֵיסָמִים וּבִצְרוֹרוֹת.” As the Malbim (Ukraine 1809-1879) explains, “the lights were set up directly on the menorah itself without anything between them and the menorah,” because without a barrier “it is necessary to be mindful of their purity / שעריכת הנרות יהיה על המנורה עצמה, ולא יהיה דבר מפסיק בין הנרות להמנורה… מקבלים טומאה ולכתחילה צריך לזהר בטהרתם.” Here I think the lesson can be that to provide one’s light, a holy light akin to that which illuminated the mishkan, one must strive for integrity, for directness and honesty. 

Perhaps the most complex treatment of this passage is by the Netziv (Russia/Poland 1816-1893) in his commentary Ha’Emek Davar. He starts by pointing out that not only Aharon was able to set up the menorah; “in truth it was kosher even when a regular person did so / ובאמת כשר גם בהדיוט,” as we learn from parashat Tetzave when Moshe is instructed to command all of Bnei Yisrael “to raise the light continuously / לְהַֽעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד.” (Ex. 27:20) Moreover, the notion of purity is not mentioned there. The Netziv continues: “The reason that Aharon is described as setting up this menorah here is “only because Aharon is delving into the holidays [as discussed in the previous chapter], and the ability to teach halacha (Jewish law) to Bnei Yisrael was placed on him / רק לצורך הענין המדובר בו שיתעסק בזה אהרן במועדים כדי שיחול גם עליו שפע הלכות להורות לב״י.” The menorah, it seems, is being treated as a metaphor for halacha. However, warns the Netziv, one had to be careful that “the spiritual power of the menorah was not compromised by an impure generation / לא נתקלקל כח רוחני שבה בטומאת הדור.” For if it was, “the menorah couldn’t help with the proper application of halacha, and it was necessary to further exhaust oneself to stand by the truth and seek a true path / ובזמן שאין הדור טהור אין המנורה מסייע לחידוש הלכה וההכרח להתייגע יותר לעמוד על האמת ולמצוא דרך האמת.”

This teaching by the Netziv can, I think, be extended from the context of halacha to the many different ways we might live our lives and share our ideas – our own light – with others. Whatever the context, maintaining the appropriate frame of mind is essential. And if the time comes when that  light is at risk of being compromised, we cannot let it be extinguished, but rather must redouble our efforts to see that it endures.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jack Nahmod
Middle School Judaic Studies Head
Rabbinic Advisor

 

At one of the parent coffees last week, the meeting opened with a prompt: share something that has given you hope or inspiration amidst the darkness of this year.  I did not generate the prompt so I heard it for the first time at that moment.  Sadly and to my surprise, it was not easy for me to think of a response.

What do we do in times like these to cultivate hope, to find moments of joy?  In Hilkot Deah, Maimonides describes how to acquire desirable traits:

וְכֵיצַד יַרְגִּיל אָדָם עַצְמוֹ בְּדֵעוֹת אֵלּוּ עַד שֶׁיִּקָּבְעוּ בּוֹ. יַעֲשֶׂה וְיִשְׁנֶה וִישַׁלֵּשׁ בַּמַּעֲשִׂים שֶׁעוֹשֶׂה עַל פִּי הַדֵּעוֹת הָאֶמְצָעִיּוֹת וְיַחֲזֹר בָּהֶם תָּמִיד עַד שֶׁיִּהְיוּ מַעֲשֵׂיהֶם קַלִּים עָלָיו וְלֹא יִהְיֶה בָּהֶם טֹרַח עָלָיו וְיִקָּבְעוּ הַדֵּעוֹת בְּנַפְשׁוֹ.

How can we train ourselves to follow these traits to the extent that they become a permanent fixture of our personality?  We have to repeat these acts consistently until they become easy to do and do not present any difficulty. 

This is a classic formulation of the concept of הרגל which could be translated as habituation but really means more.  It is the process of cultivation of מדות (good qualities), of taking action to become the kind of people we want to be.

This week’s parasha contains the famous Holiness Code.  The name indicates an exalted set of laws that will create sanctity in the Israelite community.  But right now, I prefer to look at it as a guide for הרגל, for cultivating good qualities.  Its demands are profound but largely not difficult to do: Share your food with the poor.  Pay people their wages in a timely manner.  Keep Shabbat.  Stand up in the presence of elders.  Keep fair scales.

And so, as I wait for hope to find me, I act to cultivate goodness.  I say מודה אני in the morning and remind myself that my family is healthy.  I call my parents and tell them I love them.  I read voices about Israel that feel nuanced and helpful.   I visit a friend who had a loss in her family.  I join my community on Shabbat.

Rather than hope, what I can connect to at this moment is the goodness that I can see and create in the world as it is.  That’s not to say that I don’t also see what is ugly, scary and enraging – it is impossible to miss.  But just as Rabbi Heschel learned from his grandfather about the nitzotzot, the sparks of God’s holiness that inhere in the world, this week of Parashat Kedoshim, the parasha of holiness, I continue to search and, sometimes, to find.

Rabbi Anne Ebersman
Director of Jewish Programming N-5 and Director of Hesed (Community Engagement) and Tzedek (Social Responsibility)

Why would God’s physical dwelling place among the people, the purest place and greatest purifying force among them, itself need to be purified? In this week’s parasha of Acharei Mot, we learn how the Kohen Gadol would “cause atonement of the Shrine (kodesh) for the impurity and transgression of the Israelites, whatever their sins; and he shall do the same for the Tent of Meeting, which dwells with them amidst their impurity / וְכִפֶּ֣ר עַל־הַקֹּ֗דֶשׁ מִטֻּמְאֹת֙ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֔ל וּמִפִּשְׁעֵיהֶ֖ם לְכל־חַטֹּאתָ֑ם וְכֵ֤ן יַעֲשֶׂה֙ לְאֹ֣הֶל מוֹעֵ֔ד הַשֹּׁכֵ֣ן אִתָּ֔ם בְּת֖וֹךְ טֻמְאֹתָֽם׃.” (Lev. 16:16)

This depiction of the presence of a vulnerable mishkan amidst an imperfect people is a bit disheartening compared with its initial description, when God tells Moshe, “You shall build me a sanctuary, and I will dwell among them / וְעָ֥שׂוּ לִ֖י מִקְדָּ֑שׁ וְשָֽׁכַנְתִּ֖י בְּתוֹכָֽם,” (Ex. 25:8) which later is explained to be “amidst Bnei Yisrael / בְּת֖וֹךְ בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֑ל.” (Ex. 29:45) And how will its status be elevated? God says, “it will be sanctified by My glory / וְנִקְדַּ֖שׁ בִּכְבֹדִֽי,” (Ex. 29:43) and repeats: “I will sanctify the Tent of Meeting and the altar, and I will sanctify Aaron and his sons to serve Me as priests / וְקִדַּשְׁתִּ֛י אֶת־אֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵ֖ד וְאֶת־הַמִּזְבֵּ֑חַ וְאֶת־אַֽהֲרֹ֧ן וְאֶת־בָּנָ֛יו אֲקַדֵּ֖שׁ לְכַהֵ֥ן לִֽי.” (Ex. 29:44) So then why this week do we learn that it can become compromised and require purification?

Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch, in his commentary on the Torah, explains as follows: “The perfect ideal of the Torah that is expressed in the Sanctuary – and which, extending from there into the life of the people, is always about getting nearer and nearer to its actual fulfillment – is in danger of becoming lost and something less than the perfection aimed at if the contrast between the actual life of the people and the ideal is not recognized as being a contrast, and the Torah in the ideal purity of its demands is not brought home to the minds of the people. This saving of the ideal purity of the Sanctuary of the Torah from being lowered by the actuality of the sinful lives of the people is what is meant by ‘for the impurity and transgression of the Israelites, whatever their sins.’” (Lev. 16:16, p. 436)

Rabbi Hirsch elsewhere expresses the idea more succinctly when he says the mishkan requires atonement because, “If anything requires protection against its ideal becoming dimmed by the distance between it and the actuality, surely it is this ideal of the highest moral perfection, which we are to keep unceasingly before our eyes as our ultimate goal… The priest and the people have to remind themselves once a year of this distance between the ideal and the reality.” (Ex. 30:10, p. 575)

Thus, according to Hirsch, the annual spiritual cleansing of the mishkan is not actually about it being tainted or compromised internally, within. Rather, it is our annual reminder that we fall short of the ideals manifested by that mishkan. We must not confuse our reality – our actions, how we live – with those ideals, and develop the false perception that we are meeting them.

The message that we must not lose sight of our ideals even amidst the messiness and mistakes of daily life is compelling. We need to stop and reflect where we do well in meeting those ideals and where not. And, as Hirsch suggests, we must not fool ourselves, and try to fool others, that we are meeting the highest standards where in fact we fall short.

However, at the same time, it doesn’t seem to me that the Torah describes a mishkan that is inherently and eternally uncompromised and inviolate when it refers to atonement of the kodesh and Tent of Meeting. Our highest ideals can become compromised within, even those of divine origins. Instead, to me, the more meaningful and slightly different interpretation is that our compromised ideals are restored through human agency in partnership with God. As Hirsch writes elsewhere regarding the mishkan, “priest and people are given an important high order to activity, namely, to make as the object of their activity, their becoming co-worker with the cherubim-guard of the Torah with which God’s self had promised to build up the spiritual and material development of the people.” (p. 438) And it is through that partnership “priest and people have gained afresh, as the foundation of their new future, the impulse for the highest ideal individual and national life.” (p. 439)

May we also be ever mindful of our ideals, returning to them to reflect, in partnership with others and with God, where our greatest achievements might be, and where their repair and our rededication are most needed.

Shabbat shalom,

Rabbi Jack Nahmod
Middle School Judaic Studies Head
Rabbinic Advisor