Parashat Naso, Numbers 4:21-7:89

The 5771 parasha series is made possible by the dedication of our donors Randy Gangbar in memory of Marcy Gangbar, Jacob Langer and Ferne Sherkin-Langer and family, an anonymous donor in memory of Esther and Sheldon Litowitz, and many online donors.

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“I want to be alone” is not the Jewish route to holiness.

It was in the film Grand Hotel that Greta Garbo spoke the words: “I want to be alone,” a sentiment most of us feel at one time or another. We all need that timeout, but it is rarely a long-term desire. We are both social animals and communal creatures.

In the Torah we come across some “timeout” moments. There is the separation imposed by the community on the metsora, a person with a particular skin disease, (see Parashat Tazria 5771) when the separation can be viewed as beneficial to the individual providing an opportunity to focus on healing. There is the act of karet, when a person is cut off from the community as a drastic punishment (see Parashat Bo 5771).

This week in parashat Naso we read about a third type of separation: the institution of the nazir. Technically, the nazir is not necessarily physically separated but set aside in a ritual or spiritual sense. The nazir, from a root meaning “to consecrate,” was a person who took a vow for a period of time. The nazirite vow required abstinence from three things:

Throughout his term as nazirite, he may not eat anything that is obtained from the grapevine, even seeds or skin.
Throughout the term of his vow as nazirite, no razor shall touch his head; it shall remain consecrated until the completion of his term as nazirite of the Lord, the hair of his head being left to grow untrimmed. Throughout the term that he has set apart for the Lord, he shall not go in where there is a dead person.

Numbers 6:4-6

Rashi explains the concept of nazir as meaning dissociation from something.

This can be understood as an attempt to reach a higher spiritual plane, to draw closer to God. The restrictions placed on the nazir are similar to those placed on the priest. In fact, the instructions found in our parasha are similar to the priestly restrictions found in Leviticus 21. Towards the end of the Second Temple period, taking on nazirite vows became a popular way of expressing thanksgiving for any number of situations such as recovery from illness or return from battle. Probably the most well-known nazir was Samson, who was consecrated as such by his mother before birth. The prophet Samuel was also a lifelong nazir. Jewish tradition adds other names: most notably Berenice, the daughter of Herod Agrippa I, and Queen Helena of Adiabene, who converted to Judaism.

These are some pretty significant individuals, which highlights the important role this institution once played. Even once the nazirite institution came to an end, there were still positive comments made about it. Nachmanides goes so far as to say the person who commits to becoming a nazir should ideally take it on as a lifelong obligation. (He adds that not doing so can be viewed as a transgression.)

You’d think the institution of nazir would be a great opportunity for ordinary Yossels and Yocheveds to show their spiritual commitment and upgrade to Jew 2.0. Yet somewhere along the way, the institution of the nazir came to an end and – with all due respect to Nachmanides – the prevailing view took on a very negative spin. One reason for rabbinic opposition to this institution was owing to the growing fashion to become a nazir for all the wrong reasons: “Simon the Just was of the opinion that people make the nazirite vow in a fit of temper, and since they vow in a fit of temper they will ultimately come to regret it…” (Numbers Rabbah 10:7, Soncino translation)

The opposition to the institution of the nazirite enables us see Numbers chapter six in a different light. The same chapter that begins with the nazir ends with the fifteen words that form the priestly blessing, followed by the concluding remark: Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them (Leviticus 6:27). The individual who took on the vow of the nazir wanted a special connection to God. The priestly blessing is that vehicle, the difference being it focuses on the community and not the individual.

Clearly, “I want to be alone” is not the Jewish route to holiness. It may be possible to feel a spiritual connection alone in a quiet room or on a mountaintop, but sustained, ongoing holiness is found in the tangle of interactions with others and in the elevation of the entire community.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Bemidbar, Numbers 1:1-4:20

The 5771 parasha series is made possible by the dedication of our donors Randy Gangbar in memory of Marcy Gangbar, Jacob Langer and Ferne Sherkin-Langer and family, an anonymous donor in memory of Esther and Sheldon Litowitz, and many online donors.

This parasha is sponsored by Joanne Laine Gossin in memory of Bruce Laine whose yahrzeit is 19 Iyar.

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The book of Bemidbar is chaotic and contentious.

Folks who are selling their homes these days may be dealing with more than a real estate agent. A relatively new professional, the “home stager,” may be called in to make their home easier to sell. What’s the deal? It goes beyond the usual “get rid of the clutter” advice. The idea is to show off the potential of each room. In so doing, most anything that reflects the personality of the owners is eliminated, leaving a generic template that potential buyers can manipulate with their imaginations.

Parashat Bemidbar provides a template of a different kind. Chapter two describes the arrangement of the tribes as they encamp throughout their forty years of wandering in the wilderness. The Israelites shall camp each with his standard, under the banners of their ancestral house; they shall camp around the Tent of Meeting at a distance. (Numbers 2:2) This would be a stager’s nightmare. According to the census taken in chapter one, there are 603,550 adult males who are at least 20 years old. Not only does each adult man have a standard, but each clan has a banner. The latter, according to Rashi, consists of a sign with a piece of coloured cloth hanging from it. In addition, each tribe has a coloured cloth corresponding to the tribal stone on the High Priest’s breastplate (Exodus 28:15-20), in other words, lots of items the home stager would pack away as being too personal.

Filled with details on special arrangements, parashat Bemidbar is the antithesis of “home staging.” Every space is imbued with meaning. Take, for example, the location of each tribe around the Tent of Meeting. The eastern side was more prestigious, followed in order by the south, the west and the north. According to Midrash Tanhuma, these spatial assignments were the exact same ones that the sons of Jacob had when they accompanied his body for burial. This way there could be no dispute among the descendants of his sons.

A closer look at the distribution of the tribes around the Tent of Meeting brings to light a subtle protocol, elaborate as the seating for a royal dinner. The eastern side is occupied by tribes descended from three of Leah’s sons, as is the southern side; albeit the ones in the south are tribes whose ancestors had fallen into disfavour for various actions. On the west are the tribes descended from Jacob’s beloved Rachel, and in the lowly northern position, the tribes that originated with the two handmaidens, Bilhah and Zilpah. In a similar fashion, the Levites are encamped around the Tent of Meeting according to their clans. The highly regarded eastern area is reserved for Moses and Aaron and their families, while the slightly less esteemed south is occupied by the Kohathites, who have the important task of carrying all the holy vessels and the Tent of Meeting itself.

The tightly closed configuration of twelve tribes produced a well-defined communal space. For those within it, this was a positive factor in their daily lives, reinforcing their sense of belonging and security. But the establishment of boundaries also makes it possible to determine what and who may be regarded as out of bounds – as “other.”

“How to Construct a Community,” David Greenstein in Torah Queeries,

Gregg Drinkwater, Joshua Lesser, and David Shneer (eds.) p. 187

Thought the template may appear to be well ordered, the book of Bemidbar is chaotic and contentious. Much of that has to do with the attempt to change boundaries – sometimes unsuccessfully (Korach), at other times successfully (daughters of Zelophehad). The template of Bemidbar consisting of standards, banners and location, which are all forms of identity markers.

Identity itself is messy. Unlike the house for sale, where all traces of history are removed to make it more attractive to the potential buyer, the book of Bemidbar is a tangle of historical connections and allusions to collective memory, shaped by experience; indeed, this is its appeal. Bemidbar would be a tough property to sell: too much clutter, too many memories. It’s not a house, but for forty years it’s home.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Bechukotai, Leviticus 26:3-27:34

The 5771 parasha series is made possible by the dedication of our donors Randy Gangbar in memory of Marcy Gangbar, Jacob Langer and Ferne Sherkin-Langer and family, an anonymous donor in memory of Esther and Sheldon Litowitz, and many online donors.

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God wouldn’t threaten us with these conditions, if we weren’t ready to handle them.

I've been thinking about children's books lately. This is due to an article I read about Janice McCabe, a sociologist who has spent ten years studying 20th century children's books looking into the issue of gender equality. She says that males, including animals, were twice as likely to appear in book titles and only slightly less likely to appear as main characters.

Other than the queens and princesses (and evil stepmothers) in fairy tales, who were the female characters in my childhood literature? There were Wendy and Tinkerbell in Peter Pan, but this predates the 20th century. So, do the four sisters in Little Women. Dorothy in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz would be very high up on the list, as would Mary Poppins. My personal list would be incomplete without Pippi Longstocking. I never readany of the Nancy Drew mysteries. There's Really Rosie from Chicken Soup with Rice, but that's from a book I read to my children. I only read Anne of Green Gables as an adult. Then there's Pollyanna. Though I only recently read the 1913 classic, the character has long been stuck in my mind, since I saw the 1960 Disney film long before I could read.

Although Pollyanna's life could have been considered tragic – she was an orphan and was run over by a car, she refused to give in to any type of sadness or pessimism. Instead, she resolutely went through life playing what she called “the glad game,” an attitude she had learned from her father. No matter how disappointing the situation, she always found a positive aspect to it. This fictional character gave rise to the term “Pollyanna principle,” referring to an unconscious bias towards the positive. Pollyanna's infectious optimism proved to be good for her creator, Eleanor H. Porter, who went on to pen a couple of sequels called “Glad Books.” In fact, there are fourteen “Glad Books,” mostly written by other authors.

As we reach the conclusion of Leviticus, we are faced with what could be called a “mad book” or a “sad book.” Parashat Bechukotai consists of a list of blessings and curses, indeed many more of the latter than the former. Nonetheless, the list is not as long as the one found in parashat Ki Tavo in Deuteronomy. What makes this list particularly interesting is the traditional attempt to turn these curses into a “glad book.”

Rashi can be described in many ways, but he is generally no Pollyanna. Yet, at the very end of Leviticus he brings a ray of sunshine into a list of gloom and doom. The warnings and curses begin with Leviticus 26:14. Each warning that is ignored carries a punishment that increases in severity. I will spurn you. I will lay your cities in ruin and make your sanctuaries desolate, so that your enemies who settle in it shall be appalled by it. (Leviticus 26:30-32) This, by the way, is one of the easier sections to read. The list of curses is very graphic and while a challenge to the Pollyannas among us, it would delight apocalyptic video game connoisseurs.

Never mind the ruin and desolation in the text says Rashi. There is actually a measure of goodness for Israel in the text, because the enemies who destroyed Israel would not derive benefit from the land. The verse describing absolutely appalling destruction is turned by Rashi into a measure of hope. As Nehama Leibowitz explains in New Studies in Vayikra (p. 589): “Though the context is one of destruction, the fact that it is generated by God guarantees…Israel's ultimate rehabilitation.”

Okay, it is possible that something negative can eventually lead to something positive. Our ancestors had a habit of putting a positive spin on things. They avoided certain unpleasantries. For example, there is a minor tractate of Talmud called Evel Rabbati (Mourning), which is traditionally referred to as Semakhot (Joy). Something similar happened with the curses in Bechukotai, which are read in single aliyah so that only one individual would have to be encouraged to accept this dubious honour. Over time, the interpretation of the curses in a positive manner turned this aliyah into a great honour. (For some fascinating examples, read this study by Dr. Haim Talbi of Bar Ilan University.)

Let’s turn back to Pollyanna for a minute. In one episode (chapter 22), she encounters the emotionally drained town minister and recounts how her father, also a minister, would regain his spirit by remembering the numerous “joyous texts” in the Bible. With this new outlook, the town minster finds a rejuvenating message in a magazine article he is reading: “What men and women need is encouragement. Their natural resisting powers should be strengthened, not weakened. . . Instead of always harping on a man's faults, tell him of his virtues. Try to pull him out of his rut of bad habits. Hold up to him his better self, his REAL self that can dare and do and win out!”

Perhaps we can apply that Pollyanna perspective to the ominous list of curses in Bechukotai: God wouldn’t threaten us with these conditions, if we weren’t ready to handle them.

In these final verses of the book of Leviticus, God describes – in the most tactile, physical, understandable terms possible – the relationship between God’s Creation and humankind's responsibility. It is simultaneously bribe and promise, exhortation and encouragement. At the foundation of it all is the understanding of Torah: the physical and ethical dimensions of God's Creation are wholly dependent upon each other, and we ignore that relationship at our peril.

Sarah Sager in The Torah: A Women's Commentary,

Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss (eds.), pp. 782-3

Implicit in Bechukotai is autonomy, maturity and understanding – all underscored at the very beginning of the parasha by the phrase If you follow my laws. It is not a given that we will do so, it is our choice. Rather than a list of blessings and curses, Bechukotai is a reminder of consequences. The decision to act is ours; and God is the nervous parent praying that we choose wisely. As we conclude the book of Leviticus the words we traditionally say when finishing a book of the Torah hazak hazak ve-nithazek (may we go from strength to strength) take on a greater urgency.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Behar, Leviticus 25:1- 26:2

The 5771 parasha series is made possible by the dedication of our donors Randy Gangbar in memory of Marcy Gangbar, Jacob Langer and Ferne Sherkin-Langer and family, an anonymous donor in memory of Esther and Sheldon Litowitz, and many online donors.

Click here if you would like to sponsor a weekly learning or support the series.

The sabbatical year is a lesson in balance.

Every so often one comes across an article about the successful individual who gives it all up to get "back to basics," such as the proverbial former CEO who is now happily tilling the soil, finding a level of satisfaction that was only possible by escaping the "rat race." Many of us, who are either unable or unwilling to make such a move, participate in a different "back to basics" movement by taking part in community supported agriculture (CSA), in which families and individuals enter into an agreement with farmers by buying shares of their seasonal harvest. The farmer gets a year-round source of income; and the shareholders get fresh, local produce in season. Originally a European concept, community supported agriculture arrived in North America some 25 years ago. The popularity of CSA arrangements has spread in the past few years, including to the Jewish community. (Folks in the Greater Toronto area's Jewish community should check out this CSA.)

We tend to view farming as a purifying experience. Think of the stately portrait of father and daughter in Grant Wood's "American Gothic" or of the underlying dignity of the struggling sharecropper Joad family in John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath. Of course, there is always Dorothy, who needed a trip to Oz to realize that that there is place like the home that was a Kansas farm.

In the Jewish world, the nascent Zionist movement sought the physical and spiritual transformation of the individual through working the land. The Zionists even called this work avodah, a term that biblically refers to serving God as opposed to melacha, plain old work.

However, our outlook on farming is very much a romanticized version, as anyone who has struggled against the forces of nature can attest. I once heard a radio report about a university program that offered training and certification for people who would in essence be farm-sitters. How else would a farmer be able to take any time off, unless someone else took over the work?

If we need any reminders about the challenges of cultivating the soil, just turn back to the beginning of Genesis, where Adam is informed of the consequences of his actions in the Garden of Eden:

Cursed be the ground because of you;
By toil shall you eat of it
All the days of your life:
Thorns and thistles shall it sprout for you.
But your food shall be the grasses of the field;
By the sweat of your brow
Shall you get bread to eat.

Genesis 3:17-19

The Talmud presents a mixed view of farming. Rabbi Eleazar is quoted (Yevamot 63a) as saying, "There will be a time when all craftsmen will take up farming." This is immediately followed by another statement attributed to him: "No occupation is inferior to that of farming." As these quotes show, even an individual rabbi could be of two minds about farming.

The challenges of growing crops can explain the commandment of the sabbatical year in parashat Behar: When you enter the land that I assign to you, the land shall observe a sabbath of the Lord. Six years you may sow your field and six years you may prune your vineyard and gather in the yield. But in the seventh year the land shall have a sabbath of complete rest, a sabbath of the Lord: you shall not sow your field or prune your vineyard. (Leviticus 25:2-4)

Twice we are told that the land rests in the seventh year. Hey, even this city-slicker knows that you cannot use land endlessly, since nutrients in the soil need to be replenished. Give the soil a chance to rest, and the result will be better crops in later years. Of course, this can be done a little bit at a time. Field A lies fallow, while field B is tilled; the land rests, but not the farmer.

The fifteenth century commentator Isaac Arama looks beyond the needs of the actual land to understand the purpose of the sabbatical year. He begins by discussing the benefits of material possessions. When a person does not have to concentrate solely on physical survival, that individual is free to focus on spiritual needs. Arama explains that our use of the land is to fulfill our physical needs, which in turn frees us to pursue our spiritual ones. Material possessions are not the ultimate goal.

While the sabbatical year may appear to be a respite for the body, for Arama it becomes freedom for the soul. We all have basic needs that must be addressed. Once those physical needs are met, we can focus on something greater. The sabbatical year symbolizes the opportunity for spiritual pursuits. Even the farmer tied to the land and responsible for the basic needs of the dependent community needs nourishment of the soul.

The sabbatical year is a lesson in balance. Whatever you do, whether you are passionate about your occupation or do it out of necessity, it is not the be-all and end-all of your existence. We are all spiritual beings; don't let your soul starve. Make time to nurture it. Naturally, Shabbat is a good place to begin; but if you think about it, it is only the starting point.

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel

Parashat Emor, Leviticus 21:1-24:23

The 5771 parasha series is made possible by the dedication of our donors Randy Gangbar in memory of Marcy Gangbar, Jacob Langer and Ferne Sherkin-Langer and family, an anonymous donor in memory of Esther and Sheldon Litowitz, and many online donors.

Click here if you would like to sponsor a weekly learning or support the series.

This parasha is sponsored by Jeanette Grosman in memory of Lieba Sharon Lesk whose yahrzeit is on Iyar 2.

Beauty may be skin deep, but arrogance is much deeper.

Academia has proven mom wrong once again. She taught us that looks aren't all that important, but economists disagree. Apparently, good-looking people earn more. Economist Daniel S. Hamermesh has been looking into looks for years. In one study he shows that people whose looks are considered below average earn less, while those considered better-looking than normal earn more. Surprisingly, the wage gap is greater for men than it is for women. If that's not enough, in another study Professor Hamermesh informs us that good-looking people are happier (probably because they do better economically). The good news for the rest of us is that proper attire and good grooming habits can help (especially with first impressions, as experienced job-seekers know).

So much for the daily grind. Generally, we hope that when we delve into the Torah such superficial measures of worth are left behind. That this isn’t always the case is what makes the early part of parashat Emor so difficult to take:

The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too short or too long; no man who has a broken leg or a broken arm; or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes. No man among the offspring of Aaron the priest who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the Lord's offering by fire; having a defect, he shall not be qualified to offer the food of his God. He may eat of the food of his God, of the most holy as well as of the holy; but he shall not enter behind the curtain or come near the altar, for he has a defect. He shall not profane these places sacred to Me, for I the Lord have sanctified them.

Leviticus 21:16-23

This isn't Moses' or Aaron's idea; this is the word of God directly. OMG, what were You thinking?

Commentators have been trying to determine the answer to this question for centuries. Naturally, we'll start with Rashi, who quotes from the prophet Malachi. According to Malachi 1:8, if a blemished animal is offered, this is considered an evil. Rashi extrapolates from this that those in the highest service to God, the priests, must also be unblemished. In fact, many of the physical blemishes that disqualify a priest from his duties also disqualify an animal from being used an offering. Much as I respect Rashi, I am uncomfortable with the idea that a "blemished" individual would be an affront to the God who created each of us in the Divine image.

Other commentators take a different approach. Elie Munk summarizes the viewpoints that are presented in the mystical Zohar. One perspective takes physical imperfection as a sign of a spiritual defect. However, Munk raises a powerful argument against this interpretation: Even priests who are excluded from officiating still eat of the offerings. This is the more important role because it is the consumption of the offering that confirms the holiness of the sacrifice and brings atonement. A spiritually unfit individual could not take part in such a sacred task.

Some commentators view the restrictions as being solely within the realm of human nature. Maimonides reminds us that people judge others based on appearance. Making sure that the priests were unblemished removes an obstacle for human beings and serves a greater good: "for the multitude does not estimate man by his true form but by the perfection of his bodily limbs and the beauty of his garments, and the temple was to be held in great reverence by all." (Guide for the Perplexed 3:45, p. 617 Friedlander translation)

Despite the rational nature of Maimonides' explanation, giving in to the human penchant for superficiality also leaves me uncomfortable. Wouldn't the priestly service be a great place to show that it is not physical appearance that is held in the highest regard? What a missed opportunity!

It would be easy to dismiss all of this as part of an archaic rite and thank God it no longer exists. Nonetheless, the words are still there in the Torah and are painful to read, because despite our good intentions we "get" it. Crank up the time machine and send us back to the days of our biblical bubbies (grandmothers) and zaides (grandfathers) and guess what – we'd choose Priest Charming as well.

By and large it is not only the preference for beauty that has spilled into Western culture, but also the equation between beauty and goodness. Children’s fairy tales typically feature the beautiful princess who is good, the handsome prince, who is also good, and the ugly witch who is evil. Psychologists have found that people who are attractive are trusted more than those who are not; handsome people are likely to rise in the ranks of their organizations and be elected to office. Physically attractive individuals, research shows, are perceived as more intelligent, sociable, talented, and moral.

Shulamit Reinharz in The Torah: A Women's Commentary,

Tamara Cohn Eskenazi and Andrea L. Weiss (eds.), p 744

Beauty may be skin deep, but arrogance is much deeper. At issue is something much more serious than loss of potential livelihood due to appearance. The very life of an individual with perceived imperfections is viewed as being of lesser value.

I can't count the number of times I have overheard people observing individuals with particular challenges say, "If I am ever in that situation, kill me." Is it so difficult to assume that a living, breathing human being cannot savour life or contribute to society despite constraints? The true limitation is in the minds of those of us making such comments about another person.

All of this falls under the heading of "quality of life," an ongoing dispute in our society where medical miracles result in economic burdens. This debate raises the spectre of euthanasia but not only at the end of life; it also haunts people with disabilities to such an extent that the United Nations has had to declare that all individuals have the right to live.

Judaism does not ponder "quality of life," since all life is considered quality, all people made in the Divine image. If parashat Emor teaches us one thing, it is that the priest who is disqualified from Divine service is nonetheless a priest, a person, a spiritual being, an active member of the community. We should all consider the words of theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking responding to a question about legalized euthanasia: "However bad life may seem, there is always something you can do, and succeed at. While there's life, there is hope."

Shabbat shalom,
Rabbi Michal Shekel