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Parshat of the Week -- Shemini - Parshat Parah

3/24/2022

Your child: “Why do I have to do my chores? Why can’t I stay out later? Why do I have to finish eating my vegetables?”

You: “Because I said so!” (Inner monologue: “OMG, I’ve become my parents!!)”

Not everything that our wisdom, experience, or instinct as parents has relevance or traction with our children. Not everything that we know to be a danger or an imperative will have any meaning to them until they experience the circumstances which led us to the advisory or prohibition. Do you think that the imperatives given to us by Avinu Shebashamayim, our Heavenly Parent, would be any different?

By all accounts, the laws of the red heifer, read this week with their inherent contradictions, are a logical mystery. It’s seemingly a random Mitzva; the fact that the functionary of a ritual designed to restore holiness to an unclean individual should become ritually impure makes no sense. But maybe that’s the point.

Who knows why a day is 24 hours long? Or why all the planets, (except for maybe Venus?) rotate counterclockwise? Why G-d chose green for plants which clean the air with chlorophyll, or why a platypus, as a mammal, lays eggs?

Sometimes, it’s best to not ask questions, but just accept. I don’t know why our cosmic design does what it does, but I know that I’m thankful for it. I’m grateful for the fact that days happen, and that our planet rotates. I’m not impartial to green, want to preserve the forests which regenerate our oxygen, and am greatly amused by mammals which could play ping-pong with their snouts. Do I know who is responsible? Of course.

Our daily morning service begins with a series of 15 blessings which, directly or by extension, express thanksgiving for all aspects of the good granted to us by G-d which we need for our daily existence. As many of you know, the Hebrew numerical value of 15 is equal to the value (gematria) of the name of the Divine. Every day, we tie our very existence to G-d’s name and influence.

Can I explain or understand it? No. Am I grateful for it? Of course. Will I give thanks for every single daily miracle? Should it, or does it, diminish my faith? Of course not. I may not know why G-d divined what They did, but I am eternally grateful, and will say a blessing for each and every commandment.

Whether it’s obscure laws about a red cow, the fact that the sun rises and sets, that I have rules about what I can eat or not, or the fact that my kid is brilliant, I know who to blame.

It’s because G-d said so.

Shabbat Shalom!

Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Parshat of the Week -- Tzav

3/18/2022

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People often ask how the relatively simple instructions for keeping kosher as listed in the Torah grew up to become the often confusing, all-encompassing system of regulations we know today. While the Torah lays out the basics—forbidden animals, the prohibition against consuming blood, the suggestion of separating milk and meat—it does not go into tremendous detail about keeping separate dishes or how things can be “contaminated” by contact. Two of those principles, as later incorporated by the rabbis into the laws of Kashrut, are found in this week’s parsha. At the end of chapter 6 (as well as numerous other places), the notion of the transfer or holy/unholy status through contact is mentioned. Rashi, among others, qualifies the situation as applying to vessels and substances where the flavor of the food can be transferred from one to the other. In this case, the very next verse mentions an earthenware vessel which has contained contaminated food and must be destroyed, since it is impossible to remove the essence of a foodstuff from something as porous as a clay pot. The same is not the case with a nonporous metal pot (the Torah mentions copper, but does not predict non-stick cookware!). Hence our modern tradition that non-kosher pottery cannot be koshered, nor its dairy/meat status reversed. A metal (or glass) vessel, which does not absorb flavor, can be ritually returned to neutral status through hagala, the purging of the item, generally by purifying it in the manner in which it is used (i.e. boiling a pot, heating a pan, etc.). The laws are complicated, but the concept—that the essence of the contamination can be removed unless it has sunk in—has directed the evolution of many of our laws of kashrut.

I believe, however, that there is another level to this set of standards. This week, we celebrated Purim. Last week, on Shabbat Zachor, the Maftir aliya recalled the commandment to eradicate Amalek due to their inherent and incessant cruelty, having attacked Israel by targeting the weakest individuals first. The Haftarah which followed refers to the people’s failure to have done so, leading to the ascendency of Agag, the ancestor of Haman (who is dispatched by the prophet Samuel). The Torah reading for Purim itself similarly refers to the perennial conflict between G-d and Amalek, or good and evil, as being “from generation to generation.” If the Torah’s commandment to wipe out the insidious cruelty had been fulfilled the first time, or the subsequent one, the entire story of Purim would not have happened. We could be eating fried hamentashen on Chanukah!

The nature of modern evil is like that of the impure vessels. Caught early by a world which does not absorb its “flavor,” it should be possible to eradicate it via perfunctory means. Once it has had an opportunity to sink in, however, often the only way its essence will be removed is through destruction of one sort or another. As we look at current events, we realize that there are still many Amaleks in our world, and their actions and influence have imparted an unacceptable amount of impurity to our previously holy vessels. We should let this dual lesson guide and inspire us. It’s certainly preferable to not have the world and its innocents fall victim to insidious or misguided influences. If it does, however, it’s better to take on G-d’s battle to restore our world’s equanimity than to have to deal with its shattered dishes.

Shabbat Shalom!Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Parshat of the Week -- Vayikra

3/10/2022

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This week, we begin reading Vayikra, the book of Leviticus, also known (as suggested by its Latinized Greek name) as Torat Kohanim, the set of instructions for the priests. Indeed, the bulk of the third book of the Bible is fundamentally a user’s manual for the just-completed Mishkan (Tabernacle). The many different types of sacrifices and rituals, along with the fairly graphic details of their proper and timely execution, are enumerated. That makes Vayikra be a fairly tough study for a modern audience for whom the gory details are repugnant, or for whom a more spiritual form of worship is considered more appropriate. The modern practice (ok, “modern” in this case goes back more than a millennium) is to analyze the ancient sacrificial rituals by mining their specifics for homiletical clues as to their purpose. There is much to learn in taking this approach. When an offering is called for, what is offered, who is responsible, the dispensation of the result, and even the egalitarian nature of the requirements can offer tremendously meaningful insights into the meaning of Jewish worship as commanded by the Torah.

While we interpret Torat Kohanim through a modern lens or idealize(?) it as the classic form of ancient worship as was performed in the Holy Temple, we tend to lose sight of the pedigree of the sacrificial system. Animal sacrifice, albeit without the legal and ritual structure, was commonplace in the ancient world; Every generation of patriarchs had practiced it, as did most ancient cultures (with the notion that the human offerings were “feeding” one or more of the multiplicity of gods they worshiped). If G-d was aiming to create a new paradigm of prayer, wouldn’t it have made sense to devise some uniquely Jewish way of achieving closeness with the Divine other than just taking a common and misguided practice and complicating it with lots of rules, regulations, and symbolism? ChaZaL (our blessed sages) teach us that G-d’s initial intention was precisely that; to create a more spiritual system of worship which avoided the vernacular of animal sacrifice. Abravanel (Spain, 1437-1508) suggests that the episode of the Golden Calf taught G-d that Israel wasn’t ready for such an abstract form of worship. They required the structure of ritual to guide them to a spiritual connection with the Holy One. Beginning with the familiar, even though not part of the original plan, was an apt way to begin. Midrash Rabba even comments that it's “better that they bring their offerings to My table than bring them before idols.”

In a way, it seems like the Diaspora transition we have made to a completely liturgical and ritual form of worship may have been in the cards all along; we just weren’t ready for it the first time. Judaism has certainly evolved into a religion with a deeply symbolic, abstract, and personal tradition of approaching G-d. We cannot lose sight, however, of the fact that while we have unique, individual, and often complicated relationships with the Divine, it is still our shared traditions, so deeply rooted despite centuries of evolution, that give these relationships meaning. What we do, when we do it, what we say while we’re doing it, and, of course, what we don’t do, are still the ways we create, maintain, refresh, and build our spiritual dialog with G-d. Think of it this way: one must do the difficult, physical work of climbing the mountain in order to reach the summit. Only then can one look at the spectacular view, and breathlessly appreciate its beauty, while simultaneously feeling the satisfaction of having had the fortitude to have completed the task.

Shabbat Shalom!Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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Parshat of the Week -- Pehudei

3/3/2022

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Over the course of the last few parshas, we have discussed many of the allusions and poetic/symbolic/homiletical references contained in the text. The rundown of the construction process of the Mishkan (tabernacle) is repeated three times; the first commanding the planning and preparation, and second an account of the actual construction, and now the third, where its completion is documented. Among the themes we’ve been following as we study the bottom half of the Book of Shemot (Exodus) this year have been (1) characterizing the creation of the Mishkan by Israel as an echo of G-d’s creation of the Universe, and (2) the unique nature of such a holy thing as G-d’s spiritual dwelling place on earth having been built by willing and inspired human hands which had previously known only the toil of slavery. As we complete Shemot, two subtleties in the parsha reflect these themes.

Exodus 39:32 reads, “All the work of the Tabernacle, the Tent of Meeting, was completed; the Children of Israel had done everything that G-d had commanded Moshe to do.” Sound familiar? Compare this verse to Genesis 2:1-2, where the completion of the original Creation is described: “The heaven and the earth were completed, and all their host. And G-d completed on the seventh day all His work which He had done.” The structure and thematic/linguistic structure of these two verses are virtually identical. There is an initial reference to the process being completed, Genesis’ “All their host” is parallel to Exodus’ “The Children of Israel,” and the one who did the work is identified—G-d in Genesis, and Israel via Moses in Exodus. Just as G-d created the universe and populated it with humans to represent, reflect, and reinforce His teachings, we have now come full circle, having created, through our efforts, a uniquely holy place where we can sense and experience the Divine spirit in our midst.

The fact that it was human generosity, willingness, talent, and effort which built the Mishkan (and continue to support its modern iterations), is of the greatest importance, represented in ways other than a simple reading of the text. Rabbeinu Bachya (1263-1340) calculated that from the beginning of the Mishkan process back in Parshat Truma until the end of Shemot, there are 248 instances of verbs which are derivatives of “to make” referring to various aspects of the project. That number is, of course, a significant one in Jewish numerology. 248 is the number of positive commandments in the Torah, and traditionally regarded as the number of organs/limbs in the body (OK; anatomy wasn’t the rabbis’ strong suit, but recognizing the connection between our physical and spiritual selves certainly was!). This magic number is also the number of words in the Shema, and the gematria (numerological value) of Avraham. The significance of 248 being reflected in the Mishkan is as meaningful as the Tabernacle being a recreation of Creation. It is an echo of all that is positive about our faith, like the Mitzvot. It is the holy result of our physical efforts when dedicated to a higher purpose, like the parts of our bodies. It is a symbol of our belief in the one G-d as declared in the Shema, and the current and future embodiment of the covenant with Avraham.

As we prepare to leave the book of Shemot, we see that Israel has completed this phase of their re-creation as a sovereign people in service of the Holy One. The closing parsha of Exodus connects the people to their past, gives meaning to their present, and positions them for the next chapter of their growth and evolution as a timeless and faithful nation.
Shabbat Shalom!Rabbi/Hazzan David B. Sislen

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