Zimri ben Salu and The Problem With Tefillin Dates

 

Parashas Pinchas, Chumash BaMidbar

Thomas Hawk Photography

I was about to write an article about the plague of lewdness that took the Jewish People by storm, ending in Zimri ben Salu dragging a Midianite prostitute into the center of the Jewish encampment, smack in front of the eyes of Moshe (Moses), and finally being brought to justice by the heroic Pinchas.

But.

The problem is that I wonder whether a large segment of my readership even finds the word “lewd” problematic.

The times we are living in reflect a deep callousness to the meaning of intimacy. Physical touch between men and women is entirely taken for granted, but casual contact would be the best of it. I don’t have to become explicit about quite how casual physical relationships have become. Anyone exposed to the very least of American media can see within three seconds (the typical length of a single camera angle) how vulgar our relationship with the entire subject of intimacy has become.

Protesting this disgrace makes orthodox Jewry come off as prudish and repressed, but the truth is exactly the opposite. Shabbos, for example, gets bad press in the secular world for all of its restrictions, but you know what? Those restrictions don’t create a lack of pleasure. They create a space for pleasure, joy, and meaning in an over-busy world.

The same applies to the Torah’s restrictions of casual relationships between men and women. Judaism says that the concept of original sin is bunk. Instead, we believe in a precious, original, and indelible purity that is worth guarding and staying sensitive to. Touch is supposed to mean a very great deal.

Zimri ben Salu completely missed that.

 

Balaam’s Nefarious Plan

Believe it or not, the Midrash explains that Zimri thought he was doing the Jewish People a favor, or so he justified it to himself. In the immediately preceding parasha, Parashas Balak, Balaam the evil soothsayer tried to curse Israel. To his great chagrin, the words that God made flow from his mouth on the mountaintop were nothing but praise and blessings.

Not willing to let God’s love for the Jewish People get in the way of a good bout of anti-Semitism, Balaam came up with an ingenious plan. If the problem with cursing Israel was their divine merit, Balaam reasoned, than removing their divine merit should pave the way for his original nefarious intentions. Make ‘em sin! Get the Jewish People to behave so crassly, so despicably, that the intimate relationship between them and God would be severed.

As if this Machiavellian scheme weren’t enough, Balaam sat down and mapped out a fail-proof strategy for how to go about it. His strategy worked like this: Build an outdoor mall. Ever been to Jerusalem’s Ben Yehuda or Mamilla? Lots of fun, right? Balaam knew that the Jews would have no problem shopping in a clean, modest atmosphere, so he hired elderly Moabite grandmothers to stand at every storefront hawking their wares. Nothing to fear here, see? No licentiousness around.

Even more clever was Balaam’s prior sleuth work. He had gone to the trouble of finding out what the Jewish People needed most: linen. The Jewish People had been commanded to gather linen for a particular mitzvah (commandment), and now the Mall of Moab provided the perfect venue where they could find it. The price was right.

Jewish men would stop at storefronts to examine the products being sold. If they found the products appealing, they would ask the old grandmother saleswomen about the price. Just then, as the Jewish men were considering whether to purchase the appealing product for the proposed price, a higher-pitched voice would ring out from within the shady confines of the inside of the store. A second, much younger saleslady stood in the back of the store offering the same product at a much lower price.

Many Jewish men entered the stores intending to do nothing more than compare products and prices, but the situation tumbled downward from there. The devastating one-two blows of free Midianite prostitution and exciting Moabite idol worship (ritualized child sacrifice, mutilation, and rape included) became the new “in thing”. The other thing that quickly followed these trends “in” was a plague of some sort of illness that ended up killing some 24,000 of the Jewish People. Can you call a spiritually-induced plague an STD?

 

Zimri’s Crass “Solution”

Anyway, Zimri ben Salu thought he had a solution. Let them go on “tefillin dates”! Since he figured that it was impossible to stop the Jews from sinning with the Midianite women (and besides, from his perspective, who would want to?), at least the sins of idol worship could be avoided by bringing the Midianite women into the Jewish encampment. In simple terms, instead of going to Moabite territory to ruin their lives, Zimri proposed that the Jews ruin their lives right at home.

Pinchas saw right through Zimri’s twisted logic. Allowing Midianite prostitution to take place in the holy Jewish encampment would not stop the destructive behavior, it would encourage it. It would give the behavior a stamp of approval that could only lead to more and more permissive thinking until the holiness of the Jewish encampment was lost completely. An idol would be placed in the Holy of Holies. There would be no safe place.

Of course, the Pinchas plan meant that many of the Jewish People would still end up in Moab. There would be very few righteous individuals left. But those left would be unimpaired. When the broken and crippled of Israel crept back from the slums of Moab seeking succor, those few would be ready and able to provide it and a genuine healing process could begin.

When the Russian Ministry of Education threatened to close the Volozhiner Yeshiva unless they incorporated a few hours of secular studies into their curriculum, Rabbi Yosef Dov Soloveitchik, z”l, stood up at the board meeting and declared that although the Almighty had commanded to educate many students and ensure the transmission of living Torah wisdom from generation to generation, this commandment only applied when it was transmitted to the students the same way it had been transmitted at Sinai: pure, authentic Torah.

The Chofetz Chaim, Rabbi Yisrael Meir Kagan z”l, told this story later with an added caveat. It’s true, he admitted, the yeshiva did close down, but Volozhin’s decision was what saved Torah in that generation. The problem wasn’t with the secular studies per say. Mathematics and medicine aren’t the enemy.

The problem was, explained the Chofetz Chaim, that the forces of evil are very wily. First they turn you away from Torah for only two hours a day. Slowly but surely those two hours grow and expand until the picture flips – and suddenly you find that the only time left for Torah study is two hours. Insidious but true.

And Torah is like water, added Rabbi Kagan. Close up one waterway and the stream finds another path to flow. Volozhin closed but soon other yeshivas opened in other countries. Torah made her way to Lithuania and Poland, staying pure and beautiful every step of the way. The integrity of the importance of Torah learning, and the sanctity of a yeshiva, was never compromised and found other ways to sprout. A yeshiva stayed a yeshiva. Torah stayed Torah. And we retained our “safe place” in a dizzying world.

 

Love is in the Little Things

 Judaism begins and ends with a sensitivity to the little things. Ever seen Hollywood depict that first touch? A current of electricity runs through our veins because we all know that Hollywood – and Torah – have got it right on that one. The little things are not really little things. Life is in the details. The details of Torah say, “Hey! It’s time to really start living!”

The converse is also true. Give up the little things, all those nifty, detailed little Jewish laws, and you’re left with cultural Judaism. Bagels and lox only get you so far – and not very far at all. They certainly won’t score you a profound relationship with God. With your spouse. With your friends. With your kids. With yourself.

What Zimri’s plan seemed to say was, “So what’s a little compromise? Big deal. It’s better than nothing.” But the truth is that a little compromise is a lot of apathy. Details matter. True love goes all the way.

Because it means something. It means everything.



 

Why Is Everyone Obsessed With Israel?

Parashas Shlach, Sefer BaMidbar

What is it about Israel that makes it so desirable? It’s like everyone is obsessed. The entire world can’t stop fighting over this little sliver of land in the Middle East. Americans recently asked how big they thought Israel is weighed in with responses as hefty as Russia, Australia, or at least the size of the United States. Otherwise, what is everyone so up in arms about?

In truth, Israel is 8,000 square miles large. To put that into perspective, the entire country could fit into the state of Florida eight times.  Nobody wants Israel for the size.

Plus, Israel has almost no oil. Not that has been found, anyway. 99% of the tiny country’s own consumption is purchased on the global market. (Unwilling neighbors like Saudi Arabia make that a tad more of a crunch, but that’s a different story.)

Israel is gorgeous, certainly, but not in a flashy, Grand-Canyon-esque sort of way. Let’s put it like this: Israel isn’t New Zealand. No local sheep farmers are protesting the number of high-budget movies shot here annually. It just isn’t like that. Don’t get me wrong! Gorgeous, yes. Flashy ecotourism and blockbusters? No.

What is it about Israel? What is it that we have been praying to return to across the wide, colorful bolt of fabric that has been our exile, tossed and still unrolling over the course of some 2,000 years?

 

Home

It’s easy to list off the reasons – 343 of the 613 mitzvos (commandments) directly involve Eretz Yisrael; everything means more here; this is a land that produces spiritual growth like Iowa produces corn and soybean – but the truth is that the best proof is in the pudding.

How can you describe that feeling at the Kosel (Western Wall) at sunset, as the pigeons and doves swirl in a rosy halo above all the people’s heads, snatches of tunes rising and mingling in the warm evening air as dozens of minyanim (prayer groups) lift their voices in song and praise to welcome Shabbos? Here’s the truth: you can’t. Something happens inside your heart that doesn’t have words. It’s more than a feeling. It’s more than a sense of inspiration. It’s like suddenly realizing that you have come home, but home in a sense truer than any material thing will ever express. You know that something vital in you is expressed here, is gloved here in the perfect setting for living in the fullest sense of the word.

You visit Ma’aras HaMachpelah and the tour guide tells your group that you have fifteen minutes to pray before heading back towards the buses. “By the way,” he mentions casually, “That room to your left is right above where Avraham and Sarah are buried.” Something like a cardiac shock shimmers through your body. These aren’t “your people” in some vague, disembodied sense; these are your mother and your father, the mother and father of all that has ever been meaningful to you. You walk over almost stumbling with emotion, lean your head against the cool, smooth stones, and cry. You aren’t usually a crier, you don’t go in for spirituality, but something speaks here.

“Hello,” you whisper, wet face cupped in the palms of your hands.

You visit the winding cobblestone roads of Tzfat (Safed), take a hike out into the surrounding Galilee, where country green meanders and mixes and merges with the lowing of wandering herds of cows who look so relaxed, where a soft breeze breathes the whispers of trees, where wildflowers seem to spring up underneath your steps, so profusely do they blossom in the spring.

And, wait, another thing – it’s not just beautiful, it’s dotted with strange, light-blue stone huts where the long-since resting bodies of the scholars whose debates make up the Mishna and Talmud are buried. They’re here among the flowers. They’re not just on a page, again disembodied, theoretical, a skinless and scentless scholarly work. They lived and walked among these same green hills. You continue along and come upon one, and then another, modest structures dappled with sunshine through gentle and vibrant foliage.

You hike down into Amuka and enter one of the little stone huts – here lie the remains of Rav Yonasan Ben Uziel, who spent his entire life absorbed so deeply in his Torah study that birds flying directly over his head were burnt. You pick up one of the soft, worn prayer books lining the walls of the small synagogue surrounding his grave. It’s so quiet here.

 

Not Just Physical, Not Just Spiritual

Jerusalem, the heart of the country, is a hot thicket, a flame, a burning bush. How aren’t we all consumed? The buses have exploded, the fear has risen thick and potent in our throats, the walls have all come tumbling down, but my neighbor took a bullet to the arm in a nearby gas station a few years ago when some lunatic from nearby Ramallah decided to show up with a gun and try to take out a few Jews. My neighbor stopped the terrorist. That’s Jerusalem. It’s not just heroism, it’s peace. Who wants to die of old age when you could die of real living? My neighbor grieves his lost arm but is a happy man.

That’s Israel. Israel is where our dreams lay buried like jewels beneath the rocky soil. Why?

Because G-d said so. Because the very first communication to the very first Jew took place when the Almighty commanded Avraham to “Go [for your benefit], from your land, from your relatives and from your father's house to the land that I will show you. And I will make of you a great nation; I will bless you, and make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.” (Beraishis-Genesis 12:1-2)

Because when G-d wrote  the Torah, His very first move in the very first verse was to declare His proprietary rights as Creator and Owner of the universe just so that, as Rashi explains, “If the nations of the world should say to Israel, ‘You are robbers, because you have seized the lands of the seven nations [of Canaan], Israel should say to them: ‘The whole world belongs to God. He created it and He gave it to whomever He deigned to give it.’” (Rashi, ibid 1:1)

Because the Talmud in Baba Basra (158b) says that the air of Israel makes you wise. Because the Talmud in Kesuvos (111a) says that anyone who walks four amos (short arm-lengths) in Israel is promised to become a member of the World to Come. Because a few blocks away from where my husband goes to kollel (rabbinical college) every day are buried several members of the Sanhedrin – Judaism here is real, not theoretical. We aren’t an idea. We aren’t even a religion in the normative sense of the word. We’re something not just physical, not just spiritual, but alive.

Israel is like our clothing, skin, the place we can be most us, “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation”. And, without even realizing what they are hungering for, the whole world wish they could taste that.

Gratitude to Asim Bharwani for use of his great Kosel shot. Nice one, Asim.

What Is Prophecy?

Parashas B'Ha'aloscha, Chumash BaMidbar

 

Prophecy conjures up images of a bent old man with wild white hair flying at all angles, ranting and raving over predictions of doom and gloom. Citizens walk by little moved by the spectacle. But that’s not prophecy. That’s Central Park.

Telling the future was actually a relatively minor side-effect of prophecy. Far from being a social misfit, the prophet was the picture of physical and psychological health. A state of simcha was a pre-requisite for receiving prophecy. Simcha is usually translated as happiness, but what simcha really means is a state of profound, meaningful connectedness to oneself and to G-d, resulting in a very awake, joyful personality.

Prophets were those who had so much refined their own patterns of thought, speech, and behavior that a deeper attunement to reality was almost inevitable. Prophecy took place when an awareness of the presence of God filled them so entirely that knowledge of the future would be left imprinted upon their consciousness like the wet sand left after a wave recedes back into the ocean. That clarity, spiritual and practical, about what must be done to best serve God in the moment and in the future, was what we call prophecy today.

Prophecy also wasn’t a rare phenomenon. During the times of Shmuel (Samuel) texts describe that two hundred prophets covered every hill. “Many prophets stood for Israel, numerous as the number of people who left Egypt. Except only the prophecy needed for generations was written down, and what was not needed for generations was not written.” (Talmud Megilla 14a)

The Rambam (Maimonides) explained that, “Just as in wisdom there are some wise men greater than their peers, so in prophecy are there prophets greater than other prophets.” (Hilchos Yesodei HaTorah 4:2) What made some instances of prophecy greater than others?

Our sages describe the different qualities of prophecy obtained by various prophets as window glass. What makes good window glass? The fact that it looks like it’s not there. A clear pane of window glass displays nothing but the vision to be seen through it. Clear prophecy displayed nothing of the personality of the prophet, but only the Presence that filled him.

The Torah testifies that “Never again has there arisen in Israel a prophet like Moshe (Moses), whom Hashem had known face to face…” (Devarim-Deuteronomy 34:10) The sages added, “All the prophets saw with aspaclaria that did not illuminate, Moshe Rabeinu saw with illuminated aspaclaria.” (Talmud Yevamos 49b). What this means is that Moshe had a clarity of perspective that did not exist in anyone before or after him for all time. While for all other prophets the clarity of the window glass was marred by the assertion of their own personalities, Moshe’s vision was like a window pane so clear that you could not tell at all that it was there.  How did he obtain this clarity?

Humility Unplugged

Parashas Beha’aloscha explains, “Now the man Moshe was exceedingly humble, more than any person on the face of the earth!” (Bamidbar-Numbers 12:3) Humility in Jewish consciousness, anava, is not thinking poorly of oneself. To the contrary, anava is the bone-deep knowledge that all your strength, beauty, and worth comes from Above. It is the visceral knowledge that you are great because God made you great. Moshe  knew with greater clarity than anyone else in history that God alone was the source of all things, including him. There was nothing to defend, nothing to prove. There was zero sense of conflict between him and his own Source.

What would change in our lives if we lived with anava? If we cleaned away our biases and tried to take in what other people had to say as though through clear glass window panes, we wouldn’t judge as quickly, we wouldn’t take things as personally, and we might actually hear what they are really telling us. Our relationships would grow deeper and more fulfilling. Instead of looking out for me-me-me, the confidence of true anava would free us to take care of others, to connect with them, and to experience the joy of loving relationships.

Imagine that attitude applied to connecting with God through the Torah. If we were truly open to what He has to say, what would we hear? It’s tantalizing.

Prophecy was that kind of connectedness multiplied a thousand-fold. Torah promises that reclaiming such clarity of being is our ultimate spiritual trajectory as the Jewish People: “And it will happen after this, that I will pour out My spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters will prophesy, your elders will dream [prophetic] dreams, and your young men will see visions…” (Yoel-Joel 3:1) Want to be a prophet? Start training now.

Thanks to Camdiluv for the beautiful image.

What Is Kabbala?

BaMidbar, BaMidbar

Based on Parasha U’Pishra by Rabbi Moshe Grylak

Blond, blue-eyed, and all of six years old, Davy ran into the kitchen breathless and flushed. “Mommy, mommy! You won’t believe what Rachel just brought home from school! Come quickly!”
 

Davy’s mother dried her hands on a dish towel and followed her youngest son out into the living room. Rachel sat on the couch cradling something carefully between her two hands. Davy and their mother peered over Rachel’s shoulder to see a small egg.

“Mom, can we keep it? I want the baby bird to hatch and then we can set it free,” said Rachel.

“Sure,” replied their mother. Davy was thrilled.

From that day on, Davy’s favorite activity was checking on the egg to see whether it had hatched. “Give it time,” his mother warned.

But one day Davy felt like he just couldn’t wait. Rushing to Rachel’s room where the egg lay nestled in a softly lined shoe-box, Davy gently poked a small hole in the delicate shell. Seeing that nothing had happened, Davy poked another hole, and another. When Davy finally caught sight of his beloved baby bird, he realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

“Mommy, mommy! Something’s wrong with the birdy! It came out of its egg but it isn’t moving!”

Davy’s mother walked into Rachel’s room to find the tiny baby bird lying still. It was dead. How could she explain to Davy that his eagerness had killed the very thing he had been yearning for?

Those Who Know Don’t Tell and Those Who Tell Don’t Know

Yearning is a double-edged sword. It is the irreplaceable gasoline fueling us to pursue our dreams and aspirations. It can also push us too far, too fast, into situations where the very thing we yearned for is spoiled by our prematurity.

A common example of this today is the popularity of so-called kabala. Some spell it qabbala, some call it Jewish mysticism, but no matter what they call it they are all missing the point. Because those who know don’t say and those who say don’t know.

Real kabbala is the deepest inner secrets of the Torah. Just as you can rip away dry wall to see the plumbing and electrical wiring running a home, so too this part of Torah reveals the mechanisms and structures that makeup the bone marrow of all of creation.

Longing to come close to G-d can translate as a longing to know His secrets. Kabala is certainly His secrets, but if you don’t know  the secret code you will not understand it. Just as word pain in English means “uncomfortable sensation” and in French means “bread”, so too the very words will mean something entirely different in your language. Worse still, the concepts being conveyed will have no meaning to you at all. It will be like someone trying to describe the color blue to a blind person.

Until we have studied and integrated the entire Torah, we remain blind. We simply do not have the sensitivities and perceptual abilities to “see” what kabala describes.

But the problem with trying grab a hold of something beyond our grasp in every sense of the word is that we delude ourselves. We read words on a page and think we understand what they are talking about. We listen to a lecture or meditate on the Tetragrammaton and think we have gained a new way of being. A few days later we go home and lose our temper at our kids. Again.

We are like David’s little bird, stillborn. Where there was an opening, a place where truth may have lodged deep in our hearts, there is now a cancerous lie. We have filled the opening, the yearning place where we longed to drink of cool, true waters, with misconceptions that lead us to painful consequences. That dog won’t hunt. Lies and misconceptions serve us poorly.

Don’t answer a question unless the question is real and the answer is real, warns the Torah. Like the metaphor of David’s mother, Torah cautions us that everything must come in the right time.

Sacred and Dangerous

Parashas BaMidbar depicts this vividly. Although the Jewish people traveled through the desert in a formation that provided every tribe with their own space and status, everything centered around the tribe of Levi, bearers and guardians of the Mishkan (tabernacle) :

“The Children of Israel shall encamp, every man at his camp and every man at his banner, according to their legions. The Levites shall encamp around the Mishkan…” (BaMidbar-Numbers 1:52-53)

As for the Levites themselves, the honor of their position was great, but so was the danger. Their mission placed them closer to the holy vessels of the Mishkan than anyone else. When the Jewish nation was stationary, the Levites’ job was to assemble the parts of the Mishkan together for use. When the Jews traveled, their job was to carry them.

They were privileged to carry even the very aron itself, the ark of the covenant. The aron, unspeakably beautiful, bore the original tablets of the Torah and others of the most sacred, powerful objects in the universe. It was the meeting point between heaven and earth, the physical location where Moshe (Moses) and Aharon (Aaron) heard that voice of the Almighty speak.

Carved golden angels spread their wings on the top of the aron, coming close or distancing from each other to divinely indicate the temperature of the relationship between the Jewish People and their Creator on a moment-to-moment basis.

What would you have given to see such an object? But no one could gaze at the aron and live unless very specifically appointed to the task. The Levites were warned:

“Thus shall you do for them so that they shall live and not die when they approach the kodesh hakodashim (holy of holies)… They shall not come and look as the holy is inserted, lest they die.” (ibid 4:19-20)

Rashi explains that this verse commanded the vessels of the Mishkan to be wrapped in cloth before and during travel lest the Levites take a fatal peek.

Laws of Spiritual Nature

Just as there are physical laws of nature, so there are spiritual laws of nature. Gravity is neither vengeful nor forgiving. It is what it is.

Looking at the aron caused death. Period. Attempting to study kabala out of the context of a genuinely ripened Torah personality causes spiritual stillbirth. It isn’t personal, it’s just a fact. A reaction as simple as the exposure of a fetus to air before it has grown lungs.

Besides, Torah is rich and satisfying every step of the way. We don’t need to warp ourselves with the heroine of false spirituality when a lasting, genuine high is so accessible. We can ride our yearning like a stallion, making sure that it takes us where we really want to go.

 

Thanks to photographer Seba Chuffer for the beautiful image.

The Medaber

Emor, VaYikra

What is the difference between animals and human beings? Animals eat. We eat. Animals care for their young. We kiss and cuddle our two-year-olds. Animals sleep. A lot.

So do we. (Especially teenagers.)

Similarities to teenagers notwithstanding, the Torah explains that – surprise! – animals have souls. The animal soul is called the nefesh. We are not unique in our ability to assess a situation and make quick judgement calls, to yearn for the wellbeing of our offspring, or to feel emotions like pain, curiosity, and confusion. The Torah acknowledges this in the commandment not to cause tza’ar to animals. We may not cause an animal undue pain, because they indeed feel pain just as we do.

We and animals have a lot in common – mental capacities, emotional capacities, even some communication abilities. Did you know that dolphins talk? Birds squawking up a racket in the middle of Manhattan are getting their message across to other birds. And remember Koko? Koko is a gorilla living in Maui who speaks American Sign Language. Her communication abilities are the same as a human toddler.

Yet the Torah distinguishes between animals and human beings by calling the human being a medaber. Why?

The word medaber literally means “speaker”, but implies a very different kind of communication.
 

When Every Nerve Screams, “Go!”

Torah explains that the most definitive difference between human beings and animals is that human beings can have consciously present relationships. The medaber is not just a speaker. The medaber is the one creature on this earth who forms meaningful personal relationships through speech.

Why is this unique? Because a relationship requires being aware of another and responding to them. Animals respond to nothing but their own internal programming.

For example, animals do not have free choice because all of their experiences are automatic. They feel, think, and communicate instinctively. They are incapable of going against their own nature. An elephant trainer can train an elephant to behave in certain ways, but he cannot train him out of being an elephant. There is a level of temptation to which an animal will undoubtedly succumb, regardless of how well-trained he is.

Human beings can live like animals by thoughtlessly following their instincts, and this may look fine on the outside. Socialised human animals may eat neatly, tucking starched white napkins beneath polite, manicured hands. Social animals may dress pleasantly, smile at friends on the street, and live in well-groomed houses. Social animals may attend the opera.

But the moment that tells the difference between an animal and a human being is when behaving like an animal would be a great deal easier. When every nerve ending in your body screams go – “Go tell off that person who made you mad! Go eat that cheeseburger! Go share that juicy piece of funny, malicious gossip! Go commit adultery!” – that is the moment when the human being distinguishes himself from animals.

And Torah takes it one step further. The moment you decide to overcome powerful, thoughtless instinct is the moment you actually become a human being. Up until that point you are just human potential.

Are You a Medaber?
 

What distinguishes the human soul from the souls of animals is that when you tap on the window, there is someone behind the glass. Beyond just the experiential animal nefesh, the human soul includes other elements such as the ruach, the neshama, and even higher levels of spirituality. It’s not just a computer running the “human” program. There is a “you” in you, and that “you” goes beyond your animal instincts.

Every nerve ending in your body says go, but you have a relationship with someone special – whether that special someone is another person, God, or even yourself – and that relationship means more to you than even the greatest immediate gratification. When you care so much about someone that you are willing to overcome your own greatest physical desires for them, you have said a mouthful.

It sounds like, “I love you.” In a way that no animal could ever express.



 

Why Do I Have to Keep Rabbinical Decrees?

Achrey Mos-Kedoshim, VaYikra

“Sure, I want to keep the Torah. I just don’t want to keep all that stuff the rabbis added on to it. Why do I have to do all that stuff anyway?”

This is a sensitive subject because people aren’t usually asking this question out of open-minded curiosity. They’re usually asking this question with an agenda to get out of as much religious obligation as possible. Even the words sound oppressive: religious obligation. Let’s try that in caps: Religious Obligation. Oooh, I can hardly breath. RELIGIOUS OBLIGATION. Whew, I’m sweating, can somebody open a window in here?!

It’s a personal question because it’s a personal issue. As personal as it gets. No healthy human being wants to feel restricted. (Dare I say especially Jews?) Healthy men, women, and even children want to feel able to exercise their independence and to be respected for it. Revolutions the world over tear apart monarchies designed to undermine this basic human need. “I am a human being, not an animal. You can’t cage me!”

To say that the commandments of the Torah, including the rabbinical decrees, don’t undermine but rather encourage the development of liberated, healthy, fully independent adults would be true – but it wouldn’t be enough. You wouldn’t believe me. You wouldn’t believe me because this isn’t a simple matter of two people debating down an issue to a fine point of clarity and mutual agreement. You and I live in different realities. There is a fundamental difference in how we each see our worlds.

This article will invite you into my world, but I only want you to come if you come willingly. It is not the Torah way to manipulate anybody. Consider this a test-drive. If you feel good with it, we’ll take down the convertible top, go for another spin, and shake our hair out laughing.

Have You Ever Been in Love?

Are you in love? Have you ever been in love? Some say love is a cage, but others could tell you what happily married folks around the world know. Love is liberating. Love can motivate and support you to achieve accomplishments that otherwise would not be within your reach. Love wakes you up and vaults you over the barriers keeping you from your own potential.

Best of all, love is its own reward. Fall in love, and the world feels rosy. Can’t keep that cheeky smile off your face. You walk down the street and notice all the butterflies. The only reason love is scary is because the person you love might hurt you, but let’s say that you were in love with someone truly kind and trustworthy, someone who loved you back unconditionally. Who wouldn’t want to be in love?

Sign me up! When you’re in love, it isn’t a burden to meet the needs of your beloved. It’s a joy. Not only that, but you want to go above and beyond in showing your caring and sensitivity. It’s not just that you like to bring her a cup of hot chocolate when she’s sitting and reading quietly in the evening. It’s that you happily grab the keys and drive over to the supermarket once a week to make sure that you don’t run out of cocoa powder. It’s not a burden, it’s a pleasure. That’s love.

How do I say this without sounding trite? The truth is, you buy it or you don’t. To some of my readers, the statement I am about to make will sound trite, but that doesn’t take away from the big smile on my face when I wake up every morning: living a Torah life is living in love.

I don’t keep Torah commandments because of some antiquated, superstitious religious obligation! I believe in a God who loves me unconditionally. That means that every event that takes place in my life, no matter how joyous or painful, is entirely for my good. It doesn’t matter what I do – the love stays unconditional. That pretty much takes care of superstition. I don’t keep the Torah to “earn divine favour” or some other perverted form of paranoid spiritual manipulation. I already have divine favour just because I’m me and God loves me. Period. The same applies to you.

So why do it? I keep the Torah because I am in love. Believe it or not, I am deeply in love and that is why I find no commandment, Jewish law, or rabbinical decree anything like an oppressive “religious obligation”. I know God gave the Torah. (How I know that is a different discussion. An important discussion, but a different one.) Because I know that God gave the Torah, I don’t find it burdensome.

Again, some will find the next statement trite, but I get to live with it: He gives me flowers every spring (and every week for Shabbos), and a sunset every evening. He gives me the beauty of the ocean, and the majesty of the woods. He gives me my smile, and the smiles of all the people I love. He gives me meaning when things look bleak, and hope when despair would threaten to engulf me. He gives me growth out of pain, a miraculous alchemy, and lifts my simple pleasures from just that – simple pleasures – to profound expressions of a deep, precious relationship. I don’t find it difficult, annoying, hard, or tiresome to fulfil His wishes.

For one thing, I know that He only commands me as He does because it’s good for me. He has no needs or selfish interests, only love for me, so there goes my great self-sacrifice. But secondly, and perhaps more importantly, His commandments are a gift. They are an opportunity to, excuse the anthropomorphism, to make Him smile. And that is worth everything. How could I not want to do that? He is so good to me, all I want to do is express my love and gratitude in return.

From Religion to Relationship

Okay. Ride over. Hand over the keys. Like it? I told you that it was a little bit of a different world-view than the norm.

Most people think Judaism is a religious, but it’s not. It is a relationship. Rabbinical decrees are called fences – they protect what is precious. Keeping mitzvos (commandments) is precious, and in order to make sure that I don’t stumble, the rabbis very considerately established practices to ensure that the bottom line is never overstepped. For example, I don’t light Shabbat candles at sunset. I light them at least twenty minutes beforehand. Is that more difficult? No. It’s my way of saying, “I love You. What is important to You is important to me.” (It’s also a way of making sure that I don’t get carried away in the pre-Shabbos rush and miss the deadline!)

Now we can get into the discussion of whether love is ever difficult. Anyone happily married would agree that the answer is an unequivocal yes. But it’s a different kind of difficult. It’s difficult in the context of love. It’s a difficulty that you want in your life. It’s not something that you want to get out of, or get rid of; it’s an essential part of your identity. Gotta love the hot chocolate.

Gotta love the Torah – including every last one of those rabbinical decrees.