Parshat Vayikra

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The Paradox of Freedom

It was fascinating to me this year to realize that just as we are getting full swing into the Pesach preparations, and just at the moment in the calendar when Bnei Yisrael in Egypt were preparing their lamb for the first national korban ever, we begin Parshat Vayikra. I never really paid attention to how it all fit together before, but this year I found the confluence of events very meaningful and relevant to my Pesach preparations.

To understand the message of the korbanot, we can start with the first word in the parsha. We generally translate “vayikra” as “and he called.” However, Rav Schorr points out that on the first daf in Pesachim the word is given a more precise meaning. The word “vayikra” appears in the fifth pasuk in the Torah: “And G-d called to the light.” The Gemara explains that this means that Hashem called for the light to come to Him, for the purpose of giving it the task of creating the day. It was a calling to a task, and it is in this same manner that Hashem called Moshe to Him at the beginning of Vayikra. He was calling Moshe to come close to Him and to prepare to hear from Him the commandments of the korbanot.

The korbanot are an expression of kirvah, of giving ourselves over to Hashem. The hakdama, the introduction to the korbanot, uses this language of calling to a task. It is the recognition that we have been called upon to act. Just as we are preparing for Pesach, the holiday of freedom, we hear this message from Hashem that creating and nurturing a loving relationship with Hashem involves obligations and responsibilities.

It is this point exactly that forms the main paradox of Pesach. We are meant to ask what real freedom is. The matza, the main symbol of Pesach, is ambiguous. Does it symbolize our slavery or our freedom? How many of us ask ourselves, as we are scrubbing and cleaning, “Is this freedom? This is much more reminiscent of the slavery in Egypt!”

Rabbi Tatz points out something amazing about the nature of true freedom. It is often the exact opposite of what we think it should be. Because true freedom is the freedom from falsehood, it often involves constraint. He explains by way of a mashal. If we want to solve a simple mathematical question, generally there is only one correct solution. But how many wrong answers are there? Infinity. If we do not care whether the answer is right or wrong, then we are free to answer the question in many different ways. We can say 5 + 5 = 8, or we can say 5 + 5 = elephant. But not if we are concerned with answering correctly.

Truth is a tremendous constraint. The true way to behave in any situation may be very limited. At times there may only be one right thing to do. On the other hand, the wrong way to behave is unlimited. This was the cultural situation in Egypt. Although we were slaves, Chazal tell us it was a society in which all sorts of immorality was tolerated. Leaving Egypt meant going from slavery to freedom. It also meant that we went from the potential freedom of Egyptian society, to the constraints of the truth.

In many ways, Judaism is a religion of obligations. Every society has rules, and every rule can be looked at in two ways. Each right that one person claims is also another person’s obligation. For example, my right to property is your obligation not to steal. The question is, how does a society frame this? The constitutions of modern Western Democracies have a Bill of Rights. However, the Torah frames each of our rights as an obligation. We do not have a right to property, instead we are commanded not to steal.

On the surface we may find this to be restricting, but the Torah is deep. Its goal is to make us into givers instead of takers. For that, our concern has to be our obligations and not our rights. Although it may not be obvious, this is the real key to happiness in life. Rav Dessler used to express this point at every wedding he officiated, saying: “Filling your hearts at this moment is a wonderous desire to give pleasure and happiness to each other. Take care, my dear ones, that you strive to keep this desire to give pleasure and happiness to each other. Take care, my dear ones, that you strive to keep this desire always as fresh and strong as it is at the present time. You should know that the moment you find yourselves beginning, instead, to make demands upon each other, your happiness is at an end.” A marriage where each spouse is always trying to give to the other is a marriage filled with joy. Giving builds joy and love throughout the home.

Pesach is our time of freedom to be in a relationship with Hashem and to live in the truth. However, having everything comes through giving everything, and freedom comes through constraint. Judaism is the religion of obligations, but it also the religion of true joy. Hopefully, we can remember this as we clean and enjoy our preparations for chag.

Parshat Vayakel – Pekudei

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Putting Together the Pieces

The parshiot of Vayakel and Pekudei are the parshiot of resolution. The Midrash tells us that “Vayakel Moshe, Moshe gathered the people,” is a tikkun for “Vayakel Ha’am, the people gathered to build the egel.” Similarly, we sinned as a nation with the words “eileh elohecha Yisrael, this is your god, Israel,” and we atoned with the words, “eileh pikudei, these are the accounts of the Mishkan.” These are the parshiot in which we get back a bit of what we lost at chet ha’egel. Which also means, these are the parshiot that give us insight into how to regain our spirituality when we feel disconnected.

Our moment of connection at Har Sinai was an echo of the first moment of creation.  The world was created with ten ma’amarot. During the first ma’amar, Bereisheit, which brought everything into existence in potential, the unity of Hashem was still perfectly clear. Then, through the next nine ma’amarim, the details of creation came into focus and the unity of Hashem was more hidden. By the time Adam was created in Gan Eden, he was standing in a world of details and differentiation. His avodah was to look out at all those forces and find the unity of Hashem .

We achieved this avodah at the foot of Har Sinai, when we stood as a nation, completely unified in our desire to serve Hashem. At that moment, when Hashem communicated the first of the Ten Commandments, the unity behind creation was revealed with clarity. “Now you see and know that Hashem (YKVK) is Elokim, there is no other.” (Devarim 4:35) The name Elokim reflects Hashem’s mastery over all the various forces of creation.  The name YKVK expresses Hashem’s unified essence, which is beyond the confines of this world.  At Har Sinai we could see clearly how all the forces of nature are only expressions of the unity of Hashem. We became eidim, witnesses, to the unity of Hashem, and in that way unified all of creation.

Unfortunately, we did not stay in that spiritual state of unity. We moved into a state of separation. And that, explains the Maharal, is the root of evil in this world. Chazal compare the four rivers that branch out from the one river in Gan Eden to the four kingdoms of our galut. The farther we are from unity, the farther we are from Hashem. Chazal tell us that Eisav lived in a state of separation, worshiping many gods, and that the antidote to Eisav is Yosef, whose name means to gather, and who has the ability to gather all those many forces into one.

As a nation we gathered together to build the egel, but it was not for the purpose of real unity. We fixed this by gathering together for the purpose of creating the Mishkan, a place where Hashem’s unity could be perceived in the world.

After chet ha’egel, we could no longer understand the Torah in the same way. At Har Sinai we understood the mitzvot from their highest level, from their source, and all the details of the mitzvot followed naturally from that understanding. After chet ha’egel the path was inverted. We see the details, and from the details we recreate the unity. And so, the parshiot after the egel are filled with detail after detail. As a nation, we put all those details together to create the Mishkan. In this way we transformed the path of separation we created with the words “eilah elohecha Yisrael, this is your god, Israel,” into a path toward unity and closeness with Hashem, the path of “eileh pikudei, these are the accounts of the Mishkan.”

Yosef is our guide for this path. He is the force that overcomes Eisav. His name has two meanings, and they work together. The first is asifa, to gather. Yosef’s strength comes from his ability to gather within himself all of his own various strengths, and to focus on the source of those strengths. The other meaning of Yosef’s name is “hosafa,” to add. The result of gathering together our strengths within ourselves, and focusing on the Source, is that we draw forth vitality and siyata dishmaya. When we focus on our connection to Hashem, we have more than what we started with.

This struck me as a particularly powerful message as we are approaching Rosh Chodesh Nissan, and all the preparations that come with preparing for Pesach. There are so many scattered details, so many scattered crumbs. The result is that we ourselves start to feel scattered. This piece of Torah reminded me of the strength we can give ourselves when we take a few moments, perhaps over a cup of tea, to gather together the parts of ourselves that feel scattered when we are stressed. We can gift ourselves with tremendous vitality just by taking a few moments of quiet relaxation and gathering our strengths. Whether we are beginning to prepare for Pesach this week or not, may we all be blessed with a joyous, relaxed, and productive week.

Parshat Ki Tisa

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The Broken-Up Path

At the moment that Bnei Yisrael were building the Golden Calf, Moshe was on Har Sinai in the process of receiving the first set of luchot. The Talmud Yerushalmi (Taanit 4:5) describes the moment with the following, fascinating description. Hashem was holding onto two tefachim of the luchot. Moshe was holding onto two tefachim of the luchot, and there was a space of two tefachim in the middle. As Bnei Yisrael began to worship the golden calf, Hashem began to pull the luchot out of Moshe’s hands. But Moshe refused to let go. He grabbed them back from Hashem, as is described in the last pasuk of the Torah, “And by and the strong hand and awesome power that Moshe performed.” Clearly, this Gemara makes no sense if we understand it to be describing a battle of strength between Moshe and Hashem.

Rav Schorr explains that the Gemara is actually describing how Moshe’s tremendously strong will and  desire to receive the luchot on behalf of Klal Yisrael is what overcame the natural results of their sin.  But that is not the end of the story. Moshe brings the luchot down to Klal Yisrael, and promptly shatters them. Again, Hashem is in full agreement with Moshe’s actions. What was the point of fighting to get the luchot, only to break them?

The first luchot, the ones Moshe fought so hard for, reflected the spiritual level we were on at Har Sinai. The writing on the luchot was the writing of Hashem, and it infused the stones completely, the same way our souls infused and uplifted our bodies completely. After the giving of the Torah, we were charged with the task of waiting for Moshe to come back down, so that we could solidify our spiritual gains.  When we sinned with the golden calf, our neshama, as always, remained pure. But our bodies were no longer on the same spiritual level.

The stones of the first luchot, crafted by Hashem, represented the way our bodies were spiritually uplifted at Har Sinai. However, we were no longer on the level where we could receive them.  Moshe had to break them. At that moment the letters on the luchot, the indestructible words of Hashem, flew into the air. Those same letters would later engrave themselves on the second set of luchot. Nevertheless, Moshe did not get rid of those first stones. The stones he broke he placed in the Aron, next to the second set of luchot.

The message is that we still have a path back to where we started. That path is described at the end of the parsha. After Moshe confronts Bnei Yisrael over the sin, he asks Hashem to reveal Himself to him. Hashem replies, “You will see My Back, and My Face will not be seen.” The Chidushei HaRim points out that the order of the words in this pasuk allow us to read it in a few ways. We can read it, “You will see my back and my face,” and we can read it, “my back and my face will not be seen.” This is a description of the broken-up path to spirituality that we experience today. Each time we get to a place of greater closeness, it opens up a new level of comparative darkness.  We oscillate back and forth between times of closeness and times of distance. If we ride the waves, we move closer to Hashem over the course of our life. What we experience now, after chet ha’egel, is a longer, more broken path. But we did not completely loose that which Moshe fought so hard to keep for us. The broken luchot are still resting in the Aron.

Parshat Tetzaveh

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smoke and light

Smoke and Light

Parshat Tetzavah is the parsha of the kohanim, and it is therefore also the parsha that speaks to the importance of what we do in this world. Let me explain what I mean by that. The creation of the world culminated with the placing of man into Gan Eden, a place where there was room for Hashem’s Presence to be felt. In Gan Eden, Adam was given the job of working on and guarding his surroundings. The Mishkan, like Gan Eden, was also a place where there was room for Hashem’s Presence to be felt, and the Kohen Gadol, like Adam, was given avodah to do within it.

The specific avodah the parsha opens up with is lighting the menorah. The Midrash asks a question about this avodah, which it places in the mouth of Klal Yisrael. “Hashem, we are happy to do whatever you ask of us. But we know that you created the entire world and filled it with light. Do you really need us to light a candle in your Mishkan?” To which Hashem replies that our avodah is precious. He desires the things that we do ourselves. Anyone who has treasured a messy piece of artwork or a misspelled card given to them by a child understands this idea intrinsically.

The Mishkan is an expression of two connected spiritual realities. It expresses how Hashem draws His Presence down to us, to create a relationship with us. It also expresses the way in which we shape our relationship with Hashem by actively responding to Hashem’s presence in the world. This is reflected in the two modes of Torah that we received through the Mishkan, the Written Torah and the Oral Torah. The Written Torah we received as a gift from Hashem, through the nevuah that emanated from the Kodesh HaKedoshim. Moshe was its emissary, and it was represented by the luchot, which were literally the writing of Hashem.

The emissary of the Oral Torah was Aharon. From the beginning of Moshe’s mission to bring us out of Mitzrayim, Aaron served as Moshe’s “peh,” his interpreter. And it is through Aharon that we see the first instance of a s’vara, where human intellect is used to determine halacha (see Vayikra 10:16-20). The menorah, lit by Aharon daily, was the reflection of the Oral Torah in the Mishkan.

When the Gemara (Shabbat 22b) asks, “Why did we need to light the menorah at all? Didn’t we travel by the light of Hashem for all 40 years in the desert?” Rav Schorr understands the question to be, “For 40 years in the desert we were traveling through life according to the direct word of Hashem. Is there room in this scenario for the independent thoughts of man?” And the answer, given to us through Hashem’s command to light the menorah, is yes. Even in a world with 24/7 direct access to Hashem, our response to that revelation, our avodah, is still precious.

And so the parsha begins with Aharon creating light from pure oil in an indescribable golden menorah. This avodah expresses how beautiful our actions, when done properly, can be. But that is only the beginning of the parsha. At the end of the Parsha is the description of the mizbeach hazahav, which seems to be out of place, as it is not with the other keilim of the Mishkan mentioned in Parshat Terumah. We can understand its place here, at the end of the parsha, as giving us insight into the specific avodah of the Kohanim.

The Kohanim have a different avodah than Moshe. The Torah describes Moshe as judging the nation “from morning until evening (Shemot 18:13).” The essence of Moshe’s avodah was to bring the Torah from the clarity and light of the spiritual realm into the comparative darkness of this world. In contrast, the Torah describes Aharon as lighting the candles of the menorah “from evening until morning.” (Shemot 27:21). His avodah is the inverse of Moshe’s. He takes the complexity of this world and draws it close to Hashem. He starts in darkness but ends in light.

This avodah is expressed through the mizbeach hazahav, on which we offer the ketoret. The ketoret has a very interesting feature. One of its 11 mandated ingredients is the chelbanah, which is pungent and not particularly good smelling. The chelbanah is an illusion to the sinners of Israel, and the ketoret can not be made without it.

Aharon is the one who lights the menorah, but he is also the one who offers the ketoret. He is the man of peace, who brings resolution to arguments, and who loves everyone, tzaddik and sinner alike. He is a representation of the nation as a whole, in all our various spiritual levels. His avodah is also a message to us about the value of everything that we do as a response to Hashem’s Presence in the world. All of our avodah, even when it begins in a place of darkness is precious.