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from Rabbi David Wolpe
This year as the Jewish community gathered at the Seder table to eat bitter herbs, we recalled the hardships of our ancestors and the ordeals of those who still suffer. We cannot forget the images of our brothers and sisters who are hostages, in cruel captivity; those families who sit at the seder in bitter anguish wondering about the fate of those whom they love; families who sit at the table that is not full, for loved ones killed in battle, injured and unable to join, serving their country even on the holiday — reminders of the legacy of a hatred all too alive with us today. Maror is the taste of absence, the sign of the empty seat. As with taking drops from our cups for the fallen Egyptians, we do not forget the sufferings of others... those in war zones everywhere who undergo deprivation and suffering. As with the generations who preceded us, we do not shut our hearts to the pain of human beings no matter where they may be. As hatred rises against the Jewish people across the globe, we are particularly mindful that maror is supposed to bring tears to our eyes. We weep for the legacy of antisemitism that has brought so much destruction into God’s world. We weep for those who even today, 3,000 years after our people were born, feel they cannot be fully free because of the prejudice against them, against their children, against our small family of faith. Maror brings pain but not despair. We combine it with Haroset to remind us that the world is also full of sweetness, and it is our task to feel both, the honey and the sting, the tribulations, and the richness of tradition, the bitter and the sweet. As we taste the maror and recall the anguish that afflicts our people and our world, we hope that in the year to come, there will be less pain, fewer who suffer, and more who can celebrate at home and in peace. Sincerely, Rabbi David Wolpe Rabbinic Fellow ADL
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Our parsha this week, Tazria, begins with instructions of a mother’s purity following childbirth. It’s interesting to note that there is a difference between the period of “uncleanliness” if the baby is a boy or a girl. So before we point to the apparent inequity here which seems to be based on gender, we need to ask the obvious question; Why is there impurity at all associated with the miracle and joy of bringing a baby to life, and a new soul into the world.
The answer comes as we look at a pregnant woman. Here we have life, the basic building block of purity, in fact, during pregnancy there are two lives present here. Now, following childbirth, there is a reduction in the number of souls down from 2 to 1, and from sort of a dark place, or from only a spiritual place, in the mother herself, there is actually a reduction of life. A loss of a life within her, and along with the loss comes a loss of purity. It’s the same concept that tells us that a dead body itself is the most impure thing in the Torah because there is an absence of a soul. So why the difference of 7 to 14 days of impurity between boys and girls? We see the wisdom of Torah here once again in these cryptic verses. The longer period of impurity after having a girl is because the mother has not only lost the soul of the baby that was inside her, but the baby she birthed ALSO has the potential to carry and create more life of her own in her future. Finally, the 7 days of impurity for a boy. The overriding commandment and mitzvah for a baby boy is the bris which must take place on the 8th day. Even if the 8th day lands on Shabbat, the bris is to move forward. This mitzvah is so critical, that it overrides the sanctity of Shabbat. It is important that the bris be a celebration and joyous occasion. We ask; how can that be the case if the mother is still in a state of impurity? So that a mother may rejoice with the community in this event, her time of impurity is limited to seven days. This affords her the opportunity to become ritually clean through the waters of the Mikvah and then she may then fully celebrate one of our oldest mitzvot. The remainder of the parshah includes discussion about skin conditions, understood to be punishment from the divine, and how they were treated. So we do have a few laws of purity and impurity that have remained part of Jewish custom even today. And the beautiful part is in thinking about how the rabbis place a priority of joy and celebration, over isolation and sadness. Our parsha Shemini opens with a very dramatic scene—after seven days of celebrating, it is time to dedicate the mishkan. Aaron, the high priest, is finally to have a starring role. And what happens? Moshe tells him, “Approach the altar, and prepare the sin offering.” What might this mean? On the one hand, it might seem like a simple instruction to begin the ritual. But some commentators infer from the statement, “Approach the altar” that Moshe is trying to get his brother to overcome his reluctance to approach the altar. In other words, Aharon hesitates. He is fully aware of what his duties are, but he isn’t sure of himself. So why might that be?
One possible explanation is that Aaron is truly awestruck—he is so overcome with the enormity of his role, with the prospect of being so close to the Divine Presence. The rabbis compare his feeling in that moment to the nervousness a bride feels when she is about to marry a king. But — of course — there’s another interpretation of Aaron’s hesitation. According to some, as Aaron approached the altar, he saw the decorative horns at the edge of the mishkan. Those forms reminded him of the sin of the Golden Calf, and he felt ashamed of his role in that terrible betrayal. As a result, Aaron wasn’t sure that he deserved to go to the altar. Moshe’s saying “approach” would seem to be letting his brother know that God (and Moshe) have forgiven him. But we know that the narrative doesn’t stop there. On what should be a day of great celebration, two of Aaron’s sons are struck down by God in the Temple. No one knows for sure why God exacts such a harsh punishment, though there are many theories that try to explain it. But what interests me here is the contrast between Aaron and his two sons Nadab and Abihu. How unlike their father they are. Where Aharon hesitates, Nadab and Abihu are almost too eager to offer a sacrifice. And so, they light a “strange fire,” the Torah tells us. A strange fire that was not commanded by God. And they pay the ultimate price for that. There seems to be a lesson here for us: perhaps that lesson is that good leaders (and wise people in general) need to learn to find a balance between the reticence of Aaron and the impetuousness of his two sons. We all need to learn when it is appropriate to jump in, and when we might want to wait. Think for a moment. Are you more like Aaron, or more like his two impetuous sons? Maybe you tend to err more on one side or the other, to jump into action too quickly or to doubt yourself and hesitate. I don’t mean to suggest here that there is one right way to conduct yourself. It’s probably true that different situations call out for different types of responses. In an emergency, for example, I think we’d want Abihu and Nadab. But even though we still have so many unanswered questions about parsha Shemini, we can nonetheless glean a life lesson that can benefit all of us. Let’s learn to evaluate a situation so that we know whether we should take action or wait for others to invite us in. |
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