The High Priest's Reading List for the night of Yom Kippur

As I was waiting for the Yom Kippur service I attended this morning (outdoor, masked, socially distanced) to begin, I was reading the first couple of chapters in the Mishnah from tractate Yoma, describing the service of Yom Kippur by the High Priest - some of which was read as part of the Seder HaAvodah in the actual service. One thing that struck me was that the night before, he would study Torah (or listen to Torah scholars expound) and also read or listen to the reading of the books of Job, Ezra/Nehemiah, and Chronicles. One tanna added that he would also read from the book of Daniel to the High Priest. (And the Yerushalmi added Psalms and Proverbs to the list - but other than observing that Tehillim/Psalms is my favorite book of the Tanach - I even have a small copy that I carry in my wallet - and Proverbs is probably my LEAST favorite, I will not comment on that since it is not in the text of the Mishnah itself.) All are from the Ketuvim. Ezra/Nehemiah, Chronicles, and Daniel are not included in the synagogue lectionary - and Job is not by the majority of Jews, although Karaites and some Sephardim read Job on Tisha B'Av (Tenth of Av in the Karaite tradition).

The commentaries I looked at said that Job and Ezra/Nehemiah would depress the heart and make it hard to sleep (Bartenura), that Job and Daniel were compelling and interesting stories, and that Ezra/Nehemiah and Daniel were partly in Aramaic, so that they were easier to understand. Some think this last reason is a sad commentary on the lack of learning by the High Priests. The Meiri speculated that Daniel was included because of its concerns with eschatology and the hope of redemption.

But as I reflect, I see another reason for these four books to be included (it is possible that this is expounded in a commentary I haven't consulted, so please forgive me if this is an obvious point others have covered). These four books from the Ketuvim in some ways cover the breadth of human experience. Job is considered in rabbinic tradition to be a non-Jewish scholar (the Hebrew has some peculiarities leading to much scholarly speculation about it being a dialect of Hebrew spoken by a non-Jewish but closely related people, perhaps the Edomites). Chronicles focuses on the history of the kingdoms of Israel and especially Judah until the exile. Daniel is a Jewish sage exiled in Babylon. And Ezra and Nehemiah led the return of Israel to the Land after returning from the Babylonian exile.

There is something profoundly beautiful to me about the idea that the High Priest in some sense carried something from each of these disparate groups of people in his heart as he performed the service of the day - including his entrance into the Holy of Holies and his utterance of the Holy Name.

The House of God and the Gate of Heaven: Meditation for Parashat Va-Yetzei

Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it. How awesome is this place – this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven. (Genesis 28:17

In Parashat Va-Yetzei, Jacob is on the run. He and his twin brother Esau never got along from the moment of their birth – in fact, Jacob was fighting with Esau to see who could get out of the womb first, and although Esau won that competition, Jacob had his heel in his hand when he came out. Esau was the favorite of his father Isaac, and Jacob of his mother Rebekah. Jacob bought Esau’s birthright as the firstborn with a bowl of lentil stew, and he and his mother conspired to trick Isaac into giving Jacob the better blessing by having Jacob pretend to be Esau. Esau threatened to kill Jacob after their father's impending death, and their mother sent Jacob to stay with relatives for awhile to be safe (and find a suitable wife).

But as scared, and as demoralized as Jacob must have felt – and as rootless as he was, fleeing from the place he had lived his entire life to a place he had never been – it was at the place he camped out for the night on his journey that God chose to appear to him. God appeared in the dream, showing Jacob a ladder with angels ascending and descending from earth to heaven and back again. And his response was to say, “How awesome is this place – this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven”. He took a stone and made a pillar to commemorate this profound encounter with God – the first time we are told in scripture that God talked to Jacob. He named the place “Bethel”, which means “House of God” in Hebrew.

Jacob schemed, from birth, to get the things he needed by tricking his brother – and he ended up on the run, alone and scared. It was only when he got to that place, where his own efforts had failed him and he had no other resources, that God appeared and promised him great blessings. It was in this place of loneliness and fear that God was able to establish the House of God – the Gate of Heaven.

And so it is with us. We scheme, we struggle, we strive – and our own efforts, which may get us material wealth, social prestige, intellectual achievement – or not – cannot satisfy our spiritual hunger. But God comes to us, in our greatest hour of need, and puts down a ladder between our temporary sojourn, and heaven, and builds for us the House of God, and opens the Gate of Heaven. We may not even always be aware of the presence of the Lord – “Surely, the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it.” But when we look back, we see the evidence of God’s presence.

So let us allow God to build within us the House of God, the Gate of Heaven.

Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it. How awesome is this place – this is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.

Mussar D'var Torah on Parshat Vayikra

 Parshat Vayikra describes the regulations for a worshipper who brings a personal sacrifice to the Mishkan, the Tabernacle.

The word Korban, or offering or sacrifice,  comes from the root K.R.V., which means to draw near. The sacrifices were a means for the worshipper to draw near to God.

There are four types of animal-offerings described in Parshat Vayikra that an individual can  offer (as opposed to communal sacrifices, which brought the whole community close to God). From a Mussar perspective, these can represent different ways of the nefesh drawing near to the Other. The nefesh is the animal soul, which we have in common with animals – which is the case of humans, houses the neshamah, the pure human soul created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God.

The Burnt-offering was entirely consumed on the altar. The text says that it is brought to atone for the offerer, but no particular sin is mentioned. This represents, in Mussar terms, the porous nefesh, where one interacts with the Other in a way that obliterates oneself, without regard for self-care – which often also results in not seeing the Other as they are, but a distorted view of them.

The Sin-offering was brought to atone for inadvertent sins, while the Guilt-offering was brought to atone for intentional sins. These represent, in Mussar terms, the rigid nefesh, where one’s disregard for the Other through one’s Yetzer Ra and self-absorption.

The Peace-offering, or Offering of Well-being (in Hebrew, Korban Shlamim, from the same root as shalom, which means peace/wholeness), is an offering in which part of the offering is offered to God, part is given to the kohanim (the priests), and some is consumed by the worshippers. In Mussar terms, this represents the semi-permeable nefesh. One acts with regard for and in service to the Other – but in a healthy way that includes self-care and self-protection. There is  something for the Other and for oneself, which results in peace and wholeness. It is the highest form of an individual’s animal offering.  The word “atone” is not used, for there is no transgression, as results from a rigid or porous nefesh interacting with the Other.

Mussar D'var Torah on Parshat Tetzaveh

Parshat Tetzaveh describes the vestments worn by the priests in the Mishkan, the Tabernacle or Tent of Meeting, including the vestments worn by the High Priest. The High Priest was entrusted with the most sacred task in the Mishkan – to enter the Holy of Holies once a year, on Yom Kippur, and tradition tells us that only on this day was the Tetragrammaton, the sacred name of God, Y-H-V-H, ever pronounced aloud, in the Holy of Holies, uttered by the High Priest.

One of the garments, the ephod, had two shoulder-pieces with two precious stones, one on each shoulder, with the names of six of the twelve tribes on one and of the other six on the other. From a Mussar perspective, the two stones with the names of the twelve tribes – the Other – being worn on the shoulder points to our obligation to bear the burden of the other on our shoulders. The late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Chasidic Rabbi Chaim Tirar of Tchernovitz expressed this beautifully in his commentary on the Torah B’er Mayim Chaim by stating that Aaron the High Priest was to carry the stones with the twelve tribes’ names “like a father carrying a young child on his shoulders to the keep the child safe” (Etz Chaim Torah and Commentary, p. 506).

The High Priest also wore a breastpiece that had twelve precious stones set on it, each one with the name of one of the twelve tribes on it. From a Mussar perspective, this teaches that we are not only to bear the burden of the Other on our shoulders, but we are also to have the Other close to our heart. The inscription of multiple names on the two stones on the shoulders and individual names on the stones on the breastpiece point to another important truth – we are called to bear the burden both of the collective Other, in our citizenship in religious, national, world, and other communities – and also to bear the burden of individual Others with whom we relate.

In hearing this, one might be tempted to say “Well, that is all fine and good for the High Priest – after all, he was holy and was set apart to offer the holiest sacrifices of the year. What does that have to do with me?” Another of the high priest’s vestments is the turban which he wore on his head while performing his high priestly duties. On the front of the turban was a headplate of gold, on which was written “Holy to YHVH”. This headplate was called a tzitz. Israel Knohl, a biblical scholar, based on a medieval Jewish commentary, suggests that the word tzitzit, the fringes on the tallit that adult Jews wear, is derived from the word tzitz (a “little tzitz”) – and in the third paragraph of the Shema, which describes this mitzvah, Israel is commanded to be “holy before your God”, similar to what is written on the tzitz. Thus the wearing of the tzitzit can be seen as taking on the role of High Priest in one’s daily life (Siddur Lev Shalem for Shabbat and Festivals, p. 156). Since all adult Jews of bar or bat mitzvah are entitled to wear the tallit, all adult Jews are to take on this High Priestly role. I would even argue that all adult humans, regardless of religion, have the same obligation to take on these burdens and love of the Other as we are taught by Mussar teachings.

The Strength of Isaac

On the second day of Rosh Hashanah, we read the Akedah, the binding of Isaac, as the Torah portion. Abraham took his son Isaac and built an altar, bound Isaac to it, and reached out his hand to take the knife to sacrifice him – at which point the angel of HaShem intervened, so that Abraham sacrificed a ram instead. Afterward, Abraham returned to his servants – but the Torah does not mention Isaac returning with his father (Gen 22:19). There are various rabbinic explanations as to why this is, but from that moment, Isaac walks an independent journey from that of his father. I can’t say I blame him – his father had just started to kill him, after all, even if he was interrupted! Isaac continues this independent journey – later on, the text states that after Abraham dies, God blessed his son (Gen 25:11) – and the rabbis note that although Abraham had the ability to bless people and, indeed, blessed others, he did not bless Isaac, so God blessed Isaac instead.

We travel this journey with Isaac during the first three blessings of the Amidah, which is a roadmap for our own spiritual journey. First, in the Avot (Ancestors) blessing, we give thanks for the heritage we receive from our ancestors, without which we would not have life or the knowledge of God.  Pirkei deRabbi Eliezer (ch. 31) teaches that the next blessing, G’vurot (Strengths), was first prayed by Isaac when his life was spared by the substitution of the ram in the sacrifice. As we pray G’vurot, we spring to life as ourselves, drawing from our ancestral gifts but also establishing ourselves as unique individuals. And it is only after embracing our unique selves and journeys and God’s individual blessing for us that we are able to come together as a community to perceive and rejoice in the holiness of God in the Kedusha.

What, you may ask, does this have to do with Rosh Hashanah? Rosh Hashanah celebrates the original creation of the world by God – and also the continuous creation that God enacts in partnership with us. As the new year begins, we are called by God to embrace the individual selves God creates us to be, grateful for our ancestors and their faith while courageous in our own journeys, and to use those gifts to bless God, each other, creation, ultimately receiving a blessing ourselves. But we can only do this once we have the courage, like Isaac, to set out on our own journey, called and blessed by God.

May we find the strength to do this in 5781.

Talmud Tractate Eruvin: Eruv in a Time of Pandemic

For the last two and a half weeks, I have been learning Talmudic tractate Eruvin in my daf yomi class. Eruvin is one of the three most difficult tractates in the Gemara. There is less aggadic material than in some, and the halacha is concerned with very complicated discussions about what types of spaces different areas are, their very specific measurements, and how to render them fit for an eruv, a joint agreement among residents to join together with food in common (usually a box a matzah – my suggestion that it be a Dr Pepper-chocolate cake made from matzah meal has so far not found other adherents) so that a common area becomes halachically a private domain in which carrying is permitted on Shabbat and festivals. I don’t pretend to understand it – if I were honest, I would define the karmelis, a semi-private domain that comes up from time to time as “a type of space invented by the rabbis to confuse students by only being mentioned after just enough time has passed that they have completely forgotten about it since the last mention” – I’m reasonably certain that this is not the actual definition. But I’m enjoying it.

In fact, I’m not just enjoying it – I find it to be quite a sacred thing. I bought the book “It’s a Thin Line: Eruv from Talmudic to Modern Culture”, edited by Rabbi Adam Mintz, whose shiur on the topic kicking off this tractate I was privileged to attend (he seemed amused when I held up his book before class to show that I had obtained it). I now subscribe to the Center City Eruv email list and am excited – and oddly comforted - each Friday afternoon when I receive the email saying the Eruv is UP (fortunately that has been the case so far each week since I joined the list). I’m excited and impatient for the Center City Eruv to extend its boundaries southward even though I live inside the current eruv, in Northern Liberties. I look forward eagerly to each evening’s class (mornings on Friday and Sunday, and we’re on our own for Shabbat – I’ve listened to online shiurim or at least read the daf on my own from my Koren Talmud for Shabbat’s daf). I even took a walk through my neighborhood a few days ago and started noticing alleyways and trying to figure out whether or not they would be suitable for an eruv!

What is odd about this is that, not only am I not shomer shabbos – I’m not even Jewish – although I’ve had a long-standing deep interest in Judaism that goes back decades, having majored in Judaic studies in college with a minor in Hebrew and having taken many courses in Judaism in divinity school. (Also, when we write our “What I Did During the Pandemic” essays after this is all over – if it is ever over – mine will be “Worked, slept, ate, took lots of walks, and attended lots and lots of synagogue services and classes on Zoom every day”.) One of the two synagogues I participate in regularly (and have even joined as a non-Jewish member) is more progressive, and I suspect that while most of the members have a serious Shabbat practice, it does not include the practice of only carrying inside an eruv. So it might seem puzzling that I have developed an eruv obsession. I wouldn’t even have been able to hazard a guess, other than placing it inside my general interest in Judaism, before this morning.

What I realized this morning is that, in the absence of being able to enter most buildings set aside for public worship, such as synagogues (although I have recently attended a couple of outdoor masked socially distanced Kabbalat Shabbat services), I’m feeling a loss. I have for a long time had sacred space set apart in my home – but it’s not the same thing as a public sacred space. But the knowledge that there is an eruv, a sacred boundary, even if its primary purpose is to halachically permit certain mundane activities rather than serve as a ritual space, somehow gives me comfort. It feels important to know that I live within this sacred boundary, that it somehow sanctifies, in ways I don’t even necessarily understand, where most of my life has occurred these last five and a half months (has it only been five and a half months?!?!?) and sets it apart as a space sacred to God. This might also explain another obsession I have – whenever the measurements in Eruvin are connected by the rabbis, as they often are, to the Mishkan (Tabernacle in the wilderness) or Mikdash (Temple in Jerusalem), I strain to find some sort of theological connection, sometimes with more success than at others.

Because, improbably enough, for me, at this time, the eruv has become my Mishkan – God’s dwelling-place in my life.

Talmud Tractate Shabbat: Building God's Dwelling-Place on Earth

Thirty-nine categories of labor are prohibited on Shabbat. The rabbis compiled this list from the labors of the Israelites to build the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, in the wilderness as commanded by the Torah. Some are agricultural tasks, associated with making the shewbread; some tasks produce fabric curtains, others leather curtains; there are tasks associated with the construction of the beams, taking down and putting up the tent, and various finishing touches. But what is the significance of these labors being the ones singled out to be set aside on Shabbat?

The command to remember and observe Shabbat also contains within it the command to work for six days so that one can rest on the seventh day – in both Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5, the Torah states “Six days shall you work and do all of your labor (malachah)”. The commandment to observe/remember Shabbat does not make sense unless one spends the six days engaged in this labor. In Exodus, Shabbat is connected to God’s creation and the six days of God’s creation followed by the seventh day when God rested. In Deuteronomy (ironically not Exodus), Shabbat is connected to the exodus from Egypt and redemption from slavery. The rabbis of the Talmud named the 39 categories of labor (malachos) forbidden on Shabbat as the 39 categories of labor that went into building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, God’s dwelling-place with the people.

To tie these threads together into the knot of what we are to do (and tying them together is the malachah of koshair), during the six days of the week we are commanded to do work to build a metaphorical Mishkan, or dwelling-place for God. In doing this, we join with God in creation. The Mishkan was also a place of atonement, where people could be redeemed from sin and guilt, so we join in the work of redemption as well. Any work we do that connects people to God and each other and creates space for God to dwell fulfills the commandment for the work of the six days – anything that does not do that fails to fulfill it. The work we do that furthers peace and justice, the work to care for and help others while recognizing the tzelem Elohim (the image of God) in them, anything that cares for God’s creation – these are the ways we construct the metaphorical dwelling place of God on earth.

One of the labors – which also connects with the next masechta, Eruvin – is hotza’ah and hachnassah – carrying out/in from a private domain to a public domain and vice versa. Are the things we bring from our lives to share with the world things which build up, which enable God’s presence, which connect people with one another, which honors God’s creation – or not? And our homes and our selves are meant to be sanctuaries as well – are we only allowing things from the public domain that contribute to that holiness – or are we allowing things that detract?

Shabbat rest only makes sense in the context of building the dwelling-place of God the other six days. May we do this sacred work Sunday through Friday so that we may truly rest on Shabbat and be renewed.