You can find the rest of the parsha text on Chabad.org at Tetzaveh.
Reb Mimi Feigelson
How Can I Remember What I Can’t Forget?
The Shabbat before Purim is most famous for its name – Shabbat Zachor – the Shabbat of remembering. A month before Nissan we begin to read four additional Torah sections to prepare us for Pesach and all that the festival entails (yes, once Purim is over, Pesach cleaning begins…). Till this day, even though we no longer observe the laws of ritual holiness, we still read the section regarding the red heifer in two weeks time. But this coming Shabbat stands out in its proximity to Purim – Shabbat Zachor will always be the Shabbat prior to Purim.
Tradition teaches us that Haman was an offspring of Amalek, and therefore, we are asked to remember – Zachor – that there is an ongoing force that pursues and challenges us as we journey through life.
As goalposts for this journey I would like to juxtapose a well-known Mishna and our special Torah reading.
The Mishna, in the name of Akavia ben Mehalalel, offers us the following, to prevent us from getting spiritually lost: “Know where you come from and know to where you are going” (Avot/Teachings of the Fathers 3, 1)
Our special Torah reading asks of us: “Zachor / Remember what Amalek did to you on the way… do not forget” (D’varim/Deuteronomy 25: 17 -19).
I hope how you hear this echoing a similar narrative, when in the last verse of parashat Miketz, we are told: “Nevertheless, the chief butler did not remember Yoseph and he forgot him” (Breishit/Genesis 40:23)
Seemingly, we need to say that there is a difference between remembering and not forgetting, for otherwise the Torah would not make a point of reiterating this distinction!
Among the many questions we need to be thinking about are the following:
What is the relationship between “remembering” and “forgetting”?
Is it possible to forget but remember? Remember but forget?
Is the difference in details versus essence?
Is there an active element that is different when facilitating memory versus forgetfulness?
Does one of them impact oneself, while the second one impacts the other?
The Mishna in Avot offers a way to begin to unpack these questions. Could it be that in the parallel between the verses in the Torah and the sequence of the Mishna we are being taught that we come from what we remember and we go to that which we don’t forget!
While there is an active element in both remembering and not forgetting I would like to pose a reading that Zachor / Remember is the legacy that we are born into – where we come from – telling us that we are born with memories, we are born with a story, a history; A story of our family, a different story of our people, and yet another story of the world that we were born into. In Rebbe Nachman of Breslov’s tale “The Seven Beggers” each one of the seven beggars tells us how far back they remember – one remembers when his umbilical cord was cut, the other remembers learning Torah in his mothers’ womb, the third when his body was being formed, the next when the seed was planted within the egg, all the way back till the last remembers before the seed was even created in his fathers’ mind. We come into the world, so it appears, with memories to uncover.
This is the journey of our life – uncovering our stories / our memories, and creating new ones to transmit.
‘Remembering’ is our inheritance. ‘Not forgetting’ is our legacy.
What we actively assure that we don’t forget are the deeds and actions of our life. What is it that we create with the inheritance instilled in us? How do we actualize the gifts that were bestowed? What life choices do we make to uncover all the gifts that we are? This is the tale of our legacy that we are commanded to not forget.
The story of Amalek, the voice of doubt, as our mystics have interpreted the notion of Amalek, is pursuing us as we exit our moments of Mitzrayim / our limitations, inhibitions and contracted consciousness. It is the voice that “asher kar’cha baderech” (D’varim/Deuteronomy 25: 18) – the voice that ‘cools us off’ (karcha derived from kar – cold) – chills our passion, says “no you can’t, no you can’t”. It is the voice that says, ‘everything is a coincidence, thus has no intrinsic value’ (karcha derived from mikreh – coincidence). ‘Amalek’ is the voice that tells us – you may have an inheritance, but you will never succeed in creating a legacy.
Purim is an example of how a legacy is created. It bids us to hold on to a vision of redemption while in exile. It inspires holding on to a belief in a hidden and concealed God. It unfolds as life where so much is unknown. This is the response to the Amalek / Hamman.
Shabbat Zachor foreshadows Purim as our guide to understanding the essence of the day, the seizing of life as it manifests itself. This is also why the Zohar (the mystical Book of Splendor) tells us that Purim is the most holy day of the year, one that surpasses even Yom Kippur. It is a day that reveals not who we aren’t or could’ve been, but rather, who we are becoming and how we manifest in the world.
This Shabbat asks of us to sit in the space of: “Know where you come from and know to where you are going”. Its special Torah reading begins with the word ‘Zachor’ / remember, and concludes with the words ‘Lo Tishkach’ / do not forget. It is an invitation to remember that preparing for leaving our internal Mitzrayim / Egypt begins with remembering where we come from / what we have inherited from our past, and promising not to forget our ability to create where we are going to – the ultimate enactment of our legacy!
Reb Mimi Feigelson is the Mashpiah Ruchanit (Spiritual Mentor) and Lecturer of Rabbinic Literature at the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies at the American Jewish University (formerly the U.J.), Los Angeles. She is an Orthodox – Israeli Rabbi and an international Chassidut teacher and story teller.
( http://www.zieglerpodcasts.com )
Rabbi James Stone Goodman
O holy Shabbes Inspiration Tetzaveh
E half flat F G
Every Shabbat has a maqam, a musical figure, associated with it.
You asked me why Moses our teacher
was not present in the story this week.
He is present, I said, but hidden —
the you in the first line [Ex.27:20]
Now you shall command the children of Israel
then he recedes to where he lives
— the heart of the story
the quiet center.
For all the qualities we could remember him for —
we remember him for humility.
Not for his accomplishments
humility we remember him for.
Moses our teacher is an empty vessel, I said,
plenty of room for God.
He also leaves room for his students
he recedes so creativity happens
there is no place empty of God
the vessel cannot be too empty
but it can be too full.
No room for God in a vessel too full,
So he does not come into the Land, I said,
and he does not preside over the sanctuary –
two activities of expressed leadership.
He presides elsewhere
the spiritual center
none of our story could have happened
We know this, I said,
we know the difference between
what is rooted
and what is derivative
what is source
what is appearance
what is heart
what is bone.
James Stone Goodman
United States of America
From Reb Zalman Legacy Project Shabbat Zachor
The following is a translation from Hebrew of a section from Yishmiru Daat, Reb Zalman’s wonderful Sefer. On Shabbos zachor, the Shabbos before Purim, (this year, March 7), we read about Haman’s ancestor Amalek. Reb Zalman’s piece below gives us a fresh way to understand what the Torah had in mind when it asked us to remember Amalek, one of the six rememberances, (sheish zechiros). Gabbai Seth Fishman, BLOG Editor
“Remember what Amalek did to you — – how he chilled you on the way and brought you down — – and when it comes to pass that you will find your peace and rest in the land to which the Lord your God will take you, you are to erase the memory of Amalek — do not forget!, (Deut 25;17,18,19). ”
Erase the memory of Amalek — that is, make sure that no memory of Amalek will remain with you. Nevertheless, it says right away, “Do not forget.” This looks like a contradiction, (i.e. to remove all memory of Amalek and then, right away the words, “Do not forget.”) It creates a paradox that does not yield to reason in a simple way. This leads us to a SaFeQ / a doubt as to how to fulfill this commandment.
And why is this commandment surrounded by doubt? It’s not by accident. If you check the numerical value of Amalek it equals 240, which is the numerical value of the word SaFeQ / doubt. (ayin 70 + mem 40 + nun 30 + kuf 100 = samech 60 + feh 80 + kuf 100). And what is that deepest doubt that plagues us? It stems from an existential doubt whether to keep on living or to end it all. (On an archetypal level, the deep force that is within and that is aimed to destroy and diminish oneself can be found in the strong reasonings and arguments as set forth by the angel Azael. At a time when the world was still being planned by its Creator, Azael argued that mankind must not be created; that God would stand to lose. Refer also to the discourse on Yom Kippur in Sefer Beit Yaakov (by the Izbitzer). This accusation against mankind is the same as what’s found in the Christian concept, “Original Sin,” the sin of the Tree of Knowledge of good and evil.)
It is true that there are some times in our lives when the whole beautiful fragrance of life takes on the bad odor of rot. It is at such times that it is most urgent to, (Deut 4;10) “Remember the day when you stood before the Lord our God at Mount Sinai.” As we are told in the Talmud, (Shabbos 146a), at Mount Sinai “the bad odor was removed from them,” and, (Ketubot 111b) “the dew of Torah revived them.” (Also, to strengthen oneself through the Holy Name, (Song 1;3) “Your essence is as a precious scent; therefore do the maidens” – (i.e., the worlds – alamot – olamot) “love You.”)
When we find ourselves dealing with the “bad odor”, when we are in a war, in battles, or in the desert, (as, e.g. (Jer, 2;2) “into the Wilderness, into a land that was not sown”), it is very difficult to erase the memory of Amalek. It is at such a time that we begin to challenge our own worth. But while we’re told, (Ps.8;5) “What is a human edition that You would take notice of them,” nevertheless, as it says right afterwards, (ibid, verse 6) “You made him only a touch less than divine,” and (Ps. 34;10.) “one will never” – that means never ever – “experience privation” – not privation in the slightest – “if one opens to God in holy awe.” (Not even the first tzimtzum, the time when the withdrawal of the light of Eyn Sof occurred to create a space devoid of God’s light, not even this cosmic time of apparent darkness and despair was exempt from the principle that the opening to God in holy awe will mean one will never experience privation. Because even at this time, it had already been written that we would one day stand before God at Sinai.)
It is for this reason that the Torah urges us not to fall into despair, but to “Remember what Amalek has done to us,” i.e., that Amalek placed in us an existential doubt when we were leaving Egypt. Having been enslaved by the Egyptians, we began to believe them when they said that we were worthless, that we had no other value, and that we did, in fact, deserve to be slaves. To a degree, we even believed that we deserved to be the “tail of things” and not the “head,” and also, that while Amalek claimed to be (Num 24;20) “principal among nations,” we had no worth at all. And we were tired and exhausted and our fear gave us the self loathing, cutting us off from God.
So, “It will come to pass that when God will have given you respite from all the enemies surrounding you,”– even at a time when people feel safe, they still sometimes forget to heal the past traumas of the heart. But the Torah reminds us, that at precisely this time, when things are going well, we are to remember to eradicate the memory of Amalek, the mantra of our worthlessness, that robs us of our value. Therefore, we must not forget to put in place the better mantra, “we are God’s treasure,” (as in Deut 26;18, “God has bespoken you… and you have bespoken God.”)
From Rabbi Victor Gross
Each Shobbos I await the Divine imperative of the Sedrah. What is the action directive that awaits me that comes forth from Sinai? I prep by study and by today I’m just finished with the words and await the voice or the sound that hopefully will be the result of a mind-heart dialogue.
Well, sometimes one can’t get by the first pasuk of the sedra. That word, “Command” gets me every time. I don’t like being told what to do. I would prefer to think of command in the light of an insight the last Lubavitcher Rebbe makes when he connects tetzaveh-command to the word tzava-connection. My essence should command to be connected to the people.
Rabbi Asher Horowitz taught that tezaveh is an acronym of “tza’aks hadal takshiv,v’toshe’ah” ” the painful cry of the poor will be heard and they will be helped.’
There is so much impoverishment today: the struggle to stay in a house, the loss of retirement, jobs, the loss of health care benefits etc. etc. etc.
So, let’s all hear the cry of impoverishment- spiritual and material and know that the Divine imperative is telling us not to wait for God to provide or the government but our own loving heart should respond and offer help.
From Rabbi Avraham Arieh Trugman
Weekly Torah Portion
During the first Temple times the service in the Temple as performed by the Priests and the Levites was done in the name of the entire community of Israel. Only later after the destruction of the first Temple and the Babylonian exile did the Men of the Great Assembly begin to formulate prayers, blessings and rituals for individuals and smaller communities to, at first, augment the service of the Priests and Levites in the second Temple, and then to replace them altogether with the destruction of the second Temple.
As a result of the destruction of the second Temple the Sages totally transformed the basic service of the Temple and its spiritual underpinnings into the synagogue service of today (see the previous Torah portion of Teruma for a more in depth explanation of exactly how that was accomplished.)
The practical implications for all of Israel was that instead of one service being performed in the Temple, now each individual and community would perform that very same service, albeit in a different, but spiritually similar form. Each person was now the Priest performing the entire service and in a sense carry the responsibility on his shoulders for continuing the tradition.
A beautiful allusion to how the High Priest carried the responsibility of all of Israel on his shoulders is found in this week’s Torah portion in relation to the clothing of the High Priest. All the priests wore four basic garments during their service in the Temple, while the high Priest had an additional four garments.
Two of those garments were a Breastplate of Judgment placed on an apron like garment. Set into the breastplate were twelve precious stones, placed in rows of three, four rows in all. Two golden chains attached the breastplate to the apron, upon which two additional stones were placed on the shoulders. Upon each of the twelve stones on the breastplate were engraved the name of one of the tribes, while on each of the two shoulder stones were engraved six of the tribes.
Symbolically the High Priest did the service with the names of the tribes close to his heart and upon his shoulders in order to teach him the importance of his service for all of Israel, as well as the responsibility he bore for each and every Jew. It is this lesson we need to understand when we pray each day.
In addition to tefellin, phylacteries, which are placed on our heads and our arms to remind us to channel our intellectual and emotional energies to positive and Godly purposes, we should also remember to wear on our hearts and our shoulders the sense of responsibility we have to be partners with God in caring for every Jew and every human being.
A beautiful connection to the above teaching of the symbolism of these two clothings of the High Priest is found in the Shema, the cardinal declaration of faith of a Jew: “Listen [understand] Israel, the Lord our God the Lord is One.” This statement is followed by: ”Blessed is the Name of His glorious kingdom for all eternity.”
The verse of the Shema contains six words and twenty five letters, while the second verse contains six words and twenty four letters. This mathematical construct mirrors exactly the amount of words and letters on each of the shoulder stones – on one stone there were six names of the tribes and twenty five letters and on the other stone there were six tribes and twenty four letters!!
What follows from this is a beautiful intention for saying the daily Shema. When we say “Listen Israel,” we can imagine that just as the high Priest carried all of Israel on his heart and shoulders, so too we have this very same privilege and responsibility. The Arizal, the master Kabbalaist of Safed in the 16th century, would proclaim each day before his prayers that he was taking upon himself the mitzvah of loving each and every Jew. His prayer then became dedicated to all of Israel, as was the service of the high Priest in the Temple.
This concept instills in us the importance of not only our prayers, but our basic purpose in life – to be partners with God in the rectification of the world. This is an awesome responsibility, but it is the mission of the Jewish people as individuals and as a nation to do just that. May God bless us with strength and inspiration to fulfill this holy task.
From Rabbi Lawrence Kushner
Five Cities of Refuge
Why can’t they just use high-grade virgin olive oil? What’s the big deal with grinding and beating the olives? It’s because you just can’t get the real clear and pure stuff until they pound the hell out of it (or you).
We have a classic rabbinic teaching drawn from Psalm 51:19: “The offering to God is a contrite spirit…” The rabbis teach that the ultimate sacrifice is our smug expectation that we can do it alone, that we are in control of our own destiny. Suffering reminds us that we are not and, in so doing, purifies us. The teaching is not asceticism, nor offered as apologia or theodicy for the “thousand natural shocks flesh is heir to,” but as a statement about the human condition. Anguish is simply a necessary precondition for the purification of the fuel (read: consciousness) required for the Tabernacle. To be sure, it is of little comfort to the bereaved and the price is never worth it. But the learning is sacred. Indeed, we are only broken if we refuse to teach others what we have learned, if we refuse to share the intense purity of the light in which we now behold life. The fuel for this light is purified by whatever is the opposite of arrogance.
From Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
Vestments of Beauty 2008
Parashat Tetzaveh floods us with instructions for making sacral vestments for Aaron and his sons: breastpiece, ephod, robe, fringed tunic, headdress, and sash.
Every year I’m amazed by the richness of the sartorial detail. Fine linen. Gold, blue, purple, and crimson yarn. In those days these materials were precious. Even the colors feel significant: the rich sparkle of gold, tkhelet blue like the sky, purple suggesting royalty, crimson like the visible life-force that flows through our veins.
These garments, Torah tells us, should be made by those in whom God has placed hokhmah, wisdom or skill. Hokhmah is an important word. Joseph, who can interpret dreams, is described as having hokhmah; so is Bezalel, chief builder of the mishkan, who can shape reality with the work of his hands. Hokhmah has something to do with making visions manifest. That’s the quality Torah calls for in those who make these holy garments for Aaron and his sons.
The vestments matter because they’re a sign of service. Aaron and his sons will dedicate their lives to serving God; in return, their community enfolds them in these beautiful garments, made to reflect their innate kavod, honor, and tif’aret, beauty.
Today there are no priests, and no temple in which to serve. Instead each of us serves God in the temple of our own hearts, offering words and intentions instead of bulls and sheep. What would it mean to dress ourselves in garments like these?
The Chernobyler rebbe taught that our bodies are themselves garments for the spark of godliness that animates each of us. Deep down, can we know ourselves to be cut from the same cloth as the blue of the sky, the purple of twilight, the liquid gold of setting sun? How can we bring all the glory, all the splendor, all the honor of our being into living in a way that keeps us mindful of our Source?
I want to single out one other piece of High Priestly garb: the jeweled breastplate bearing the names of all the tribes of Israel. Names remind us of the people they represent. Imagine wearing the names of everyone in your family on your chest: the ones you love, the ones who maybe drive you a little crazy, siblings and distant cousins alike. Imagine carrying those names with you on every journey inward into prayer. What would that feel like?
None of us can know what it was like to be a priest in the Temple, to be tasked with making offerings on behalf of the community as Aaron and his sons did. But this week’s Torah portion gives us a chance to enfold ourselves in garments of our imaginations, so that we might know ourselves to be holy, and beautiful, and able to effect change; so those qualities will infuse our lives in everything that we do.
From Rav Kook
Tetzaveh: Beyond the Holy
One Line or Two?
One of the most impressive of the special vestments worn by the High Priest was the tzitz, a pure gold plate placed across the forehead. Engraved on the tzitz was the phrase, “Holy to God”.
According to Talmudic tradition, these words were split into two lines. God’s name appeared on the top line, and underneath was written “Holy to”. In contradiction to this tradition, however, Rabbi Eliezer testified that he had seen the tzitz among the plundered Temple articles in Rome — and the engraving was made on a single line (Shabbat 63b).
Why should the phrase “Holy to God” be split into two lines? And if that was the way the inscription was supposed to be engraved, why did the actual tzitz used in the Temple bear the entire phrase on one line?
The Realm of “Kodesh Kodashim”
We are accustomed to viewing the world as being divided into two realms: kodesh and chol, the holy and the profane. We are deeply aware of this dichotomy, and the friction between them, in all levels of existence: in our actions, feelings, thoughts, areas of study, and so on. The conflict between sacred and secular exists both in our private lives and in the public sphere.
There is, however, a third realm, even higher than kodesh. This is the level of “kodesh kodashim”, the ‘holy of holies’. This is the very source of holiness, and it is based on both kodesh and “chol”. While the realms of kodesh and chol appear to us as competing and contradictory, in fact, each one complements and supports the other. The holy gives meaning to the profane. Without it, the world of chol is lost, without direction or purpose. And the profane gives strength and substance to the holy. Without it, the kodesh has nothing to refine and elevate.
The lofty realm of “kodesh kodashim” is attained by the complementary interactions of kodesh and chol. This level reveals the common source of elevated holiness that resides in both “kodesh” and chol. In fact, “kodesh kodashim” is so much higher than the other two realms, that, when viewed from such heights, the differences between the holy and the profane disappear.
The Oral tradition states that God’s name was engraved on a separate line above the words, “Holy to”. In other words, God’s name belongs to the exalted world of “kodesh kodashim”. Since it reflects a vision far beyond the apparent contradictions of holy and profane, it could not be written on the same line as “Holy to”.
Distinguishing Between Kodesh and Chol
This elevated outlook is, however, only theoretical. In our world, it is crucial that we distinguish between kodesh and chol. Humanity’s moral development depends on havdalah, a clear awareness and distinction between what is sacred and what is not.
Furthermore, if we do not separate these two areas, and ensure that each one maintains its independence, both kodesh and chol will suffer. Lack of clear boundaries between them greatly hinders human advance. For example, academic analysis and dissection of Torah subjects leaves them lifeless and dismembered. Religious authority over secular areas of study, on the other hand, can obstruct scientific progress (think of Galileo’s struggles with the Church). Therefore, in practice it was necessary to lower God’s name on the “tzitz” to share the same level as “Holy to”. In this way, the holy is set apart from the profane.
Still, the potential to perceive the inner unity of kodesh and chol was — at least theoretically — engraved on the High Priest’s forehead-plate, raising his thoughts to the unified reality of “kodesh kodashim”, where God’s name is inscribed above and beyond the kodesh.
(adapted from Ein Eyah vol. IV, p. 114; Ma’amerei HaRe’iyah pp. 400-407)
Copyright © 2006 by Chanan Morrison
From Rabbi Shefa Gold
~ Rabbi Shefa Gold’s Torah Journeys ~
(You Shall Command)
Exodus 27:20 – 30:10
Tetzaveh describes the inside of the Mishkan, the implements and clothing of the Priests, and finally, the ceremony of Priestly consecration.
WHEN I WAS A CHILD ATTENDING SYNAGOGUE I was fascinated by the ner tamid, the “Eternal Light,” that hung above the ark. No matter if I was bored or sad or confused, the ner tamid filled me with hopefulness and curiosity. Everything changes; everyone dies; yet here was a light that would shine on regardless of circumstances. No matter what storms of doubt I suffered, this small light was constant. Through winds of change, through the tumultuous rains of my shifting experience, the ner tamid did not falter or flicker. I took refuge in this light and found it within me. Tetzaveh begins by blessing us with the light of eternity. We learn that this light, which is consciousness itself, requires our daily attention.
As Tetzaveh goes on to describe the vestments of the priests – the ephod, breastplate, robes and crown – we see that all the same colors and materials that went into building the Mishkan now adorn our bodies. Each of us is clothed in the garments of the Holy Indwelling, reminding us again that God has made Her home within us. We are blessed with wisdom of the heart, and from that wisdom fl ows forms of expression and creativity that radiate beauty and honor.
TETZAVEH DESCRIBES THE CEREMONY OF CONSECRATION, as we become priest and priestess in service to Shekhina, the Indwelling Presence of the Divine in our lives. In honor of our devotion to this sacred work we wear fine linens of luminous gold, shining blue, royal purple and passionate scarlet, and precious jewels engraved with the sacred names of our beloveds. Blue pomegranates and golden bells adorn the hem of our robes, and every detail is meant to remind us that this beauty has a purpose.
Across our foreheads each of us carries an inscription that hangs down from the crown of our priesthood. It says, “Kadosh Le-YudHayVovHay” (Holy for God) who is, was and will be the Ground of Being. When we get distracted or confused, it is possible to look at the forehead of a friend and see their lives inscribed for Holiness and remember what we too are working for, and why we are alive.
THE SPIRITUAL CHALLENGE
TEZTAVEH OFFERS US the spiritual challenge of consecration to the priesthood. We are called to be a “nation of priests,” and a “light unto the nations,” and are given the opportunity to take that priesthood upon ourselves consciously and dedicate our lives to serving the One, the Whole, the Holy.
Within that challenge, the first requirement is a daily practice of tending the ner tamid, the light of consciousness. This is the steady practice of awareness that underlies all other practice. Slowly, I begin to identify not with the self that is continually changing, but with the one who is paying attention to all these changes. When the flame of awareness is burning steadily within me, it illuminates the act of perception, rather than just the object being perceived. At this point, I can begin to discern the lenses through which my perception becomes distorted; I can realize when a passing mind-state has colored my reality.
THE CHALLENGE LIES IN GLIMPSING the pure light of consciousness and seeing that light refracted into the ten thousand colors of our subjective experience. That experience of reality and its drama of mortality is so interesting, so compelling, so seductive that it blinds us to the light of the eternal shining through it all. It is only through the dailiness of practice – the repeated touch of the eternal, the persistent effort of the heart, the frequent affirmations of a wider expanse – that we can begin to free ourselves from the trance of our particular drama and enter into the holiness of conscious presence that crowns this world.
AS PRIESTS AND ARTISTS OF THE HOLY, we are commanded to honor that holiness by awakening the wisdom of the heart. The wisdom of the heart manifests in our love of beauty, because the function of the beautiful is so central to the life of holiness. Beauty has the power to send us to the Source. That same beauty can also trap us at the surface if we are not conscious of its power and purpose. We can consciously use the elements of this world (color, texture, fragrance, sound, light, movement) to open the doors to all the worlds.
The danger lies in falling in love with the forms themselves, worshiping the words, the ritual, the idea, the artistry, rather than what all those forms are pointing us towards. Our spiritual challenge is to adorn and surround ourselves with a beauty that will inspire us to see the whole world as a mirror for God’s Holiness.
For Guidelines For Practice please click link to website.
From Donna Maimes
Shall command the children of Israel, that they bring to you pure olive oil crushed for the light,to raise an everlasting flame.
I have a tendency to get engaged with the beginning…fixate on that…in this case the oil. To extract the oil, i.e. the essence, takes extraordinary pressure and care. If we look at the contemporary process, the gathering is aggressive utilizing machines that shake the trees causing the olives to drop to the ground. The olives are then taken to a mill where they are first ground and then crushed under great pressure forcing the mash to release the liquids (oil and water), next filtered to remove sediment and finally the olive oil is separated from the water that is produced during the process. One of the things that I find most amazing about the olive is that is contains two factors, oil and water, that are virtually impossible to emulsify.
I recall learning this parsha years ago and a long conversation about the nature of the creation of the oil, and, ultimately, the properties of the oil and the parallels that between the oil and b’nai Israel. In the beginning the oil is invisible, captured by the fruit, must be extracted and ultimately separated. Ultimately, the oil is the other, no matter how aggressively your attempt to blend the oil with water or other elements, it ultimately “escapes” and floats to the top. Not only does oil also has the ability to float on water, but to also burn while in and on the water….isn’t this ultimately our goal as Jews to keep burning and bringing some sort of light and illumination even while spread across the world. When submerged and blended to, to remain true and separate and to keep burning and creating some sort of light in the world?
From Melissa Carpenter
The Sound of Ringing
A gold bell and a pomegranate, a gold bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the tunic, all around. And it must be on Aharon (for him) to wait on (God) , and its sound will be heard when he comes into to the sacred space before God and when he goes out, and then he will not die. (Exodus 28:34-35; Tetzavveh)
pa-amon = a bell, something that strikes
The high priest’s costume, as prescribed in this week’s Torah portion, Tetzavveh, is elaborate, splendid, and magical, from the golden forehead-piece engraved with the words meaning “Holy for God”, all the way down to the hem of the long turquoise tunic, on which are sewn alternating bells of gold and pomegranates of blue, purple, and red wool. The mere sight of the high priest in this magnificent garb would inspire the community with the proper awe and reverence. And wearing these unique objects would remind the high priest that he is dedicated to continuous service of God, and must act accordingly.
But not just any set of grand clothes and accessories will do. Each item prescribed for the high priest can have other meanings and functions. When I reread the Torah portion this week, I was fascinated by the bells, the only item that is intended to be heard as well as seen.
Why are bells required on Aaron’s hem? The Torah says only that their sound must be heard when he goes in and out of the sacred space. It does not specify who must hear the ringing.
One theory is that the other priests must hear, so they will know when the high priest is in the sanctuary, and they can leave him in privacy until he comes out again. According to Rabbi Elie Munk, the high priest needed to be alone in this area to serve God properly.
According to Rabbi S.R. Hirsch, the whole community needed to hear the high priest approaching and departing from God’s presence, so they would be heartened and reassured to know he was once again acting on their behalf.
Another theory is that God must hear the bells ring. The verse in the Torah implies that the ringing somehow protects the high priest from death in the presence of God. Devotees of other religions rang bells in order to ward off unfriendly spirits, so the ancient Israelites might have associated bells with magical protection against dangerous gods. If one reads the Torah literally, God comes across as an anthropomorphic character who is easily angered and inflicts deadly plagues on thousands without a second thought. Yet this God is the one who tells Moses how the high priest’s gear must be made, including the detail about the bells around the hem. Maybe the sound of bells is intended to remind God that whatever personal shortcomings the high priest has, his life is nevertheless important to the community.
Rashi said that the high priest would die if he entered the Sanctuary without wearing every one of the holy items specified, including the bells. Serving God is serious business, and the priests had to follow all the rules; any lapse was punishable by death.
But I think the verse does not threaten death for omitting any one of a long list of required items. I think the death threat specifies that the sound of the bells around the high priest’s hem must be heard, or else.
This means that merely wearing a tunic with bells sewn around the bottom is not enough. After all, the bells will chime only when the high priest is walking. The word for bell,
pa-amon, comes from the same root as the word pa-am, which means knocking, beating, striking, or striding. If the high priest stands still, the bells will not be heard. If he tiptoes carefully in and out of the sanctuary, the sound will be too faint to hear. He has to stride in and out for the ringing to be heard.
Perhaps the instruction about the sound of the bells means that in order to do the highest service to God, one must not be timid. One must enter the sacred space of prayer, or any other spiritual practice, boldly and openly. Let the sound of your practice be heard. Make your service to the divine a part of your regular life, so that you can stride right in. Otherwise, your impulse to reach toward God will fade and die.
From Rav Kook
Tetzaveh: The High Priest’s Clothes and the Convert
The Talmud (Shabbat 31a) tells the story of three Gentiles who wished to convert. In each case, they were initially rejected by the scholar Shamai, known for his strictness, but they were later accepted and converted by the famously modest Hillel.
The Convert Who Wanted to be High Priest
In one case, a Gentile was walking near a synagogue when he heard the Torah being read and translated:
“These are the clothes that you should make: the jeweled breast-plate, the ephod-apron…” (Ex. 28:4).
His interest was piqued. “For whom are these fancy clothes?” he asked. “They are special garments for the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest.” The Gentile was excited. “For this, it is worth becoming a Jew. I’ll go convert and become the next High Priest!”
The Gentile made the mistake of approaching Shamai. “I want you to convert me,” he told Shamai, “but only on condition that you appoint me High Priest.” Shamai rebuffed the man, pushing him away with a builder’s measuring rod.
Then he went to Hillel with the same proposition. Amazingly, Hillel agreed to convert him. Hillel, however, gave the man some advice. ‘If you wanted to be king, you would need to learn the ways and customs of the royal court. Since you aspire to be the High Priest, go study the appropriate laws.’
So the new convert began studying Torah. One day, he came across the verse, “Any non-priest who participates [in the holy service] shall die” (Num. 3:10). “To whom does this refer?” he asked. Even King David, he was told. Even David, king of Israel, was not allowed to serve in the holy Temple, as he was not a descendant of Aaron the kohen.
The convert was amazed. Even those born Jewish, and who are referred to as God’s children, are not allowed to serve in the Temple! Certainly, a convert who has just arrived with his staff and pack may not perform this holy service. Recognizing his mistake, he returned to Hillel, saying, “May blessings fall on your head, humble Hillel, for drawing me under the wings of the Divine Presence.”
Shamai’s Rejection and Hillel’s Perspective
A fascinating story, but one that requires to be examined. Why did Shamai use a builder’s measuring rod to send away the potential convert? What did Hillel see in the Gentile that convinced him to perform the conversion?
Shamai felt that the man lacked a sincere motivation to convert. By chance, he had overheard the recitation of the High Priest’s special garments. The garments, beautiful though they may be, represent only an external honor. His aspirations were shallow and superficial, like clothing that is worn on the surface.
Furthermore, the chance incident did not even awaken within the Gentile a realistic goal. How could conversion to Judaism, with all of the Torah’s obligations, be based on such a crazy, impossible fancy – being appointed High Priest? The foundations of such a conversion were just too shaky. Shamai pushed him away with a builder’s measuring rod, indicating that he needed to base his goals on solid, measured objectives.
Hillel, however, looked at the situation differently. In his eyes, the very fact that this man passed by the synagogue just when this verse was being read, and that this incident should inspire him to such a lofty goal – converting to Judaism – this person must have a sincere yearning for truth planted deeply in his heart. He was not seeking the honor accorded to the rich and powerful, but rather the respect granted to those who serve God at the highest level. The seed of genuine love of God was there, just obscured by false ambitions, the result of profound ignorance. Hillel was confident that as he advanced in Torah study, the convert would discover the beauty and honor of divine service that he so desired through the sincere observance of the Torah’s laws, even without being the High Priest.
Both Traits Needed
Once, the three converts who were initially rejected by Shamai and later accepted by Hillel, met together. They all agreed: “The strictness of Shamai almost made us lose our [spiritual] world; but the humility of Hillel brought us under the wings of God’s Presence.”
Rav Kook noted that the converts did not talk about Shamai and Hillel. Rather, they spoke of the “strictness of Shamai” and the “humility of Hillel.” These are two distinct character traits, each one necessary in certain situations. In order to maintain spiritual attainments, we need the traits of firmness and strictness. On the other hand, in order to grow spiritually, or to draw close those who are far away, we need the traits of humility and tolerance. The three converts recognized that it was Hillel’s quality of humility that helped bring them “under the wings of God’s Presence.”
(Gold from the Land of Israel, pp. 152-154. Adapted from Ein Eyah vol. III, pp. 144-147.)
From Melissa Carpenter
Tetzavveh: Holy Flower
You will make a flower of pure gold, and you will engrave on it a relief carving like a seal: Holy to God. You will place it upon a cord of sky-blue and it will be upon the turban; in front of the face of the turban it will be. (Exodus/Shemot 28:36-7)
tzitz = a flower, blossoms, buds; a sprouting, a visible protrusion, a glint; a “plate” tied to the high priest’s turban.
Last week’s instructions for making the menorah (lamp-stand) for the inner sanctum included ornamentation with almond flowers shaped out of gold. This week’s Torah portion, Tetzavveh (“you will command”), gives instructions for the elaborate garments of the priests. The high priest wears several unique items, including a tzitz tied to the front of his turban.
The noun tzitz and its plural, tzitzim, appear only 12 times in the entire Hebrew Bible. The first three times, tzitz refers to whatever is on the front of the high priest Aaron’s turban (Exodus 28:36 and 39:30, Leviticus 8:9). The next appearance of tzitz probably means “blossoms”, though theoretically I suppose Aaron’s staff could magically bloom with a plate:
On the next day, Moses came into the Tent of the Covenant, and behold, the staff of Aaron of the house of Levi had sprouted; and it produced sprouts, and it blossomed “tzitz”, and it bore almonds. (Numbers/Bamidbar 17:23)
After that, tzitz clearly refers to buds or flowers. The four appearances of the plural, tzitzim, in the description of the temple King Solomon built (1 Kings 6:18, 29, 32, 35) all refer to ornamental motifs carved into wood. Some interior walls have wood-carvings of gourd-shapes and bud-cases of “tzitzim”, while other wood-encased walls and two pairs of doors have wood-carvings of cherubim and palm-tree ornaments and bud-cases of “tzitztim”.
And when the word tzitz appears in the poetry of prophets, it means “flowers”. For example:
All flesh is grass
and all its loyalty is like “tzitz” of the field …
Grass withers, “tzitz” fall
but the word of our God lives forever.
Isaiah/Yeshayahu 40:6, 8)
So why do many translations call the tzitz on the high priest’s forehead a “plate”? Probably because of the way Flavius Josephus (a first-century Jewish historian who settled in Rome and wrote in Greek) described the high priest’s turban he saw after the sack of the Second Temple of Jerusalem in 70 C.E. Josephus wrote that the turban was encircled with a gold crown that resembled a poppy flower, except that over the forehead there was a “golden plate” inscribed with the name of God.
Whatever the headdress from the Second Temple looked like, the instructions God gives Moses in Exodus, in this week’s Torah portion, seem to call for a gold medallion shaped like a flower. The words “Holy to God” (using the most sacred four-letter name of God—see my blog from October, “Lech Lecha: Names of God” ) are to be carved in relief on the gold flower, like the symbol of identity carved on a seal or signet ring.
This is a powerful symbol. Medieval commentary viewed the tzitz as a constant atonement for the unavoidable impurity of animal sacrifices to God, but I believe it means more than that. It reminds the high priest wearing it, and everyone who sees him, and perhaps even God (c.f. 20th-century rabbi Elie Munk), that the purpose of the Israelite people is to be “holy”, i.e. to set themselves apart for God, to dedicate themselves to God.
This dedication must be their core identity; thus the words are carved into the gold flower-medallion the way an identity seal is carved. And gold, in the Torah, is the most precious metal, reserved for the most sacred items in the sanctuary.
A flower is both a beautiful creation delighting our eyes, and the source of seeds for new life. And the word for “God” engraved on the gold flower is the four-letter name of God, a permutation of the verb “to be” or “to become”.
So the shape of a flower and the letters of God’s name both signify becoming. We bring flowers for the dead not only to honor them with beauty, but to open our own hearts to the hope for new life. Flowers fall, as Isaiah says; but the spirit of God goes on creating, and plants that blossom go on to bear fruit.
May we all walk through life as if we wear an invisible tzitz, and dedicate ourselves to life despite death, to change rather than stagnation, to growth instead of destruction. May we all do the holy work of consciously becoming and creating.
From Rabbi Avram Davis
From Rabbi Laura Duhan Kaplan
This is part of Rabbi Laura’s Animal Torah Series.
Wool to Worm: Weaving Spiritual Community
From Rav DovBer Pinson
Week’s Energy for Parshas Tetzavah
Garments of Honor and Beauty
Following the instruction to build the Sanctuary, Moshe/Moses is now told to instruct the Kohanim, the Priests, and his brother Aaron, the high priest who all served in the sanctuary, to properly attire themselves.
The Torah reading begins with the words “And you (Moshe) shall command the children of Israel… And bring near to yourself your brother Aaron, and his sons with him… You shall make holy garments for your brother Aaron, for honor and beauty. (27:20-21. 28:1-2)
Garments, at their most basic, are a utilitarian object – covering nakedness, providing warmth and protecting oneself, internally protecting from shame, and externally, protecting from the elements.
Besides the utilitarian objective of garments, there are also other forms of garments. There are higher garments that indicate position, such as a uniform, which reflect what a person does, and there are garments that we don upon ourselves on special occasions in celebration, such as a wedding gown.
At their highest state, garments can be an expression of one’s innermost self. These are garments of “honor and beauty”, reflecting the truth of its wearer, and worn in self honor. Such were the garments of the priests and the high priests of the temple.
There are also ‘garments’ that are not physical clothing, rather expressions of our inner self, such as thought, speech or deed. While thought is still inner and not revealed, it is already an expression of self. Speech is also still attached to the person, yet reaching outward to express the innermost self of the speaker. And of course, the actions of a person serve as a physical expression or manifestation of themselves as well.
While garments, both material and as expressions of self, often serve as a form of concealment, when worn as a means of self expression, they can be truly revealing and offer a glimpse into a person’s innermost psyche.
A Hebrew word for garment is ‘Beged’, which can be read as ‘Bagad’ – treason or betrayal, and another term for clothing is ‘Levush’ – which can be reversed to spell ‘shvil’ – a passageway. Garments can serve to conceal or to reveal.
The Energy of the Week:Garments of Honor and BeautyThis week’s Torah reading imbues us with the energy of ‘honor and beauty’ garments. The ability to express ourselves through our dress, speech and mannerisms, in a way that is true to our inner self.
Garments are our interface with reality.
When our “garments”, our interface, reflect self-honor and express our inner beauty, then they are no longer “deceitful” garments, rather, they reveal what is occurring within us on a deeper level and allow us to connect to others on a more profound level as well.
This week we are given the energy to properly align our expressions with our truest self.
When we dress in a way that reflects our truth, and speak or behave in an aligned manner – we are able to express ourselves properly and form true and honest relationships.
Tetzaveh: The High Priest’s Golden Crown
Perhaps most striking of the special garments of the Kohen Gadol (High Priest) was the Tzitz. This was a gold plate worn over the forehead, engraved with the words, “Holy to God.” What was the significance of this priestly crown?
Rav Kook wrote that the Tzitz, fashioned out of pure gold, reflected the highest spiritual riches. The crown’s placement on the forehead — the location of the ratzon, our inner will for good and holiness — symbolized the Kohen’s aspirations for the most elevated good, as revealed within his inner soul.
The Talmud teaches that the Tzitz encircled the forehead from one ear to the other. What do the ears have to do with the Tzitz?
Two Types of Listening
The ear is, of course, an organ to hear and listen. One ear is directed above — a receptivity to the shining light of elevated thought. The Tzitz extended from the ear to the forehead, indicating that it transmitted this receptivity to his inner will. In short, it symbolized the Kohen’s aspirations to actualize the highest goals, implementing them in life, traits and deeds.
The other ear is for a different type of listening — an awareness of the physical world below. This sensitivity allowed the physical world to acquire a new inner content, a content which cannot be attained in the spiritual realm alone. Here the spiritual is enriched by insight into the material world, its actions and emotions.
The Tzitz thus connected both types of listening — elevated thoughts from above, as well as understanding the physical world below. It provided a channel that linked these two realms, uniting a world with all of its disparate parts.
In this way, the Kohen Gadol became whole and integrated, aware how the physical can extend and enrich the spiritual realm. He could then serve as a unifying force for the people, who share this yearning for complete unity.
This ability corresponds to the essence of the mission of the kohanim. They are a conduit, connecting the Jewish people to God, and God to the Jewish people. The Talmud describes them as sheluchei dedan — our representatives, as they bring Israel’s offerings to God. Yet they are also sheluchei deRachamana — God’s emissaries, bringing God’s blessings and Torah to Israel.
The placement of the Tzitz, encompassing both ears, indicated that the Kohen Gadol was not troubled by a disconnect between his spiritual and physical sides. A conduit between man and God, he needed to be attuned to the spiritual, while still in touch with the material world.
(Adapted from Ein Eyah vol. IV, Shabbat 6:72, p. 113)
Copyright © 2006 by Chanan Morrison
Tetzavveh: Divining the Divine 2012
What should I do?
Usually human beings carry on with their habitual behavior, but sometimes we have to make a deliberate decision. And we do not know whether a particular choice will lead to good or evil, to happiness or disaster. If only we knew ahead of time! The longing for foreknowledge has been with us for millennia. Each culture has had its own methods of divination, of gaining knowledge that is normally outside the human realm, in the realm of the divine. And each culture has dealt with the desire for divination in a different way.
Some parts of the Torah appear to forbid using any kind of divination, along with any other kind of magic. For example:
No one must be found among you who sacrifices his son or his daughter in the fire, or who reads omens, a cloud-conjurer or a diviner, or a sorcerer; or a charm-binder, or a medium who consults ghosts or a medium who possesses a familiar spirit, or who questions the dead. For anyone who does these is an abomination of God, and on account of these abominations, God, your god, is dispossessing them before you. You shall be whole with God, your god. (Deuteronomy/Devarim 18:10-13)
In this case, Moses is banning all the divination practices of the people surrounding the Israelites. In other places, the Torah approves of a few practices for getting a bit of divine knowledge. The two most common ways that God shares foreknowledge with humans is through dreams, and through communication with prophets. Occasionally a person can take the initiative by casting lots, or by consulting a mysterious object or pair of objects worn by the high priest: the urim and tummim hidden within the high priest’s breast-pouch.
These items are first introduced in this week’s Torah portion, Tetzavveh (You shall command), in which God tells Moses everything the high priest shall wear. Over his sky-blue robe, the priest must wear an eifod, a kind of tabard with shoulder-straps and sewn-in ties at the waist. A chosen, a square pouch, will hang from the shoulder-straps of the eifod, secured on the high priest’s breast. This breast-pouch will be folded at the bottom, and twelve gems will be set into the front. Each gem will be engraved with the name of one of the tribes of Israel.
And into the Breast-pouch of the Law you will place the urim and the tummim; and they will be over the heart of Aaron when he comes before God, and Aaron will carry the law of the children of Israel over his heart before God constantly. (Exodus/Shemot 28:30)
urim = firelight
tummim = wholeness, flawlessness, completion
Obviously a high priest could not carry firelight and wholeness in a pouch on his chest; the names of the actual items are symbolic. But what do they mean? Throughout the book of Isaiah, urim means “fires” or “firelight”, not an object worn by a high priest. In Ezekiel, ur is a destroying fire. Everywhere else in the Hebrew Bible, the word urim refers to the item worn by the high priest. Traditional commentary says the word urim means light, illumination, clarity, because it has the same root letters as the word or = light. Some modern language scholars speculate that urim is a misspelling of arrim = curses, so urim and tummim are “cursed and blameless”—in other words, one means bad and the other means good.
The Torah never says what the Urim and Tummim looked like, or what material they were made out of. The books of Exodus/Shemot and Leviticus/Vayikra merely mention their existence and their location inside the breast-pouch. In the book of Numbers/Bemidbar, we get our first clue that their purpose is oracular. God tells Moses that when Joshua succeeds him as the leader of the Israelites, Joshua (who cannot hear God directly) should ask the high priest for divination when he needs to decide whether to go out to battle:
He shall stand before Eleazar the priest, and ask him for the ruling of the Urim before God. (Numbers 27:21)
The Torah does not say how the high priest will do this. And the book of Joshua never refers to the Urim or Tummim. The only time the Torah says someone actually consults them is in the first book of Samuel:
And Saul inquired of God, but God did not answer him, either with dreams or with urim or with prophets. (1 Samuel 28:6)
Rashi (11th-century rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki) suggested that the two words urim and tummim were written on a single piece of parchment, and the high priest would look down through the open top of his breast-pouch to see which word was facing up. In the Talmud tractate Yoma 73b, the rabbis seem to use the phrase “Urim and Tummim” interchangeably with the phrase “Breast-pouch of the Law”. Some speculate that the names of the twelve tribes were inscribed on the Urim and Tummim, and the letters lit up or moved around to create an oracular message. Others say the Urim and Tummim caused the stones on the front of the breast-pouch to light up, and the message could be deciphered from the pattern of flashing lights. The important thing was that both the person with the question and the high priest had to direct their minds toward God.
When the Torah first introduces the Urim and Tummim, in this week’s Torah portion, it says “they will be over the heart of Aaron when he comes before God”—like the gems representing twelve tribes of Israel. Maybe the primary purpose of the Urim and Tummim is not to enable divination, but to keep light and wholeness in the high priest’s awareness whenever he approaches God.
Even today, people who want to make the right decision resort to dubious divination methods. Instead of reading omens in entrails or conjuring clouds, they flip a coin, or buy something from a New Age shop, or consult a medium who channels the spirit of a dead person. It is hard to accept that we cannot have foreknowledge, only good guesses.
Yet we can answer the question “What should I do?” without knowing the outcome of our choice. And when our intuitions are not clear, we can use approaches similar to the kind of “divination” the Torah approves of. Dreams still help by connecting us with hidden parts of ourselves that are connected with the divine. And we can improve our conscious thought by keeping certain ideas in our awareness, carrying them upon our hearts like high priests. We can consciously stay in touch with urim, the light shed by the fire of our passions; tummim, the continual effort to complete ourselves and become whole; and on the outside, the gemstones of our own tribes, our own families, friends, and communities.
From Rabbi David Ingber
Dressing for Me: Going Beyond Yom Kippur
Tetzaveh: Raising a Constant Flame
Not just any oil was suitable for use in the Temple Menorah. The Torah stipulates that the oil be particularly refined, made from hand-crushed olives, so that it will “raise up a constant flame” (Ex. 27:20).
Why does the Torah use this unusual phrase, “to raise up the flame”? Why not say simply “to kindle the flame”?
Proper Oil and Wicks
The Sages explained that this phrase indicates that the lights of the Menorah must burn easily and naturally, necessitating that only the finest oil and wicks be used. The oil must be pure, produced from types of oil that are easily absorbed, and the wicks must be made from a material that burns smoothly. With such high quality oil and wicks, the flame will “raise itself up” and will not need to be fiddled with.
For Sabbath lights, the Sages similarly required that the oil come from a substance that is absorbed easily, and the wicks be made from a material that burns smoothly. ‘Those wicks and oils that the Sages disqualified from use on the Sabbath may also not be used in the Temple’ (Shabbat 21a).
Elevating Body and Soul
Rav Kook explained that there is a deeper significance to this rule. The goal of the Sabbath is to perfect the individual, and the requirement for easily lit wicks and oil contains an important lesson about the path to spiritual growth.
If the body is overwhelmingly drawn toward physical pleasures, the intellect will not succeed in guiding it. One may become skilled in some craft, or gain proficiency in certain areas of wisdom, but wisdom will not reside in the heart. The overriding attraction to material pursuits will interfere with the illumination of the intellect.
Our body is like a wick. It must be refined so that it does not resist the light, but rather works together with the soul. Only then it will be illuminated easily and evenly. This is the essence of the Sabbath: a day set aside for harmonious living, so that we may naturally grow in holiness and true service of God.
The oil is a metaphor for the human intellect. The mind also needs guidance; not every intellectual pursuit leads to ethical and spiritual growth. Cases abound of brilliant individuals who led amoral, even corrupt lives. Just as the oil of the Menorah must be of a type that is readily absorbed by the wick, so too, we should immerse ourselves in a wisdom which provides practical guidance toward proper living. Such is the wisdom of Israel — the Torah.
Lights of the Individual and the Nation
The Sabbath day promotes the spiritual growth of the individual. But what about the spiritual growth of the nation? What if the nation seeks to amass wealth and power, regardless of any injustices perpetrated along the way? Unfortunately, this is a common phenomenon: the individual aspires to justice and goodness, while his country ruthlessly pursues its objectives.
The heritage of the Jewish people, however, is different. Our national aspirations are at one with our individual aspirations. Both are rooted in God’s law from Sinai. Both the individual and the nation pursue the same goals of justice and kindness. This is the significance of the association made between the Sabbath lights and the Temple Menorah, connecting the aspirations of the individual and the nation. Both Sabbath and Temple lights require oil and wicks that burn smoothly and easily. The Torah of the nation, like that of the individual, must guide its actions effectively, and not be limited to abstract philosophical inquiry.
Raising Itself Up
The Sages further explained that flame needs to be constant, a light that “raises itself up.” What does this mean? Our impetus for seeking justice and good should be based on intrinsic, natural motives. This is accomplished by purifying the body through the sanctity of practical mitzvot, and the mind through the light of Torah study. Then we do not require artificial assistance to avoid evil. Our enlightened conscience will naturally lead us to the proper path.
(Sapphire from the Land of Israel. Adapted from Ein Eyah vol. III, p. 57 on Shabbat 21a.)
Copyright © 2013 by Chanan Morrison
From American Jewish World Service
Now that the Exodus narrative is over, the gripping accounts of our ancestors that pervaded the first two books of the Torah fade into distant memory and we begin reading the detailed guidelines for the construction and use of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle. While initially many of these details seem extraneous or irrelevant, they contain within them deep wisdom and insight into our lives and moral obligations as Jews.
The korban tamid, the continual offering, described in Parashat Tetzaveh, is a compelling example of the deep symbolic meaning that can be found in the details of ritual. Before the episode of the Golden Calf, God gives the commandment to offer the tamid: “Now this is what you shall offer upon the altar—two yearling lambs each day, regularly. […] It shall be a continual burnt-offering throughout your generations at the door of the tent of meeting before God, where I will meet with you, to speak there to you.”1
On the surface, it appears that the korban tamid was a simple, perfunctory sacrifice, offered twice daily. Several commentators, however, suggest that the ritual contains important spiritual lessons. The Abarbanel, a 15th-century Portuguese Torah scholar, explains that we offer the tamid twice daily to correspond to the dual physical and spiritual freedoms which God provided2 by freeing us from slavery in Egypt, and engaging us in an eternal covenant at the revelation at Sinai.
The Maharal, Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel, a prominent 16th-century mystic and Torah scholar, brings a remarkable anecdote in the introduction to his ethical work, the Netivot Olam, which looks at the tamid from another perspective:
Shimon ben Pazzai comes and says there is a verse that is even more significant and more meaningful and more inclusive than either of these two verses [referring to the Shma, and the commandment to love your neighbor]. What is the verse? ”And the one lamb you shall make in the morning.”3
In this text, the Rabbis are debating which is the most fundamental sentence in the Torah. The first two suggestions—the Shma and the ‘love one’s neighbor’—are predictable and appropriate possibilities. The third option, “and the one lamb you shall make in the morning,” refers to the korban tamid. This seems strange. What is the allure of this passuk that it could be the most important sentence in the Torah?
The Maharal, in elaborating on this ostensibly bizarre choice, suggests that this quote speaks to the need for consistent commitment and constant engagement in Jewish life. The korban tamid is so important because, as a sacrifice conducted every single day, it symbolizes our unwavering commitment to living a life replete with Yiddishkeit, without which other commandments become meaningless or irrelevant.
According to this perspective, a living Judaism cannot be limited to sporadic rites or cultural practice; it must be something that infuses our daily lives. Though not everyone’s Judaism needs to be identical (indeed, one of the glories of Judaism is the divergence of our expressions), any expression of Judaism should be perpetual. We need our tamid—an involvement that, in its own way, is shown daily.
While this message is personally relevant to me in the realm of traditional ritual observance, I believe that it issues a call in the realm of ethical mitzvot, as well. The Torah commands us to help people in need, to protect the widow and the defenseless and to empower the most marginalized. The tamid reminds us that these actions cannot be intermittent initiatives, but must instead be persistent features of our Jewish lives and identity. Every day we must strive to perfect this world, in the kingdom of Shadai [God].4
Just over a year ago I travelled with AJWS and a group of rabbinical students to El Salvador. As I reflect on that experience, I recall the countless commitments I made as the trip concluded. While I did a fine job honoring those particular commitments, the urge to renew, or perhaps deepen, my commitments quickly dissipated. The challenge is to find the constant inspiration and motivation to foster perpetual involvement.
In the absence of the daily korban tamid, what can remind and encourage us to achieve a constant and consistent commitment to the ethical obligations of Judaism? Parashat Tetzaveh begins with another “tamid” (constant) which can serve in this role. The ner tamid,5 the eternal light, which still shines above the Holy Ark in our synagogues today, is a reliable reminder of our Ultimate responsibilities. In particular, this visual symbol can help us remember our responsibilities to respond to injustices in the developing world, which are sadly so often “out of sight, out of mind.” As we read the holy words of this parashah, it is our task to find our tamid—the eternal reminder of our Eternal calling.
From the Maqam Project< /strong>
From Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Tetzaveh 5774: “Leadership Always For and Sometimes Within”
(c) Rabbi Menachem Creditor
Varying modes of leadership are important to identify, especially in moments of emerging need.
For a community, these transitions can include urgent financial decisions, membership growth/shrinkage, strategic professional transitions, etc. For a nation, they can include popular revolution, dramatic economic shift, international relations, and more. But in any and every setting in which a specific leadership-style is healthy and effective, it is perhaps only so in that specific moment and circumstance. The very same approach might be unhealthy in another time, another place and, in fact, many factors determine whether or not a certain leadership methodology is appropriate.
We read in Parashat Tetzaveh of the clothing for the High Priest, the Kohen Gadol. Aaron was the very first in this line, his clothing both fabulous and complicated, burdensome and ornate. The instructions for the priestly clothing are intricate, including a gold headband which read “Holy to God” and a robe with pomegranate-shaped bells which sounded out with any movement. Aaron was a human being like any other, but could not move around inconspicuously. He and his descendants were servants of God, chosen from birth for a role that designated them different. We might imagine that they were hyper-aware of how they were seen by others. They were from the people, but not “of the people” in important ways.
They were not the same as their community – they stood apart.
Parashat Tetzaveh is unique in that it the only Torah Portion following Moses’ birth in which his name does not appear. Some suggest this is due to his initial reticence at the burning bush to be God’s emissary to Pharaoh, which thereby charged Aaron with a new role of Priest. The focus of the Parashah on Aaron’s clothing could, according to this reasoning, offend Moses, and so Moses’ name is not mentioned, out of a sensitivity to his feelings. Their distinct roles, different models of authority and service, were, perhaps, a source of tension to which the Torah’s text is sensitive.
But there is another interpretation, one which suggests that Moses’ textual absence is due to the challenge he poses to God in a later moment. Incensed at the Israelites for the sin of the golden calf, God commands Moses to “step aside” to allow God to destroy the Israelites and begin again with Moses. Moses steps into the breach and refuses to allow God to act, saying “You may not do this, and if You do, erase me from Your book!” God relents, but the threat has an effect and Moses’ name is removed from this week’s Torah portion. Moses’ interconnected-ness with his people is powerfully demonstrated in his willingness to take a difficult stand in a tense situation, acting in the best interests of the people.
He is one of them, not separate, as Aaron and the priests seem to be.
Aaron is a necessary part of a community. Sometimes a religious leader must stand separate, as a symbolic exemplar, wearing her sacred purpose on her sleeve (or forehead). Sometimes a religious leader must be indistinguishable from his community, willing to be anonymous in the service of a shared cause.
It is a true ongoing test of a leader to stand always for and sometimes within their community, judging each moment and determining an appropriate response, acting with devotion and temerity, even and especially when it is uncomfortable.
From Rabbi Rachel Barenblat
FEBRUARY 10, 2011
A sweet scent before God
This Shabbat morning, during our Torah study at my shul, we’ll be discussing ideas which flow out of one verse in our Torah portion. What appears below are a variety of teachings and questions, some of which I plan to offer during that discussion. Enjoy — and if you have other teachings to give over on this subject, please feel free to share!
תעשה לה לריח ניחח אשה ליי / You shall make of it an offering of fire for a pleasing odor to Adonai (Exodus 29:41)
Classical commentators note that the phrase reiach nikhoach, a pleasing odor, is used to describe offerings from the cheap to the costly, as an indication that God is gladdened by simple offerings as much as by fancy ones. Fire reduces all of them to ashes; after a sacrifice has been given and burnt, all that matters is its acceptance by God, not how expensive it was or wasn’t. What matters is that one reached out to God, and that reaching-out is always accepted.
The Hebrew word קרבן (korban), usually translated as “sacrifice” or “offering,” comes from a root meaning to draw near. Other peoples of the ancient Near East made sacrifices to propitiate their gods; the startling shift in ancient Israelite tradition was that sacrifices were understood not as a way of “paying God off,” but as a mode of drawing-near to God. In this week’s Torah portion, we read about the daily offerings of lambs, of flour mixed with oil, and of wine: “an offering by fire for a pleasing odor to Adonai.” The scent may or may not be pleasing to us (though for the carnivores among us, the idea of the scent of roasting lamb may evoke some mouth-watering) but Torah tells us that it was pleasing to God.
In the world of kabbalah, smell is regarded as the loftiest and most transcendent of the senses, the critical connection-point between body and soul. The Ari — Rabbi Isaac Luria, one of the great founders of kabbalah — taught that the sense of smell is connected with the month of Adar (in which Purim takes place), perhaps because both of Purim’s heroes have a connection to scent. Esther’s real name was Hadassah, which means myrtle, and the Talmud drashes the name Mordechai into mar dror, flowing myrrh. This year we have two months of Adar, and we’re in the first one now. What are the scents of this season for you?
Today our strongest religious connection to scent may come at havdalah, the short-and-sweet ceremony of wine, fire, and spice with which we sanctify the passage out of Shabbat. We pass around b’samim, fragrant spices, in order to spiritually revive ourselves so that we don’t fall into despair when the “extra soul” which has been ours during Shabbat departs for the workweek. What are the evocative scents of your religious life? Sweet wine, havdalah spices, matzah balls cooking in the kitchen, the etrog when it first emerges from its case at Sukkot-time — or something else entirely…?
My friend Bella Bogart offers an insight in the name of Rav Tzadok HaCohein of Lublin (of blessed memory) as taught by David Twersky. Rav Tzadok was writing about the ketoret (incense) offered on the golden altar in days of old, and noted that one of its ingredients had a terrible scent. Why would we include something bad-smelling in our incense when the goal is to create that reiach nichoach, that sweet fragrance for God? The symbolism, he wrote, is that we are demonstrating that “even if a Jew has a ‘bad odor’ — is not acting like he is supposed to — he still has a place in the Temple of God.” Even someone who dosn’t always do the right thing, that person is still welcome in our community and welcome to relate to God.
And what can we make now of this idea of reiach nichoach, offerings which have a pleasing scent to Adonai? My friend Hazzan Abbe Lyons points out that one option is to look at this idea from an environmental point of view. Emissions can be more or less pleasing (to God and to us.) What do we emit into the world? These offerings, Torah tells us, were made at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, the place where the community came together. What are we emitting when we come together — in the world of action and physicality (automobile exhaust, power burned to keep our synagogue warm and bright), in the worlds of emotion and intellect and spirit?
In a sense, anything we “give off” — emotional energy, spiritual energy — is perceived and received by God. When are our emotional emissions pleasing to the Holy Blessed One? It’s easy to imagine that joy is an emotion which is pleasing to God (after all, Psalm 100:2 says עודו את–יי בשמחה / ivdu et H’ b’simcha, “serve God with joy”), but how might our other emotions be received by God? Can we imagine times when anger might be pleasing to God — righteous indignation; anger which burns pure and clean — and also times when God might not find our anger “sweet”?
Hazzan Shoshana Brown offers the idea of linking the word “reiach” to its cousin “ruach” (spirit) since they share the same root. That root appears in Exodus 5:21, where the word “reycheynu” is used to refer to the reputation of people. When the Israelite foremen are complaining to Moshe about being made to look bad before Pharaoh, what they’re really saying is “you have made us ‘smelly’ in Pharaoh’s eyes!” What might it mean to make ourselves sweet to God’s supernal sense of smell? Because reiach and ruach share a root, Hazzan Brown also offers, we can think now in terms of offering a ruach nichoach — a pleasing spiritedness — towards God in our prayer and our song.
My colleague David Rachmiel suggests that if we each imagine coming home to a glorious scent — a pie or challah baking in the oven; grandmother’s chicken soup, or dad’s most fabulous recipe — we can begin to get a glimpse of what these offerings might have been like for God. In burning those offerings, once upon a time, we were creating “home” for God. What can we do in our lives now to create a “home” where God can dwell?
Tetzaveh: Moses and the Priestly Garments
Where was Moses?
The commentaries noted an unusual fact about the Torah portion of Tetzaveh — it is the only parashah, from when we first read of Moses’ birth in the book of Exodus, in which Moses is not mentioned.
The Ba’al HaTurim (Rabbi Jacob ben Asher, 1269-1343), explained that this was a consequence of Moses’ defense of the Jewish people after the Sin of the Golden Calf. At that precarious juncture, Moses pleaded with God to forgive the Israelites; and if not, then “please remove me from Your book that You have written” (Ex. 32:32).
The Sages taught that ‘The curse of a sage comes true, even if it was contingent on a condition [and that condition was not met]’ (Makkot 11a). Thus, even though God did forgive the Jewish people, Moses’ vow was partially fulfilled, and his name was removed from the portion of Tetzaveh.
The question arises: why was this parashah, which describes the special garments of the kohanim, chosen as the one in which Moses is not mentioned? Also, why was Moses punished for valiantly defending the Jewish people?
Concession for Weakness
According to the Midrash, God originally intended to appoint Moses and his descendants to be kohanim. God, however, became disappointed with Moses due to his repeated refusal to lead the Israelites out of Egypt, and He transferred the priesthood to his brother Aaron (Zevachim 102a on Ex. 4:14). But while Moses lost the priesthood, he still retained the potential to be a kohen.
In fact, when the Tabernacle was dedicated, Moses did serve as the kohen, bringing the dedication offerings (Ex. 29). It is surprising that Moses did not wear the special garments of a kohen during his one-time service. If a kohen does not wear these special clothes while serving in the Temple, his service is rendered invalid (Zevachim 17b); and yet Moses performed the dedication service just wearing a white robe (Avodah Zarah 34a). Why didn’t Moses need to wear the priestly garments?
In general, clothing is a concession for human weakness. The Hebrew word ‘begged’ (‘clothing’) comes from the root ‘baggad’, meaning ‘to betray.’ In the Garden of Eden, there was nothing wrong with being naked. It was only after Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil that they needed to hide behind clothes — a necessary but tragic betrayal of their natural purity.
The same is true for the priestly garments. Each of the eight garments, the Sages taught, comes to atone for a particular transgression: arrogance, slander, improper thoughts, and so on (Zevachim 88b). Were it not for these sins, the kohanim would have no need for these special clothes.
The Talmud relates that the white robe that Moses wore when he served in the Tabernacle had no seams. In other words, his robe had no clear and distinct boundaries, nothing to emphasize its separation from his body. It was almost as if Moses needed no clothing at all.
Moses was not tainted by the Sin of the Golden Calf, a sin that the Midrash (Shemot Rabbah 32:1) links to the sin of Adam. Therefore Moses did not need the extra clothes of the kohanim. He understood that, due to the Sin of the Golden Calf, the kohanim would need to wear special garments. Therefore he asked God: “Please remove me from Your book” — please remove me from the portion of Your book that commands the kohanim to wear special clothes. I was not involved in the Sin of the Golden Calf, and I have no connection with the need for these clothes.
What is so terrible about the priestly garments? These clothes indicate that the kohanim suffer from a fundamental dissonance. While they wear their special clothes, the kohanim are shluchei dedan and shluchei deRachmana, our emissaries to God and God’s emissaries to us. But when they remove the priestly garments, they become private individuals once again.
Moses, on the other hand, was a “servant of God” (Deut. 34:5). This was not an honorific title, but a description of his very essence, regardless of what clothes he wore. Divine service was not a duty that Moses took upon himself during certain hours of the day. It was his defining quality.
God heeded Moses’ request and removed his name from the portion of Tetzaveh. And indeed Moses had no need for these clothes, but performed the Divine service wearing only a seamless white robe.
(Sapphire from the Land of Israel. Adapted from Shemuot HaRe’iyah Tetzaveh (1929), quoted in Peninei HaRe’iyah, pp. 175-176).
Written on the Heart
By Dr. Eitan Fishbane
The mitzvot are a path of spiritual practice, a cultivation of religious awareness that may open us to the mystery and urgency of the divine voice. Not only legal obligation, mitzvah is a moment of encounter with the ever-renewing Divine Presence as it reverberates through the generations of the Jewish people.
As the hasidic mystics have taught, every person is a living Torah, an embodiment of the word and light of God. According to ancient rabbinic midrash, it was through the Torah that God created the world, and later mystics adapted this idea to suggest that the Torah is the very energy and life-force of Divinity as it fills the world and the human self. Each person is imbued with the divine spirit of Torah; the words that we speak and the actions we undertake are all manifestations of Torah, mitzvot in motion.
We stand this week just a short distance from the grand revelation of Sinai. We have heard the legislations of parashat Mishpatim, the detailed mapping of individual and communal life. In parashat Tetzavveh, as could be said in different ways about parashat Terumah, the Torah is taken into the heart of each individual Jew; the mitzvot received as a people through divine revelation are now absorbed into the depths of the human self in all its singularity and preciousness.
At a literal level, our parashah begins with the imperative to construct the forms of priestly service with precision, to fashion the devotional trappings of the Ohel Moed (Tent of Meeting):
וְאַתָּ֞ה תְּצַוֶּ֣ה ׀ אֶת־בְּנֵ֣י יִשְׂרָאֵ֗ל וְיִקְח֨וּ אֵלֶ֜יךָ שֶׁ֣מֶן זַ֥יִת זָ֛ךְ כָּתִ֖ית לַמָּא֑וֹר לְהַעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד׃
You shall instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. (Exod. 27:20)
But read figuratively through the lens of spiritual direction, this opening verse seeks to cultivate the growth of the individual person into a living embodiment of mitzvah, a vessel for the divine light.
Such is the teaching found in a playful and bold reading by the Sefat Emet, the late nineteenth century hasidic master, Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger: the statement “atah tetzavvehet benei Yisrael” (“You shall ‘instruct’ the Israelites”) may be read as the transformation of the people, each of them, into a living mitzvah. Make them, the people of Israel, into mitzvot in the world—tetzaveh et benei Yisrael. Guide each Jew toward the embodiment and ensoulment of the mitzvot; help them become mitzvot themselves.
What does this mean? How does a person become a living mitzvah? Perhaps it is in those moments of greater spiritual awareness, the affirmation of the pervasive presence of the sacred in the world. Or perhaps it is in a posture of love and compassion toward the others that we encounter on a daily basis. When we “become mitzvot” in this way, we contribute meaningfully to the building of the sacred “lighting” (ma’or) mentioned in this opening verse, the luminous presence of God in our world. That is the dramatic act of לְהַעֲלֹ֥ת נֵ֖ר תָּמִֽיד—raising up the eternal flame of divine wonder and mystery. We bring light into the world when we become instruments of the ahavah rabbah of Divinity—the great and unending love that God sends into our hearts through the mitzvah of Ḥesed, kindness and compassion toward our fellow human beings. Not just to our family, friends, and intimate partners, but to all who cry out to us—whether that cry be audible or silent.
This, I suggest, is how we might read another striking verse from our parashah—lines that depict the ornate and dramatic features of the priestly service bestowed upon Aaron:
וְנָשָׂ֣א אַ֠הֲרֹן אֶת־שְׁמ֨וֹת בְּנֵֽי־יִשְׂרָאֵ֜ל בְּחֹ֧שֶׁן הַמִּשְׁפָּ֛ט עַל־לִבּ֖וֹ בְּבֹא֣וֹ אֶל־הַקֹּ֑דֶשׁ לְזִכָּרֹ֥ן לִפְנֵֽי־ה’תָּמִֽיד׃
Aaron shall carry the names of the children of Israel on the breastplate of mishpat over his heart, when he enters the sanctuary (bevo’o el hakodesh), for remembrance (lezikaron) before the LORD always. (Exod. 28:12)
In its original biblical context, this ritual practice is both evocative and mysterious. Aaron the priest is called upon to bring the people “with him” symbolically into the sacred zone; his task is to carry them upon his heart so that when he approaches God he fully represents the people. Applying a figurative spiritual reading to this already rich devotional ritual, let us interpret Aaron here as a model for our own individual journey to the sacred, our cultivation of a spiritual practice infused with the moral urgency of ḥesed and mishpat—kindness or compassion, and justice. We must hold that marker of justice and goodness on our hearts always: the ḥoshen mishpat (“the breastplate of judgment,” perhaps the breastplate of justice) should be kept close, and “the names of the children of Israel”—or, far better, of all people who suffer and need our love and compassion—should be symbolically inscribed upon our hearts. We must carry that vision of justice and love whenever we seek to approach the sacred (be-vo’o el hakodesh). Remember them to God (lezikaron lifnei YHVH tamid): always hold the pain of others in your mind as you approach the holy, for human goodness and love must never be removed from spiritual practice. That remembering, that zikaron, brings us before God (lifnei YHVH)—to become aware of the brokenness and to seek its redemption.
From Rabbi Jill Hammer
Priestly Garments: Manifesting the Grace You
From Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies
Shabbat Parashat Tetzaveh
February 20, 2016 – 11 Adar 5776
By: Reb Mimi Feigelson,
Masphiah Ruchanit and
Lecturer of Rabbinic Studies
Who Dwells in your Middle?
Torah Reading: Exodus 27:20 – 30:10
Haftarah Reading: Ezekiel 43:10 – 27
“In my middle” is Fynn’s answer to himself, when he asks “Where is Anna?” (p.180) after she crosses-over (my preferred term for ‘death’). Fynn learned this from Anna, for whom he was a guardian, when she asked, where is the place where she and “Mr. God” meet? “Mr. God goes through my middle and I go through Mr. God’s middle” (p.50), the seven year old theologian explained [Mr. God, this is Anna / Fynn]. It is ‘in the middle’ that our parashah also seemingly begins. Sometimes, as I have found many times in life, the beginning is in somewhere “in the middle.”
Our parashah does not open with the beginning of a chapter. It does not start with a more common format of a verse that exposes us to a mitzvah, namely “And God spoke to Moshe, speak to the children of Israel….” It begins with “And you shall command the children of Israel, that they take / bring to you pure olive oil for the light, to cause a lamp to burn continually / eternally (tamid).” I wonder how many writing teachers would send this parashah back to its original writer, asking them to standardize the opening in compliance with many of the other Torah portions. This form of starting in the middle, beginning with ‘And,’ also repeats itself in the opening verse of the next chapter, chapter 28, “And…”
What about light, what about divine light has no beginning or end? While I hear the temptation to draw on notions of waves and particles to respond to this question, I ask us, instead, to sit with the question, rather than run to an answer. Perhaps there are questions that are meant to eternally be questions, and not an invitation for an answer. I do believe that it is our answers that separate us, while our questions are what we share. I ask us to share the question and to sit with the question: What about divine light is eternal and continual? What is embodied in divine light that remains eternal and continuous in our heart and mind and soul?
And what does it mean that this eternal light is positioned on the inside “In the tent of meeting” and yet “without the veil which is before the testimony?” Revealed and concealed simultaneously. What part of our relationship with God is revealed and concealed?
There are another two elements of the eternal light, the Ner Tamid, that holds my attention – what the wicks are made of and who can light the candles of the menorah. The Talmud teaches (Bavli, Shabbat 21a) that the wicks were made from the worn out clothing of the priests. What does it mean that the physical body of this light – the wick – is taken from cloth that concealed the body of the cohen? Imagine we could identify what garment the wick was taken from – what body part did it cover, and what is the symbolic meaning of that body part with which we can interpret our own actions? How do we embrace that potential of holy action in our own lives? How do we garment our naked potential to enable the manifestation of light?
The second element, as noted is the question of who can light the menorah in the temple, who can enhance the divine light? The Rambam Maimonides teaches (the laws of coming to the temple ‘hilkhot bi’at ha’midkash,’ 9:8), that once the cohen prepared the candles any male present could light the candles themselves. On the one hand miraculously the middle candle, that which was aligned with symbolizing the presence of the Shekhinah, was always burning, even in the long nights of the month of Tevet; and on the other hand, it was the source of the renewed light each and every day. A light which was both eternal and renewed, located in a place that is revealed and concealed, and though must be prepared by the cohen (and using no longer fit garments) can be light by an Israelite.
I ask myself what can I learn from two verses that start in the middle, “And…” though situated as the last two verses of chapter 27 itself. What can I understand from a commandment to maintain a pure eternal light that is the fruit of human action wed with divine miraculous and continuous light? What does it mean that the gift of sharing the light, by virtue of igniting the other candles of the menorah is not limited to the cohen, those designated from birth to serve, but rather also available to those who chose to come to a place of service?
I cannot not ask myself why do the first eleven verses of this parshah begin with “And…” and what would it mean to realign our external and internal light with “And” instead of living in the realm of ‘either / or’? How would it change our life if we used “And” instead of ‘but…’ for example?
The word in my middle that allows God to dwell in my middle is the word “And” in English. In the Torah it appears as one letter, Vav. In the Talmud (Bavli, Er’khin 2a) we are challenged again and again by a two word permutation: “l’atu’yei mai?” – to bring in / to include who? I smile when I write these two words, as I know I cried over them when learning for my smikhah (my rabbinic ordination) and I smile since I cannot write them without also hearing my smikhah ?avruta, Rabbi Yonatan Gordis, repeat these two words over and over again. I read them And I write them, And I cry over them, And I hear my ?avruta, And I smile, And I know I’m ‘Home’.
“V’atah t’zaveh,” I read as saying, “And you command” AND as saying “‘And you are commanded,’ you are commanded to find a way to live a life that embraces the notion of And…” My middle, as the Ner Tamid, the eternal light, dwelling in the middle, is compiled from my middle, and God’s middle, and the middle of those who are willing and able to open the clench of their hands to take in something ‘more’ into their lives. I share my middle with those that say to God: “I want and yearn and desire to receive from You alef and bet and gimmel and daled and…” And “I offer You, God, my heh, and vav, and zayin, and chet and tet,” And “I want to share with Your world my kaf, and lamed, and mem and nun” And “I thank You for Your samekh and ayin, and peh and tzaddi” And on And on And on…
I pray to share my middle with you, and I pray that when we sit to our Shabbat table, all those sitting with us are some of those with whom we share our middle.
The middle of the Torah is the word DaRaSH (seek) [Bavli, Kiddushin 31a]. I pray that we continue to seek those to share our middle with.
From Rabbi Jonathan Sacks
Who is Honoured?
From Rabbi David Kasher
The Priests of Purim
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