Two Minutes of Torah: Shemini (Leviticus 10:1-15) - The Dangers of Sacred Space

I have a very complicated relationship with the Kotel (the Western Wall in Jerusalem). When I was in Jerusalem for my gap year, and a friend in England was seriously ill, I went to the Kotel to pray and to place a note in the wall, asking for her recovery. I believed that there was a special significance to that place and that a prayer placed in the cracks of that wall could make a difference. Later that same year I returned to the Kotel on Shavuot with a group of Reform and Conservative Jews, so that we could celebrate the festival in an egalitarian community. As we stood there we were shouted at, had stones thrown at us, and required the protection of the police to ensure our safety.

I feel a connection to the Kotel as part of the support wall of the plaza upon which the Temple once stood. But at the same time I do not like the fact that it has essentially become a Haredi synagogue, in which my Jewish practice is not welcome. This relationship is further complicated by the fact that I also feel uneasy with the tension which exists between the Jewish and Muslim communities in relation to the sacred space of the Temple Mount.

Sacred space holds a power over us on a theoretical level, but as we read in the Torah it may also be dangerous. When Moses approached the burning bush, encountering God for the first time, he was told: ‘Do not come any closer; take off your shoes from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground’ (Exodus 3:5). Precautions had to be taken before stepping onto the sacred ground.

In the wilderness, the Tabernacle represented portable sacred space, and it too was a dangerous place to enter. ‘Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron, took each of them his censer, and put fire in it, and put incense on it, and offered strange fire before Adonai, which God commanded them not. And there went out fire from Adonai, and devoured them, and they died before Adonai’ (Leviticus 10:1-2). The text does not explain exactly what the brothers did, but the strange fire which they brought to the Tabernacle led to their death.

Some have suggested that it was the nature of the fire which caused the punishment, while others have proposed that they were somehow in an unfit state to approach the Tabernacle with an offering for God. The text is not clear; however, it does clarify that whatever they did, it was not commanded by God. They behaved in a way which God had not requested, and their punishment was to be consumed by the very substance they had brought to the Tabernacle – fire.

Nadav and Avihu were consumed, literally by the fire, but perhaps also metaphorically by their devotion to the sacred space of the Tabernacle. As Priests they were among the select group of people serving in the Tabernacle, and yet this was not sufficient, they had to find a way to be close to the sacred space, even when God did not require it. They did not worship in the way which had been commanded, and instead they brought strange fire to God, fire which then consumed and killed them.

The passion and zeal which is often expressed around the Kotel and the Temple Mount may be considered the strange fire of our generation. People treat the place in a way which God never commanded, and I would imagine that God does not welcome it. This strange fire of today, just like the strange fire of Nadav and Avihu, is dangerous, with the power to consume and destroy us. We must be careful that we are not consumed by the idea of a sacred space or holy ground. As a Jewish people we have survived for almost two thousand years without a Temple, and we have found ways of bringing God into our midst and into our communities without requiring one specific concrete structure. Our survival is testimony to the fact that we have learned the lessons of Nadav and Avihu.

Two Minutes of Torah: Tzav (Leviticus 7:22-38) Why Kosher?

In my American Jewish history class, the teacher, Dr. David Kaufman, shared the joke about the modern Jewish family who don’t have two sets of plates and utensils, but instead have three sets. As is expected they have a set for milky foods and they have a set for meaty foods, but they also have a third set for the treif (non-Kosher) food. I am not sure whether any Jewish family keeping separate plates for milk and meat, actually keeps another set for treif food, but it reminds us that today the Kashrut rules people follow are not necessarily what they once were.

What we eat is an important concern within the Torah, and we receive a variety of rules and regulations at different points relating to what animals we can and cannot eat, and also in relation to the parts of the animal which we should and shouldn’t eat.

While next week we will read about the various animals which are kosher. In this week’s Torah portion we are told about two parts of the animal which we are forbidden to eat. First we read: ‘Speak to the people of Israel, saying, You shall eat no kind of fat, of ox, or of sheep, or of goat’ (Leviticus 7:23). And then ‘Moreover you shall eat no kind of blood, whether it is of bird or of beast, in any of your dwellings’ (Leviticus 7:26).

Within the Torah laws are divided into two categories: mishpatim and chukim. The mishpatim are the laws for which we can discern a rational explanation, frequently in relation to creating an orderly society. In contrast the chukim are laws for which there is no rational explanation, we cannot be sure why God commands us to behave in the way specified. Kashrut belongs to this category of chukim, for which no explicit reasons are given in the Torah. For example at no point does it say, ‘you shall eat animals who chew the cud and who have split hooves because they are good for you’ we are simply told that these are the animals which are classified as kosher.

People will often try to discern reasons for the laws of kashrut as a way of explaining, or even justifying, them. And it is clear that with the two regulations in this week’s Torah portion we can detect good reasons for following the laws. Today we know that fatty foods are generally considered to be unhealthy and bad for us. And we can also understand a prohibition against blood, which is the source of life. The prohibition against fatty foods may be considered practical, while the exclusion of blood is ideological.

Some would argue that the kashrut laws are written in the Torah, and therefore we follow them without question or hesitation, with no need for a reason or justification.

For me the kashrut laws quite simply make me conscious of what I eat. From the time when I bought lunches in the school cafeteria, I have been aware that my decision of what to eat, and what not to eat, was related to my Jewish identity. The very existence of kashrut laws makes sure that whenever we eat we are reminded that we are Jewish. The specifics of the laws are not as important, as is the awareness which they encourage. Just as the tzitzit is supposed to be a reminder of the commandments throughout the day, the kashrut laws are simply a reminder of Jewish identity.

And on a secondary level the kashrut laws make us aware of what we eat. We cannot indiscriminately buy food; we have to check that the food is kosher. Today perhaps that exploration should not just be for non-kosher ingredients, but also for non-kosher means of production and farming. We can expand our definition of kashrut, not into three sets of plates, but rather into food which is kosher both in ingredients and production. We can decide what to eat based on both requirements. Then we can truly achieve a kashrut which is practical and ideological.

Reflections on the Japanese Earthquake and Tsunami

Watching the images on the television over the last few days, it has, at times, felt like I was watching a film. What was happening was so hard to comprehend that I imagined it was the creation of a Hollywood special effects department, rather than the awesome force of nature in full flow.

A natural disaster like this happens, and we cannot help but remember how limited our power on this planet really is. We may have split the atom, sent people to the moon and cloned animals, but nature has a way of reminding us of how limited our power really is. There was something especially surreal about watching a nuclear power station, which despite the positive uses of the technology is also a reminder of man's ultimate destructive weapon, being destroyed by a natural disaster. Nature was reminding us of our place on this planet.

When we witnessed the Indonesian Tsunami of 2003/4 I could not help but think about the words of Psalm 93:3-5, which we recite in our Shabbat liturgy:

'Almighty, the floods may storm, the floods may storm aloud, the floods may storm and thunder. But even above the roar of great waves, mighty breakers of the ocean, supreme is the might of the Creator. The proofs You give are very sure, holiness is the mark of Your house, God, as long as time endures' (translation from Forms of Prayer 2008).

The Psalm acknowledges the potentially awesome destructive power of water, with the tsunami possibly the ultimate example of the floods storming and thundering. However, it also offers us a glimmer of hope because God is supreme above the great waves and all of the power which the oceans possess. The challenge for us is where to see the proofs which God gives in the aftermath of such an enormous natural disaster.

Why did God create a world in which tsunamis were possible? Why must people suffer at the hands of nature's power? Why must there be natural disasters in our world?

It is impossible for us to provide any answer which will satisfy the magnitude of these questions. But we must also acknowledge that God created each one of us in God's own image, possessing a divine spark. The way in which we respond to tragedy is the way in which we see the proof of God. Our actions now, to help those whose lives have been shattered by this tragedy, are the way in which God's presence in the world endures.

In the days after a natural disaster we must prick up our ears to hear the still small voice of God; it may be hard to perceive it, but the still small voice is out there. Through our actions hopefully we can find a way to amplify it so that all might hear it.

Two Minutes of Torah: Vayikra (Leviticus 2:7-3:18) - The Power of a Touch

I know that some people have ethical issues with zoos; but as a child I loved London Zoo. I thought it was one of the best places in the entire city, filled with an amazing selection of animals. I enjoyed watching them from a distance, or through wire fences, my favourites were the sea lions and the gorillas. But I was also fond of the children’s zoo (I think that is what the section was called) where you could walk amongst the animals. I always wanted to touch them and to stroke them, but I was also nervous about how they might react to physical contact. These goats and sheep were far less exciting than some of the other species in the zoo, but there was something exciting about the opportunity to actually touch an animal, it established a connection I could never have with the sea lions and gorillas.

This week’s Torah portion involves animals, although rather than being observed and enjoyed, they were being offered up as sacrifices according to the laws of the Tabernacle (and later the Temple). Leviticus shifts our focus away from the stories of Genesis and Exodus, moving immediately into the laws of the sacrifices expected of the people. Throughout the Book there are a multiplicity of sacrifices articulated and explained, with a variety of rules and animals necessary for the fulfilment of each one. As modern readers of the Book, and its laws, we may feel uncomfortable as we read the descriptions of the slaughter of animals as a means to worship God.

The section which we actually read begins innocently enough with the meal offering ‘baked in the frying pan, it shall be made of fine flour with oil’ (Leviticus 2:7). However, it is soon dealing with the subject of animal sacrifices in relation to what is required for a peace offering. The description of the process including the slaughter, and the ritual ceremonies around the blood and entrails is enough to make a vegetarian queasy. Blood is sprinkled, kidneys and livers are cooked all in order of producing ‘an offering made by fire, of a sweet savour to Adonai’ (Leviticus 3:5).

We may feel uncomfortable at the need for an animal to be killed so that God can enjoy a pleasant odour. However, there is one element which appears in the process of the animal sacrifice for a peace offering. Before killing the animal at the door of the Tent of Meeting, it states: ‘And he shall lay his hand upon the head of his offering’ (Leviticus 3:2). The animal is not just killed, but a physical connection is established between the Priest and the animal in advance of its slaughter. This may appear as scant consolation for the animal which will soon be finding itself the main course in a barbecue for God, but it must have been significant for the Priest and his relationship to the animal.

Through the act of laying hands on the animal’s head, it was in one sense consecrated for God, sanctified for its use as a sacrifice. But in another sense it ensured that the Priest performing the sacrifice had established a physical connection with the animal. This was no longer a completely random animal; this was an animal which had been touched by the Priest; an animal with whom the Priest had established a physical link.

As I read about the sacrifices and feel uncomfortable with the fact that God required animals to be killed and burnt as a way of relating, and praying, to God. I like to think that the laying on of hands was a way of making sure that there was a pause and a moment of recognition that life would be lost in the course of this process. I know that in the zoo as soon as I touched the animal a different relationship was established, and I like to think that this happened for the Priest as well. We all know that physical contact creates a different relationship from just observing someone (or something) from a distance. The physical touch ensured the Priest never forgot the awesome responsibility literally in his hands; towards the animal, the people and God.

Two Minutes of Torah: Pekudey (Exodus 39:1-20) - Living in a Material World

At the beginning of this week the world went Oscar crazy, as people around the world watched to see who would be the big winners. The primary focus of the evening was primarily on the films, the actors and the hundreds of men and women behind the scenes. But the second focus was on the clothes which all of the celebrities were wearing. On Monday morning on the BBC website, alongside the report about the winners and losers, there was a “picture special” about what the women were wearing. It was not just the outfits which were mentioned, but also the designers; Natalie Portman wore a Rodarte dress, Amy Adams was in a L’Wren Scott dress and Anne Hathaway, among other outfits, wore a Valentino gown. I don’t know who any of the designers are, but I do know that the Oscars are a time of the year when you don’t just wear the dress, you essentially wear the designer.

It seems appropriate that at the end of this week we read in our Torah portion about one of the most elaborate outfits ever designed. ‘Of the blue, purple, and crimson yarns they also made the service vestments – as Adonai had commanded Moses’ (Exodus 39:1). Aaron and his sons had to look the part when they were going to serve in the Tabernacle; everyday clothes were not appropriate, a special outfit was necessary. There were various elements which were important as parts of the High Priest’s outfit, and the stones in the breastplate ‘corresponded to the names of the sons of Israel: twelve corresponding to their names’ (Exodus 39:14).

While in the specific section we read this Shabbat the names of the designers are missing (except for Adonai, the supreme designer) at the very beginning of the Torah portion we are once again reminded of the people behind this wonderful outfit. ‘Now Bezalel, son of Uri son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah, had made all that Adonai had commanded Moses; at his side was Oholiab son of Ahisamach, of the tribe of Dan, carver and designer, and embroider in blue, purple, and crimson yarns and in fine linen’ (Exodus 38:22-23).

The Torah portion of Pekudey and the Oscars are reminders that there are people behind the clothes that we wear; in both cases they emphasise the designers, who put their names on the outfits, but we should also not forget that for every Rodarte, L’Wren Scot and Bezalel creation, there are a whole variety of other people involved in creating the clothing. Just as the Oscars celebrates those behind the camera as well as the more famous people in front of it.

The breastplate, which the High Priest wore, was a reminder of the entire Israelite community, whom the High Priest was representing and serving, but it can also be considered the label representing all of the people who were involved in creating his clothing. The whole community of Israel was invited to make donations to the Tabernacle project, and those who had the correct skills were involved in the creation: ‘and all the skilled women spun with their own hands’ (Exodus 35:25). The breastplate was a prominent way of thanking the entire community for their hard work.

Bezalel and Oholiab should be rightly celebrated as the leaders of the project, but we should also remember that the entire Israelite community pitched in to help. And perhaps when we buy an article of clothing today we should note the designer, but also try to make ourselves aware of the other people behind the scenes: the people who did the stitching, the dyeing, the weaving and a variety of other tasks. Making sure that we purchase clothing from places where they get the credit (or at least the salary) which their work deserves.