Chametz: The Bread of Freedom

This article appears in the Jewish Star

Parshat Tzav and Pesach

A child looks at the holiday table that always has a plump centerpiece with an ornate cover. The cover is lifted to reveal… three matzos. Bummer. Where is the bread?

The first of the four rhetorical statements in the Mah Nishtanah is, “Tonight we eat only matzo.” One can argue this observation is not motivated simply due to the innocent questions of a child. Rather, there is a real contradiction in that on the evening when we are supposed to be celebrating freedom, we are only eating poor man’s bread. (I think matzo is called poor man’s bread because once you’ve bought matzo made under the strictest conditions, you become a poor man who can’t afford bread anyway.)

Interestingly, there is only one korban (offering) in this week’s parsha that includes a series of breads. Usually the bread used for a korban is matzo. But in chapter 7, we find that the Korban Todah — the thanksgiving offering — includes real bread along with the matzo.

What is the significance of including bread in the offering?

According to Rashi, the reasons one would bring a Korban Todah are the same reasons one should nowadays say Birkat Hagomel (the blessing recited over personal miracles): being saved from the sea, crossing the desert, imprisonment, or a major health decline — all of these are alluded to in Psalms 107.

[A brief aside: Should one recite the blessing when traveling by plane across an ocean? The literalists argue: If you cross the ocean you say the blessing. The realists say the difficult part of the journey is trying to sleep while seated upright in a 1.5 cubic foot area. A plane crash is highly unlikely and physical needs are otherwise met. Surviving a car crash is a bigger personal miracle than stepping off an El-Al flight at Ben Gurion airport — especially if you travel business or first class.]

Following Rashi’s interpretation, it would be appropriate to bring the Korban Todah for events which would cause one to sponsor a Seudat Hoda’ah — (a meal of thanksgiving) for real moments when G-d deliberately intervened to save you.

At such a moment, Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch explains, “[Chametz] represents man in control of all that is his, with nothing to impede him. He was delivered from some difficulty that had inhibited his step. He emerged from dire straits and attained broad independence. This full independence… has no means of expression more fitting than ten chametz loaves… [Ten] is the quantitative expression of qualitative perfection.”

This is a beautiful concept. But Rabbi Hirsch is well aware that the 10 bread loaves are accompanied by thirty matzos. That is a ratio of three to one, matzo to chametz, an offering the individual is comfortable with, says Hirsch, due to how he understands and perceives his state of well-being.

“What appears as chametz from the standpoint of his position in the world appears to him as ‘matzo’ when he stands before G-d… only by G-d’s grace does he regain chametz — independence. Thus, as he regains worldly independence, his sense of dependence on G-d is renewed and he commits himself anew to dedicate his whole life and all his independent powers to the service of G-d. He brings matzo in the same measures in which he brings chametz, and only this law of matzo opposite chametz makes his offering a todah.” (The thirty matzos had the same amount of flour as the ten loaves of bread according to the list of ingredients from Parshat Emor and Korach and the Talmud Menachot 77-78).

Perhaps the first statement in Mah Nishtana is really a question. “We have all the trimmings of a Seudat Hoda’ah. We should really have matzo and bread. Why only matzo?”

And the answer is that we are celebrating a kind of freedom and independence that is not about our physical survival. “Had G-d not taken us out, we’d still be slaves,” we declare in the Haggadah. But we would have survived!

Chametz and matzo are brought together when we celebrate what might have otherwise been our death. But when we celebrate our complete dependence on G-d on the evening of the exodus from slavery, we are not yet at a point when chametz and matzo can be rejoined. Therefore only matzo has a role in the holiday, until complete independence is established at the splitting of the sea on the last day of the holiday. Only then can chametz be reintroduced to our diets, when we are completely free once the holiday comes to an end.

When the Fire is "Divine"

This article can be seen at the Jewish Star

Parshat Vayikra: Musings on Sacrificial Offerings

The first three parashot in Vayikra are always a challenge to read, and even more so to teach. How can we honestly appreciate a system we do not have, which seems so far removed from the society and culture we experience daily? Even yeshivas skip the tractates that deal most primarily with these topics because they are largely irrelevant to our current day-to-day existence.

Most of us are happy to believe that meat, like produce, grows in the supermarket, and is best when purchased on sale and barbecued right away. I am sure that with the exception of zoos (notably petting zoos) and the small pets some have in their homes, the closest most of us ever get to large animals is at the circus or when driving through the Catskills (insert relatively local farm-country road here).

And don’t even talk to me about how the meat really got to the supermarket refrigerator. And I don’t want to know which part of the animal is the source of “tongue,” which I so enjoy.

Nonetheless, once upon a time, sacrifices and offerings were part of our daily rituals, and blood and animal innards were transported around the area of the mizbe’ach (altar) for appropriate pourings, sprinklings, disposal and/or burning. And it is a return to these ways that we pray for whenever we ask G-d to rebuild Jerusalem and His holy house.

With this background and with an eye to a future date of sacrificial offerings, let us turn our attention to the middle of the description of the first offering, when we are told that, post cutting the animal and preparing it to be completely burned, “Aaron’s sons shall place fire on the altar, and arrange wood on the fire.” (1:7)

Which one is put on first? Fire or wood? Are they supposed to bring their own fire? Isn’t G-d supposed to provide the fire? What is this verse coming to teach us?

The Talmud (Eiruvin 63a) teaches us that Nadav and Avihu eventually made a simple calculation from which we learn that a student should not decide halakha when his teacher is available to be asked. They thought “Even though the fire comes down from the heavens, there is still a mitzvah for a kohen to bring fire from an outside source.” When they brought fire on their own initiative in Vayikra chapter 10, their choice proved fatal since they had not asked Moshe how to resolve the divine fire versus human fire contradiction (there are other suggestions, as well, as to why they died at that time).

Let us not misunderstand. The Talmud (Yoma 21b) makes it quite clear that there is fire from G-d and there is fire that humans contribute to the mizbe’ach. As such, their ruling was correct, albeit flawed in that they came to it of their own accord and without consulting with their teacher.

But where does the humanly contributed fire come from? The Talmud Yoma 45a says it was to be kindled on top of the mizbe’ach. It did not come from a different source — they would presumably rub wood together or use whatever other means in order to ignite the fire.

Rav Saadiah Gaon points out that while Nadav and Avihu were correct that they could make their own fire contribution, they erred in thinking that any fire could be used. They brought an “Aish zarah” — a strange fire — as opposed to one that belonged atop the mizbe’ach. In other words, they learned their lesson, but they did not pay attention to the fine details, the nuances in the words of the Torah.

Many of us do this all the time. When we care enough to know a halakha, we too often assume we know what we are doing because we’ve experienced similar situations before. In some cases we may be right. But in some cases, the facts may be different, or the nuances of the rulings may not apply from one case to the other, in which case we are only deceiving ourselves.

While I do not believe we should be turning to rabbis to help us make all the minute decisions of our lives, I do believe that halakhic decisions that are not timely (timely, as in matters of immediate life and death) would generally benefit from an open and real conversation with a rabbi (or otherwise learned person) that includes opening up primary texts and learning from the original sources.

To answer our question with a metaphor, had Aharon’s sons followed the prescription of lighting the “fire” first, they would have been able to use the “wood” to further fuel their curiosity, so they could arrive at appropriate conclusions with greater clarity.

Divinely Inspired

This can also be viewed at the Jewish Star

Vayakhel-Fekudei

With all the talk about the Divine Inspiration given to Betzalel and Oholiab, we almost forget that many more individuals were given similar inspiration by G-d to help their own efforts in the “holy work that God had commanded.” (36:1)

This sentiment is repeated in 36:2 when we are told those who came close to the work, came because “his heart had inspired him to do so.”

“From that which was before Moshe, they took all of the donations the Israelites had brought for the holy work, and they continued to bring more pledges every morning… They told Moshe that the people were bringing too much; much more than was needed for the work G-d had commanded. Moshe commanded and a voice carried through the camp saying ‘Man and woman should work no longer for the holy donations’ – and people stopped bringing. The work was enough for all the work that needed to be done, with extras.”

The image of all these inspired people doing their holy work is one which requires much attention. In their case, G-d gave them the skills to craft the Mishkan. Knowing and understanding their task, they fulfilled their duties to the utmost.

Many of us in the Orthodox Jewish community are similarly inspired. With few exceptions (converts, baalei teshuvah, and some of those who grew up before the 1950’s, come to mind), we have the benefit of a yeshiva education that has given us the fundamental base to know how to live our lives as Jews. The exceptions are differently “divinely inspired,” and they get all the credit in the world for the choices they’ve made.

Like in every choice and life decision, particularly in the land of the free and the home of the brave, we have options. Some are easy, some are more difficult. For some people it is just as easy to take the leap of faith that makes the observant way of life the only option, as it is for others to reject any association with a system that makes “demands” and has “commandments” which take away from personal freedom and responsibility that goes beyond oneself (even though one could always volunteer and be a “good Samaritan” and humanitarian).

In the metaphor of the construction of the Mishkan, there was a set goal. Those who were inspired knew what they needed in order to build what they were looking to build, and they knew when to tell people to stop donating. In some cases, enough really is enough.

But in some cases, enough is not enough. I have met many people who have rejected our lifestyle. When engaged in a conversation they’ll often say “I went to yeshiva twelve years. I know everything. It’s not for me.”

I know they don’t mean or believe that they “know everything.” But they do feel, because they grew up with it, that they know all they need to know to decide a Torah-observant life is not for them.

Sometimes it’s not for them. But they don’t “know everything.” In some cases, the concept of “v’shinantam l’vanekha” (you shall review over and over and over to your children) never really caught on, and in some cases, their search stopped early. One question, one contradiction, one bad experience, and all was over.

In a time when Orthodox Jewish individuals figure prominently and negatively in the press – for all kinds of shenanigans, mind you – it is easy to understand how those on the fringes will opt out. “If this is what Orthodox Judaism stands for, I want no part of it.”

Under those conditions, most of us probably want no part of it either. Except this is not what Orthodox Judaism stands for. And to go out on a limb, those who bring about chillul hashem for any kind of crime are not to be considered Orthodox Jews (though teshuvah is always an option).

For every one bad apple, there are thousands upon thousands of good, wonderful, shining examples of people who are not only Chakhmei Lev (wise hearted), but are truly divinely inspired and who model wonderful behavior every day.
Perhaps there is a point when donations to the Mishkan can stop. But the donations of good deeds, understanding, and shout-outs for what we believe and stand for are never enough. They can never stop.

The Netziv almost likens the training of the Mishkan artisans to a trade school. They went in knowing they wanted to contribute their talent to the cause, but did not know what their specific talent or calling was. With time, they learned and made their mark in the Mishkan.

So it is with our Jewish experience. Everyone needs to find his or her unique voice and form of expression. At the end of the day, however, the goals must be shared by all who experience the divine inspiration that has been guiding our way of life for thousands of years.

The "Pure" Menorah

After describing the appointment of Betzalel and Oholiab to be the prime architects of the Mishkan, the Torah proceeds to list all the vessels that will be constructed. In 31:8, and in sharp contrast to all other vessels, the menorah is strangely described as “HaMenorah ha’t’horah” — the pure menorah.

Commentaries are quick to jump on this bizarre terminology. From the fact that the menorah is described as being pure, are we to assume the other vessels were impure? (Siftei Chachamim)

Rashi quotes the Talmud (Menachot 29b) that says the “purity” refers to the essence of the gold — its being naturally refined and untainted by outside influences. The Maharal of Prague even explains that all the other vessels are certainly not impure and one should not imply from the verse that other vessels were impure

Chizkuni says the term “purity” is to be taken literally, as the menorah and the shulchan (table) are the only two vessels described as being pure (the shulchan is described as pure in Vayikra 24:6) because they are the only ones upon which no sacrifice’s blood is ever placed, in any context.

It is Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin (Netziv) who presents the most innovative approach to understanding the significance of the purity of the menorah in a comment where he directly disagrees with the approach of Rashi. The purity of the menorah has nothing to do with “pure gold,” he explains, it is purely a function of the menorah’s essence, not the essence of its only ingredient. Netziv explains that the light of the menorah can only shine when the generation itself is pure in its deeds. A generation which is itself impure will only merit to see the menorah become extinguished.

Since the purpose of the menorah is to serve as a metaphor for the light of the Torah, it lights the way for innovation in Torah learning, also known as the concept of Hiddushei Torah. (Netziv Shmot 25:31)

The Mishkan itself is replete with symbolism. Much of commentary on these parshas and the latter half of the book of Shmot, focuses on the hidden message embedded within the images we have in our heads of golden structures and holy vessels aimed at creating an edifice of spiritual pursuits.

What are we doing to achieve our own purity? Do we focus on the ingredients — the “frum-looking external deeds” a.k.a. pure gold — or do we focus on the purity of the totality of our existence?

It has been said before that more people ask their rabbi about the kosher status of food items and restaurants than about other aspects of their personal religious experience — such as whether it is appropriate to cut corners when declaring income for tax purposes. To use one example, a friend of mine who is a pulpit rabbi, who also teaches in high school, marvels over how he gets “emergency” calls of the status of pizza shops kosher certification while he is teaching.

Symbolically, the light of the menorah represents the light which shines in the darkness, aimed at setting us on the proper path in our Jewish lives. Let us focus, as the Netziv says, on the purity of the totality of our existence, rather than on the purity of the ingredients which may make us “look” more observant.

The essence of the good Jew is one who is “tocho k’bar’o,” whose inside is as honest and ethical and living the straight life as is the outside image he presents to the world.