The Incredible Human Spirit

B'Midbar

by Rabbi Avi Billet

There are seven instances in the Torah when a tally of the army-age males is given to us. Twice they are rounded to "600,000 foot soldiers" (Shmot 12:37 and Bamidbar 11:21). The first three times they are counted to more exact specifications, first with the half-shekel (38:26) and twice in our parsha (1:46 and 2:32), the census result is 603,550. The last two "exact numbers" are: 601,730 (Bamidbar 26:51) and "none missing from that count" (Bamidbar 31:49).


While the fact that the two censuses in our parsha return the same numbers is not surprising, the fact that they are the same as the census at the end of the book of Shmot is quite surprising.

Since Vayikra began on the first of Nissan, and Bamidbar begins on the first of Iyar, we can suggest equal numbers are on account of a minimal passage of time.

And yet, we know that people die every day. Certainly individuals between age 20 to 60 died during that month. Nadav and Avihu died. The blasphemer presumably died (the Meshekh Chokhmah points out that the Torah does not say that "he died" in Vayikra 24:23, but it is pretty clear that he did).

There is a discussion in the Midrash Eichah Rabba as to how many people died during the years in the desert. Was it 15,000 per year? Was it 15,000 plus a little? Did the numbers fluctuate year to year? Did only 60 year-olds perish, or did people get to live longer, even though the exodus generation were all destined to die in the desert? The Ritva on Baba Batra 121a explores all the particulars, recognizing that the arguments only become relevant after the incident with the spies (Bamidbar 13-14), when the forty-years decree is made.

In our parsha, we are still a few months before that episode.

I believe this is the explanation for why there is no discrepancy in the censuses of 603,550.

Until the incident of the spies, the path of the Israelite nation was to march to the land of Canaan, to take it over as per God's promise and command, and to build a temple in the "place that God will choose" (Devarim 12).

With a mishap here and there, God surely foresaw what would transpire and knew the numbers would somehow remain balanced because 603,550 was supposed to be the size of the army conquering the land – no more and no less.

Once the setbacks begin in Bamidbar 11 and culminate with the spies three chapters later, the natural order of the world could continue. 24,000 die in Bamidbar 25:9, and yet the difference in numbers from our parsha to the census that takes place one chapter after that plague, (around 38 years after the original census) is a little less than 2,000 people. 

The ways of God are unknown to us, but the power of the human spirit is something we see very often. Sometimes doctors will give a person a limited amount of time to live, only to see the person defy the medical textbooks, and then some.

Sometimes a marriage of 5 or 6 decades ends with a death, and a perfectly healthy widow or widower dies shortly thereafter, having wanted only to "be with" the spouse who passed first.

While I cannot account for how individuals did not enter the 20-year-old zone, I imagine that those Israelites who experienced the Exodus and wanted only to see the Promised Land were able to mobilize the incredible human spirit to delay the course of how things "might have been."

In this week following our president's flip-flop in his hopes for Israel, and the aftermath of a strong AIPAC conference, let us hope that the human spirit of our people and the State of Israel will retain its resolve to see the Promised Land for what God promised it would be in good times (in last week's parsha Vayikra 26:3-13): a land where the rain falls and the crops grow, where you can live securely without the sword passing through. Where a minimal army will easily defeat a multitude of enemies, who will be chased away and fall by the sword if they choose to fight. Where our numbers will only grow, and God's sanctuary will forever be in our midst.

Of Curses and Mourning - A Lament About Sefirah Practices

Bechukotai and Sefirat Haomer

by Rabbi Avi Billet
Do a search on the internet for "Klausenberger Rebbe" and you'll find the deceased rebbe has a Facebook page. Add the word "tochacha" to your search, and you'll find a story about a time he was in shul for the reading of the tochacha, and he told the reader to read the section in a loud voice. Rabbi Frand, who tells the story, records the Rebbe's explanation for this contrarian position to an ancient custom.

"This can be read quietly when you are afraid that it might happen and you don't know what is going to happen to you once it happens. We, however, have already lived through this [in the Holocaust] and we are still here. This is now something that we are proud of… The Tochacha is now our badge of honor. It will no longer be read silently. It will be read completely out loud! We can say 'We were there. It happened to us and we have remained Jews of integrity.'"

The tochacha carries with it God's promise of His personal vengeance against those who do not follow His ways, followed by His promise to send a sword against His people when they veer from the path. The sword will presumably be carried by enemies appointed by God.

In this period of Sefirat HaOmer, it is quite poignant to think of these promises at a time when we continue to observe certain "mourning practices" over the loss of the students of Rabbi Akiva, more than eighteen hundred years ago.

Which devastating period for the Jewish period was the fulfillment of the tochacha? Was it the destruction of the Temple? The period of the Crusades? The Inquisition? Chmielnicki? Pogroms? The Holocaust? Arab terror?

Was the Klausenberger Rebbe right? Or is the worst still to come? How do we reconcile this all with the reality of a promise that seems to be ongoing, and perhaps everlasting? Will we always be responsible for the bad behavior?

I think it comes in waves. It took 1700 years of Jewish wandering until this incredible country we reside in was created. The benevolence and freedoms this nation offered and continues to offer are a Godsend for the Jewish people. In a word, outside of Israel and Jewish sovereignty, "we never had it so good" in a land that was not our own. From the United States of America, as demonstrated through the tolerance and openness of this country, the history of God's "appointed enemies carrying His sword" has taken an altogether different face. In some instances, the US has taken upon itself the role of being the protector and defender of injustice in the world, fighting against those who carry the sword.

So why do we continue to mourn for the students of Rabbi Akiva? Let's say their deaths were the fulfillment of a tochacha punishment. If it comes in waves, then our mourning practices should be limited to Tisha BaAv, as when every other event is commemorated.

I think the deaths of Rabbi Akiva's students carry with them an even more profound significance. In their book, "Why the Jews?" Dennis Prager and Rabbi Joseph Telushkin point out that when picking a monotheistic faith as a substitute for paganism in the Fourth Century, the Roman Empire should have logically picked Judaism to be that replacement.

They claim that 7-10 percent of the people living in the Roman Empire were Jews, many of whom were converts. The philosopher Seneca even remarked that "the conquered have given their laws to the conquerors."

Then Christianity arose from Judaism, presented a more appealing argument of spiritual rather than physical mitzvot plus a Messiah who had already arrived, and the rest, as they say, is history.

What if Rabbi Akiva's students, who lived (and died) at that time, had become the great emissaries of his Torah teachings? What if they had reached out to the greater world and invited people to join them under the wings of the Divine Presence?

In what way would our world look different? What if the whole world really "was" Jewish?

This, like any other "what if" regarding the past, is a pipe dream question which can never be answered. In the USA, I certainly do not ask the question with an eye towards changing any status quo. But the hypothetical question is still compelling, especially as we learn more and more about ancient civilizations.

The fact that there is hatred and war in the world, perhaps on account of the loss of the potential teachings that could have easily spread Judaism like wildfire, is most unfortunate. We continue to ask "what if" when we observe the mourning practices of Sefirat HaOmer because the opportunity they had in those days might never come again.
 
And that is a reason to mourn..

The Special Beauty of Shabbos

Parshat Behar

by Rabbi Avi Billet

If the Torah is of divine authorship, why does it repeat itself so much? Did God forget what He had already written when He chose to repeat an idea? And not just any idea, but an entire verse – word for word? Compare 26:2 to 19:30 and you'll find the exact same words: "Observe my Sabbath and revere my temple, I am God."

The phrase "Observe my Sabbath" appears one more time in the book of Vayikra, when it is connected to the commandment of revering one's parents. (Vayikra 19:3)

What is the connection?

When one examines the last few verses of our parsha, one sees a very clear reference to the first four utterings of the Decalogue: the Israelites are my avadim (servants or subjects) because I took them out of Egypt; you are not to make idols, monuments or stones for worship purposes; do not bow down to them; observe My Sabbath and revere My Temple.

The commandment to honor one's parents (as it appears in Shmot 20), or to revere them (as it appears in Vayikra19:3), is conspicuously absent here – it seems to be replaced by the commandment to revere the Temple. What gives?

Rashi famously asks at the beginning of the parsha "What is the reason for discussing the laws of shmittah at Sinai?" The answer to this question is the subject of much homiletical discourse.

But perhaps the parsha ends with a reference to the Ten Commandments, Sinai-originated, of course, to emphasize the importance and significance of the Man-God relationship in our lives (the general theme of the first five of the 'commandments' there), and how it even exists when we are discussing the laws of the shmittah and of charity and of the Jewish eved.

Why is the relationship to parents, then, left out of the discussion?

There are three ways we are instructed to relate to God: To love God (Devarim 6:5, 10:12, 11:1,13,22, 19:9, 30:6,16,20), to fear/revere God (Vayikra 19:14,32; 25:17,36,43, Devarim 13:5), and to honor/respect God (Shmuel I 2:30). There are two ways we are instructed to relate to our parents: to fear/revere them (Vayikra 19:3), and to honor/respect them (Shmot 20:11, Devarim 5:15). There are two ways to relate to the Temple: to revere it (Vayikra 19:3, 26:2) and not to desecrate it (Vayikra 20:3, 21:23).

We are instructed to revere God, Temple and parents. We are instructed to honor/respect God, to avoid desecrating the Temple, and to revere parents. We are told to love God, but are not instructed to love our parents or the Temple.

I think that the repeated verse we began with is meant to teach us an important lesson, in code. Parents and the Temple are to be equated. There is no instruction to love either one, as there is to love God, for example, because the love is either there or it is not. It either comes naturally, or it does not. And if it does not come naturally, one needs to work on it if one wants it. As long as the reverence and respect for one's parents is there, and as long as one reveres the Temple and takes no steps to desecrate it, one is operating in a positive direction.

And the connection to Shabbos is manifestly clear. On what day of the week does one have the opportunity to spend the most time in the Temple? On what day of the week do parents have the chance to spend the most amount of time with their children? The answer to both is "Shabbos." And it is through the observance of the Shabbos that we spend the best quality time aimed at building the uncommanded loving part of our relationships with our parents or children and with our Temples and our experiences there.

So now the question becomes one of how do we utilize all these lengthy hours of quality time? Does the relationship between parents and children grow – through quality meals, singing, learning together? Or do the parents nap most of the day while their children are playing God-knows-what-God-knows-where?

Does the Temple become a place of reverence and non-desecration? Or is there talking during the service, idle chatter in the hallways, and a general disregard for what the Temple on Shabbos is supposed to look like?

The three final verses in our parsha remind us of the spiritual side of the Decalogue. It is through our honor, reverence and love of God that we come to observe and remember the Shabbos, and it is through our proper, family oriented approach to observing the Shabbos that children can come to revere their parents and respect the Temple.

These are ideals that are worthy of repetition. Over and over again.

Because It's the Truth

This is an essay I wrote a few months ago. I was thinking of sending it to a Jewish newspaper, but whatever. The topic has been bugging me for a while, so I share with you in hopes it will reach someone who can relate.

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Sometimes coincidental occurrences over a short period of time relegate me to thinking that my life consists of monthly themes. One month my focus and thought will be on a particular question related to a Torah narrative. Another month I'll be preoccupied with an educational philosophy question. A fascinating book might occupy the better part of a few weeks' conversations, as messages and lessons gleaned from the book are consistently raised in the course of daily dialogues I'll engage in.

Of late, I've had a number of people, particularly parents in the 38-48 year-old range, approach me to talk about their children. The story is more or less the same. "My kid is a teenager. Judaism has no meaning to her/him. S/he has no interest in davening. How can I get this to change?"

On the death of Bin Laden

There is a question which has been coming up this week regarding whether it is appropriate to celebrate the death of Osama Bin Laden. In simple terms, I think it is appropriate to celebrate the end of an era, and to look forward to a brighter future, to delight in the achievements of the US military, and to feel good about one's country - all while leaving out any gloating or particular joy over a worthless individual's death.

I elaborated on these points and others in a shiur I gave last night, which I have posted online at yutorah.org. If you are interested in it, the link is here:  On the death of Bin Laden

Precautionary Measures

Parshat Emor

by Rabbi Avi Billet

The description of the lighting of the Menorah appears three times in the Torah: in Parshat Tetzaveh (Shmot 27:20-21), in our parsha (24:2-3), and at the beginning of Parshat B'haalotkha (Bamidbar 8:2-4). The contexts are different – the creation of the priestly clothing, one of the Torah's presentations of the holidays, and as a precdent to the purification process of the Levites, respectively.

The B'haalotkha passage is different in that it describes how Aharon will conduct himself "when lighting the candles." The other two passages are very similar to one another, containing a few subtle differences that might even be missed at first glance.

In reference to the candles, Parshat Tetzaveh begins with Moshe being told that "Aharon and his sons will set it up," while in Emor, Moshe is told that "Aharon will set it up." Two questions emerge: Why does God refer to the candles in the singular ("it"), when seven candles need to be set up? Why are Aharon's sons left out in our parsha's instruction?

Regarding the singular form of "setting it up" the Torah Temimah implies from a midrashic passage that it could come to pass that different kohanim could be responsible for different candles. The seven candles could even be lit individually before being inserted into the menorah. As such, Aharon's family were responsible for the set-up of one of the seven candles.

Incredibly, a seemingly inconsequential word presented in the singular form ("אותו - oto") teaches us that for some religious rites, they need not be confined to a single person. There is much room in Jewish life for shared responsibility. For example, no job that is filled by volunteers in a synagogue should be held exclusively by any individual for any lengthy period of time (salaried individuals are a different story). Gabbais, baalei tefillah, Torah readers should be changed around on a regular basis. This is a context where "spreading the wealth" is a good thing. The more that people feel this sense of responsibility, the more they feel involved and significant, the less they will come to despise those who "hog" all the honors.

This seems to contradict our second question. Why are Aharon's sons included in Tetzaveh, but left out of setting up the candles in Parshat Emor? If we're sharing the wealth of serving God, Aharon's sons should certainly be included!

The Meshekh Chokhmah looks at the context of Emor and says that once we're talking about the holidays, which was a special time for the kohen gadol (based on Yerushalmi Chagiga 2:4), it is appropriate to mention the kohen gadol's exclusive role with respect to setting up the menorah.

I think, however, that there is a practical reason Aharon's sons were removed from the clearance list of setting up the menorah. Since the advent of Parshat Tetzaveh, two of Aharon's sons have entered an arena which was actually exclusive to their father, and they paid heavily for their impertinence, losing their lives in the process.

The Baal Haturim suggests (24:3) that Aharon would not allow Elazar or Itamar to enter the sanctuary alone, out of his concern that they would meet a similar fate to their deceased brothers. Once he was there with them, he would obviously have first rights in setting up the menorah.

There is a time and place for everything. Two of Aharon's sons had taken advantage of their right to enter the sanctuary, and applied it to an activity that was out of the confines of the services they could perform: the burning of ketoret. Collective punishment is not always a good idea, but when lives are at stake, as was the case with Aharon's sons, it is sometimes a necessity.

Life consists of peaks, valleys and stops everywhere in between. Sometimes we learn from mistakes to never repeat them, and sometimes precautions are put into place to avoid the problem altogether in the future. Sometimes, out of context, the precautions may even seem silly. Think kitniyos on Pesach, some elements of muktzeh, certain strictures in kashrus supervision, and even some of the laws of yichud.

The people who put these rules in place were not dummies – they knew exactly what they were doing. And we need to understand the rules in context, to realize how much insight into human nature and human psychology they really had. The precautionary rules were put into place to prevent us from violating laws that, from a Torah perspective, should be inviolable.