Ta Shma

I am blessed to have three kids, aged 9, 6, and 2—this means a lot of first days of daycare and school.  These first days are always exciting for us and for them.  We know that they will make new friends, have new experiences, grow and learn in unimaginable ways.  Yet they are also days filled with trepidation; they set off for new and unknown experiences for which we can’t accompany them.  On each of these days, we tuck a family photo in their backpack in a safe place.  With this gesture, we are trying to say:  “Take this with you.  We will be with you whenever you need us.  We hope that that photo can be a source of love and strength and comfort throughout the day.”According to the Zohar, the rainbow from the story of the Flood tried to look after Moshe in the same manner that we try to look after our children.

One of Rashi’s comments in this week’s parashah highlights the rabbinic tradition of interpreting a feature of Hebrew script known as “אותיות חסירות ויתרות” (otiot haseirot v’yeteirot), “missing and extra letters.”  The Hebrew alphabet has no vowel letters, and in most Hebrew writing, the vowel notations (nekudot) are not included; we know how to pronounce words based on context and tradition.  But certain vowels are sometimes “carried” by a silent letter, either a vav (ו) or a yod (י).  In writing words with those vowels, common practice dictates whether they are written with the silent letter or not.  When the writing deviates from common practice, we get the phenomenon of “missing and extra letters,” known in Latin as “defective” and “plene scriptum.”  For our Rabbis, who presumed every letter in sacred scripture to have been carefully and intentionally selected, an extra or a missing letter was understood to be an encoded message, waiting to be deciphered.

When my dad died in my early 20s, I remember being wowed by the ways in which grief came in waves.  One minute, I was crying and couldn’t imagine ever moving through my sadness and several hours later, I was surprised to find myself laughing—actually able to laugh—within the first days of my dad’s death.  With confidence, I realized, this was the way it was going to be.  Each time that I cried and each time that I laughed, I knew it wouldn’t be the last time.  The grief and the joy—they would keep coming in turns, like waves rolling in and out in their own time.

One of the hallmark Rabbinic interpretive techniques is the identification of parallel wording in two different sections of the Torah. In legal interpretation, this is the foundation for the second of R. Yishmael’s “13 principles by which the Torah is interpreted”: the gezeirah shavah, or “the rule of equivalence.” This principle, first quoted in the name of Hillel the Elder, posits that if the same word or phrase appears in two distinct legal cases in the Torah, that is an indication that we can apply the parameters of one law to the other. The original and paradigmatic form of the gezeirah shavah was one in which the word in question appears only twice in the entire Torah.  When there is only one other location that a linking word takes us to, then the inference from one context to the other becomes especially strong.

I am lucky to live a life with no food sensitivities.  I can eat what I want and I’m happy to be an “easy guest,” quick to assure hosts that I have no special food needs.  However, several years ago, in an attempt to identify the cause of my migraines, I found myself a person suddenly with many food sensitivities I was told to avoid.  I went from being a person who could eat everything to a person who approached each meal with anxiety, wondering what food I would find to fill myself up. I was no longer the easygoing guest able to eat whatever was served to me.  Rather, in people’s homes, at conferences, in restaurants, if I was going to eat, I needed to advocate for myself.  I needed to speak up and ask for what I needed.  I found this experience very challenging: I felt uncomfortable identifying my list of food sensitivities; I felt awkward being on the receiving end of special accommodations.  “I would make do,” I thought, “I would manage.”  What happened to being the “easy guest” I pride myself on being?  This experience gave me a small window into so many other people’s lived experiences who are forced to advocate for their needs on a daily basis.

Every year, by good calendrical fortune, we read in Parashat Emor the commandment of Sefirat ha-Omer, the “Counting of the Omer,” during the period in which we actually count the Omer.  This moment of sync between reading and ritual presents us with an opportunity to recognize our contemporary practice as continuous from the words of the Torah.  Yet when we begin to read through those words, we quickly see that our counting ritual today looks very different from the original mitzvah.  

I have always found it difficult to find an observance of Yom HaZikaron and Yom Ha’Atzma’ut that feels meaningful and authentic as a Jew living in the Diaspora.  In Israel, the observance of these holidays is effortless and all-encompassing: you simply have to be present and you are in it, flowing from the intensity of Yom HaZikaron to the joy of Yom Ha’Atzma’ut.  It’s the music on the radio, it’s the tzfirah (siren) in the streets that brings everything to a halt in a moment of silence, it’s the communal get-togethers on Yom Ha’Atzma’ut.  In America, I feel far from all of these observances.  In my home, on these days, we tune into Israeli radio, we stop for the tzfirah, we try to make that tricky transition from grief to joy as Israel moves from a spirit of mourning to celebration.  But, I am distant.  Short of a couple of pieces of liturgy on Yom HaZikaron and hallel and a special Haftarah for Yom Ha’Atzma’ut, there is little to mark these days outside of Israel.  If I’m honest, my observance of these days in the past has felt shallow, like a well-meaning observer trying on someone else’s clothes, copying someone else’s rituals, in an effort to feel close.

The style and content of Parashat Kedoshim remind us immediately of an earlier reading: Parashat Mishpatim—back in the Book of Exodus, just after the revelation.  Both parashiyyot are composed almost entirely of dense legal code: one law after another, for chapter after chapter.  And both open with a framing statement naming a value category that characterizes the laws that follow.With this structural similarity, the Torah places the two primary values named by the two codes—justice and holiness—into dialogue with one another.  We see this in our parashah, whose initial focus is on holiness, but very quickly veers into justice.  But the reverse process we can already see in Parashat Mishpatim, which begins with principles of justice, but eventually turns to holiness, with language that will anticipate Parashat Kedoshim.

For many of us, the past six months have been an education in powerlessness.  From where I sit in America, I felt powerless hearing about the brutality and depravity of October 7.  I felt powerless sitting comfortably in my home while day after day people were held hostage in underground darkness, uncared for and unseen.  I felt powerless as the death toll of Palestinians civilians rose and Gaza’s population fell into immense suffering.  I could do my one minute a day to call my representatives to demand an immediate release of those held hostage.  I could check in with friends and family in Israel with messages of love.  I could donate to organizations getting aid to Palestinian civilians in Gaza.  But, at the end of the day, what power do I have to stop a war, free the hostages, and end the suffering of so many people?  I feel powerless.

With the mishkan operational and the priesthood now in place, Parashat Aharei Mot begins with a description of the service that will be the pinnacle of that system: the Yom Kippur Avodah.