Ta Shma

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.

We Jews, who have been perennial outcasts, ought to read the Torah’s account of the leper with particular care.“Leper,” we should note from the outset, is not really an accurate rendering of the Hebrew, מצורע (metzora).  The biblical affliction of tza’arat is clearly different from what we today call “leprosy,” most obviously so because it can only be fully cured by spiritual means.  Yet the King James translation is helpful in its way, not only because it reminds us of similar symptoms, but also because it gives us a familiar historical point of comparison.Toward the end of last week’s parashah, Tazria, the Torah begins to catalog all manner of skin afflictions and finally comes upon tzara’at—what we’ll call leprosy for the time being.  Then, in Parashat Metzora, we move to the process for curing the leper.  

Ever wondered why we have to drink four cups of wine at our Seders? This class explores the history and the symbolism of this idea and how it transforms from something more functional to the framing around the entirety of Seder night. Fittingly, there are at least four different ways to think about these cups! Recorded on 4/10/24. Source sheet: https://mechonhadar.s3.amazonaws.com/mh_torah_source_sheets/Tabick4Cups2024.pdf

From the very beginning, the Torah imbues certain numbers with great significance.  The first chapter of Genesis carefully divides Creation into seven days.  Seven then becomes the most significant number in nearly all Jewish time rituals—not just Shabbat, but Pesah, Shavuot, Sukkot, as well as the seventh month, the seventh year, the seven cycles of seven years—all of which are then imprinted with the themes of that first seven: creation, rest, and rejuvenation.An awareness of the Torah’s “numbers of distinction” and their significance can help us decode  the complex structure of the birth ritual that opens Parashat Tazria, and the mysterious set of numbers it contains:

There's a catchy song that tells us what we're supposed to do during the Seder and when (Kaddeish Urhatz). But when you dig a little deeper, the song is a little simplistic for the actual Seder structure. How can the giant Maggid section be covered by a single word? And why is Hallel actually split into two? Rav Elie discusses the overall structure of the Seder. Recorded in March 2022 and available as part of a video series on the Haggadah (https://hadar.org/torah-tefillah/resources/seder-really-so-ordered) and our YouTube channel (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2H4xWZqaeIg).

Throughout our history, one of the central institutions of a Jewish community has been the mikveh.  Immersion in this ritual bath was required in Temple times in order to purify oneself after coming into contact with various types of tumah (ritual impurity).  Since then, the practical need for a mikveh has been relegated primarily to the laws of sex and conversion.  Yet the mikveh has taken on a greater significance in Jewish life than its specific halakhic applications would suggest.