Refining the Soul

We need our rituals and customs the way our ancestors needed the mishkan – because deeply embedded in them are ways of refining our souls

Parashat Terumah 5770

One of our synagogue’s religious school teachers walked in to my office quite distressed. “Rabbi,” he said, “I can’t get my religious school kids to practice their Hebrew. All I ask of them is 10 minutes a day to review the Amidah! Don’t they get it, Rabbi? If they would only practice now, it would be a lot easier for them when they start preparing for their bnei mitzvah. But the kids tell me that they have too many other things to do, other commitments, other priorities. I don’t get it… don’t they understand that in the end, this is what’s going to matter?”

The teacher is right, but the problem is that the students don’t understand why it matters. We – rabbis and Jewish educators – have not done enough to communicate the value that Judaism can have in the lives of Jews. And we can no longer count on the tribal loyalty that kept our people together in the past. Our parents and grandparents joined shuls because, in the face of discrimination, Jews had to stick together. For many of them, it didn’t matter a whole lot if they understood the service or could appreciate the rituals. Many people belonged because they felt a need to uphold an ethnic heritage. But, that’s no longer the case. We’ve made it in America. Jews are – thankfully – part of the fabric of this society. I wouldn’t want it any other way, (I’m not interested in going back to the shtetl!) but it means that we can no longer count on tribal loyalty or a siege mentality to keep us together.

And this is true across our society. We are freer than we’ve ever been, with more choices than ever before. There is no lack of stuff with which to fill our lives, no lack of activities with which to fill our time, and no lack of entertainment with which to fill our minds. But I sincerely believe that, at our core, as human beings we have a yearning. We yearn for meaning, purpose, and connection. And that’s what has not changed since the beginning of time. It is that yearning that created religion and it is that yearning to which we, as religious leaders and teachers and parents must respond. Most Jews today have little interest in sustaining institutions for their own sake or submitting to someone else’s authority. They want religion on their own terms. I hear it a lot: “rabbi, I’m a spiritual person, but I don’t believe in organized religion.” (To which I say, “I don’t believe in organized religion either… that’s why I belong to the Conservative Movement”).

Jews – by-in-large – want religion on their own terms. Whether they affiliate with a synagogue or not, Jews expect more today. And, frankly, I’m glad for that. I’m not interested in preserving Judaism like some artifact in a glass case. I’m delighted that Jews are expecting more of religion, I’m glad Jews are asking for meaning; but, as a rabbi, it is challenging. I spent years studying Hebrew and Aramaic; dissecting ancient narratives; comparing fragments of manuscripts; learning the tools of textual hermeneutics. We have a beautiful and ancient tradition that is often hard to access. And the challenge for Jewish educators and Rabbis is to help people connect to that tradition.

And it isn’t easy - especially on a week like this. Parashat Terumah is not an easy parsha to talk about. The entire parsha is devoted to the minute details of the Mishkan (the portable sanctuary our people travelled with in the wilderness). In fact, the Torah spends the better part of 5 parshiot on the details of the mishkan and its construction. At first glance, this is boring! If you’re a Jew who walks in off the street, predisposed to think Judaism is just another antiquated religion whose concerns and demands have nothing to do with your life – and all you heard was this parsha – you’d walk out and probably never come back!

So, I want to say something to that disaffected and alienated Jew. And, more importantly, I want to address myself to the religious school kid in each and every one of us who was forced to learn words we didn’t understand. I could give you a lot of good reasons to be Jewish; but, if forced to sum it up while standing on one foot, I would teach you just this: The purpose of the commandments – the purpose of practicing Judaism – is to refine your soul.

Our sages asked the following question: “What does God care whether a person slaughters an animal in the proper Jewish way or not? What does God care whether a person eats kosher or non-kosher animals?” (And we could just as easily ask of our parsha: What does God care whether the ark in the mishkan is 2 ½ cubits long or 3 cubits long?) To these questions our sages say this: “Lo natnu ha-mitzvot elah l’tzaref bahem et ha-briot.” “The mitzvot were given for no other purpose than to refine humanity.”[1] In the words of Rabbi David Wolpe – the purpose of the mitzvot is “to grow our souls.”[2]

So, let’s take a closer look at our parsha. What is the purpose of all these construction specs? How does knowing the dimensions of the ark help us to refine our souls? My mentor, Rabbi Brad Artson, teaches the following: He asks – why is it that on top of the ark there are two angelic figures (called Kruvim, or cherubs)? According to the Second of the Ten Commandments, we are to make nothing that resembles an idol or statue. And, yet, right here in the very center of the holiest place are two figurines with human faces!

The Torah says: “make two cherubim of gold… at the two ends of the cover. The cherubim shall have their wings spread above them, shielding the cover with their wing. There I will meet with you… from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Covenant.”[3] Rabbi Artson – citing the 13^th Century French commentator known as Hizkuni – teaches that “the cherubim are permissible, even though they appear to violate the prohibition against statues, because they are made not to be worshipped, but rather to symbolize God’s invisible, glorious throne. The Cherubim point to a higher truth: the invisibility of the God of Israel.”[4] In other words, the purpose of this physical place – the Mishkan, with all of its detailed adornment and visual splendor, is actually to direct our attention to the intangible transcendence that is God. By its very physicality, it points to that which is beyond the physical. That where God is truly to be found is in the open space between two faces looking at one another. This is also why, when God commands the Israelites to build the mishkan He says “v’Assu li mikdash, v’shachanti b’tocham.” “Build for me a sanctuary, and I will dwell amongst them.” The Torah does not say that God will dwell in the mishkan. The sanctuary cannot confine God. Instead, the purpose of this structure is for us to create a space in our lives where God can come in. And, one of those places is in the encounter between two human faces.

That’s a profound lesson! And it isn’t obvious on the surface of the text. It takes work to find it and it takes dedication to unlock the value and depth of our tradition. Spirituality is fine… but the lesson of the mishkan is that spirituality isn’t something that simply happens on its own. It’s something we make, it’s something we do, it’s something we work on as a community. We need our rituals and customs the way our ancestors needed the mishkan – because deeply embedded in them are ways of refining our souls.

My religious school teacher was spot-on in his question when he asked: “Don’t they understand that in the end, this is what’s going to matter?” That right. In the end, in the ultimate end, what matters – what we will be judged on – is not how many toys we collected, how many movies we’ve seen, or how many deals we made in our lives.

God placed within each of us a soul, and our task here on Earth is to refine it; so, that one day, when we return to God, we can say that the soul You have given me is more refined, more elevated, more deepened, more beautiful, than when You gave it. True, it is also burdened by some sins, some shortcomings, some pain, and some sorrow; but, it is also beautified by having given to others, by having learned, and by having loved. That is why we are here today.

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[1] Paraphrased. See Mishna Tanchuma on Parashat Shmini (Buber Edition 15b) and Bereshit Rabbah 44:1. Also cited by Nachmanides on Deut. 22:6.

[2] I strongly recommend Rabbi David Wolpe’s book, Why Be Jewish?

[3] Exod. 25:19-22

[4] Bradley S. Artson. The Bedside Torah. (Contemporary Books, 2001), p. 139.

Standing at Sinai

The custom of standing for the chanting of the Ten Commandments reminds us that each one has a memory of having heard God at Mt. Sinai.

Parashat Yitro / 22 Sh’vat 5770

This morning, when we read the Torah we stood up for the recitation of Asseret Ha-Dibrot (the Ten Commandments). This custom of standing for Asseret Ha-Dibrot is based on the Torah itself, which describes how all of the Children of Israel – young and old, man and woman, every last one – stood at the foot of Mount Sinai and had a direct experience of God’s word. But this custom of standing during parashat Yitro is not merely symbolic – it isn’t that we stood here “as if” we were at Sinai. It is not a re-creation of a past event. Our standing during the 10 Commandments this morning was actually a re-living of something we all experienced. According to the Talmud, the soul of every Jew was at Sinai.[1] Every soul that was every born and every soul to be born was there. We believe that even converts were there too (for they too have a Jewish soul). Every one of us was there.

I don’t know exactly what the Talmud means by telling us that we were all at Sinai. My mind cannot grasp that literally, nonetheless, I sincerely believe it to be true. Regardless of what the Sages had in mind, I think they meant to tell us that each of us, somewhere deep within us, somewhere in our spiritual chromosomes, has an experience of the Divine imprinted upon us.

The traditional Biblical Commentators debate what it is that we actually heard standing at the base of Mt. Sinai. (Can you remember what you heard?) From the biblical account itself, we know that whatever we heard was utterly overwhelming. The Torah says that after God’s revelation to us, we recoiled in fear.[2] So, what did we hear? Some say we heard God proclaim every word of the Ten Commandments. Others say that God actually uttered only the first two, in which God speaks in the first person. The remaining eight, which are worded in the third person, were perhaps spoken by Moses. And there is also a Hasidic teaching that says that we only heard the first letter of the first word – the silent letter alef in Anochi.[3] I like that teaching because there is something deeply true expressed in it. Whatever God “spoke” at Sinai, I find it hard to believe that the experience for us was anything like what we call “hearing.” Indeed the Torah reports that when God finished speaking, we “saw the sounds” (“ve-kol ha-am ro’im et ha-kolot”). So, whatever it is that happened, it was an experience like no other on this plane of existence.

So, if we were all present at Sinai and if each of us encountered God there, the question is how do we unlock that memory of God’s essence that is deep in the recesses of our soul’s memory? How do we experience Sinai again? Two weeks ago, I had the privilege of attending a rabbinic retreat with Rabbi Arthur Green, who is the rector of the rabbinical school at Hebrew College in Boston. Rabbi Green teaches that at the core of a religious life is the human response to God’s silent call. He writes:

To stand in covenant with God is to accept a challenge to regard one’s entire life as a channel for bringing divine presence and blessing into the world. We as a Jewish people, the people of Sinai, made such a commitment, one to which we remain bound forever. To understand us Jews is to realize that we are eternally devoted to that vision. No matter how secular we may declare ourselves, something within us remains priest at that altar.[4]

As I understand Rabbi Green, we relive Sinai every time we pursue the values embodied in the Torah. Our commitment to a more perfect world is the way we make God visible again. Rabbi Harold Shulweis teaches that if you ever want to know how God works in the world, look at your own hands. The Kabbalists talked about collecting up the Divine light that is scattered all over creation. No matter how you describe it or what metaphor you use, God’s essence is waiting to be found by us.

With regard to the 10 Commandments, Art Green goes on to write:

The essential principles… are contained in the first two commandments. “Know the One!” and “Worship nothing less!” The remaining eight are there to define and shape the way we do this, to help that transcendent message enter safely into the lives of real, fallible human beings and societies.[5]

I think Art Green would say that the same goes for all of the commandments. In other words, Judaism – with all of its rules, ethical imperatives, and rituals – is our community’s unfolding response to God. It is the language we speak in response to God’s silent call. If we want to hear God’s word as we heard it at Sinai, we have but to look into our tradition. Torah study, acts of kindness, words of prayer and ritual are all ways of tuning our ears to God’s reverberating call.

According to our tradition we all stood at Sinai. Each of us has an innate sense of what that call sounds like and looks like. Our task is to tune our souls into its echo and to respond.

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[1] BT Shabbat 146a

[2] (Ex. 20:15-16)

[3] Attributed to Reb Menachem Mendel of Rymanov

[4] Arthur Green. Radical Judaism: Rethinking God and Tradition. Chapter 3 (forthcoming from Yale Univ press)

[5] Ibid.