VA’YIKRA: Replacing sacrifice with prayer
(Leviticus1:1-5:26)
By Rabbi Corinne Copnick
“The people I formed for Myself
Shall declare My praise!”
(Isaiah 43:21, Haftarah for Va’yikra) [1]
“I am the first and I am the last,
And there is no god but Me.”
(Isaiah 44:6, Haftarah for Va’yikra) [2]
With the call of God [Va’yikra] to Moses, the book of Leviticus begins. This is the Priestly book, an enunciation of the Holiness Code, ascribed by biblical scholars to P (along ago compilation by priestly scholars). As religious rites, as acts of contrition, forgiveness, thanksgiving, and joy, sacrifices were universal to all ancient religions, asserts Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut in his excellent book, The Torah: A Modern Commentary. His lengthy essay on Leviticus is well worth reading.
“Leviticus is a still, deep pool. Here, at the end of Exodus, the Israelites remain cramped in the Sinai wilderness, where they worked together to construct a portable sanctuary (“Tabernacle or Tent of Meeting.”) Nearly all of Leviticus presents itself as taking place at that sanctuary – where God spoke to Moses, giving instructions to be conveyed to the people of Israel.”[3]
It is to their credit that ancient Israelites, surrounded by pagan religions in which child sacrifice was a common practice, forbade sacrifice of that kind. Instead, for more than a thousand years, they substituted animal sacrifice, as we learned in the early biblical story of Abraham and Isaac. However, animal sacrifice was conducted according to strictly defined, humane rules, which also provided for sacrifices of meal (grains) rather than animals and for a portion reserved for their priests. What you were required to sacrifice depended on what you could afford – and in accordance with your sense of guilt.
Vayikra offers insight into early Israelite sacrifice practices by explaining in great detail – so much detail, in fact, that for people in this century, it is rather repellent to read about it — the five types of sacrifices allowed. The first three are voluntary, the last two obligatory.
The Hebrew concept of sacrifice also provided for inviting friends and family to partake in the feast of a well-being sacrifice (after the priests were allotted their share). So it did provide for a communal meal amid much thanksgiving and joy. The sacrificial food had to be completely consumed. It could not be left over for the next day. Not exactly our modern, celebratory barbecue in the garden on happy occasions, but it came close.
Notably, the Book of Deuteronomy, usually regarded as a summary of the previous four books of the Torah, makes no mention of the rules for sacrifice.[5] By the time the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in Jerusalem (then the central and only place in Israel where animal sacrifice was permitted) in 70 A.D., the Jewish synagogue system had already taken hold to some degree in Israel. The rabbis in their wisdom discontinued animal sacrifice and, instead, substituted prayers. It was no longer necessary to show contrition through animal sacrifice. Prayer was the answer. Now one could atone for sins committed and ask for forgiveness through prayer. Making restitution, if possible, was also required. Only when the person or persons did not repeat wrong-doing when faced with the same situation(s) was forgiveness complete. So began the tradition of Tikkun Olam, healing the world, which is central to modern concepts of Judaism.
“PRAYER INVITES
God’s Presence to suffuse our spirits,
God’s will to prevail in our lives.
Prayer may not bring water to parched fields,
nor mend a broken bridge,
nor rebuild a ruined city.
But prayer can water an arid soul,
mend a broken heart,
rebuild a weakened will.” [6]
[1] Michael Fishbane, The JPS Bible Commentary: Haftarot (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 2002) 149
[2] Ibid., 152.
[3] The Torah: A Modern Commentary, Revised Ed. (New York: Union for Reform Judaism Press, 2006) 658.
[4] Ibid.,659.
[5] Ibid., 644.
[6] Rabbi Elyse D. Friedman, Ed., Mishkan Tefillah: A Reform Siddur (New York: CCAR, 2007) 75.
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2018. All rights reserved.
Vayakhel-Pekudei: Building a Community
(Exodus 35:1-40:38)
By Rabbi Corinne Copnick
As we begin to read this portion, there is a sense of déjà vu. We have so recently read about this exacting blueprint for the Tabernacle, the materials needed to build it, the priests’ vestments, and so on. So is Vayakhel-Pekudei redundant–or was the earlier portion, Terumah, a redactor’s mistake? At first, Vayakhel-Pekudei does seem to be a repetition of Terumah, which described the Divine command to build a Mishkan (Hebrew for Tabernacle). Some rabbis do think the earlier portion is out of sequence, that its place should be here, the parasha we are reading now. Yet others differ. Both portions complement one another, these rabbis suggest, because the purpose of each parasha is different. And, taken together, they give a fuller picture.
The Gathering of the People
Envisioned by Divine instruction, Terumah was intended to provide a microcosm of the cosmos so that God could dwell among the people. Thus the Israelites would not be alone in the wilderness. That was the purpose of the Tabernacle. The double portion, Vayakhel-Pekudei, by contrast, is about the gathering of the community to put the blueprint into practice – to physically and creatively build a beautiful place for God’s presence to dwell among them. The Tabernacle would serve as an instrument of unification. As the people united to construct the Tabernacle, they would also be building their own community.
With God’s instruction in mind, Moses took leadership, first in gathering the people (Vayakhel means “he gathered”), and then in inspiring them to donate the materials for the Tabernacle’s construction:
“gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen and goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and the breastpiece” (Exodus 35; 5-9)
Even in their haste, the Israelites had brought some transportable wealth (“brooches, earrings, rings, and pendants – gold objects of all kinds,” as well as copper and silver) with them from Egypt, and they gave generously of whatever they had, the yarns, the fine linen, the skins, the acacia wood. As the donations of the people poured in, the chieftains “brought lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece; and spices and oil for lighting, for the anointing oil, and for the aromatic incense” (Exodus 35: 22-29).
Soon no more contributions were necessary. There was more than enough to build the Mishkan!
At this point, skill and experience came into the picture. A talented artist, Bezalel, had been specially selected to supervise the project, together with Oholiab, who complemented Bezalel’s creative abilities with competence in construction and various crafts (Exodus 35:4-38:20). Now each person, both male and female, was exhorted to help in accordance with the skills, arts, and experience they individually possessed. For example, “all the women who excelled in that skill spun the goats’ hair….Thus the Israelites, all the men and women whose hearts moved them to bring anything for the work that the Lord, through Moses, had commanded to be done, brought it as a freewill offering for the Lord” (Exodus 35: 26-29). So the giving of generous donations was built into the maintenance of the Jewish community a long, long time ago! (Pekudei refers to the Records of the community.)
A Security Blanket
With the building of a portable Tabernacle underway, the production of the priestly vestments began, and when everything was completed, Moses blessed the ancient Israelites for the wonderful work that they had done. The priests were robed (we also read about their fine vestments in Tetzaveh), anointed, and consecrated. Only then was it time for the cloud – representing the presence of God – to make its appearance so that the presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle. In what might be considered the most important verses of this portion, a description is given of a cloud covering the Tabernacle (the Mishkan) by day, while a fire would burn by night (Exodus 40: 36-38).
“When the cloud lifted from the Tabernacle, the Israelites would set out, but if the cloud did not lift, they would not set out until such time as it did lift. For over the Tabernacle a cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the house of Israel throughout their journeys” (Exodus 40: 36-38)
Together, the cloud and the fire constituted a kind of security blanket as the Israelites continued their journey, knowing that they had a beautiful, portable place they could call home – one built by their own efforts — and that the presence of God would accompany them on their journeys and protect them when they rested.
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2018. All rights reserved.
Ki Tissa: What Makes a Leader a Leader?
By Rabbi Corinne Copnick
The Torah sequence we read last week concerned the artistry and exacting specificity involved in the building of the Tabernacle. Intended to be a microcosm of the cosmos, it also became a uniting community project. I find it hard to admit that I am getting a little older, but as I read various commentaries this week in preparation for my own take on this week’s parsha, Ki Tissa, which means “when you add up”) I fell in love with a midrash that gave me great comfort:
“During his forty days and nights on Mount Sinai, Moses learned much but kept forgetting what he learned. Said he in despair: ‘I know nothing!’ Therefore God gave him the Torah as a gift. Could Moses indeed have learned the whole Torah – of which it is said that it is ‘longer than the earth and broader than the sea’ (Job 11:9). No, therefore God taught him only the principles (and hence gave him the tablets” [1].
Yes, it’s a good thing to have ten commandments on two tablets that simplify principles teaching us how to come close to God by leading a moral life. However, as Richard Elliott Friedman points out, sometimes the overwhelming intimacy of that closeness to God causes people to pull away, to rebel. “It is when God is closest that humans commit the greatest sin,” Friedman claims [2].
It is also true that when that intimacy – in this case, divine intimacy — recedes, humans may become fearful, try to find a substitute to fill the vacuum. That is what happens in Ki Tissa when Moses leaves the ancient Hebrews in the desert at the foot of the mountain and spends 40 days at the top coming close to God, even dangerously close to God. When he finally descends with the two tablets of the commandments for the people, his face is radiant. He glows with the light of God.
Unfortunately, without their leader for so long, the Hebrew people had become fearful. They needed a protector. With the reluctant help of Aaron, Moses’ brother and second-in-command, they constructed a Golden Calf, made with the donated, melted-down, golden earrings of the people. “All the people took off the gold rings that were in their ears” (Exodus 32:3). This golden creature of their own manufacture simplified the idea of God for the people, kept the Divine close because they could see it. The artist Bezalel had so recently shown them how to construct a Tabernacle so that the Holy Spirit could dwell within. Now, through the agency of Aaron, a peaceful man who was afraid of confrontation, the people made a calf, an imitation of the cultic worship of the bull, symbolizing fertility and strength to the pagan Canaanites. For the Hebrews, in the absence of their leader, Moses, the Golden Calf would be a vessel holding the spirit of El, God. They could believe in its protection.
But when Moses descended from the mountain and saw the people dancing around this egel masehah, this Golden Calf, this idol, he was furious. In anger, he smashed the two tablets of the law. Then he demanded an explanation from Aaron. What had happened?
Aaron tried to make excuses for the deficiency in his leadership. “They gave me gold, and I threw it into the fire and out came this calf,” he said in self-defense (Exodus 32:22-24). It was the people’s fault. It happened by itself.
In his essay, “How Leadership Fails,” Rabbi Jonathan Sacks is clear on the attributes of leadership. Leadership can fail for both external and internal reasons, he writes. If there are external reasons, maybe the time is not right, the conditions are unfair, or there is no one to talk to on the other side. Sometimes even the best efforts may fail. However, internal reasons are a different story. “A leader can simply lack the courage to lead. Sometimes leaders have to oppose the crowd” [3].
Aaron lacked the courage to lead. As a leader, he was a follower. Yet, as a High Priest, Sacks adds, he needed to follow the rules. In this, he was very successful. Leaders, after all, need followers. Aaron and Moses made a good team!
[1] Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut, General Editor. “Gleanings,” The Torah: A Modern Commentary (New York: Union for Reform Judaism, 2005) 602.
[2] Richard Elliott Friedman. Commentary on the Torah: With a New English Translation and the Hebrew Text (USA: Harper Collins, 2001) 281.
[3] Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, “How Leadership Fails,”http://rabbisacks.org/ki-tissa-5774-leaders-fail.
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2018. All rights reserved.
Parshat Tetzaveh: The Mystery of the Urim and Thummim (27:20 – 30:10)
By Rabbi Corinne Copnick
Last week’s portion discussed the physical construction of the Tabernacle (also called the Tent of Meeting). For more understanding of how the Tabernacle was built, I’d like to recommend Rabbi/Hazzan Eva Robbin’s brand new book, Spiritual Surgery [1] which approaches this intricate subject from both a mystical and artistic perspective. In Tetzaveh, this week’s parsha, the Torah describes in a very detailed way the sacral clothing that the priests must wear as officiants.
Since Jews are directed to be “a kingdom of priests” (Shemot 19:6), re-reading Tetzaveh inspires respectful honor of that tradition. Although rabbis and congregants both tend to dress much more casually today, the ancient dress code, replete with adornment crafted from threads made from beaten gold and beautiful designs using blue, purple, and crimson-dyed yarns, was intended to convey elevation and holiness of purpose.
In her recent article, “Sartorial Splendor,” Rabbi Janet Madden takes a scholarly and symbolic approach in explaining the special garments the Israelite priesthood was directed to wear. The priests all wore garments woven from the fine linen (six threads to a strand!) derived from Egyptian culture (sheets made from fine Egyptian weave are still sought after today). Furthermore, the high priest (the Kohen Gadol), was instructed to wear four additional garments [the other priests wore four] to signify the status and literally weighty responsibility of his high office:
“the efod, an apron-like garment made of blue-purple and red-dyed wool, linen and gold thread – the colors of royalty; the chosen, a breastplate containing twelve precious stones inscribed with the names of the twelve tribes of Israel; the me’il, a cloak of blue wool, with gold bells and decorative pomegranates on its hem, and the tziz, a golden plate worn on the forehead, bearing the inscription ‘Holy to God’”[2].
He was also instructed to wear linen breeches! The medieval rabbis, Rashi, Ibn Ezra, Nahmanides, and Rashbam, along with many others through the years, all speculate further on the details of these intricate garments [3]. But two additional items have always especially intrigued me: first of all, the hem of the high priest’s garment was ringed with little golden bells – so that he would tinkle wherever he went. The Kohen Gadol was not simply making music; there was a purpose to the bells. Only the High Priest was tasked with entering the Holy of Holies, where the Ark containing the tablets would be kept. The bells were intended to protect him from harm in so closely approaching the Divine word of God. During my rabbinic studies, I once read, but cannot remember the source, that on Yom Kippur, a slender, woven rope was attached to the High Priest’s ankle when he entered that dedicated space, so that he could be pulled out if his sensibilities succumbed to the sacredness of the occasion.
Secondly, under the jeweled breastplate, close to his heart, the High Priest wore the urim and thummim, which are clouded in mystery. In the thousands of years that have passed since ancient Israelite days, no one has ever been able to figure out exactly what they were. According to Rashi, like the various semi-precious jewels on the breastplate, each of which was inscribed with the name of a tribe, “the sons of Israel,” the urim and thummim were inscribed with the true name of God, “the Tetagrammaton. This would be put within the folds of the breastpiece. By means of it, the breastpiece would bring its words to light, ur, and fulfill them, thummim” [4]. For this reason, they were said to be used for discernment, judgment.
How this goal could be achieved is still unknown. Were they cast, like dice? Were they a kind of early, two-part computer working in concert? Were they connected to some mysterious power source – or to the Divine? Were they operated by thought control? When I let my imagination run wild, I imagine that they were a pair of inscribed crystals that echoed sounds, like the spiritual vortex between two crystal-laden mountains in Hawaii.
Interpreting the text in his own way, Nachmanides suggests that they were “put” in the breastplate, but not made by artisans like the other objects. Rather,
“they were a mystery transmitted to Moses directly from the Almighty, and he wrote them in holiness….They were Holy Names, by whose power the letters on the stones of the breastpiece could light up, for the priest who was inquiring of them to read….Now these letters [of the Urim] could have been arranged in any number of ways to spell words. But there were other Holy Names there, called Thummim, through whose power the mind of the priest was “perfected,” thummim, in the knowledge of how to interpret the letters” [5]. (Carasik, 249-250).
But, despite all the great rabbinic minds, no one really knows. Today we simply appreciate the forever mystery.
[1] Spiritual Surgery is available on amazon.com.
[2] Rabbi Janet Madden, Ph.D., “Sartorial Splendor,” www.ajrca.edu, 2018.
[3] See Michael Carasik, Ed. The Commentators’ Bible:Exodus,“Tetzaveh” (Philadelphia: JPS, 2005),242-254.
[4] Ibid., 249.
[5] Ibid., 249-250.
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2018. All rights reserved.
Terumah: The Tabernacle Within (Exodus 25:1-27:19)
“Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”
by Rabbi Corinne Copnick
Although the words “Ark” and “Tabernacle” are sometimes used interchangeably, the Tabernacle is actually what houses the Ark of the Covenant (which in turn houses the Tablets inscribed with the Ten Commandments, and which was portable through the desert). In Parshat Terumah, which takes place well after the Golden Calf episode has subsided, there is a divine awareness that the ancient Israelites needed to have a place to worship – a makom – in order to cement their identification as a people. So, guided by God’s very specific architectural instructions – and by the superbly talented artist that God has chosen, Bezalel – the people find and donate the materials to construct a beautiful setting where they can gather to worship and feel close to God. In later iterations when they actually enter the Promised Land, it will become a Temple.
Every time I read this parsha, I think of John Dryden’s poem, “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” in which he equates universal truth with beauty and beauty with universal truth. “That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know.” Although Dryden didn’t study Kabbalah, beauty is high up on the Kabbalistic ladder of attributes.
And every time I study Terumah, I also think of the Toronto exhibition of recovered Yugoslavian Jewish art treasures, buried for 50 years to save them from the Nazis – the earth had been their protective tabernacle. Over a period of five years, I organized this exhibit (at the request of my good friend, the late Hon. Kalman Samuels, then Honorary Ambassador to Yugoslavia, now the former Yugoslavia). It took place in 1990, shown just before a horrific, new conflict broke out in that country. Smaller than the Czech collection, this display of precious Judaica was held at the beautiful, jewel-like, museum of the substantial Beth Tzedec synagogue. The famous Cecil Roth collection is permanently housed there. On this occasion, though, with the cooperation of the Museum of Zagreb (in Croatia) and the Jewish Museum of Belgrade (in Serbia), and lots of diplomatic help, the Yugoslavian Jewish art treasures, dating back centuries, were on view to the public for two months.
What especially took one’s breath away was the large collection of silk parochets – the embroidered or otherwise patterned curtains that had once shielded the Torah-containing Arks of so many synagogues throughout Yugoslavia – perfectly preserved and hanging in overwhelming splendor from the vaulted ceiling all along the grand stairway that led to the Beth Tzedec’s second floor. It was the inspiration of the museum’s curator, Judith Cardozo, to place them there.
Over the past years, I have traveled a good deal of the world as Guest Staff Rabbi for a prominent cruise line. Some of the places I have visited have been so marked by political strife, extreme poverty, and ugly graffiti, that I could not help thinking it was a good thing “the people” had their religion, their cathedrals and mosques, their beautiful places to which to retreat – and, in the case of Brazil, the frenetic music, dance and costumes of Carnival — in the midst of all this ugliness, or they would simply explode. Faith and beauty, if not truth, were their safeguards.
And, as portrayed by Terumah, in the desert where the ancient Israelites traveled on the way to the Promised Land, God realizes that it is time for the Jewish people to have a place of spiritual beauty – still a transportable one — where they can both worship and feel close to the Divine presence. “And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them,” God instructs Moses.
For this undertaking, the people they will need to bring gifts of the the finest materials: gold, silver, copper; blue (obtained from specific snails), purple, and crimson yarns (probably wool because they held dye well), fine linen, and materials of the desert such as goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins. Fine acacia wood was needed. In addition, oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense were needed. And finally, gems like lapis lazuli and other semi-precious stones for the ephods and breastpieces (of the priests’ garments) (Exodus 25: 3-8).
As we read these passages today, it’s amazing how detailed, how precise, God’s instructions are. As Rabbi Jonathan Sacks comments in “Covenant and Conversation” (5777), the building of the tabernacle is, in effect, a symbolic micro-cosmos reflecting the exact precision of the universe. The instructions given to Noah to build an Ark to save a portion of the world and its creatures were similarly precise. Even the human body, the human genome, requires precision in the way the many details of the body’s composition work together.
Mystics have always understood that mathematics underlies the Torah – underlies the cosmos and every living thing, no matter how large or small. What is most important, in the end, is our interior tabernacle; that is the personal sanctuary we most need to furnish with the light of the menorah and keep it alive, even if we are in a far-away country, even if we don’t own a lampstand.
©️Corinne Copnick, Los Angeles, 2018. All rights reserved.