Ki Tisa

Ki Tisa, Exodus 30:11-34:35
Shabbat Parah 

The Holiness of Wholeness—And of Brokenness 

This week's Torah portion contains one of the most dramatic events in the entire Torah, the incident of the Golden Calf. Moses has been on Mount Sinai for a very long time, too long for those Israelites who still carry Egypt in their hearts to wait. They can't maintain their faith in an invisible God without their leader. So they convince Aaron to build them a Golden Calf.

When God tells Moses what has happened at the foot of the mountain, both Moses and God are angry. Moses is able to sooth God's anger, but when he himself descends from the heights of Mount Sinai and sees with his own eyes that his people are dancing around this idol, he smashes the tablets written by the “finger of God.”

Moses goes back up the mountain a second time and then a third time, hoping to be able to start over again, praying for another chance, wondering whether God could ever forgive this people—and whether God could ever forgive him. The third climb began, according to Nachmanides, on the first of Elul (see Nachmanides on Exodus 33:7).

Perhaps he was still struggling to block out of his mind the terrible images of seeing all those people out of control, laughing as they danced around this golden idol, a calf like their Egyptian tormentors used to worship. Perhaps he thought: how could they do it, so soon after they had stood at Mount Sinai and witnessed first hand the thunder and lightning of God’s presence? Why were they so easily diverted? What made them so confused, so afraid to trust what they had just experienced, so quick to betray what they should have embraced?

Moses was angry at himself as well, because he had lost his composure then too. How could he have smashed the tablets? After all, they were touched by God’s own hand! Did Moses actually hurl them against the ground? Or did the holy letters fly away so that all that was left were stones so heavy he couldn’t hold them any more?

Tormented by his own despair and dread, he pleaded with the God he knew only as the Eternal One who always was and always would be to “let me behold Your Presence!” (Exodus 33:18). But even as Moses spoke those words, he knew he had asked the impossible, because no one can see God’s face and live.

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Tetzaveh-Shabbat Zachor

Tetzaveh, Exodus 27:20−30:10 

Is this Burning an Eternal Flame?

Have you ever gone through your iTunes collection and done a search for the word, "light?" Give it a try-I'll wait. I wouldn't be surprised if you had at least a dozen songs there that use the word light in the title. I was doing this search just the other day and was tickled by the songs that came up. The first songs to jump out at me were "In the House of Stone and Light," (by Martin Page); "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," (performed by Meat Loaf); and "One Headlight," (performed by The Wallflowers). There were so many songs that had light imagery in their titles; sunshine, fire, brightness, and more. Light is clearly a fundamental theme in our popular culture. When we are sad, alone, or suffering we resonate with themes of darkness. And when we are in love, happy, or celebrating good times we sing about light.

Light was no less a profound symbol for our ancestors. They understood the cycles of the sun and moon, and day and night. Before the joys of electricity, humanity was held captive by the limits of daylight. The activities of the day would have to cease after nightfall due to the limits of fire and candlelight. Nighttime filled many with a sense of fear and vulnerability, as is evidenced by the presence of the Hashkiveinu prayer in our Maariv liturgy: "Grant, O God, that we lie down in peace, and raise us up, our Guardian, to life renewed" (Mishkan T'filah, p. 160).

Darkness is equated with fear and uncertainty, as any of our children could wholeheartedly tell us. Likewise, light is associated with hope, safety, and peace. It makes sense, therefore, that the maintenance of the lights used in the Tabernacle was clearly defined, and that they came to be seen as a metaphor for the Divine. "You shall further instruct the Israelites to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly ( ner tamid). Aaron and his sons shall set them up in the Tent of Meeting, outside the curtain which is over [the Ark of] the Pact, [to burn] from evening to morning before the Eternal. It shall be a due from the Israelites for all time, throughout the ages" (Exodus 27:20-21).

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Terumah

Exodus 25:1–27:19

By Marci N. Bellows

I had the incredible honor of portraying the character "Mama Rose" in my synagogue's production of Gypsy this past spring. I'm a "theatre person" at my core, and it's my secret identity. Actually, I guess it wasn't such a secret; some of the lay leaders saw the production and my involvement in it, as a wonderful opportunity both for fundraising and for community building. It was an immense amount of work and there were hundreds of hours of rehearsals and memorization involved. I don't know what kind of person in a 24-7 rabbinical job decides to take on one of the biggest roles in Broadway history, but I guess that's a topic for another day.

When I first entered my synagogue, the floor plan took on a personally symbolic meaning. As I took my place on the bimah, I realized that I could see the stage in the social hall directly in front of me. And likewise, if you stand on the stage, you can see the bimah. For me, this was a physical representation of my soul: half musical-theatre, half Judaism. By becoming the rabbi at Temple B'nai Torah nearly four years ago, and then by taking part in Gypsy, I was unifying these two parts of my life in a way I had never believed possible. I had assumed, incorrectly, that I wouldn't be able to find God or a sense of holiness in the theatrical world.

Ask any child, "Where is God?" and she will respond, "Everywhere!" Though we have been virtually programmed to give this response, we might not actually believe it. We might feel that, in order to truly access God, we must be in a particular place or room, like a synagogue or a sanctuary. We might also worry that without particular items in that space, like a Torah or a siddur, God is not present. We also probably assume that without the right words or melodies, God doesn't hear our prayers. Unfortunately, these ways of thinking prohibit us from finding the Divine in the myriad experiences (even the most mundane) of our daily lives.

In these cases, I remember the text from this week's parashah: "And let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them" (Exodus 25:8). The portion this week is quite concerned with all of the furnishings for the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, which will become our holiest space as we wander through the wilderness. We read about the exact measurements of the various fabrics to be used, and which precious metal to use for what item. The level of detail seems to imply that only the best is appropriate as our ancestors build a dwelling place for God. Additionally, the text seems to teach us that if God is dwelling in the Mishkan, then perhaps God is not dwelling elsewhere.

Yet I know that God is, indeed, everywhere. There is Torah to be learned in every situation, and thus there is evidence of God's hand in it all. Everywhere we go and every act we perform has the potential to be sacred.

One of my favorite Talmudic texts takes this idea to the extreme, but makes the point quite well:

Rav Kahana once came and lay under the bed of Rav. He heard how Rav first spoke with his wife, and then laughed with her, and only then attended to his needs, that is, his marital obligations . . . Rav said to him: Kahana, are you here?! Go out, for it is not proper that you be here! Rav Kahana said to him: This, too, is Torah, and I must study it!
(Babylonian Talmud, B'rachot 62a).

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Mishpatim

Mishpatim, Exodus 21:1-24:18, Shabbat Sh’kalim

Coming Down from the Mountain While Still Being There

In January I went on a spirituality retreat. It was an alumni retreat of the Institute for Jewish Spirituality for a group of clergy from around the country who had been part of a two-year program designed to help us deepen our own spiritual commitments. Over the two years, there were four-week-long retreats interspersed with weekly chevrutah study of Chasidic texts. (Chevrutah study, from the root chet-bet-reish, is the intense one-on-one study of a text that one does with a partner.) My chaver (“friend,” or in this case, “partner”) was a rabbi in Boston. For two years we’d meet weekly on the phone and study a text for about an hour, sharing the insights of the texts as a window into our own lives.

The retreats themselves were intense. There was powerful davening, provocative study, yoga, meditation, and a lot of silence. We ate most of the meals in silence—an eye-opening experience. When you’re not talking, you focus more on the food: how it looks on the plate; what it smells like; how it tastes. Whatever food issues you have come up, like: Will there be seconds? Will I get enough? If I’m already full why am I getting up to get more? You notice, and you pay attention.

So going back to the alumni retreat was a gift. It was a blessing and a spiritual high. It took me three days to clear the clutter out of my mind so I could really meditate. I had time to write in my journal. The experience of prayer became intense; things that were confusing became clear. I even had a few epiphanies. And then I came home.

I listened to my voice mail from the office on the way home. Then I stopped at the market to buy food for supper. As soon as I got home, I checked my e-mail. I was stunned at how quickly the high faded away and life got back to normal, with only an occasional echo of clarity.

That’s what this week’s Torah portion is about. Last week we were at Mount Sinai—a spiritual trip so powerful that every one of us had an out-of-body experience where we saw the thunder and heard the lightning. Last week we each had an experience of God, hearing God speak to us. Tradition differs as to what exactly was transmitted, but whatever we heard, it was powerful enough to change our lives and the life of our community, forever.

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