Parashat Tzav

Leviticus is a complex book.  At its core, it is about holiness and communion with God, but it’s hard to see beyond the blood, gore, and ashes.

Week after week, we read about the sacrifices to be “turned to smoke” on the altar—a parade of bulls, rams, goats, lambs, and doves is sacrificed and burnt.  What happens with the char that’s left behind?

This week, we learn that “the priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar.  He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments, and carry the ashes outside the camp to a pure place.  The fire on the altar shall be kept burning” (Leviticus 6:3-5).

We are so quick to cast off the used up, burnt out and picked over.  Ours is a culture of productivity, of value.  Why is a bucket of ashes worthy of special treatment? 

Sometimes there is beauty—even holiness—in what’s left behind.  I can remember visiting the Watts Towers as a boy, and being astounded by the ethereal forms made of broken tile and cement.  And I know that when my college roommate died, my grief taught me to understand the human condition better.  The pain, the loss, the anguish—these undoubtedly made me a more caring person.  As the Kotzker Rebbe said, “There is nothing so human as a broken heart.”

Life hurts.  Life leaves scars.  Although our scars may seem like damage, they are in fact evidence of strength, resilience, repair, and survival.  Consider the scars on your body or soul, the ashes in your life.  What’s beautiful about them?  In what ways are they holy?

Vayakel/Pikudei 5772

Some folk have a knack for drawing—they can see something, or even imagine it, pick up a pencil and render it on paper.  Others learn new languages easily.  Since we cannot fathom why this one was imbued with a particular skill and that one wasn’t, we call it “God-given,” which is to say, at once special and incomprehensible to the human mind.  It is beyond our capacity to understand why people have certain talents, and in what quantity.

Still, talent alone is seldom sufficient for greatness.  It must be matched with a disciplined practice that results in the acquisition of technique.  It also helps to have passion—that is, drive and joy in pursuit of a certain endeavor.  When talent combines with discipline and passion, genius may result.  Genius sees the world in new ways and shares that vision with the rest of us.

In the Jewish tradition, Bezalel is the paragon of talent.

Moses said to the children of Israel, “See, God has called by name Bezalel, the son of Uri, the son of Hur, of the tribe of Judah.  God has imbued him with the spirit of God, with wisdom, with insight, and with knowledge, and [the talent for] all manner of craftsmanship to do master weaving, to work with gold, silver, and copper, with the craft of stones for setting and with the craft of wood, to work with every [manner of] thoughtful work.”  (Exodus 35:30-33)

Why did it matter that the Mishkan be built beautifully, masterfully?  Because artistry makes things special.  Because creativity shows us new aspects the world.  Because beauty takes us out of the realm of the mundane, uplifts and inspires us.  Wouldn’t you have loved to see the work of Bezalel’s hand, heart and mind, the products of his talent and skill?

At this Friday's KabbalART Shabbat, members of our community are sharing their artistic talents with us.  The nosh takes place outdoors, in a (very!) temporary gallery presenting select pieces of art (some on Jewish themes, some not).  We hope the art will inspire conversation, connection and creativity, and put you in the mood for a beautiful Shabbat.  Tonight, let’s experiment together with fresh ways of seeing, feeling and being.  Isn’t that what Shabbat—and art—are all about?