Passover 5773

We are a hopeful people.  We have suffered unspeakable horrors, but we have survived them, always looking towards a brighter day and a place of our own.  Not for nothing is “HaTikvah—The Hope” the anthem of the State of Israel.  And not for nothing is Passover the most-celebrated Jewish holiday.

At Passover, we eat the story of our journey from misery to exaltation.  From the symbols of rebirth—the sprig of parsley and hard-boiled egg—to the chirping voices of children chanting the Four Questions, Passover looks to the future.  It reminds us that seasons change and pain ends.  As our ancestors left the dire straits of Egypt, so can we free ourselves today.

This optimism isn’t in-born; it is taught.  The middle matzah—the afikoman—is broken and hidden for children to find.  As Rebecca Newberger Goldstein observes in The New American Haggadah, “we make a game of it, for the sake of our children, knowing that we enact in the ritual our deepest faith in their future.”  We signal to them that what’s lost can be found and what’s broken can be mended.

There is much in this world that is broken—bodies, promises, families, economies.  There is much in this world that is concealed—justice, truth, love, God.  When children find the hidden afikoman and reunite it with its other half, they learn that despite all fractured, cloaked appearances, the world can be made whole and revealed.  They learn to hope.

Parashat Vayikra 5773

The Conference of Cardinals has named a new pope, and the entire world prays that his reign will be one of peace and reconciliation.  Francis I inherits the Throne and Keys of St. Peter through apostolic succession, and becomes first among priests.  How interesting that he’s appointed this week, just as Jews begin to read the Book of Leviticus—that is, the Priestly book.

For the next seven weeks, the Jewish world will concern itself with the duties of the priests of old and the ancient rules for offering sacrifices.  It is detailed stuff, and quite dry … at least when not gory.

A priest is a clergy person who acts on another’s behalf, one who intercedes between humanity and God.  In the Book of Leviticus, the Hebrew priests offer the people’s sacrifices to God so that the people could atone.  In churches around the world, Catholic priests receive the people’s confession for the same reason.  In both cases, people are cleansed, forgiven, and rendered whole thanks to the priest’s proper performance of his function.  The priest, it is believed, has privileged access to God.

Jews no longer have priests because we believe that all people have access to God.  This access is achieved through prayer to the One called “Shomeah t’filah,” or “Hearer of Prayer.”  No one’s prayers are louder than any other’s—not those of the rabbi, not those of the rich, and not those of the pious.  We stand, each one of us, equal before God.  Atonement, cleansing, forgiveness, wholeness:  these are in our own hands.

This is both a freedom and an obligation.  We are free of the hierarchy that separates us from our Maker.  At the same time, we are obligated to take responsibility for ourselves.  No one tells us exactly what we must do.  No one performs rituals on our behalves.  No one can forgive us but the people we have hurt.

Rather than allow another to speak for us, we speak for ourselves.  “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” God tells us (Exodus 19:6).  We function as our own priests, atoning, cleansing, forgiving, and crafting wholeness on our own behalf.

פתחו־לי שערי־צדק אבא־בם אודה יה

Pitchu li sha’arei tzedek avo-vam ode-Ya.

Open for me the Gates of Righteousness that I may enter them and praise God.  (Psalms 118:19)

 No one holds the key to your life but you.

Bit of Torah -- Parashat Ki Tissa, 5773

The great leader ascends the mountain.  He speaks with God and receives the Law before descending to the people.  After smashing the tablets, he returns to the summit.  He speaks with God once more.  Then,

“Moses came down from Mount Sinai.  And as Moses came down from the mountain bearing the two tablets of the Pact, Moses was not aware that the skin of his face was radiant, since he had spoken with God” (Exodus 34:29).

Even in a book of the unexpected (speaking animals, parting seas, celestial ladders), a man that glows is astonishing.

But we should not be surprised.  All great encounters change us.  Whether with another person or with the Divine, when we meet somebody—really meet them—we are transformed.

Martin Buber calls this “I/Thou”—the honest, appreciative, open encounter we have when we see others as unique and precious entitles with their own realities, experiences, needs, emotions.   Buber contrasts such respectful encounters with ones he calls “I/It,” in which we treat others as objects that exist merely to fulfill our needs.

Experiencing someone else as a full being involves getting to know him or her.  Not in the superficial ways, but deeply—what makes him tick, what are her dreams and flaws.  Such intimate knowledge of another is a form of love.  When we are radically open to another’s truth, our world expands and we cannot help but change.

The Torah expresses Moses’ transformation by saying that he glows.  Now that’s enlightenment.