I
recently listened to a lecture by Rabbi Akiva Tatz on the importance of finding
your roll in life. During the lecture, Rabbi Tatz explained that there is a
basis of humanity that we must all learn in order to be decent people: respect for
others, the right to certain freedoms, etc.
Upon that broad base, one “step up” is the unique foundation of Judaism,
the ideas and ideals that the Jewish people must live up to. And after becoming a part of humanity and
becoming a part of our unique Jewishness, we must express our unique
individuality given the tools life has given us. As I listened to Rabbi Tatz set up this
platform, I began to wonder: Why is it
that, in my Jewish learning, there has been a big focus on ‘Jewish uniqueness’
and ‘the important of being an individual’ but the foundation upon which these
things rest, humanity, is not as oft discussed?
I
think one answer may be that we as Jews do not carry the torch of humanity
alone. We are one small nation among
many other, more populous nations. Yet
despite this insignificance in size, the Jewish race has played a much larger
role in the development of humanity both in the present and the past than perhaps
any other nation. Monotheism, treating
others with respect and as equals, caring for the needy, technological and medicinal
developments are just a few areas that our impact as Jews on the world has
exceeded our size. Another reason may be
that societal norms are often at odds with Jewish values. The more pronounced these differences, the
more natural is the reaction to withdraw from participating in society, and to
instead place greater focus on one’s smaller circle of like-minded individuals
and one’s individual purpose.
I
don’t necessarily have a “problem” with the focus on Jewish uniqueness and one’s
individuality, per se. Both are things
to be proud of! Rather, I sometimes find
that the lack of focus on humanity can indirectly lead to unintended
consequences, such as lack of respect for others (non-Jews) and lack of ability
– or desire – to relate to others human-to-human. This is certainly not a prevalent problem,
and Judaism certainly does not preach this practice, but it does seem to take
hold among some.
However,
I do not intend (at this time) to write a dissertation on Judaism’s teaching
methods and unintended consequences. So….
If
there is one holiday where Jewish uniqueness and individuality are especially
prominent (although they are certainly prevalent in almost every aspect of
life) that is the holiday of Shavuot, otherwise called Matan Torah, the holiday on which God spoke to the Jewish people and
gave us with the gift of the Torah. “Indeed,
all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy
nation,” God tells us (Exodus 19:6) on this day.
Yet
despite the significance of Shavuot in establishing the Jewish people’s
progression throughout history as “the People of the Book,” it is the least
well-known holiday among the majority of Jews (namely, non-Orthodox Jews). The other four major holidays – Rosh Hashanah,
Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Passover – are more often celebrated by the vast
majority of Jews than Shavuot. And,
interestingly, these holidays all seem to have a greater effect on the gentiles
than Shavuot. Maimonides states in the Mishnah
Torah (Teshuva 3:3) that all people, not just Jews, are judged on Rosh Hashanah
and their judgment is sealed on Yom Kippur.
On Sukkot, seventy sacrifices are brought on behalf of the seventy
nations of the world (Rashi, and Zechariah 14:16). And on Passover, while the focus is certainly
on the Jewish people’s freedom from slavery, the involvement of other nations
(namely, Egypt) is essential to the Passover story, and the Haggadah uses our
experience as slaves to teach us: “You shall not oppress a stranger (i.e.
non-Jew), for you know the feelings of the stranger (outsider), having yourself
been strangers in Egypt. When strangers
(non-Jews) reside with you in your land you shall not wrong them….”
Shavuot
is uniquely focused on the Jewish people.
Sadly, perhaps this is partially why
it is the least celebrated Jewish holiday.
There is an emphasis in many non-Orthodox denominations and
congregations to push towards universalism: the global need for Tikkun Olam (repairing the world, most
often used in the environmental sense by liberal Jews), the integration of Jewish
values with societal values, the acceptance of interfaith marriages and
families, the abolishment (rationalized or outright) of halachot (Jewish laws) that may keep us distinct from non-Jews such
as kashrut and fully observing Shabbat, to name just a few. Rabbi Tatz believes that Shavuot was lost to
many Jews because of its central theme: From Pesach, the story of our freedom,
we count fifty days (sefirat ha’omer)
to Shavuot, the celebration of the Torah, the book of Mitzvoth, our
obligations. The modern Jew would rather
forget the responsibility that being a Jew entails.
And
while I agree that the responsibility of being Jewish is a great burden, I find
no doubt that the blessing to be a Jew is much greater.
On
Shavuot, the Jewish people stood at Mt. Sinai and accepted the Torah in a
miraculous event, hearing the Ten Commandments directly from God: “And all the
people saw the thunder and lightning, the voice of the shofar, and the mountain
smoking; and when the people saw it, they trembled and stood at a distance”
(Exodus 20:15). After hearing the 10
Commandments, they were awe-struck and fearful of hearing God’s voice. They called upon Moses: “Speak to us; and we
will obey, but let not God speak to us [any more] lest we die! (20:16).” The Sinai experience was one the Jewish
people, despite their preparations, were unprepared for – a synthesis of the
senses, an overtaking of the body by the soul, a transcendence of the barrier
between the earth and the heavens. The
Jewish people did not hear, but saw thunder.
They drew close to God, but remained far from the Mount on which His
voice emanated.
In
the haftarah, Ezekiel encountered a similar experience of divine revelation: “I
looked, and behold, a stormy wind came out of the north – a huge cloud and
flashing fire, surrounded by radiance; and in the center of it, in the center
of the fire, a gleam as of amber” (Ezekiel 1:4). Ezekiel, like the Jews at Sinai, is reluctant
to receive his prophetic vision and become God’s prophet, as it says: “He [God]
said to me [Ezekiel], Mortal, eat what is
offered you; eat this scroll [God’s words], and go speak to the House of Israel. So I opened my mouth, and He gave me this
scroll to eat, as He said to me, “Mortal,
feed your stomach and fill your belly with this scroll that I give you”
(3:1-2).
In
discussing the Jews receiving the Torah at Sinai, the Gemara seems to state
that the Jewish people, like Ezekiel, were “force-fed” the Torah:
“God suspended the
mountain over [the Jewish people] like a barrel and said, “if you will accept
the Torah, it will be good, and if not, here will be your burial place”
(Shabbos 88a).
Rabbi
Yitzchak Cohen points out the seeming contradiction between this statement and
the Torah verse where the Jewish people wholeheartedly accept the Torah willingly,
saying “Na’aseh v’nishma – we will do
and we will hear,” upon which the same Gemara comments:
“Rabbi Elazar said:
when the Jewish people said “we will do” before “we will hear,” a voice from
heaven came forth and said “who revealed to my children this secret that the
administering angels use, as it says (in Tehilim 103:20) bless
God, his angels, mighty in strength, that do His will to hear the voice of His
word.”
To
resolve the apparent contradiction between the verse claiming the Jews
willingly accepted the Torah and the verse implying quite the opposite, many
commentaries (Midrashim, Rashi, and the Maharal among them) state that the
Jewish people did accept the Written Torah and certain mitzvoth, but not the
complete Oral Torah. In Rabbi Yehuda Amital's
words, according to the Maharal, “the people’s observance of the Torah cannot
be based simply on voluntarism and good will.
It needs to be based on coercion, on commitment, on worship of God; one
must keep mitzvoth because one is obligated to do so, and not simply because
one desires it.” Therefore the Jews
needed pressure to accept the whole Torah, in addition to their initial loving
acceptance of the Written Torah.
Interestingly,
Rabbi Amital also touches on a factor causing Shavuot’s minimal status among
today’s Jews: “Many people, especially in recent years, approach the Torah
based solely on a spirit of voluntarism.
They want to fulfill those parts of the Torah that ‘speak to them,’ and
operate without this feeling of commitment.
This is what the Gemara’s statement that God suspended the mountain over them comes to teach us: Torah can
only be fulfilled properly through a sense of absolute commitment to the word
of God, and not by doing just what one wants to do.”
The
coerced, and committed, Ezekiel concludes his consumption of the scroll by remarking:
I ate it, and it tasted as sweet as honey
to me. So too, the Rabbis reference
the Torah as sweet like milk and honey.
The willing acceptance of the Torah – na’aseh v’nishma – is a beautiful idea. But it is fleeting – it allows for one to
change their mind; it doesn’t demand full commitment. The full obligation may be forced, such as it
was to Ezekiel and the Jewish people at Sinai, but once we have swallowed it (“feed
your stomach and fill your belly”), the fulfillment of our obligation tastes
sweeter than the voluntary acceptance of only parts of the Torah.
The
Talmud teaches that the soul of every Jew, those born and those yet to be born,
was present at Mt. Sinai to receive the Torah. I think that one meaning of this Talmudic
statement may be to impress upon us that we, not just our ancestors, accepted
the Torah. We, not just our ancestors,
have obligated ourselves to follow the Torah.
And we, not just our ancestors,
can taste its sweetness in our lives.
Yes,
as Rabbi Salomon Gruenwald puts it, “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.” I believe the spiritual experience of Sinai
has produced a lasting Torah that has been carried on from generation to generation. Pirkei Avot 6:2 says that “each and every day
a divine voice calls out from Mount Horeb (i.e. Sinai).” Our response to this voice is manifest
through the halachot within the Torah, the performance of which “bridge the
Torah from the written word to the living deed.” This is the core of our Jewish
uniqueness.
At
z’man matan Torateinu, the time of
the giving of our Torah, the Jewish people accepted upon themselves and we
accepted upon ourselves these halachot.
Our neshama, soul, experienced
an incredible closeness to God, while our bodies fearfully crept further from
Mount Sinai. We lovingly accepted the
Written Torah, but with a sense of fear and awe we were also coerced into
accepting the entire Oral Torah. The
merging of all these aspects in our current lives – love, awe, and fear of
Torah; a spiritual closeness to but understandable distance from God – is the
core of our Jewish uniqueness. And the
way we unite them all into our own lives, is each of our individual struggle.
Chag
Sameach!
