By Rabbi Dr Chazn Barbara Borts

LEVITICUS AND TZAV AND THE BESHT

There is a lovely Yiddish song called ‘Fun Kosev biz Kitev.’ These are the two shtetls where the founder of Khasidism, Israel ben Eliezer, the Baal Shem Tov, lived. The song mentions the little bridge, stream, and the woods where the Besht, as he came to be known, went to walk, immerse himself, and meditate, and the birds from which he learned to sing praises to God. The towns Kosev and Kitev, or Kuty, lie in the Ukraine, so we could theoretically visit them. But where exactly is the bridge, and over what stream was there a path leading to which woods? We have no idea. This relates to that well-known passage, printed in the siddur of the Movement for Reform Judaism, about finding the spot of holiness that our ancestors:

It is told that in every generation there are times when hope threatens to leave this world. At such times, the Baal Shem Tov, the great Jewish mystic, would go into a secret place in the forest. There he would light a special fire and say a holy prayer speaking the long-forgotten most sacred name of God. The danger was averted and hope stayed alive.

In later times when disaster threatened, the Maggid of Mezrich, his disciple, would go to the same place in the forest and say, “Ribono Shel Olam, Ruler of the Universe, I do not know how to light the fire, but I can say the prayer.”

Still later, his disciple, Moshe Leib of Sasov, would go to the same place in the forest and say, “Ribono Shel Olam, Ruler of the Universe, I do not know how to light the fire or say the prayer, but I found my way to this place, and that must be enough.” And it was. Hope stayed alive.

And later when Israel of Rizhyn needed intervention from heaven, he sat in his chair with his head in his hands and said, “Ribono Shel Olam, Ruler of the Universe, I no longer know how to light the fire nor how to say the prayer, I can’t even find my way to that place, but I can tell the story and that must be enough.” And it was.

We do not know how to light the fire, nor how to say the prayer, but we can tell the story.

In Tzav, as in last week’s parshe, and in many of those to come, we read stories about fires we no longer light, overseen by holy emissaries whom we no longer have amongst us except in symbolic ways, uttering formulae which we no longer regard as effective, overseeing rituals we would truly find abhorrent. These are the detailed, repetitious, exacting rules for sanctifying the priests, creating their clothing, building the tabernacle and bringing the correct sacrifices to the tabernacle, and are some of the least engaging passages in Torah. And maybe there is a good argument for omitting them, finding a different way to engage in ‘torah’, ‘learning’ that is more contemporary and meaningful.

However, following the same path as those who no longer knew where the rituals of the Besht were enacted, and only had the story, the midrash comments that:

Rabbi Aḥa in the name of Rabbi Ḥanina bar Pappa: In order that Israel would not say: ‘In the past we would sacrifice offerings and engage in their study; now that there are no offerings, must we engage in their study?’ the Holy One blessed be God said: ‘Since you engage in their study, I consider it for you as though you are sacrificing them.’ [Vayikra Rabbah 7:3]

We know that in our Jewish worlds, there are those who wish to rebuild the Temple, train Kohanim, and begin sacrifices again, khos v’kholile, God forbid, but, of course, in our Jewish progressive worlds, we historicise, read, and study these passages, but do not pray for the restoration of a cult of Temple and sacrifice. However, when sitting in shul listening to these verses, one question whether there is even any merit in reading them aloud and studying them. We know that, later in that same passage of Midrash quoted above, the rabbis state that children should begin their Torah learning with Vayyikra [Leviticus] and not, as we would do, with Bereshit [Genesis]. This goes against all modern theories about children’s education, and I imagine we all tell the stories of the matriarchs and patriarchs and Moses and omit entirely the sacrificial cult in our shuls’ cheders. There are arguments for telling rich stories, about people and their struggles, which would mean that teaching Bereyshit is the better way.

But then, Vayyikra teaches about holiness, in space and time, in humans, in clothing, and in interaction with God, and even if we do not regard the Temple cult as the way to manifest that holiness, we can study and we can teach what it means to find the sacred, the ineffable, the holy, in our lives. Perhaps we progressive Jews can sometimes be too bound up with the rational and the concrete, and less connected to the quest for the spiritual and the sacred. We can forget that people come to shul not just to hear how our Judaism illuminates the great causes of the world, but also, how to find what the Khasidim call devekus, profound connection to the Holy One. People need intellectual understanding and relevance, but also, they need to feel, to experience, and to be inspired. Perhaps, if we read these texts well, and if we explicate them sensitively, we can make of our homes and synagogues mikdashey m’at, miniature sanctuaries, where we become truly the am kadosh, the holy people we are meant to be, and where the words we use are in the service of holiness, and of goodness.

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