Tzav - Shushan Purim
This Shabbat is Shushan Purim. It is a day of light-heartedness. Unfortunately, the Torah reading – parashat Tzav - is not one that lends itself easily to levity. Tzav is painfully serious. Sacrifices are a subject of undeniable gravity. Of course, the comparison is not intended to imply that Purim is not a serious holiday. It is. We just tend not to treat it that way. Like just about everything else, we treat it either frivolously or with unwarranted solemnity.
The distinction between seriousness and solemnity is one that the American newspaper columnist Russell Baker made over thirty years ago, in an article entitled “Why Being Serious is Hard.” As I recall, Baker’s first example of the distinction, and of the difficulty many of us have in recognizing it, was taken from American politics. For those of us old enough to remember them, he said that Adlai Stevenson was serious, while Dwight Eisenhower was solemn. For those who don’t appreciate the distinction, it may help to note that when Eisenhower was appointed president of Columbia University, he noted that he hadn’t read a book in years. It didn’t stop him from taking the job. President Truman’s reaction was to observe that Eisenhower wasn’t stupid; he just didn’t know anything. Truman was serious.
The distinction between seriousness and solemnity may not be terribly important in politics. I’m sure many would argue that a solemn politician is preferable to a serious one. A president or prime minister committed to ideals and values can present a problem for those who don’t share those values. In fact, such a leader presents a problem for almost anyone. When we are faced with firm beliefs, clear vision, and explicit ideals, we have to ask ourselves what it is that we believe, before we can decide what it is that we do or don’t like about the candidate. A good haircut, a well-fitted suit, a pearly smile and wishy-washy beliefs are a lot easier on our eyes and our conscience.
In matters of theology – in matters of our basic religious belief system – the distinction between solemnity and seriousness is a matter of some importance, but it is a distinction we often fail to make.
Consider Purim. Taking Purim solemnly is no challenge. There is no shortage of humourless rules that regulate the correct manner for the reading of the Megillah, that specify the precise number and nature of products that must be included in a given number of gift packages in order to perform the mitzvah of mishloah manot, and that prescribe the minimum amount of alcohol that must be imbibed in order to be ritually drunk.
It is easy to squeeze all the fun out of Purim and leave it as dry as toast. We are experts at solemnity.
But Purim is supposed to teach us something else. For example, it is supposed to teach us that there is a lighter side to life. That is why Hazal – the Sages – pointed out that Yom Kippur - Yom HaKippurim - is a yom k’ppurim: “a day like Purim”. Purim and Yom Kippur are two sides of a coin. The seriousness of Yom Kippur is brutally obvious. The Sages suggest that the hedonism of Purim is no less serious than the ascetic self-denial of Yom Kippur. One should not focus one’s attention upon the one, without due regard for the value lessons of the other.
Unfortunately, as Baker pointed out so long ago, we are a lot more comfortable with solemnity. Seriousness is less common, it is harder to identify, and it presents challenges.
One example of the distinction struck me as I read this week’s Torah parasha. At the end of the detailed description of the finer points of the sacrificial service, the Torah says: “You shall not go outside the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for seven days, until the day that your period of ordination is completed.” This is a very severe obligation, and the commentary to the Etz Hayim Humash explains it with due gravitas (a truly solemn adjective).
“The priests were not inside the tent but, rather, near its entrance, in the inner section of the tabernacle courtyard. They were not to leave this sanctified area for seven days, to avoid contact with anything or anyone impure.”
Clearly, this commentary takes the commandment at its full face value, and why shouldn’t it? And so, having established the importance of this severe regimen, the commentary goes on to consider the greater significance of the obligation in terms of the parallel to the seven days of creation, and the symbolism of sinfulness and perfection, human imperfection and absolute justice.
Now all of this may seem very serious, but consider how the medieval commentator Avraham Ibn Ezra, evaluates the text.
First, noting that the verse says seven days, he opines that the priests must have gone out at night. Why? Well, because the priests were human, and therefore they had to go to the bathroom, and there is no mention of appropriate facilities in the description of the Tabernacle. On the contrary, the Bible tells us quite plainly that “personal hygiene” is to be taken care of outside the camp. So Ibn Ezra senses that the biblical statement cannot be taken at face value. A fundamentalist, literal meaning just won’t do.
Ibn Ezra then proceeds to state that, actually, it would seem to him that the priests went out whenever they had to, day or night. He points out that the Bible also says “And the Israelites bewailed Moses in the steppes of Moab for thirty days.” Taken at face value, that would mean that there was not a single moment when they were not weeping. They were boohooing day and night for a month. Ibn Ezra lets us know that the Israelites didn’t cry all the time, and the priests didn’t stay in the tabernacle all of the time, either. They had to be near by. They weren’t supposed to go off and wander about, but they weren’t sequestered in monastic solitude or in holy quarantine.
Ibn Ezra’s approach may seem a little funny, but it is dead serious. Ibn Ezra is unwilling to take the Bible at face value. He is unwilling to assign extraordinary meanings to general statements or idiomatic usage. He looks at the Bible and asks what does it really mean? What is the message that this book is trying to convey? The answers to those questions are not achieved by treating the Bible with reverent solemnity. Kissing the Torah, pointing at it, decorating it and mythologizing it will get us no closer to the message that the Torah has for our lives. To get at the message, we have to read the Bible seriously. We have to try to understand its language and its style, and struggle with its challenges, rather than ignore or imaginatively interpret away obvious problems inconsistencies.
If we take the Bible seriously, then the joyful celebration of Purim is not just about making noise at hearing the name of Haman, but a time for moral reflection no less challenging than Yom Kippur. If we look at the Torah seriously, then reading about sacrifices is not just an act of solemn drudgery for fulfilling our obligation to read the Torah. If we take it seriously, then reading about sacrifices presents questions about why certain sacrifices are brought, why they are offered in a particular way, why particular forms of conduct require specific rituals, and about the ultimate purpose addressed by the sacrificial rites. Those questions may lead us to a better understanding of the value system underlying biblical theology, and to a greater appreciation of what it means to be a Jew. Those are serious goals.
Avinoam Sharon
The distinction between seriousness and solemnity is one that the American newspaper columnist Russell Baker made over thirty years ago, in an article entitled “Why Being Serious is Hard.” As I recall, Baker’s first example of the distinction, and of the difficulty many of us have in recognizing it, was taken from American politics. For those of us old enough to remember them, he said that Adlai Stevenson was serious, while Dwight Eisenhower was solemn. For those who don’t appreciate the distinction, it may help to note that when Eisenhower was appointed president of Columbia University, he noted that he hadn’t read a book in years. It didn’t stop him from taking the job. President Truman’s reaction was to observe that Eisenhower wasn’t stupid; he just didn’t know anything. Truman was serious.
The distinction between seriousness and solemnity may not be terribly important in politics. I’m sure many would argue that a solemn politician is preferable to a serious one. A president or prime minister committed to ideals and values can present a problem for those who don’t share those values. In fact, such a leader presents a problem for almost anyone. When we are faced with firm beliefs, clear vision, and explicit ideals, we have to ask ourselves what it is that we believe, before we can decide what it is that we do or don’t like about the candidate. A good haircut, a well-fitted suit, a pearly smile and wishy-washy beliefs are a lot easier on our eyes and our conscience.
In matters of theology – in matters of our basic religious belief system – the distinction between solemnity and seriousness is a matter of some importance, but it is a distinction we often fail to make.
Consider Purim. Taking Purim solemnly is no challenge. There is no shortage of humourless rules that regulate the correct manner for the reading of the Megillah, that specify the precise number and nature of products that must be included in a given number of gift packages in order to perform the mitzvah of mishloah manot, and that prescribe the minimum amount of alcohol that must be imbibed in order to be ritually drunk.
It is easy to squeeze all the fun out of Purim and leave it as dry as toast. We are experts at solemnity.
But Purim is supposed to teach us something else. For example, it is supposed to teach us that there is a lighter side to life. That is why Hazal – the Sages – pointed out that Yom Kippur - Yom HaKippurim - is a yom k’ppurim: “a day like Purim”. Purim and Yom Kippur are two sides of a coin. The seriousness of Yom Kippur is brutally obvious. The Sages suggest that the hedonism of Purim is no less serious than the ascetic self-denial of Yom Kippur. One should not focus one’s attention upon the one, without due regard for the value lessons of the other.
Unfortunately, as Baker pointed out so long ago, we are a lot more comfortable with solemnity. Seriousness is less common, it is harder to identify, and it presents challenges.
One example of the distinction struck me as I read this week’s Torah parasha. At the end of the detailed description of the finer points of the sacrificial service, the Torah says: “You shall not go outside the entrance of the Tent of Meeting for seven days, until the day that your period of ordination is completed.” This is a very severe obligation, and the commentary to the Etz Hayim Humash explains it with due gravitas (a truly solemn adjective).
“The priests were not inside the tent but, rather, near its entrance, in the inner section of the tabernacle courtyard. They were not to leave this sanctified area for seven days, to avoid contact with anything or anyone impure.”
Clearly, this commentary takes the commandment at its full face value, and why shouldn’t it? And so, having established the importance of this severe regimen, the commentary goes on to consider the greater significance of the obligation in terms of the parallel to the seven days of creation, and the symbolism of sinfulness and perfection, human imperfection and absolute justice.
Now all of this may seem very serious, but consider how the medieval commentator Avraham Ibn Ezra, evaluates the text.
First, noting that the verse says seven days, he opines that the priests must have gone out at night. Why? Well, because the priests were human, and therefore they had to go to the bathroom, and there is no mention of appropriate facilities in the description of the Tabernacle. On the contrary, the Bible tells us quite plainly that “personal hygiene” is to be taken care of outside the camp. So Ibn Ezra senses that the biblical statement cannot be taken at face value. A fundamentalist, literal meaning just won’t do.
Ibn Ezra then proceeds to state that, actually, it would seem to him that the priests went out whenever they had to, day or night. He points out that the Bible also says “And the Israelites bewailed Moses in the steppes of Moab for thirty days.” Taken at face value, that would mean that there was not a single moment when they were not weeping. They were boohooing day and night for a month. Ibn Ezra lets us know that the Israelites didn’t cry all the time, and the priests didn’t stay in the tabernacle all of the time, either. They had to be near by. They weren’t supposed to go off and wander about, but they weren’t sequestered in monastic solitude or in holy quarantine.
Ibn Ezra’s approach may seem a little funny, but it is dead serious. Ibn Ezra is unwilling to take the Bible at face value. He is unwilling to assign extraordinary meanings to general statements or idiomatic usage. He looks at the Bible and asks what does it really mean? What is the message that this book is trying to convey? The answers to those questions are not achieved by treating the Bible with reverent solemnity. Kissing the Torah, pointing at it, decorating it and mythologizing it will get us no closer to the message that the Torah has for our lives. To get at the message, we have to read the Bible seriously. We have to try to understand its language and its style, and struggle with its challenges, rather than ignore or imaginatively interpret away obvious problems inconsistencies.
If we take the Bible seriously, then the joyful celebration of Purim is not just about making noise at hearing the name of Haman, but a time for moral reflection no less challenging than Yom Kippur. If we look at the Torah seriously, then reading about sacrifices is not just an act of solemn drudgery for fulfilling our obligation to read the Torah. If we take it seriously, then reading about sacrifices presents questions about why certain sacrifices are brought, why they are offered in a particular way, why particular forms of conduct require specific rituals, and about the ultimate purpose addressed by the sacrificial rites. Those questions may lead us to a better understanding of the value system underlying biblical theology, and to a greater appreciation of what it means to be a Jew. Those are serious goals.
Avinoam Sharon
