Disabilities and Divine Eyeglasses

Can a disabled person be a spiritual leader? The answer might seem simple, but it’s not. The reason why it is a challenging question is because of this week's Torah reading, something I first realized when I confronted it directly.

On the weekend of Parshat Emor, in 2009, my synagogue held a unique Bar and Bat Mitzvah celebration. The celebrants were a group of 6 adults, most in their forties and fifties, who had never had a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. They were residents at the Miriam Home, a Montreal institution which provides services for intellectually disabled adults. These Bnei Mitzvah had turned 12 and 13 at a time when developmentally disabled children were hidden away, and because of that, they had been excluded from a ceremony that every Jewish child takes for granted.

On Thursday morning we held a rehearsal to acclimate the participants. As the press cameras rolled, I took out the Torah, and began to call up the men to practice their aliyot. As part of the rehearsal, I read the Torah between aliyot. And then, there it was, right in front of me: the section that declares that a baal mum, a blemished Kohen (priest), cannot serve in the Temple. A Kohen who has a broken hand or broken foot, who is a hunchback or a dwarf, who is blind, lame, or has scurvy, cannot serve before God in the Temple. I was shocked. How could we read this passage on the very week we were honoring the disabled? I thought of using the time-tested Rabbinic technique of ignoring uncomfortable topics, and in my sermon, talk about something else. But the more I thought about it, the more I recognized that this coincidence was not a coincidence, and that I was being called upon to deal directly with this issue.

That Shabbat morning I offered a response, which concluded that the reason why the baal mum is disqualified from serving in the Temple is because the community would be too superficial to accept them. The real blemish of the baal mum is in the hearts of the average man, and the physical blemish on the Kohen does not diminish him at all in the eyes of God. The Torah is holding a mirror to the community and its inability to look past appearances.

I knew this was a radical approach, but that morning, it was obvious to me that it was the correct one. But this idea is controversial. Three years later, this very same issue was the topic of serious debate in Israel. Rav Benny Lau wrote an article in which he concluded that the Torah’s reason for disqualifying the baal mum is because they were once considered undesirable; however, if the attitudes of the community changed, so would the Halakhah. This article drew a sharp response from Rav Aharon Lichtenstein, who saw this argument as a deviation from standard Halakhic methodology.  Rav Lau responded, explaining that he was emphasizing that all too often, Halakhic stringency is applied to those with disabilities. In the end, both sides agreed about the importance of ethical sensitivity and respecting the integrity of the Halakhic system, and differed mostly on emphasis and nuance.

This debate was primarily about the Halakhic process, and how to apply it regarding those who are disabled. But what motivated me that Thursday morning was a different question: When a disabled person reads Parshat Emor, what is it saying to them?

The Zohar writes that the blemished Kohen is disqualified is because “holiness on high cannot dwell in a blemished place.” (The Magen Avraham explains that the Zohar’s view would bar a person with a physical blemish from serving as the chazan; however, he notes that the vast majority of Halakhic authorities disagree with the Zohar.) The Zohar’s perspective is both shocking and painful to those with disabilities. But a very different understanding of the Torah reading comes from the Rambam. In the Moreh Nevukhim (III:45), he writes:

“In order to raise the estimation of the Temple, those who ministered therein received great honour: and the priests and Levites were therefore distinguished from the rest. It was commanded that the priests should be clothed properly with beautiful and good garments, "holy garments for glory and for beauty" (Exod. xxviii. 2). A priest that had a blemish was not allowed to officiate; and not only those that had a blemish were excluded from the service, but also--according to the Talmudic interpretation of this precept--those that had an abnormal appearance; for the multitude does not estimate man by his true form but by the perfection of his bodily limbs and the beauty of his garments, and the temple was to be held in great reverence by all.”

The Rambam explains that the clothing and physical appearance of the Kohen were a question of aesthetics; they needed to dress well and look good to gain the respect of the multitude. The very use of the word “multitude” tells you everything you need to know about this passage; to the Rambam, the multitude are the uneducated masses who are unable to understand the deeper truths of the Torah. The Rambam is teaching us that a blemished Kohen is disqualified because the multitude won’t respect him. The disqualification of the blemished Kohen is a concession to the bitter reality that people judge others by their appearances.

And this reality remains true to this day. Multiple studies have shown that voters are deeply influenced by how a politician looks, so much so, it can often decide the winner. And this superficiality has gotten worse since the advent of TV. As Neil Postman notes in Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, William Howard Taft would never get elected today because of his appearance. Physical appearance plays a larger role today than it did 200 years ago.

The section on the baal mum challenges us to recognize our own spiritual blindness, and how we subconsciously diminish those with physical and intellectual disabilities. Throughout history, multiple societies have stigmatized, mistreated and even murdered the disabled. Due to social pressure, people with intellectual disabilities were often hidden away, their very existence treated as a secret. Up to just a few years ago there was little possibility for an intellectually disabled child to have a large, well attended, public Bar or Bat Mitzvah. It was considered dramatic when Vice President Hubert Humphrey spoke about his granddaughter having Down syndrome in the 1960s, and many look back at that as a turning point in changing people’s attitudes. But change has come very slowly. For too long, people simply couldn’t see the person beyond the disability.

I learned that Thursday morning how to see things differently. Human vision is clouded by the superficial and the subjective. There is a powerful verse in the Book of Samuel that says that “Man sees only with his eyes, but God sees into the heart.” Humanity’s perspective is shallow, limited by what our eyes can see. We all need a pair of Divine eyeglasses.

On that Shabbat morning in 2009, we celebrated a remarkable Bar and Bat Mitzvah. Nearly 700 people crowded into the synagogue to be a part of this event.  In front of us were six people whose hearts were full of joy and pride. We clapped each time someone was called to the Torah, said a prayer, or read a speech. Time and again, these belated Bnei Mitzvah got a standing ovation. In their restrained demeanor and gentle words we could see the long road they had taken in search of dignity, and all the struggles they had faced. And most of all, their faces radiated love; you could immediately sense the connection between the participants and everyone in the room. Everyone in the synagogue cried, smiled, and then cried and smiled again. It was a transcendent moment.

One of the participants turned to me and said: “Thank you for making my dream come true.” But it was not only her dream; it was everyone’s dream. That morning, an entire synagogue was able to see past superficial disabilities and appreciate the gifts of love, friendship, and community. And for a few short moments, we were all wearing Divine eyeglasses.

This week, when I read the Parsha, I will put on my Divine eyeglasses. I will see everyone around me differently, and give them the love and respect they truly deserve.

Alcohol, Intoxication, and Inspiration

Rabbi Eliyahu Guttmacher (1796-1874) was the Tsadik of Grätz, a brilliant Talmudic scholar and mystic to whom thousands of Jews flocked for blessings and advice. A collection of kvitlach addressed to him are found in the archives of the YIVO Institute of Jewish Research. (Kvitlach are notes addressed to rabbis, with requests that the rabbi pray on behalf of the person or offer them a blessing.) Glenn Dynner, in his book Yankel's Tavern: Jews, Liquor, and Life in the Kingdom of Poland, cites several of these notes that relate to drinking problems that were destroying families. One note, from Solomon ben Reizel, includes the admission that he "drinks a lot of liquor to the point it makes him drunk, and because of this he has no domestic tranquility." He asked for a prayer that God "have mercy on him and guard him so that he doesn't drink anymore."  Another, from Isaac Eizik ben Rachel, describes how he "drinks more liquor than he needs, and so he beats his children, so he asks for a cure for this" from Rabbi Guttmacher. Problem drinking was not restricted to scattered individuals; a popular Mussar work from the late 1600s, Kav Hayashar, condemns those who drink early in the morning and show up to synagogue drunk.

At the same time, drinking was far less prevalent in the Polish Jewish community than in the surrounding population. Dynner quotes non-Jewish observers from 19th century Poland who write that “a Jewish drunk is hard to find” and that the “Jew is always sober.” This pattern continued on to the United States, where several studies from the 50s through 80s showed that Jews continued to have lower rates of alcoholism. There may be a genetic component to this, with the possibility that some Jews have an inborn aversion to drinking too much. However, this past advantage should not make us complacent; substance abuse and alcohol abuse is on the rise in the United States, and there is no reason to think that it is not on the rise in the Jewish community, as well. And more significantly, the myth that Jews don’t get drunk makes recovery far more difficult for Jewish alcoholics, who are afraid to reveal their condition because it makes them feel like they have failed the community.

Discussions about Judaism and drinking often focus on theories about why Jews drink less. Some argue that perhaps Jews learn to drink in moderation through the Shabbat Kiddush, which offers a ritual framework for the use of alcohol. (And Judaism, from the Bible onward, sees drinking in moderation as both respectable and enjoyable.). Another theory is that Jews see drinking as a defining difference between themselves and their non-Jewish neighbors. But there is really no evidence to back either view, and it is hard to know if any of these theories are valid. But one must look beyond sociology, and ask a different question: What is the Torah’s view of intoxication?

One of the attractions of drinking and drug use is the search for an alternate reality. The Midrash Tanchuma tells a story about a Torah scholar who is trying to convince his alcoholic father to change his ways. One day, the son sees a man drunk in the gutter; the Torah scholar hurries home to bring his father to witness the drunk’s humiliation, hoping it will change his father’s behavior. What is the father’s reaction? He asks the drunken man where he bought his wine! The son asks his father how he can continue to drink, when it is so obviously bad for him. And the father responds: “My son, in my life there is no greater pleasure, no greater Garden of Eden than this (drinking).” Intoxication offers the possibility of quick high, one that feels like ascending to heaven.

It is easy to confuse spirits with the spiritual. The very terminology of drinking overlaps with the religious, and drugs and alcohol are seen as a way to become “high.” In some religious cultures, like the Cult of Dionysus, intoxication becomes a spiritual experience.  And in ancient Hindu scripture, Soma, a mind-altering plant, is used to attain spiritual greatness.

In our Torah reading, a very different view of intoxication is offered. On the final day of the dedication ceremony for the new Sanctuary, Aharon’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, enter the Sanctuary and are struck dead. Their deaths are a mystery and it is unclear why they were struck dead.  The Midrash cites the opinion of Rabbi Yishmael, who notes that immediately after their deaths, the Torah commands “drink no wine or other intoxicant, you or your sons, when you enter the Tent of Meeting, that you may not die.” Rabbi Yishmael infers from this juxtaposition that Nadav and Avihu were drunk when they entered the Sanctuary, which is why they were struck dead.

This view is shocking.  Samuel David Luzzatto writes, “It is impossible to believe that Nadav and Avihu drank wine on the morning of that awesome day.” But there may be another interpretation of Rabbi Yishmael’s view. He could be saying that Aharon’s sons drank wine for ritual purposes. In Ancient Egypt, during the 2nd millennium BCE, there was a “Tekh Festival” or “Feast of Drunkenness,” whose ritual is described by one Egyptologist as this: "It seems that in the Hall of Drunkenness, worshippers got drunk, slept, and then were woken by drummers to commune with the goddess Mut.” Sacred drinking existed in ancient Egypt; perhaps the sons of Aharon found that to be appealing, as well. Intoxication, with its ability to alter one’s mind, can be misunderstood as a pathway to the spiritual.

Rabbi Yishmael’s interpretation offers us a powerful lesson: Inspiration is never found through intoxication. We do not find a higher purpose by trying to escape reality, and drinking wine is not the road to spirituality. (It should be noted that although wine is used for Kiddush, it can be replaced with challah or grape juice. We use wine in Kiddush due to its social significance, because it is a beverage that is appropriate to offer to an honored guest.) The Talmud extends this lesson and forbids one to pray after drinking just a few ounces of wine. Intoxication is a false form of inspiration.

Peak performance in Judaism needs no enhancement; on the contrary, when you alter reality, you lose the clarity of mind needed to find true inspiration. As painful as life may be at times, salvation is not found in an alternative reality.  And even when carrying a difficult emotional load, inspiration can be found by turning back to life.

When I have given sermons on drinking in the past, people would approach me afterwards and say: “My name is xx xx, and I’m an alcoholic.” These people inspire me; they have taken the long road to recovery, despite the pain and difficulty involved. Recovery is about recognizing that life is more satisfying than any drug, and a sense of purpose is more meaningful than any pleasure. And that is the lesson of this passage in the Torah.   

Happiness is not found in a wine bottle or a pill container; true inspiration can only come from within.  This lesson is fundamental to recovery, but it is a valuable lesson for anyone seeking a meaningful life.

Boring and Holy

 

In 1808, Jerome Bonaparte, the King of Westphalia, convened an assembly of Jewish notables.  Westphalia was a Napoleonic state which had just emancipated the Jews and granted them political rights. The purpose of the assembly was to ensure that the local Jews registered for the census, paid taxes and otherwise took on their duties of citizenship. However, the members of the assembly had goals of their own. They wrote that they planned on "bringing a number of customs, which have crept into Judaism, more in line with the changed circumstances and the spirit of the times, and to take the steps necessary for this purpose."

The Royal Westphalian Consistory of the Israelites initially introduced several changes, which were radical at the time. They removed the additional piyyutim from the prayer service, allowed kitniyot to be eaten on Pesach, and mandated that all sermons be delivered in the vernacular. In terms of Jewish History, these changes were a harbinger of things to come; one of the assembly members, Israel Jacobson, would introduce the organ into his local synagogue, and became an early leader of the Reform movement. This begins a new chapter in Jewish history, and the changes that first start in Westphalia impact all Jews, from ultra-Orthodox to Reform.

Change is the driving force of history.  The unexpected intrudes on the everyday, and disrupts well-ordered lives, and begins the process of transformation. The Emancipation of the Jews was one such event, and the Jewish community still struggles to anchor itself outside of the ghetto. Today, the changes brought about by the coronavirus will certainly impact our future; just how - and how much - remains to be seen.

But history is more than a reaction to external events. The desire for new experiences is instinctive; that is what kindles interest and excitement. Repetition is boring. We avoid boredom by pursuing change, even if the changes are demanding and undesirable.

The need to escape boredom is a powerful force. Bertrand Russell noted that "wars, pogroms, and persecutions have all been part of the flight from boredom; even quarrels with neighbors have been found better than nothing." Without drama in one's life, people begin to manufacture it. At the root of it all is the fear of boredom, a discontent with the mundane.

This week’s Torah reading is a seminar on the topic of boredom. A large section of it is nearly a word for word repetition of the Torah readings we had just a few weeks ago. In Parashat Terumah and Tetzaveh, the Torah reports on the command to build the Sanctuary and the priestly garments. In our Torah reading, Vayakhel-Pekudei, we are told that these commands were fulfilled, in what sounds like a verbatim transcript of the earlier Parshiyot; only one word is changed in each sentence, to move from future tense to present tense.

Scholars have wondered what is the cause of this repetition. Umberto Cassuto argues that repetition is not uncommon in Ancient Near Eastern texts, and so we should not be surprised if the Torah adopts this style in our Parashah. Meir Sternberg argues that it is incorrect to see what appears to be repeated as a repeat; he explains that context and minor linguistic changes can dramatically change the meaning, even if much of the text is identical. 

My own view is this text is intentionally repetitive in order to teach us the significance of repetition. The Sanctuary itself is a place of ongoing repetition, with a service that was repeated regularly, each day, each week, and each year. The prayer service in our synagogues, (which are modeled on the Sanctuary), is just as unchanging. At its heart is the Amidah, a prayer service that is repeated word for word three times a day, each time with an identical stance and gestures. Prayer is a repetitive performance. (This is why any innovations in the synagogue service, like those introduced in Westphalia, are controversial; synagogues have a change-averse culture.) The Sanctuary is about embracing repetition, which is why its command is written as a repetition.

Our parashah challenges us to rethink our concept of boredom, and to see that sometimes repetition can add meaning to our lives.

Without question, the desire for change is critical to a full life and motivates us to improve ourselves and our world. Boredom can reflect the frustrations of an ambitious heart; but it also can reflect an empty soul. Our persistent need to move on reflects a fear of missing out, the nagging worry that life is passing us by without quite knowing what life is meant to be. We look to our smartphones for that next message, and search the internet for new items to add to our bucket list; the most important commandment is “Thou shalt live an interesting life”. Repetition seems absurd, and even eternity seems ugly; what could be worse than something that “feels like an eternity”?

Judaism teaches us to find a connection to the holy, and then cherish it forever; the repetition is part of the joy. And we grasp hold on to this joy and hang on for eternity, even in heaven. Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel tells a story about Moshe of Uhely, “who had a dream: he was transported to heaven. There he was led to the chamber where the fabulous sages of the Talmud were spending their eternal life. His heart swelled with emotion. When he entered the chamber, he looked around. And what did he see? Long tables like those to be found in a house of learning, and the sages were sitting around the tables, engrossed in study. He felt keen disappointment: is that all there is to heaven? Suddenly he heard a voice say: “You are mistaken. The sages are not in heaven; heaven is in the sages.” What good is heaven if there is no Talmud class?

We end up repeating that which is sacred and significant precisely because it is sacred and significant. At funerals, families struggle to describe an entire life in just 15 minutes. What is notable is how often the descriptions feature the quotidian and commonplace. The family remembers their grandmother's chicken soup and mother's hugs, their grandfather’s kiddush and father’s phone calls. They remember the little things that are repeated, the everyday rituals that expressed love. The same phone calls every day, again and again, with the same chit chat every day, again and again, might seem boring. But when you love the other person, those calls don’t feel like an eternity; instead it feels like you are grasping eternity.

 

 

 

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