Tzav - The Offerings of a Broken Heart

One particular text that I have wanted to spend more time with is Vayiqra Rabbah. It is, for the student of midrash, a fascinating work. Like all classical rabbinic midrashim of the amoraic (talmudic) period, it is a product of the sages of Eretz Yisrael. As a literary work, it tends to follow structures, and its contents are largely homiletical: one can imagine that its contents were originally sermons in ancient synagogues (unlike exegetical midrashim, which tend to interpret a specific verse or phrase ad seriatim.) It also takes the contents of a book that was no longer applicable to the day to day life of Jews in the post Temple era and derived lessons that were relevant to ongoing Jewish life.

(N.B. One often sees references to the Midrash Rabbah. There is no such thing as the Midrash Rabbah, and even though you may see books with that title, it does not really exist. It is the invention of publishers who thought that the diverse works with the name Rabbah were part of a unified whole, but they are distinct works that were compiled at different times by different editors following different rules of composition.)

זבחי אלקים רוח נשברה... תהילים נא19

אמר ר’ אבא בר יודן

כל מה שהפסיל בבהמה הכשיר באדם

מה פסל בבהמה? עורת או שבור... ויקרא כב:22

הכשיר באדם: לב שבור ונדכה אלקים לא תבזה תהילים נא: 19

אמר ר’ אלכסנדרי

ההדיוט הזה, אם משתמש בכלי שבור, גניי הוא לו

אבל הקב”ה, כל כלי תשמישיו שבורין הן

דכתיב: קרוב ה’ לנשברי לב שם, לד:19

הרופא לשבורי לב שם, קמז: 3

ואת דכא ושפל רוח להחיות רוח שפלים ולהחיות לב נדכאים. ישעי’נז:15

A broken spirit is a sacrifice to Hashem... (Ps 51:19)
Rabbi Abba bar Yudan said:
Whatever was disqualified from the animals (for the purpose of sacrifices) was permitted from man (in his service of Hashem).
What is disqualified among the animals? Anything blind or injured... (Lv 22:22) –
But is permissible among man: Hashem will not despise the broken and crushed heart. (Ps 51:19)
Rabbi Alexandrai said:
If the simple servant used a broken utensil, it would cause him insult,
But to Hashem, all the utensils who serve Him are imperfect,
As it says, Hashem is close to the broken hearted, (Ps 34:19)
It is He who heals the broken hearted, (Ps 147:3)
[He is] with the crushed and dispirited, to revive those of fallen spirit and to revitalize crushed hearts. (Is 57:15)

What are we to make of this statement? Here are a few thoughts.

As I mentioned, Vayiqra Rabbah takes a book that largely relates to the sacrificial service of the Beit Hamiqdash and deals with the reality of a time where such service is no longer tenable. This was a harsh reality in the first centuries following the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE; after all, the sacrifices were ordained by the Torah, Hashem’s word and expectations. For many, this reality was too hard to take, and this lead to a spiritual crisis. The brilliance of the sages of the centuries that followed is that they successfully enabled and empowered Jews to rebuild a spiritually meaningful existence based on personal and communal practice, and on the powerful element of hope. Jews may have despaired because they could not fulfill the mitzvot connected to sacrifice, depressed by their ritual imperfection. Rather than dwell on this imperfection, the sages pointed to verses like Hosea 14:3,  ונשלמה פרים שפתינו, our lips will compensate for bullocks, making prayer, the service of the heart, a powerful replacement for the sacrificial service.

But this homily goes a step further. In looking at the sacrifices, we see that they tended to be animals without blemish, examples of physical perfection. Yet, those of us who would offer sacrifices were anything but perfect. Despite our best efforts, imperfection is endemic to the human condition. In the end, the perfect gets offered as a sacrifice on the altar, burned to ashes, but we live on.

It matters not just in the way we look at ourselves, but also in the way we perceive those around us. Hashem accepts us as broken utensils, doing our best to fulfill His will in the best way that we can, as long as we make that effort and reach for the bar. We are often too willing to judge the actions or motivations of others, expecting them to live up to a standard that may work for ourselves, but the Ultimate Judge will make the final determination.

The lemma for this homily is from Psalm 51, a psalm attributed to David after he was confronted by Nathan after he acted on his lust for Batsheva (v. 2; see 2 Sam 11-12 for the story.) It is a powerful example, how the great king, progenitor of the dynasty from which the messiah will come, could despair his own failings and seek the compassion of a merciful God. This verse, זבחי אלקים רוח נשברה, לב שבור ונדכה אלקים לא תבזה, A broken spirit is a sacrifice to Hashem; Hashem will not despise the broken and crushed heart, has come to my attention several times in connection with Jewish prayer. Tanakh does not hide the failings of its heroes, and we can learn from them. But when we take an example like that of David, we can learn how we can turn those failings around, looking at our actions as offerings to Hashem in our efforts to make better of our imperfect selves. In our efforts to reach up to that bar that is always just above us, we bring ourselves that much closer to Hashem, and achieving that closeness is the ultimate meaning of קרבן - offering, approaching, coming nearer.

Passover - A Festival of Memory

The following appeared as an unsigned Editorial in the Jewish Journal - Boston North in the March 18, 2010 issue. http://tinyurl.com/ygrqvhl

The festival of Passover celebrates one of the formative events in the life of the Jewish people. It would be tempting to call it a celebration of history, but there is a difference.


 The Haggadah tells us, “In every generation, each of us must see ourselves as if we personally had come out of Egypt.” We are to personalize the experience, to internalize it. The Torah tells us, on numerous occasions, to remember the exodus, to remember that we were once slaves in Egypt.




There is a difference between history and memory. History is largely an exercise in taking events from the past and analyzing them, maybe for an educational exercise, maybe as a means of preventing the recurrence of past mistakes. History is impersonal, and the past always remains the past, never brought up to date.





Memory is different. We see this through a variety of rituals in Jewish traditions, especially the seder, when we reenact the exodus and the slavery in Egypt. Past is made present, and we are there. There is no past, present or future. Time is stratified, and we are inserted into those events that we recall from millennia before. The past is virtually present and alive, a part of our being. And it has relevance in our present lives.






For Passover celebrates redemption, enjoining us in a belief that there is always a better day ahead for the Jewish people. It celebrates freedom, a concept that seems hard wired into the mindset of the Jew, who has always treasured freedom not only for himself, but for anyone shackled and enslaved.




 And it celebrates responsibility, the oft repeated mitzvah that we are to show love and concern for the stranger, because we were strangers in the land of Egypt.






But unless we take an active part in passing this memory and our connection to it on to the next generation, this memory will be lost. We are all responsible for bringing this memory to life in our homes and throughout our community, to insure that this memory is not forgotten.

Vayiqra - Adam and Opportunity

On the surface, much of the book of Vayiqra contains the type of details that will make one’s eyes glaze over. The idea of sacrificial worship is virtually meaningless today, as it has been for close to two thousand years. These technicalities, however, did not prevent exegetes from looking at it at a deeper level, allowing them to derive many pearls of wisdom from its arcane verses.

The book opens with an interesting and unusual comment:

אדם כי־יקריב מכם קרבן לה

When/If an individual among you should bring a sacrifice unto Hashem...(Lv 1:2)

This is the general introductory comment to the laws of sacrifices. But why begin with the word אדם? As we continue reading this parasha, we will see passages like this again and again; however, no where else will we see אדם. We will see נפש, and elsewhere we will find איש. What is the significance of this usage here?

There is something striking about the usage of אדם here. The noun in itself is symbolic of the limitations of mortality. Throughout the narratives in the first chapters of Genesis, the first man is referred to as האדם, the man - אדם first appears as a proper noun in the genealogy in Ch. 5 - making the name appear more as an afterthought. The name is derived from אדמה, earth, as in dirt, from which man was created. (I sometimes translate אדם as earthling, though admittedly with tongue firmly planted in cheek.)

אדם conjures the image of the solitary, primordial man, created alone, naked, and unashamed, apart from the social animal of איש (you can have a plural of איש, but never of אדם unless you append בני to it.)

We know one thing about אדם - that his solitary nature is not good. ויאמר ה’ אלקים לא־טוֹב היוֹת האדם לבדוֹ - Hashem said: it is not good for man to be alone. (Gn 2: 18) While nearly everything created was described as good, כי טוב, this is the one thing that is not good, לא טוב. With this, the woman, אישה, is created, and אדם is now referred to, for the first time, as איש.

Now, אדם is followed by another interesting word, כי, a conditional particle way too easily overlooked, but that can convey two possible messages. It can mean when (as a relative, not an interrogative, adverb,) or it can mean if. We have two very different possibilities: One takes an offering for granted, when he makes an offering, the other a possibility, if he makes an offering. Under both circumstances, we read this first offering as a voluntary one, not one that has conditions of obligation attached to it.

Let us look back at the choice of אדם here as opposed to איש. As I said, אדם exists alone, but איש lives in a social domain. He lives in a world of order and hierarchies. Likewise, איש can have a master, but אדם has no master, other than God. And with this understanding, we can determine how we might understand the use of כי in this verse.

אדם is the essential existential individual, who alone is presented with an opportunity. He can act, or he can ignore. He can engage in worship, in praise, in fulfilling mitzvah, in offering service to Hashem. Everything that אדם, that lonely human, does is predicated on כי, if. For him, everything is volitional, and he accounts to no one except Hashem alone. But אדם does not exist in a vacuum. He is given opportunities, and it is up to him to chose whether or not to respond to the opportunity presented to him.

לא טוב היות האדם לבדו - It is not good for man to be alone; he cannot exist in this world as a solitary individual. He cannot remain aloof of others, but must engage in a world that makes demands of him, and of which he will make demands as well. This is particularly true of the religious person. Religion, which is supposed to act as a civilizing force in life, is not intended to isolate, but to integrate the individual into the larger framework of life. We can derive a lesson from this verse as follows: אדם, כי יקריב - מכם When an individual makes an offering, he becomes one from among you. His commitment to worship, by the very nature of that worship, makes him part of the greater whole, something larger than himself.

If we look carefully at the content of Jewish liturgy, we find the truth to this. Because Jewish prayer does not focus on the needs of the individual, but on all of us. The Amida, the core of Jewish liturgy, is composed of prayers that are all first person plural.

Ideally, the individual transitions from אדם to איש, and once he steps beyond his own limitations, his approach to worship changes. He is no longer isolated in his existential bubble, and his prayer is no longer a matter of כי - if, but כי - when. Because he is now an inhabitant of a world where he is no longer an אדם, a finite human being limited by his singularity or his own mortality, but as one נפש among many, one איש among others.

In this world that Hashem created, we serve Him best when we reach beyond ourselves, when we care for others, when we find a mate, and engage in others as created בצלם אלקים, in the image of Hashem, as He created each one of us.

Vayaqhel/P’qudei - Building a Tabernacle in Time

The Torah lacks non-sequiturs. It is carefully constructed, well planned in the same way that an architect makes certain that no brick or beam is redundant or out of place. My analogy is intentional in introducing this week’s Torah reading, which deals mostly with the details for the construction of the Mishkan, the tabernacle which became the center of sacred service during the years of desert wandering and the years of conquest of Canaan, a reading that opens with the following passage:

א וַיַּקְהֵל מֹשֶׁה אֶת־כָּל־עֲדַת בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵהֶם אֵלֶּה הַדְּבָרִים אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּה ה’ לַעֲשׂת אֹתָם: ב שֵׁשֶׁת יָמִים תֵּעָשֶׂה מְלָאכָה וּבַיּוֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִי יִהְיֶה לָכֶם קֹדֶשׁ שַׁבַּת שַׁבָּתוֹן לַה’ כָּל־הָעֹשֶׂה בוֹ מְלָאכָה יוּמָת: ג לֹא־תְבַעֲרוּ אֵשׁ בְּכֹל משְׁבֹתֵיכֶם בְּיוֹם הַשַּׁבָּת

Moshe gathered the entire community of the children of Israel and he said to them: These are the words that Hashem has commanded you to fulfill: You shall perform work for six days, but the seventh day shall be sanctified for you, a Sabbath, wholly unto Hashem. All who work on that day shall die. Do not kindle fire in any of your habitations on the day of the Sabbath. (Ex 35:1-3)

The rabbis of the Talmud made sense of this juxtaposition by associating the use of the word מלאכה, labor, in this passage with its use in the description of the work of creating the Mishkan in order to determine what was considered prohibited labor on Shabbat.

It is an association that makes sense on several levels. With exception of this passage, which delineates the kindling of fire, an earlier passage on gathering and cooking food (cf. Ex. 16:21-26), and a later narrative that speaks of the man who violated Shabbat by gathering wood (cf. Nu 15:32-36), we would not know what else can or cannot be done on Shabbat. Likewise, with the building of the Mishkan, which was understood as a symbolic reenactment of the Creation, anything that would go into its creation would be likened to acts of Creation, and would thus be prohibited on the day on which we are to cease from creative labors, just as Hashem did.

As humans, we have a tendency towards putting value on tangible things. We can easily grasp the concept of sanctity of material items and space, but it is difficult to get one’s hands around the idea that time can be imbued with value and sanctity. The idea of sacred time was an innovation of Judaism. The very first mention of sanctity in the Torah relates to Shabbat, and that alone, of all things created, was sanctified by Hashem. We never find mention of anything else being sanctified by Hashem; all other sanctifications are the result of human designation.

Shabbat enjoys a place of preeminence among the mitzvot. There is only one exception for which it may be violated: to save a human life. Even though the Mishkan was to be constructed as Hashem’s dwelling in Israel’s midst, any act related to its construction was also prohibited on Shabbat.

In order to make the sanctity of Shabbat somewhat easier to grasp, Shabbat can be contextualized. It may be compared to that tangible item which was about to become the sacred core of the Jewish people - the Mishkan itself. And from this association, we can draw a concept of Shabbat, treating time as if it were tangible. We can look at Shabbat as if it were a Mishkan in time.

This analogy is not entirely mine; in his book The Sabbath: Its Meaning for Modern Man, Abraham Joshua Heschel called the Shabbat “A Palace in Time.” Not that there is a spatial quality to the day, but it gives us an opportunity to appreciate time in a way that is similar to the way we value space, or what takes up space. For our lives are spent in pursuit of things material, starting with the basic needs for survival, but soon going beyond needs and into wants. Humans, by nature, are engaged in a continuous conquest of matter and space. But ultimately, there is one thing that we can never conquer but we can easily squander, and that is our most precious commodity: time.

So, for one day in the week, for 25 hours, we treat time as if it were our Mishkan. We approach her singing the psalms of David in Kabbalat Shabbat. We greet her with the joy and anticipation of a groom awaiting his bride under the chuppah through the poetry of Shlomo Halevi Alkabetz in L’cha Dodi:

בּוֹאִי בְשָׁלוֹם עֲטֶרֶת בַּעְלָהּ

גַּם בְּרִנָּה וּבְצָהֳלָה

תּוֹךְ אֱמוּנֵי עַם סְגֻלָּה

בּוֹאִי כַלָּה, בּוֹאִי כַלָּה

לְכָה דוֹדִי לִקְרַאת כַּלָּה

פְּנֵי שַׁבָּת נְקַבְּלָה

Come in peace, O crown of her husband,

Come with song and jubilation,

Into the midst of the faithful of the treasured people,

Enter, O bride! Enter, O bride!

Come, my Beloved, to greet the bride;

Let us welcome the presence of Shabbat. (L’cha Dodi)

In many rites, we include a passage drawn from the Zohar that describes the mystery of Shabbat:

וְכָל שׁוּלְטָנֵי רוּגְזִין, וּמָארֵי דְדִינָא כֻּלְהוּ עַרְקִין, וְאִתְעַבְּרוּ מִנָּהּ

וְלֵית שׁוּלְטָנָא עִלָּאָה אָחֳרָא בְּכֻלְּהוּ עָלְמִין בַּר מִנָּהּ

וְאַנְפָּהָא נְהִירִין בִּנְהִירוּ עִלָּאָה, וְאִתְעַטְּרַת לְתַתָּא בְּעַמָּא קַדִּישָׁא

וְכֻלְהוֹן מִתְעַטְּרִין בְּנִשְׁמָתִן חַדְתִּין

Then all powers of wrath and all other rulers flee and vanish from before her.

No power other than her’s rules in all the worlds.

Her face radiates a supernal light, and in [this] world below she is crowned with her holy people,

all of whom are crowned with new souls... (Raza d’Shabbat; Zohar 2:135)

We make our meals festive events, spiced with wine and seasoned with delicacies. Our tables are adorned with two loaves of bread, a reminder of the miracle of the manna in the wilderness, and the double portion given on Friday to feed Israel for that day and the next. The Shabbat candles transform the power that fire has, to create and destroy, into a source of warmth and light, a glow that brings delight into our hearts. We sing songs to words of medieval poets expressing joy, faith, and love, along with a hope for a future of which the Shabbat is just a preview:

מֵעֵין עוֹלָם הַבָּא יוֹם שַׁבָּת מְנוּחָה

כָּל הַמִּתְעַנְּגִים בָּהּ, יִזְכּוּ לְרֹב שִׂמְחָה

מֵחֶבְלֵי מָשִֽׁיחַ, יֻצָּלוּ לִרְוָחָה

פְּדוּתֵֽנוּ תַצְמִֽיחַ, וְנָס יָגוֹן וַאֲנָחָה

A foretaste of the world to come is the day of Sabbath rest.

All who take delight in it will be worthy of great joy.

They will be delivered with relief from the birthpangs of the Messiah,

May our redemption spring forth, and sadness and sighing flee away. (Mah Yedidut)

Shabbat rest takes on much greater meaning than one usually associates with rest. It becomes an offering, a form of prayer; or to put it paradoxically, a service to Hashem:

אֱלֹקינוּ וֵאלֹקי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ, רְצֵה נָא בִמְנוּחָתֵנוּ

Our God and God of our ancestors, may You find favor in our rest. (Shabbat Amida)

מְנוּחַת אַהֲבָה וּנְדָבָה

מְנוּחַת אֱמֶת וֶאֱמוּנָה

מְנוּחַת שָׁלוֹם וְשַׁלְוָה וְהַשְׁקֵט וָבֶטַח

מְנוּחָה שְׁלֵמָה שָׁאַתָּה רוֹצֶה בָּהּ

יַכִּירוּ בָנֶיךָ וְיֵדְעוּ כִּי מֵאִתְּךָ הִיא מְנוּחָתָם

וְעַל מְנוּחָתָם יַקְדִּישׁוּ אֶת שְׁמֶךָ

A rest of love and generosity,

a rest of truth and faith,

a rest of peace and tranquility, calm and trust;

complete rest in which You find favor.

May Your children recognize and know that their rest comes from You,

and that by their rest they sanctify Your name. (Amida for Shabbat Mincha)

Shabbat is a day to check every day concerns at its door as we find shelter from everyday worries within its walls.

אִם־תָּשִׁיב מִשַּׁבָּת רַגְלֶךָ עֲשׂוֹת חֲפָצֶיךָ בְּיוֹם קָדְשִׁי וְקָרָאתָ לַשַּׁבָּת עֹנֶג לִקְדוֹשׁ ה’ מְכֻבָּד וְכִבַּדְתּוֹ מֵעֲשׂוֹת דְּרָכֶיךָ מִמְּצוֹא חֶפְצְךָ וְדַבֵּר דָּבָר: אָז תִּתְעַנַּג עַל־ה’ וְהִרְכַּבְתִּיךָ עַל־בָּמֳותֵי [בָּמֳתֵי] אָרֶץ וְהַאֲכַלְתִּיךָ נַחֲלַת יַעֲקֹב אָבִיךָ כִּי פִּי ה’ דִּבֵּר

If you keep your feet from breaking Shabbat, and from pursuing your needs on My holy day, if you call the Shabbat a delight, and the Lord’s holy day honorable, and if you honor it by not going your own way or attending to your own affairs, or speaking idle words,then you will find joy in Hashem, and I will cause you to ride on the heights of the earth and to feast on the inheritance of Jacob, for the mouth of Hashem has spoken. (Is 58: 13-14)

I am fortunate to have observed Shabbat all my life. To observe it never meant a change in my lifestyle, but I first began to appreciate it best while in college. That was my only real break from my studies, when I would join with others and celebrate the joy of the day; and my appreciation has grown over the years. But I do envy those who did make the decision to make Shabbat a meaningful part of their lives; I cannot imagine it being an easy decision to make or to keep. But we now live in a time when we are faced by ever increasing demands. Time is precious, and it is ever fleeting. We need structures in our lives to bring sanctity into it, if for no other reason, to simply maintain our humanity. Life is precious, and those near and dear are precious, but we run the risk of losing sight of all those wonderful things if we don’t take time to stop and smell the roses. Shabbat really is not that difficult to do; all it takes is a willingness to put on the brakes, some family, friends, food, and wine, and a heart open to the joyful experience of simply being human and appreciating the many blessings provided us by Hashem. If you follow Isaiah’s advice, you may find yourself riding on the heights of the earth, and you may find yourself revisiting that tabernacle in time with greater joy and appreciation.

שבת שלום ומברך

See also http://marksblogspot.blogspot.com/2008/03/refuge-from-technology.html

For a wonderful version of L’cha Dodi sung by David D’Or, see http://tinyurl.com/yj62mje (or, for a shorter, non-video version, http://tinyurl.com/ybfng4d )

Ki Tissa - Where is God in Time of Peril?

It is precisely at those moments of natural disaster that we are most likely to question our faith in God. Five years ago, we witnessed Hurricane Katrina and the Southeast Asian Tsunami, and in the past several weeks, the severe earthquakes in Haiti and Chile. The question often goes: If there is a God, why do such disasters exist?

In the wake of the disaster in Haiti, we heard how some self-appointed spokesmen for God blamed the earthquake on how the people of that small nation sold their souls to the devil during their successful slave revolt more than a century ago. Those who are religious readers of James Carroll’s Monday columns in the Boston Globe (http://tinyurl.com/yglmmml) would see how effectively that argument can be disposed of from the perspective of a devout and thoughtful Catholic. This subject ties in well to a passage in this week’s Torah reading for a Jewish perspective.

The question of theodicy - the existence of evil in a world created by a benevolent God, is one of the oldest and most complex questions. At the end of the day, there can be no clear cut answer, for faith with safety nets loses its existential nature, and thus becomes less faith and more a matter of fact. Faith exists only in an environment where the most difficult questions are possible, sometimes even necessary. For the person of deep faith, the question “Why?” becomes a prayer, a search for understanding, and not a refutation of the divine will

At the time of Katrina and the Tsunami, my friend, Rabbi Nechemia Schusterman, taught an important lesson that stems from this week’s parasha. Moshe stands before God following the incident of the Golden Calf, engaged in a lengthy defense of Israel after its engagement in idolatry. Hashem is poised to “withdraw” from Israel, allowing them to go on with Moshe and a yet to be named angel to guide the way. Moshe bargains with Hashem, who agrees to take the lead. Moshe then asks Hashem:

וַיֹּאמַר הַרְאֵנִי נָא אֶת־כְּבֹדֶךָ: וַיֹּאמֶר אֲנִי אַעֲבִיר כָּל־טוּבִי עַל־פָּנֶיךָ וְקָרָאתִי בְשֵׁם ה’ לְפָנֶיךָ וְחַנֹּתִי אֶת־אֲשֶׁר אָחֹן וְרִחַמְתִּי אֶת־אֲשֶׁר אֲרַחֵם: וַיֹּאמֶר לֹא תוּכַל לִרְאֹת אֶת־פָּנָי כִּי לֹא־יִרְאַנִי הָאָדָם וָחָי: וַיֹּאמֶר ה’ הִנֵּה מָקוֹם אִתִּי וְנִצַּבְתָּ עַל־הַצּוּר: וְהָיָה בַּעֲבֹר כְּבֹדִי וְשַׂמְתִּיךָ בְּנִקְרַת הַצּוּר וְשַׂכֹּתִי כַפִּי עָלֶיךָ עַד־עָבְרִי: וַהֲסִרֹתִי אֶת־כַּפִּי וְרָאִיתָ אֶת־אֲחֹרָי וּפָנַי לֹא יֵרָאוּ: פ

And [Moshe] said: Show me your glory. He [Hashem] replied: “I will cause all My goodness to pass before you, and I will proclaim The Name before you, the grace that I grant and the compassion that I bestow.” [Hashem] added: “You will be unable to see My Face, for man cannot see Me and live.” Hashem said: “There is a place with Me; you will stand on that rock; when My Glory passes by, I will place you in the cleft of the rock, and I will shield you with My Hand until I have passed by. I will then remove My Hand, and you will see My Back, but My Face shall not be seen. (Ex. 33:18-23)

What exactly is going on here? R. Nechemia explained that Moshe was not asking for merely a visual, but something much deeper. What Moshe sought was to understand the very essence of theodicy, something so large and unfathomable that it is beyond the pale of human understanding. The key to this passage is in the the word צור, which means rock, but is also a strait, a siege, and trouble. In placing Moshe in the cleft in the rock, בנקרת הצור, He is placing him in the troubled space that so many have experienced throughout time. Hashem prevents Moshe from seeing the Divine Presence as it passes by while Moshe remains in that dire strait; it is only after He has passed, only in retrospect, that he may be able to see and understand some sense of what has occurred.

Tanakh offers us a few stunning examples like this one of those seeking a direct understanding of how Hashem allows bad things to happen. A notable example comes from the story of Elijah:

וַיָּבֹא־שָׁם אֶל־הַמְּעָרָה וַיָּלֶן שָׁם וְהִנֵּה דְבַר־ה’ אֵלָיו וַיֹּאמֶר לוֹ מַה־לְּךָ פֹה אֵלִיָּהוּ: וַיֹּאמֶר קַנֹּא קִנֵּאתִי לַה’ | אֱלֹהֵי צְבָאוֹת כִּי־עָזְבוּ בְרִיתְךָ בְּנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת־מִזְבְּחֹתֶיךָ הָרָסוּ וְאֶת־נְבִיאֶיךָ הָרְגוּ בֶחָרֶב וָאִוָּתֵר אֲנִי לְבַדִּי וַיְבַקְשׁוּ אֶת־נַפְשִׁי לְקַחְתָּהּ: וַיֹּאמֶר צֵא וְעָמַדְתָּ בָהָר לִפְנֵי ה’ וְהִנֵּה ה’ עֹבֵר וְרוּחַ גְּדוֹלָה וְחָזָק מְפָרֵק הָרִים וּמְשַׁבֵּר סְלָעִים לִפְנֵי ה’ לֹא בָרוּחַ ה’ וְאַחַר הָרוּחַ רַעַשׁ לֹא בָרַעַשׁ ה’: וְאַחַר הָרַעַשׁ אֵשׁ לֹא בָאֵשׁ ה’ וְאַחַר הָאֵשׁ קוֹל דְּמָמָה דַקָּה: וַיְהִי | כִּשְׁמֹעַ אֵלִיָּהוּ וַיָּלֶט פָּנָיו בְּאַדַּרְתּוֹ ...

[Eliyahu] came to the cave and stayed there. Then, the word of Hashem came to him and asked: Eliyahu, why are you here? [Eliyahu] said: I have been extremely zealous for Hashem, God of the Hosts, for Israel has despised Your covenant, they have destroyed your altars and killed your prophets by the sword, and now I am left alone, and they seek to take my life. And He said: Go out and stand on the mountain before Hashem. Hashem passed by, and there was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks before Hashem - but Hashem was not in the wind. After the wind, an earthquake - but Hashem was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake, a fire - but Hashem was not in the fire. After the fire, there was a soft, quiet voice. When Eliyahu heard this, he covered his face in his mantle... (1K 19: 9-13)

A brief recap of Elijah’s story is in order: Elijah prophesied during the reign of Ahab. Ahab was a powerful and ruthless king, known along with his quen Jezebel for their pagan excesses and moral lapses. Elijah had prophesied a drought that lasted 3 years, bringing the land to a standstill, one that ended only with the contest between him and the four hundred fifty prophets of Ba’al on Mount Carmel. After the prophets of Ba’al had lost the contest, Elijah had the prophets seized and killed. Now, Elijah’s life was in danger, and he fled into the desert, going as far as Horeb, which we also know as Mount Sinai, the scene of the drama in this week’s parasha. Elijah was one of the few prophets of Hashem who escaped massacre at the hands of Jezebel, and he had good reason to take the threat on his life seriously. His fear and frustration is evident in this chapter: where is God amidst all this evil? In this laconic passage, we can imagine Elijah standing where Moshe stood, witnessing the passing of destructive forces, of wind, earthquake, and fire, but Hashem is not discernible in any of these. Hashem becomes apparent only afterwards, in the most subtle manner imaginable: the קול דממה דקה, the still, small voice, the one that we can hear only if our ears, hearts, and minds are tuned in to it.

Hashem’s answer to Elijah’s troubled protest is to go back and do what he has to do.

Where can Hashem be found in disaster? Hashem can be found among those who go and do, who heed the still, small voice of Godliness, who show compassion and caring by opening their hearts, those who give of what they have, those who pick themselves up from the comforts of home and help those who have nothing to give in return.

We cannot hope to understand why tragedy takes place in a world created by a good God. As God begins His long response to Job, He asks:

אֵיפֹה הָיִיתָ בְּיָסְדִי־אָרֶץ הַגֵּד אִם־יָדַעְתָּ בִינָֽה׃

Where were you when I laid the Earth’s foundations? Speak if you have understanding! (Jb 38: 4)

Some things are beyond our comprehension. That does not mean that we cannot ask the question “Why?” We can ask why, in the hope that we will, at some point, be privileged with some understanding, howbeit incomplete. And in looking at it from this perspective, asking why becomes not a protest, but a prayer.