Weekly Torah Reading (in Israel): Emor, May 14, 2016
Why Do We Count the ‘Omer?
In this week’s reading, the Torah commands the people of Israel to bring the first sheaf (‘omer) of the new grain harvest to the Temple. This is to be done, the Torah says, “on the day after the Sabbath”—which, in our tradition, refers to the day after the start of the Passover festival. This week’s reading then further commands that, starting from that day, we are to count off seven weeks (Lev 23:15). On the day after this counting is complete, another festival is to occur, appropriately called Shavu‘ot (“weeks” in Hebrew).
Regular readers of this column will have heard of the ancient book of Jubilees, an anonymous work written in the second century BCE—and one that reveals a lot about what was on the minds of Jews in that turbulent century. One of the more surprising aspects of Jubilees is how it handles the whole matter of counting off those seven weeks between Passover and Shavu‘ot.
In Jubilees, there is no mention of counting weeks or days. The book implies that this is all a huge misunderstanding. Instead, after recounting the great flood in the time of Noah, Jubilees invents an incident not found in Genesis: Noah and his descendants all swore oaths never to consume the blood of sacrificial animals. A sacred day was established to commemorate those oaths, Shevu‘ot. This word is spelled slightly differently in English from “weeks,” Shavu‘ot, but in Hebrew the spelling is the same. So, Jubilees argues, people who think the name of this festival is “Weeks” are just wrong. It’s really the “Festival of Oaths,” and there is no counting off of weeks at all.
Why was this book out to eliminate the counting? Actually, this was very consistent with the overall ideological stand found in Jubilees—and frankly, among some Jews today as well. Jubilees did not like the idea of any human role in things sacred, not only in determining the date of Shavu‘ot, but in other matters as well. So, for the same reason, Jubilees warns against people who “will carefully examine the moon” and use it to determine the months—as we do with the Hebrew calendar—since this also required human intervention, first in having human witnesses spot the new moon and then having other humans—a rabbinical court—use their testimony to officially establish the start of each month and publicize it. The Hebrew calendar’s luni-solar nature also required human authorities to add a second month of Adar from time to time, at irregular intervals. “How awful!” one can almost hear Jubilees say. Instead, the book championed a sun-based calendar that was virtually automatic—no human meddling involved.
Our rabbis, on the contrary, gloried in this handoff from the divine to the human. The Torah, they said (appropriately reinterpreting Deut 30:12), is no longer in heaven, where it began: it is now in the hands of our greatest sages to interpret and put into practice. This of course doesn’t mean that Judaism is a do-it-yourself religion, given to revision by whoever wants to change it; we depend on past rulings and established practice. What it does mean is that ultimately, at some stage or other, what came from God must always be given over to mere human beings, to make the best of it that they can.
So in the same spirit, we thank God on the first day of every lunar month for having sanctified the people of Israel and thereby given us the role of establishing when each new month begins. This hands off to us, in the process, the authority to determine as well when each festival will occur, in fact, even when the Day of Atonement will occur. So, as it also says in this week’s reading, “These are the Lord’s festivals, sacred occasions that you will proclaim” (Lev 23:4).
Shabbat shalom!
Weekly Torah Reading (outside Israel) Kedoshim, May 14, 2016
Like Yourself
No doubt the most famous verse in this week’s reading, Kedoshim, is Lev 19:18, “You shall love your neighbor like yourself.” Rabbi Akiva declared that this verse was nothing less than the “great general principle of the Torah” (Sifra Kedoshim 4), and even before him, Jewish scholars spoke of the two verses beginning with the words “And you shall love” as embodying the whole of the Torah: this verse and the one in the Shema that begins, “And you shall love the Lord your God…”
But what exactly is this verse asking us to do? Does loving your neighbor mean that if, for example, you win the lottery, you have to pick someone else, your “neighbor” or your “fellow,” and split the money 50-50? And who is your neighbor? Any fellow human being? Any fellow Jew? The Jews of the Dead Sea Scrolls community were told to hate everyone other than the members of their own community, in fact, they looked forward to the great “day of retribution,” when God would strike all other Jews down. But how could they reconcile this with our verse? Apparently, they interpreted it as meaning “You shall love your neighbor-who-is-like-yourself,” that is, anyone who was a member of their community was to be loved. Everyone else deserved eternal hatred.
If that’s not the right interpretation, then what is? The traditional rabbinic interpretation holds that this verse is intended in a rather limited sense: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.” So you don’t have to split the money you won 50-50, but you can’t do anything to your neighbor that you wouldn’t want done to you. This sounds a bit less lofty than actually loving your neighbor—but the rabbis had a good exegetical reason for interpreting in this sense.
I should mention that the words quoted from Lev 19:18 are only are only part of the verse. The whole verse reads, “You shall not take revenge or hold a grudge against your countrymen, and you shall love your neighbor like yourself: I am the Lord.” The rabbis apparently interpreted the latter part of the verse in light of the former. How so?
Taking revenge or holding a grudge sounds pretty serious, like the blood feuds that still go on in the modern Middle East, sometimes lasting for generations. But the rabbis of Mishnaic times interpreted “revenge” here in a very down-to-earth way. Suppose, they said, you ask to borrow your neighbor’s scythe, but he says, “No, it’s a very delicate instrument, I’m afraid I can’t lend it out.” Then, sometime later he asks to borrow your shovel, and you say, “You didn’t lend me your scythe, I’m not going to lend you my shovel”—that’s taking revenge. No blood feud, just a little nasty pettiness.
But if that’s revenge, then what’s “holding a grudge”? It sounds like it’s the same thing, but the rabbis said: Not quite. Suppose he refuses to lend you his scythe, and later he asks to borrow your shovel. If you say, “Sure, take it! I’m not a cheapskate like you!”—you may not be taking revenge, but you’re still guilty of holding a grudge.
In light of these two examples, what do the words that follow them, “And you shall love your neighbor like yourself,” seem to imply? There is indeed a great general principle in human relations, but it doesn’t require you to do the impossible. Instead, what is demanded is that you take the high road and not do anything to your neighbor that you wouldn’t want done to you—even if your neighbor has already done it to you.