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Details, details, details. During March we read the closing portions of the book of Exodus and the opening of Leviticus, which give us intricate descriptions of the ancient Mishkan, the desert tabernacle that served as a temple as the people wandered; how it was to be built and by whom, how the priests would dress and be ordained, and how various kinds of sacrifices must be offered. The long lists of specifications obscure an important underlying question that is being addressed here: What do we have to do to get close to God? The people are asked to undertake this project so that “I will dwell among you and be your God, and they shall know that I am their God...” (Ex 29:4546) You might say, you don’t have to do anything to dwell near God ! God is everywhere already. And yet here we have a narrative of the Israelites struggling to meet the exact ritual requirements, and finally being blessed by visible evidence of the Presence of God, coming to dwell in the center of the camp, in the center of the Mishkan. And it is a struggle. They are no longer slaves, but their difficulties are far from over. Moses is still on Mt. Sinai as Parshat Tetzaveh begins, learning about the details of the making of the priestly garments and the ceremony for the ordination of the first priests. We then move our focus to the camp down below in Parshat Ki Tissa, where we find the people so frightened and misguided that they resort to worshipping the Golden Calf. Moses pleads with God not to destroy the people for this terrible act of faithlessness and idolatry, but proceeds to harshly punish them himself. Discouraged, he asks to see God for reassurance, and is given a kind of glimpse of God‘s loving, forgiving nature. He then returns to Mt. Sinai for another forty days and nights of fasting, with another set of tablets to be inscribed. In Parshat Vayakhel, he descends and begins to teach the law, and exactly how they are to construct the Mishkan for the proper worship of God. God specifies everything about the Mishkan: who should craft it, what materials to use, what colors, what size, what words to inscribe on the high priest’s special gear. In Pekude, the final portion in Exodus, the work is completed. In a pillar of cloud, God’s presence descends and fills the Mishkan. As Leviticus begins with Parshat VaYikra, the workings of the Mishkan are detailed in a list of procedures for specific offerings. A key question raised here is why the text portrays God as requiring extremely specific rites. Doesn’t God like creativity? Doesn’t God get tired of the same old thing? Does God prefer ritual exactitude over spontaneity? The question will soon be answered when Aaron’s sons, recently ordained priests, bring an incense offering that has not been commanded. They are immediately burned entirely by a divine flame leaping out of the Mishkan. The Torah’s answer seems clear: God only wants exactly what God has asked for. It’s subtle: the finest craftsmanship and artistry is required to construct the Mishkan, but offering anything that has not been called for is considered an offense. In the first instance, creativity is welcome. In the other, it is completely stifled. As I commented last year in the San Diego Jewish Heritage, “Although the pattern is given by God, the skill to fashion what has been described requires the very best that human beings can achieve. There is a marvelous coming together in this; there is wonderful interdependence of God and the people. Each needs what the other provides in order to make a fit place for God’s presence to dwell; a place where human beings can come into the divine Presence…” Doing it any other way does not reflect a desire to serve God, but rather, the self. It might as well be another Golden Calf. This is why the details matter. Adhering to them carefully demonstrates love and obedience to God. What is the more loving gift -- precisely what the beloved desires, or what we would like to have for ourselves? But just as people in relationships change over time, our response to God and our sense of what Jewish practice requires has changed considerably since the days described in the Torah. In our day, we are still called to consider the nature of the worship we design and participate in. Are we there to serve or to be served? Are we there at all? Have we built a place in the center of our community, and in the center of our being that is fit for God to dwell? If we’re not involved in the formal aspects of community worship, can we have a rich and disciplined inner spiritual life? Various movements have different ways of arriving at what it is exactly that God, through Torah, is telling us to do. For Reconstructionists, there is an understanding that Judaism must evolve and change so that contemporary forms continue to reflect eternal principles in a meaningful way. We take Jewish tradition seriously, but not literally, in our effort to formulate an authentic Jewish practice. We say authority resides in community decision-making, based on study of the sources, contemporary research, and the overarching values we uphold. We bring rabbis to the table, as experts, not authorities. Determining what God and Jewish tradition demand from us is an ongoing, never-ending process, sometimes yielding results contrary to traditional Jewish views. Simply being engaged in the study is a show of faith and determination to serve God and the community. Of course, God is everywhere. But where are we? Without our going to considerable effort to devote ourselves to living according to what God tells us is holy, we may never come to an awareness of the divine in our midst. Rabbi
Alexis Roberts |
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