Shemini | Coming Close

וַיְהִי בַּיּוֹם הַשְּׁמִינִי קָרָא מֹשֶׁה לְאַהֲרֹן וּלְבָנָיו וּלְזִקְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל׃ 

On the eighth day Moses called Aaron and his sons, and the elders of Israel.

Leviticus 9:1

 

This week's Torah portion takes place on "the eighth day." What is an eighth day in Torah, where there are six days of creation and then a seventh day, Shabbat? There are no other days. In Jewish teachings, Elohim, the Great Creating Spirit, spoke the world and its forms into existence for six days, all for the purpose of resting in Shabbat.

In the nondual language of Buddhism and Torah, Creation and Shabbat reveal each other; one can't arise without the other. This is how important rest is. It crowns creation and makes creation possible. Shabbat is a pause from progression, accumulation, and working. On Shabbat we join the Great Creating Spirit's day of rest, a day of mindfulness and reflection.

The seventh day is a celebration and appreciation of enoughness. We pause from adding or improving, finding what we can to celebrate in the gift of life. At the end of Shabbat, we do a havdalah ritual to bring us back to the first day by distinguishing and integrating Shabbat into the first day.  There is a separation and a flow, independence, and connection, accumulating and resting. Shabbat and the six days of creating are interdependent; they co-arise and pass one into the other. As Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh says, they inter-are.

Where and how does an eighth day fit into this interdependent and interconnected cycle of seven?  If it's a liminal, in-between time, it disconnects Shabbat from the rest of the days. Shabbat? Does that mean it is an ungrounded day that disconnects us from the cycle of life and creation? Or is it an opening, a portal, between the heavens and earth, as Rabbi David Friedman teaches: "The number eight in the Kabbalah represents the Infinite and Eternal realm that is beyond — and within — our Soul, Time, and Space."

That is the question we take into the tragedy that opens this week's parasha.

On the eighth day in this week's parasha, after seven days of private priest ordination, Aaron and his sons return to the community to serve as priests — ritual leaders and teachers of all matters of life and death. In a shocking and dramatic turn, the sons, in their first act as priests, are consumed by the fire they bring to the altar. Their relationship to role, identity and community is out of balance. They weren't ready to approach the infinite realm of eight and survive.

וַיִּקְחוּ בְנֵי־אַהֲרֹן נָדָב וַאֲבִיהוּא אִישׁ מַחְתָּתוֹ וַיִּתְּנוּ בָהֵן אֵשׁ וַיָּשִׂימוּ עָלֶיהָ קְטֹרֶת וַיַּקְרִבוּ לִפְנֵי יְהוָה אֵשׁ זָרָה אֲשֶׁר לֹא צִוָּה אֹתָם׃ וַתֵּצֵא אֵשׁ מִלִּפְנֵי יְהוָה וַתֹּאכַל אוֹתָם וַיָּמֻתוּ לִפְנֵי יְהוָה׃

Now Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before Eternally Present alien fire, which Eternally Present had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from Eternally Present  and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of Eternally Present.

Leviticus 10:1-2

Hasn't every parent cried out to their child, “not too close!” “Don't go too close to the fire, to the street, to the hot stove, to a stranger.” In Shemini, no one cried out to Aaron's sons, “Stop, you are too close!” And the fire burned them up. All this on the eighth day. As the story is told, they had no fear. They approached the fire and were consumed. Where was their awareness of the danger of fire? Were they destabilized in the time of eight and the power of the temple ritual so that they lost touch with their physicality?

Or maybe they didn't come close at all because they were too full of youthful power and energy and anticipation of life in their new role. They approached the altar in the role of priest; they were already consumed by the role.

Societal roles are strong sources of meaning and belonging. And when we identify too closely to the role, we lose connection to other parts of ourselves. When we show up in roles, we aren't showing up.

Roles and Garments

The sadhu pointed to his skin, covered with ash, and said to me,"clothing."

I was in Varanasi, India, preparing for pilgrimage. The roof terrace of the Ganga View guesthouse where I was staying overlooked the banks of the Ganges River where nightly devotion took place. Each night, just before sunset, masses of people came and prepared a large banyan tree for the arti, the evening ritual. After chanting, burning fire, and pouring oil, a quiet circle formed around a sadhu, a holy man. 

Night after night I watched from the rooftop terrace. I wanted to join the circle and was afraid to get too close. I watched from afar, paralyzed by fear. Twenty years later I can feel that fear in my body. 

In Shemini, Aaron's sons drew too close and were burned up. What went wrong? They were trained and dressed by Moses in the priestly role and garments. What didn't Moses transmit to them? 

וַיַּקְרֵ֣ב מֹשֶׁ֔ה אֶֽת־אַהֲרֹ֖ן וְאֶת־בָּנָ֑יו וַיִּרְחַ֥ץ אֹתָ֖ם בַּמָּֽיִם׃ 

Then Moses brought Aaron and his sons forward and washed them with water. 

וַיִּתֵּ֨ן עָלָ֜יו אֶת־הַכֻּתֹּ֗נֶת וַיַּחְגֹּ֤ר אֹתוֹ֙ בָּֽאַבְנֵ֔ט וַיַּלְבֵּ֤שׁ אֹתוֹ֙ אֶֽת־הַמְּעִ֔יל וַיִּתֵּ֥ן עָלָ֖יו אֶת־הָאֵפֹ֑ד וַיַּחְגֹּ֣ר אֹת֗וֹ בְּחֵ֙שֶׁב֙ הָֽאֵפֹ֔ד וַיֶּאְפֹּ֥ד ל֖וֹ בּֽוֹ׃ 

He put the tunic on him, girded him with the sash, clothed him with the robe, and put the ephod on him, girding him with the decorated band with which he tied it to him. 

וַיָּ֥שֶׂם עָלָ֖יו אֶת־הַחֹ֑שֶׁן וַיִּתֵּן֙ אֶל־הַחֹ֔שֶׁן אֶת־הָאוּרִ֖ים וְאֶת־הַתֻּמִּֽים׃ 

He put the breastpiece on him, and put into the breastpiece the Urim and Thummim. 

וַיָּ֥שֶׂם אֶת־הַמִּצְנֶ֖פֶת עַל־רֹאשׁ֑וֹ וַיָּ֨שֶׂם עַֽל־הַמִּצְנֶ֜פֶת אֶל־מ֣וּל פָּנָ֗יו אֵ֣ת צִ֤יץ הַזָּהָב֙ נֵ֣זֶר הַקֹּ֔דֶשׁ כַּאֲשֶׁ֛ר צִוָּ֥ה יְהוָ֖ה אֶת־מֹשֶֽׁה׃ 

And he set the headdress on his head; and on the headdress, in front, he put the gold frontlet, the holy diadem—as Eternal Presence  had commanded Moses. 

Leviticus 8:6

What did Moses understand about these garments that Aaron and his sons didn't? I learned from Rabbi David Ingber today that the Hasidic teacher, the Chernobyl Rabbi, taught that Moses wore white garments without hems. Simple, Gandhi-like clothing. Open, without end, leaving the body exposed and vulnerable to impact.

Moses' clothing is never directly described in the Torah when he speaks with God or leads the Israelites. His clothing is mentioned in his moments of enlightenment. He takes off his shoes at the Holy Place of the Burning Bush and puts on a mask when he descends from Mount Sinai to cover his illuminated face. His outer clothing isn't important. He encounters the Great Fire of Creation without role or costume. He risks his vulnerability, is affected and changed, and survives to step back into his role as leader. 

And this is how I hear the words of the sadhu in Varanasi. When I got myself down to his puja ritual, and sat with him, I asked him, "do you have fear?" My teeth were chattering. I was touching an old ancestral fear. He pointed to his skin, completely covered in gray ash, and said to me, "clothing, no fear." The elaborate garments we put on are the extras born from expectations and over-identification with the "me" that arises and wants to be protected in roles assigned by society and culture. The extras need protection and that generates fear. 

(Note: My post from last week on Retelling the Passover story to help us transform ancestral and historical trauma is a companion piece to what I am writing here.) 

And yet, of course, there is a balance, called tiferet in the kabbalistic tree of life, that we must find to function and survive in our world. A balance between roles burning us up and roles fulfilling our healing purpose in relation to the whole. We are in roles of parenting, teaching, protecting, educating, feeding. The garments of Aaron and his sons are part of the roles of holiness needed to perform the Temple rituals.  

Torah commentator Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg explains in The Particulars of Rapture that there is a double meaning of the Hebrew word for the priests' “garments”:

You shall make begadim of kodesh for Aaron, your brother, for kavod and for tiferet. (Exodus 28:2) begadim (בְּגָדִים) = garments, clothing. (The singular form, beged (בֶּגֶד), means “garment”, but is spelled the same way as beged (בֶּגֶד) = faithlessness, fraud, deception.)

There must be a harmonious balance — tiferet — in how we assume the roles. If all you bring near to the altar is the role, the elaborate clothing, the role and clothing will burn up. If you are over-identified with the clothing and role, you too will burn up. The connection Presence longs for is the connection of love. Not the trappings.

We know this in our lives. Our loved ones want our presence. Not just the "duties" we take on in our roles. And how many of us have realized that we have been overcome by a role we took on. That we "died" to the role? When the role becomes us or we become the role, we only see the world through the veils of the role identification. We miss direct engagement with life and love.

In India, I learned the story of Sufi Master Nizamuddin. The revered Master returned from an arduous road trip, his body unwashed and his clothing tattered. He was called to a banquet of a rich merchant. He was hungry, so he went directly to the banquet and was turned away at the door because of his appearance. He wasn't recognized as a saint without his elaborate robes.

He went back home and put on his robes. When he returned he was admitted with great fanfare and seated next to the merchant. He picked up a mutton chop and began smearing it all over his robes. The merchant cried out, "Master, what are you doing?" And Nizamuddin replied, "It isn't me you invited, it is the role represented by these robes. So I am feeding the robes."

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel said that prophets are engaged mystics. Prophets, like mystics, have seen deeply into the mystery, into the nature of reality that is ever present and usually hidden from us. And prophets are urgently concerned with how we are living and how to live so that the unity at the core of existence is revealed, so that sparks of light are lifted. 

The world needs a multitude of roles and people who are alive in the roles. As African American theologian Howard Thurman said:

Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.

Buddhist teacher Bernie Glassman helped me understand how showing up in a role was hiding myself from others. It was Holy Week, the first day of Passover and also Easter Week. I went to join a Street Retreat Bernie was leading in New York City. A group of Buddhist, Jewish, Christian, and Sufi meditators were living on the street as homeless people, with no money, no phones, just as we were.

I joined the retreat a day late because I hosted a Passover seder for family and friends the night before. I had told people I was going to join the Street Retreat for the rest of the week. Several friends brought donations of food for the people on retreat, including a massive roasted turkey.

Early the next morning I drove a carload of food from my home in Brooklyn to the lower east side park where the first day of the street retreat had begun. I parked along Tompkins Square Park and wandered until I found them, sitting in meditation on park benches. The group already looked raggedy, after their first night sleeping in City Hall Park.

I joined the meditation and the silence. After the meditation period ended people began discussing which soup kitchen to go to for food. I spoke up and said, I have food in my car. About twenty of us went over to the car and began feasting on an array of Passover leftovers. One person gnawed on a huge drumstick; others went for the abundant vegetarian side dishes. We shared the bounty with other people in the park. At some point I noticed Bernie standing to the side, watching.

I decided to formally ask him if I could join the retreat. He said yes. And he paused and added, but don't bring any gifts. When you do that, you show up in a role and it separates you.

I spent the next five days and nights wandering the streets of New York with them, sleeping in shelters, houses of worship and parks. I meditated on how I showed up in roles to create a sense of belonging. I saw how that created the opposite experience. Instead of bringing me the intimacy and connection I longed for, I felt separate and lonely. I wanted to learn to show up as me, relaxed and comfortable in my own skin.

The street retreat offered powerful opportunities to see how I created the experience of being an outsider. We spent time and slept in a Bowery evangelical mission, a Sufi Temple, the Catholic Worker House, and an Orthodox Jewish synagogue. We ate in soup kitchens and slept in parks. There was no inside or outside. I was visiting places that existed to welcome the stranger. I was with Buddhists I knew and practiced with and people new to me. Everyone was in the same boat. Sometimes we are familiar and sometimes not. This is the cycle and nature of life. Opening and closing, familiar and unfamiliar.

If we identify with life itself, as earthlings, we always belong. It’s the roles that separate us. Roles, of course, are necessary to function in society, to survive and contribute to others’ survival. Roles can bring us into relationship with each other and connection with our own meaning and purpose. The danger, what burns up Aaron's sons, is when the role takes over. On the personal level, when roles take over, we lose human connection and discovery of ourselves and others.

On the societal level, when roles take over, punishing caste systems can develop and devalue the non-caste groups. We can read what happens to Aaron's sons as a cautionary tale alerting us to that. Fulfilling the priestly role is not about creating a dominant caste that wears opulent clothing and performs rituals for their own aggrandizement. This week's Torah portion makes clear that everyone has the capacity and right to live in full holiness. It is up to us.

When death comes

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

—Mary Oliver (1935-2019), 
from Devotions