In a nutshell: after the people of Israel received, collectively, a revelation of God’s voice, including the Ten Commandments, they signed on the dotted line by famously declaring na’aseh ve-nishma’ (נעשה ונשמע) “We will do and listen” (Exodus 24:7). The midrash takes these words to signify their complete trust, since the word na’aseh, “we will do”, preceded the word nishma’, “we will listen”: they committed themselves to obey the Torah even before they heard it fully.

But when Moses goes up the mountain to receive the word of God for them and stays a while, the following happens:

Aaron yields to the pressure. He collects the golden earrings from everybody and fashions a golden statue of a calf. Almost instantly, the Israelites start worshipping this idol, saying:

אֵלֶּה אֱלֹהֶיךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל אֲשֶׁר הֶעֱלוּךָ מֵאֶרֶץ מִצְרָיִם:

This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!
(Exodus 32:4)

As a school kid, I found this story incomprehensible. How could they do it? In the four months that have passed since the exodus from Egypt, the Israelites witnessed dozens of miracles, each of which, on its own, should have knocked any doubt even out of the worst cynic: the ten plagues; the parting of the Red Sea for the Israelites and the drowning of the pursuing Egyptian forces; the manna and the quails to feed them and the water from the rock to quench their thirst; the “cosmic GPS”—the pillar of light to guide them by night and the pillar of smoke by day; and to top it all off, the collective experience of the revelation of the Ten Commandments, the first of which is the ban on worshipping any idols.

Over the years, I have come to relate to this story as a metaphor for the perils of the spiritual path that many committed spiritual practitioners are familiar with. Anyone who has had a “peak experience”, a moment of clarity in which the screens that normally veil one’s perception lift from one’s eyes and one gazes directly at Truth face to face, knows how one’s sense of self momentarily changes. One’s existential doubts, anxiety and neurosis dissolve in a moment; trust, love, surrender and freedom take over and one is convinced that life will never be the same.

In very rare cases, such an experience leads to a profound and permanent transformation. In most cases, however, the experience fades, and one finds oneself in a predicament—one has fallen deeply in love, but the object of one’s love is nowhere to be found. And for someone new on the path, this can cause a kind of panic, a strong desire to retrieve the clarity of the initial experience and an almost frantic exploration of ways in which that experience could be stabilized.

I am reminded of the first years of starting to meditate. At first, meditation was its own reward. Soon, within months, we (new meditators) kept our ears opened to see if there was anything that we could do to hasten out “spiritual growth.” Maharishi, we notice, wore coral beads; should we wear coral too? Should we be vegetarians? Should we be celibate? Golden calves come in various shapes and forms. The Tibetan teacher Chögyam Trungpa called this spiritual materialism.

What is the moral of the story? For a spiritual aspirant, it is that of patient commitment. Don’t draw conclusions about the nature of ultimate reality based on your emotional experience, even if it is a peak emotional experience. The ultimate reality is One; it is beyond good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant. As long as our interpretation of our closeness to God is based on the quality of our experience, we are still in the land of mitzrayim (מצרים), Egypt, which means the duality of boundaries.

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As I said, this Torah portion continues to deal with the construction of the temple. Readers of the previous two entries of this blog will remember, that I have emphasized the need to understand the tabernacle not as a physical structure outside oneself, but rather as a “structure” that we create within our consciousness for the shekhina (the divine presence) to dwell within us (the Hebrew word lishkon, to dwell, comes from the same root as shekhinah, which is also the root of the word mishkan, the Hebrew name for the tabernacle).

Here is what Rabbi Ephraim of Sudilkov, the grandson of the founder of Hassidism, the Baal Shem Tov, wrote in his in his commentary on this week’s Torah portion, ki tisa:

בודאי לא לחנם נכתב מעשה המשכן וכל כליו בתורתנו הקדושה אלא כדי להורות לנו הדרך האיך הוא בכל אדם שיוכל לבנות משכן וכלים להשראת השכינה בקרבו כי זה היה כל מעשה המשכן כמו שכתוב (שמות כה, ח) ועשו לי מקדש ושכנתי בתוכם. בתוכו לא נאמר, אלא בתוכם ממש.

Surely, the story of the tabernacle and all its tools was not written in our Sacred Torah except for one purpose: to instruct us regarding the way in which every person could build within themselves a tabernacle and tools for inspiring the shekhinah [to dwell] within them. This was the whole story of the tabernacle. As the Torah tells us (in Exodus 25,8): “They will build me a sanctuary, and I will dwell within them.” It does not say “[They will build me a sanctuary, and I will dwell] within it”, but literally “within them.”
(From Degel Machane Ephraim, commentary on ki tisa).

And if we apply this mode of interpretation to the story of the golden calf, we may conclude that under the momentary pressure of doubt, the Israelites regressed to relying on their animal nature as a source of ultimate meaning and happiness.

The Torah does not deny our animal nature or advise us to suppress it. Quite the opposite: it seeks to incorporate it into our spiritual life. But just like in the story of Jacob and Esau, the important message is who gets seniority. Jacob, which stands for our spirituality, has to be senior; Esau, the hunter, cannot be the ultimate good. Likewise, the mistake here is taking the golden calf and referring it as the God that “brought you out of the land of Egypt”. There is only one ultimate reality.

Copyright © 2014 Igal Harmelin-Moria
(Copyright does not pertain to illustrations)

The parashah (weekly Torah portion) of vayeshev (Genesis 37:1 to 40:23) starts the dramatic story of Joseph, Jacob’s beloved son, whose betrayal by his brothers initiates a chain of events that ended with his becoming Pharaoh’s viceroy and saving his family from hunger.

The Torah tells us that Israel (i.e., Jacob—see the commentary on last week’s parashah) “loved Joseph more than any other of his children because he was the son… [born to him in] his old age” (Genesis 37:3). Jacob also gave Joseph a fancy robe which symbolized the degree to which he favored him. Naturally, this made his brothers jealous. To make things worse, Joseph was in the habit of sharing with them his dreams, in which he appeared to be superior to them and was ruling over them.

For example:

וַיַּחֲלֹם יוֹסֵף חֲלוֹם וַיַּגֵּד לְאֶחָיו וַיּוֹסִפוּ עוֹד שְׂנֹא אֹתוֹ: וַיֹּאמֶר אֲלֵיהֶם שִׁמְעוּ נָא הַחֲלוֹם הַזֶּה אֲשֶׁר חָלָמְתִּי: וְהִנֵּה אֲנַחְנוּ מְאַלְּמִים אֲלֻמִּים בְּתוֹךְ הַשָּׂדֶה וְהִנֵּה קָמָה אֲלֻמָּתִי וְגַם נִצָּבָה וְהִנֵּה תְסֻבֶּינָה אֲלֻמֹּתֵיכֶם וַתִּשְׁתַּחֲוֶיןָ לַאֲלֻמָּתִי: וַיֹּאמְרוּ לוֹ אֶחָיו הֲמָלֹךְ תִּמְלֹךְ עָלֵינוּ אִם מָשׁוֹל תִּמְשֹׁל בָּנוּ וַיּוֹסִפוּ עוֹד שְׂנֹא אֹתוֹ עַל חֲלֹמֹתָיו וְעַל דְּבָרָיו:

Once Joseph had a dream, and when he told it to his brothers, they hated him even more. He said to them, “Listen to this dream that I dreamed. There we were, binding sheaves in the field. Suddenly my sheaf rose and stood upright; then your sheaves gathered around it, and bowed down to my sheaf.” His brothers said to him, “Are you indeed to reign over us? Are you indeed to have dominion over us?” So they hated him even more because of his dreams and his words. (Genesis 37:5-8)

Jacob always kept Joseph by his side, even as he sent his other sons out to pasture with his flock. Once, however, when his sons were out, Jacob sent Joseph to find out how they were, and told him to come back and report to him. The Torah tells us that as he was approaching his brothers,

וַיִּרְאוּ אֹתוֹ מֵרָחֹק וּבְטֶרֶם יִקְרַב אֲלֵיהֶם וַיִּתְנַכְּלוּ אֹתוֹ לַהֲמִיתוֹ:

They saw him from a distance, and before he came near to them, they conspired to kill him. (Genesis 37:18)

One of the most original commentaries on this line comes from the 18^th-Century Hassidic Rabbi Yossef Ben Avraham Bloch, the author of Ginzey Yossef. He focused on the words “they conspired to kill him.” The Hebrew is vayitnaklu oto lehamito, in which the word “oto” (אתו) means “him.” However, because the Hebrew script does not include vowels, that same word can also be read and pronounced as “ito”, which means “with him.” The meaning of the verse is thereby changed: instead of “they conspired to kill him” it reads “they conspired with him to kill him,” making Joseph part of the conspiracy.*

Rabbi Yossef explained:

The ancients have taught us that if you arouse love in your heart and send forth arrows of love to your fellow person, that one will come to feel love for you as well. This is because of the essential oneness of Israel. Such a sending forth of love can nullify any hatred that person might have felt toward you. Hence “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev. 19: 18)— as you awaken love, your neighbor will do as you do.

Rabbi Yossef points out that the brothers “saw him from a distance” and conspired to kill him, as the text says, “before he came near to them.” That is, before he had a chance to invoke love in them. Had he done so, he would have negated their animosity. They would still be jealous of him, but not hateful. He is therefore partially responsible for their hatred and for its consequences.

The learned editors of “Speaking Torah”**, the compilation of Hassidic teachings in which this radical commentary can be found in English, add a few daring thoughts of their own:

The limiting phrase “because of the essential oneness of Israel” makes this possibility apply only to relations among Jews. But imagine if the Jewish people could have historically applied this same lesson in our relationships with non-Jews, “because of the essential oneness” of humanity. Might it have made a difference? Might we have “drawn near to them” before “they plotted to kill us”?

Of course, we have to take cultural context into account. In the 18^th Century, racial, religious, gender and other forms of discrimination were not just acceptable and unquestioned but even vehemently defended and justified. And, besides, “What if” musings of this kind cannot alter the past, however, they are important as a way of calling into question beliefs that we hold in the present, as well inspiring new beliefs which have the potential to create a better future. What if, for example, we Israelis, accepted responsibility for all the ways in which we raise the ire and envy of our neighbors? What if we make it our responsibility to project love, respect and humanity towards them? Might the Middle East look very different now?

We exist, after all, in the 21^st century, with easy access to vast amounts of information about the vast accumulation of  human knowledge and experience. We know, by now, that human beings are fundamentally the same. As Albert Einstein famously put it:

A human being is a part of the whole, called by us “Universe,” a part limited in time and space.  He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest, a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.  This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us.  Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.  Nobody is able to achieve this completely, but the striving for such achievement is in itself a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security.

Much of the teachings of Torah and Judaism can provide a template for such a transformation in our consciousness and culture, if only the old idea of the specialness, uniqueness and separateness of the Jewish people could be given up. For a religion that is based on this specialness, uniqueness and separateness, this is a tall order. But it may be the only hope for this precious culture to once again be a formative force in the lives of so many people in the world today who have stopped seeing Judaism as a viable answer to the existential questions facing humans in the 21^st century.

Will it happen? In a lecture by Rabbi Michael Lerner, he explained that in Judaism, the definition of sin is to conclude what is possible based on what has happened in the past. This means being cynical about the emergence of the new and the miraculous which has not yet happened. Big changes often occur as a result ceaseless striving for such new possibilities, against all odds.

“You can say that I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” –John Lennon.

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Note: The idea that one should dissolve enmity through sending love is, of course, prevalent in all major traditions. Below are a few examples.

Buddhism:

Hatreds never cease through hatred in this world; through love alone they cease. This is an eternal law.

–Dhammapada 3-5

Sikhism:

Says Nanak, True lovers are those who are forever absorbed in the Beloved. Whoever discriminates between treatment held good or bad, Is not a true lover–he rather is caught in calculations.  –Adi Granth, Asa-ki-Var, M.2, p. 474

Taoism:

I treat those who are good with goodness,

And I also treat those who are not good with goodness.

Thus goodness is attained.            –Tao Te Ching 49

Judaism:

Aid an enemy before you aid a friend, to subdue hatred.

–Tosefta, Baba Metzia 2.26

Christianity:

Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.

–Romans 12.21

Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.

–Matthew 5.43

Islam:

The good deed and the evil deed are not alike. Repel the evil deed with one which is better, then lo!, he between whom and you there was enmity shall become as though he were a bosom friend.

Qur’an 41.34

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* This peculiar mode of reading this word was advocated by no less an authority than the medieval commentator Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki). Rashi points out, that in the phrase vayitnaklu oto lehamito the word oto is superfluous. Given the assumption that the Torah never wastes words, he concludes that the reading is meant to be ito rather than oto. Rabbi Yossef embraces this interpretation and explains it.

** Green, Arthur; Leader, Ebn; Mayse, Ariel Evan; Rose, Or N. (2013-07-09). Speaking Torah, Vol. 1: Spiritual Teachings from around the Maggid’s Table. Jewish Lights Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Copyright © 2014 Igal Harmelin-Moria
(Copyright does not pertain to illustrations)