My baseball career ground to a sudden halt 39 years ago during spring training. It was March 1979, and I was signed up to play in the Sandy Koufax division of our town’s Little League. But that month was also my bar mitzvah, which our family marked with my first trip to Israel. I was supposed to read Vayikra at the “Wailing Wall,” and so I missed two weeks of spring training. The coach wasn’t happy: “No practice, no play.” I can’t really blame him. I was a sloppy player in right field, neglecting to cover my mitt to secure the ball (“One Hand Dan” was not meant as a compliment), though I did have a pretty good throw to make up for the dropped fly balls. Still, it is ironic that my choice to put prayer over play cost me my position, davka in the league named for a pitcher who refused to play on Yom Kippur.
What I loved about baseball, and continue to appreciate as a spectator, was what some people find oppressively tedious. It is a ritualized activity with precisely defined players, props and motions. The ball is in play for only a few minutes of the 3 hour game—one study found an average of 18 minutes of ball in play, meaning that it is 90% standing around. And yet the intense attention of participants and spectators alike infuses those moments with great drama and significance. Games that have constant motion such as hockey and basketball are lively but, to my mind, far less dramatic. As a pitcher prepares to throw, each side seeks to align intention with action; what happens next may change the course of the game, but it all begins in the mind.
It is not a far stretch to compare the slow pace and sudden activity of the baseball diamond with the rhythms of religious ritual, especially in the sacred service described by Leviticus. When we read these verses visually, trying to imagine where each party stands, then deeper layers of meaning can begin to emerge. For example, regarding the burnt offering we learn that the priest brings the animal to the entrance of the tent of meeting—this is apparently the spot between the altar and the sanctum—where he pauses, placing his hands upon the animal’s head and leaning on it. This action activates divine favor, and the subsequent slaughter delivers atonement. Continue reading
There are many shiny objects in the double reading which draws the book of Exodus to its dramatic conclusion. Ancient images of silver, gold and copper flash in the mind’s eye, gemstones sparkle in the breastplate of the high priest, and fine fabrics of blue, purple, crimson and linen adorn the coverings of the tabernacle and the vestments of its priests. More brilliant than all of these riotous colors is the divine glory, which in the final verses enters the tabernacle and is so overwhelming that even Moses can no longer withstand its radiance. Color and light symbolize human devotion and divine response—this parashah is made for the movies.
And yet, all of the visual cues are only indications of something deeper and more subtle. They point to an internal alignment between the people and their God. It is not just a matter of the people’s generosity that impresses this reader. It is something more fundamental, more daunting but also more accessible. The people obey the Lord’s command. Over and over, Parashat Pekudei includes the phrase , “as the Lord commanded Moses” (כַּאֲשֶׁ֛ר צִוָּ֥ה יְקֹוָ֖ק אֶת־מֹשֶֽׁה). The sages counted 18 instances of this phrase in our portion alone. This phrase appears 60 times in the Torah, so common that it is easy to ignore. But the claim that God issues commands which the people fulfill is the essential architecture of Jewish spiritual life. Continue reading
A beraita quoted in b. Pesahim (6a) states that one must commence study of the laws of Pesah 30 days before the holiday; the practice as codified in the Shulhan Arukh (OH 429:1), and the Mishnah B’rurah (SK 2) is that study should begin on Purim itself. In order to safeguard JTS’s reputation as a center of halakhic stringency, I thought I would address a topic that is often neglected to the detriment and indeed peril of the kosher consumer: namely, the protocol for kashering one’s hands before Passover.
As you know, ceramic utensils are considered porous and therefore are impossible to kasher for Pesah. What, however, about the skin of our hands? You will recall from high school biology that the skin is a semi-porous membrane that absorbs and emits various substances. Try chopping an onion or crushing some garlic—your hands will reek for hours or even days. If you chop jalapeno peppers, remember not to rub your eyes! Indeed, the laws of kashrut recognize the special status of spicy foods as דבר חריף, capable of transferring flavor to a second utensil even without the application of physical heat. A knife or board that has had onion or garlic chopped on it will be considered to take on the kashrut status of any other food substances exposed to that surface at that time.
Obviously there is no avoiding a d’var harif on Pesah, since we have a mitzvah d’oraita to eat maror. Handling any spicy foods and then hametz renders the hands hametzdik. Touching Passover foods with hametzdik hands contaminates them and makes them forbidden to eat or even own on Pesah. It’s a bit like the myth of King Midas—whatever you touch becomes inedible. You can sell your hands for Pesah, of course, but this is complicated since you must then “make kinyan” by lifting the pen with your teeth. So, if selling your hands is not workable, how about kashering them? Not so simple. Continue reading