Parshas Vayikra 5786
Two years ago I had the good fortune of visiting the Rocky Mountains in the summer. At nearly every turn, I stood with my mouth agape, marveling at the scenery, taking in peak after peak of the mountains all around. But even as I enjoyed the scenery, I was aware of the great challenge that lay ahead. What would happen the next time I visited a smaller mountain range? Would places that had previously left me awe inspired now lose all their allure?
After seeing the Rockies, would the Catskills still impress?
In the text of a Sefer Torah, the opening word of Sefer Vayikra is oddly written in two different font sizes. The first four letters of the word “ויקרא—Vayikra” are written in the size of all the other letters. But the final alef is smaller. Almost as though it shouldn’t really be there and had to fight its way in.
This, in effect, matches Chazal’s description. They relate that, in truth, Moshe preferred to write “ויקר—Vayikar”, without the alef, a word that would convey that Hashem “happened upon Moshe” rather than that He directly called him. “Vayikar” is the word used to describe the prophecy Hashem issued to Bilaam, and a description Moshe found preferably more understated. But Moshe had no choice. Compelled to write the Torah as it was dictated, the word would be “Vayikra”, not “Vayikar”.
Moshe relents, but with a compromise. He writes “Vayikra” with a small alef. As if to say, “True, Hashem sought an audience with me and called me directly to hear His word. But only sort of.”
Vintage Moshe Rabbeinu.
Moshe, after all, is described by Hashem in Parshas Shlach as “עָנָו מְאֹד מִכֹּל הָאָדָם אֲשֶׁר עַל־פְּנֵי הָאֲדָמָה—exceedingly humble, more than any man upon the face of the earth.” (Bamidbar 12:3) It is the only direct and open assessment of Moshe’s character we find that the Torah makes. In considering Moshe, it was his humility that rose to the surface.
So how did Moshe do it? Rav Simcha Bunim of Peshischa provides an intriguing mashal. Consider a bird on a mountaintop—how does the bird feel about himself? Does he think of himself as taller and mightier than any other creature, or does he recognize that what sets him at such a great height is not himself, but the immense mountain beneath his feet?
When a person realizes that the stature he’s achieved has so much more to do with elevation of the mountain than his own legs, he feels humble rather than proud. And the greater the height, the greater the mountain. Paradoxically, the greater the success, the more humbling the achievement ought to be.
The bird on the mountaintop is helpful for considering another element of humility as well. Not only in reframing our achievements, but our very experience. Part of humility is simply being able to look past ourselves, to have a sense that we are not the center of the universe, that there are problems and challenges and considerations greater than my own. That I am but a small bird standing on a great mountain.
Which is compromised as soon as that bird leaves the Rockies and heads for the Catskills. Being overwhelmed and humbled by the vastness of a great mountain happens automatically. But the next mountain—impressive, but less so—loses some of its majesty by comparison. Appreciating its size may demand being more intentional; we may no longer be instinctively humbled.
A good friend of mine who runs a program for American students in Israel shared his frustration with me this past week. That parents will ask to set up a time to speak with the implied expectation that the burden of flexibility in scheduling a time falls to him, rather than them. That there isn’t a sufficient acknowledgement of what it means to be woken up three times over the course of a night and gather the family in the shelter, only to spend the next day sitting on pins and needles, not knowing when it will happen again. All while getting work done, and keeping the kids occupied.
Where’s the sensitivity, the concern, and the understanding? I think it may have been left on the previous mountaintop.
October 7th was the greatest mountain we’ve sat upon in most of our lifetimes. The loss of life on the day itself, the many casualties of the war that followed, the ongoing concern for the welfare of the hostages, and the mass disruption of life with the call-up of countless reservists left each of us feeling that our own concerns, issues, and experiences paled in comparison to all that was happening around us and sensitized us—almost automatically—to the plight of our brothers and sisters in Eretz Yisrael.
But now we find ourselves upon another mountain. Still awesome and mighty, but not quite of the same ilk. Ballistic missiles from Iran and rocket and drone attacks from Hezbollah have caused casualties, sleep deprivation, work and school closures, and general mass disruption to daily life in Israel. It’s a mountain of challenge and strain, large enough to cast our own experience in a different light. But it’s hard to make that happen. Because the last great mountain was even bigger, and it’s still in our rear view mirror.
But we need to be more conscious. We need to do better. When we engage with our family and friends in Israel, we should be sensitive to the immense strain they are likely under. When we consider our own problems, we should do so against the backdrop of the broad national landscape. When we daven for our own needs, we should keep in mind the needs of our brothers and sisters in Israel, which are likely more pressing and worrisome.
Our tefilos can’t be the same, our concerns can’t be the same, our conversations can’t be the same. However awesome the last mountain, the one we currently stand upon is plenty large for us to be humbled by its size.