Parshas Behar 5785
Just over a week ago, Tze’ela Gez and her husband, Chananel, were on the way from their home in the Shomron to the hospital for Tze’ela to deliver their fourth baby. They would soon be blessed with a child, adding a new source of blessing, joy, and light to their family. But their hopes and dreams were shattered by an Arab sniper’s bullet. Tze’ela was murdered en route to the hospital, the baby narrowly having been saved.
Responding to the tragedy, Chananel posted a few short reflections to social media. He said, “Of course I’m broken. It’s natural. But I also thank Hashem that I stayed alive and I will stay strong to continue being a light to the world. We will never let them break us.”
Chananel’s words are not only courageous; they are unmistakably Jewish.
Parshas Behar opens with a presentation of the laws of Shemittah—the manner in which Jews must refrain from any agricultural work once every seven years and leave the land fallow. Lest you think that somehow these laws are less important than any others, the Torah begins its treatment of the subject by noting that these mitzvos were indeed delivered “בהר סיני—On Har Sinai.”
Why is the backdrop of Har Sinai more critical here than any other mitzvah? What is it about Shemittah that demands attention being called to its origin at Har Sinai?
The Divrei Avraham, Rav Avraham Orenstein, notes suggests that that question is actually posed backwards. It is not so much that Har Sinai adds something to our understanding of Shemittah, but rather that Shemittah adds something to our understanding of Har Sinai.
The Midrash in Bereishis Rabbah states that Har Sinai was chosen as the location upon which to deliver the Torah because it was lower that many of the peaks that surrounded it. Hashem chose Sinai because it was humble, a better reflection of the very middos that the Torah would attempt to inculcate into the Jewish People who would stand at the foot of the mountain to receive it.
Yet if Har Sinai is chosen as the landing pad for the Torah in recognition of its humility, it would appear that humility is more than just “another” middah. It seems, rather, a defining quality. Something that characterizes the very essence of the Torah and what it means to receive it.
This, explains Rav Orenstein, is why Har Sinai is associate with Shemittah in our parsha. Perhaps more than any other mitzvah, Shemittah calls for us retreat from our own personal interest and to bow our heads in deference to Hashem’s will. In the case of Shemittah, there is no obvious moral demand that prevents us from working the land—the farm is lawfully owned and the profits earned will be used to honorably sustain himself and his family. Yet Hashem throws a monkey wrench into those plans. He reminds the farmer that the land, in fact, is not really his own. It is G-d’s, and the farmer must accept.
Humility is not only the manner in which we subdue our egos in the presence of others, being careful not to be too loud or boisterous, not to belittle others in the interest of making ourselves feel important. Humility must be on display even when no other people are effected. In the private space of my relationship with Hashem. Humility is my willingness to say, “What do I know? Hashem let’s have it Your way.”
This is the attitude demanded—and cultivated—by Shemittah. And, in truth, is a prerequisite for the acceptance of the Torah as a whole. A relationship with G-d demands humility in accepting His authority and will. Anything less—an acceptance of mitzvos only when they resonate, only when they inspire, only when we’re in the mood—is a life dedicated to serving ourselves, not serving Hashem.
Which is to say that Chananel Gez could not have responded more Jewishly to his wife’s murder. For there to be any interface between G-d and the Jewish People, humility must be on full display. We must be capable of staring down even the most unimaginable tragedies and recognizing that Hashem runs the world, has a plan, and doesn’t make mistakes.
This coming Monday marks Yom Yerushalayim, the anniversary of the liberation of Yerushalayim from the hands of our enemies. The dramatic turnaround from Nasser’s threats to push the Jews into the sea to a sweeping victory capped off by the return to the Kosel and Har Habayis seemed not only miraculous, but messianic. I have heard from many who lived at the time that had it been announced on the radio that a saintly looking rabbi suddenly appeared on a white donkey in the gates of the city, nobody would have been surprised.
And yet it didn’t happen. Real life events somehow veered from the script so many had written in their minds. How to respond? With humility. To recognize Hashem’s involvement in producing a great miracle, and yet to accept that His timetable often differs from our own.
Humility is a precondition for any meaningful relationship, but especially so in the one we enjoy with G-d. Without humility there can be no Torah, for there can be no acceptance of His will over ours. In mitzvos and in history, in miracles and in tragedies, we must let Hashem in by being like Har Sinai and laying low.