Parshas Emor 5783
Let’s face it, Pesach cleaning and prep can be somewhat traumatic. And it takes a while before we’re fully able to come up for air. It’s not uncommon for vestiges of Pesach—a chametzdik appliance still sitting in the garage, a refrigerator shelf yet unliberated from its plastic and foil prison—to remain for a number of weeks following the conclusion of the Yom Tov. It’s a good thing that Shavuos is a relatively easy holiday to prepare for, and that we’re given a good six weeks to recover before it arrives. But what if a different Yom Tov was thrown into the mix right at the same time of year? What if Sukkos had been slated for Nissan, rather than Tishrei? Because at first glance, this is exactly how it should be.
This week’s Parsha describes Sukkos as a holiday that commemorates the protection Hashem provided when we dwelled in the wilderness. That being the case, it seems odd to celebrate Sukkos six months after we’d first gotten there. Pesach catapulted the Jewish People into the Midbar and into Hashem’s protective embrace. We were surrounded by the Clouds of Glory and furnished with materials with which to construct our makeshift homes. Why not celebrate the holiday that commemorates that phenomenon immediately after celebrating the Exodus itself?
Rabbeinu Yaakov ben Asher, the Tur, famously suggests that Hashem commanded us to celebrate Sukkos in the fall rather than the spring in order to make the observance of the mitzvah more conspicuous. At a time when people are typically retreating back indoors after the summer, the Jewish People make a point of moving outdoors.
The Vilna Gaon offered another explanation. Sukkos, he explained, is not the commemoration of the Jewish People first being ensconced in the Clouds of Glory. Indeed, this event took place in Nissan. Rather, on Sukkos we celebrate the return of the clouds. With the sin of the Golden Calf, the clouds dissipated, signaling a departure of Hashem’s Presence from the camp. On Yom Kippur, the Jews were forgiven, and then launched the project by which Hashem’s Presence would be drawn back into their midst: the construction of the Mishkan. Given a number of days to collect the necessary materials, and then distribute them amongst the craftsmen, the actual construction began on the 15th of Tishrei, which is precisely when the Torah tells us to celebrate Sukkos.
This understanding transforms the meaning of Sukkos. Sukkos is not just a commemoration of further protection and miracles offered by Hashem as we left Egypt; it is a celebration of the Jewish People’s return to G-d and His acceptance of our repentance.
There are two halves to that whole. That Hashem accepts us back when we’ve gone astray is certainly worth celebrating. But that the people possess a drive to return, and act on that drive, is no less a cause for celebration. And while that behavior may seem obvious, consider the act in the context of contemporary times, and it is anything but.
Imagine that following the smashing of the luchos and a subsequent diatribe from Moshe Rabbeinu about the demands of monotheism, the majority of the nation stands with bowed heads, regretting their sin and committing to a return to Hashem. But one group emerges, explaining that Moshe doesn’t fully understand. “It’s not that we’ve committed idolatry,” they explain, “it’s just that we are idolators. We identify as idolators. This is who we are. In fact, it’s how G-d made us. So He likely understands.”
Framing desire as identity changes the playing field. It also makes repentance impossible, as one cannot possibly be guilty of simply being who they are. So what would Moshe’s response have been? With all due compassion and understanding, I can only imagine it would have gone something like, “No, friends. G-d gave you the desire to worship idols. But also the mandate to overcome that desire, to behave otherwise. G-d is not distressed by your desire, but by your behavior.”
It is difficult for us to understand the drive to worship idols. But it is a craving recorded throughout the annals of Tanach; a burning desire plaguing the Jewish People for much of their history. Who’s to say that in centuries and millennia from now, our descendants will have any better ability to understand our desires than our ability to understand our ancestors’? Which is to say that we cannot marginalize the desire for idolatry or to assume that it somehow pales in comparison to the temptations we feel and encounter today.
So suppose the conversation with Moshe continued. “But Moshe,” they say, “We just can’t abide. The desire’s too great. We need the calf. We’re going to keep worshipping it.”
“Look,” says Moshe, “That’s ultimately between you and G-d. I can’t tell you it’s ok, but I also can’t run your life.”
“Thank you for understanding. So we can wear golden calf necklaces to shul?”
“Excuse me?”
This is part of the danger in confusing desire, behavior, and identity. Identity is not something to apologize for or to be embarrassed by. When we start to view desire as a fundamental part of who and what we are, the behavior it beckons us toward is no more something to be ashamed of than the color of our eyes or skin. Behavior, no matter how immoral, can be excused—and even celebrated—when it is framed as an inexorable result of who I fundamentally am.
That the Nation does not respond in this way is a testament to their ability to separate interest, impulse, and even behavior from identity. They desire the idol, but do not identify by that desire or the behavior that it motivates. This is a moral triumph.
The Parsha begins with instruction to Kohanim, a series of laws by which they must abide, above and beyond the demands placed on other Jews. What would we say to a Kohen who claims to not be a Kohen at all? Not because his father and grandfather weren’t Kohanim, but because he is certain that he possesses the soul of a Levi or Yisrael that was somehow, mysteriously, deposited into the body of a Kohen? Prohibitions against interacting with dead bodies don’t apply to he, he explains, because he’s not a Kohen. He can finally engage in cleanups of cemeteries and join the Chevrah Kadishah—work that will be deeply meaningful and a fulfillment of lifelong spiritual yearnings.
I would feel terrible for that Kohen. I hope we all would. That we’d do our best to understand the tortured existence of living life with deep-seated desires to both violate halacha and to abide by it. To appreciate the plight of a person whose impulse for certain behavior is so strong that they’ve begun to assimilate it into their very identity. I hope we’d be there for them in their suffering, that we’d extend as much friendship and understanding as possible.
But I also hope we wouldn’t allow that Kohen to join the Chevra Kadisha. Or for him to come along on the shul trip to clean the cemetery. Because doing so would be making the statement that if you badly enough desire to act out of consonance with the Torah—enough to fundamentally identify by such a desire—it’s actually ok to act on it. We cannot dictate how people act in private. But we can protect our institutions and communal spaces from tacitly making the sort of statement that undermines what Judaism is fundamentally all about.
It is a difficult stance to take. Communities are built on tolerance, on ceding territory to those who think differently from you. If that fellow who insisted on wearing a golden calf around his neck used to sit next to you in shul, you’d long for him every time you noticed his empty chair. Your heart would ache when the bus headed out for the cemetery and your Kohen friend who’s convinced he’s a Yisrael was left behind. But if we are serious about building public institutions that advance G-d’s will rather than suppress it, we cannot allow those institutions to give credence to the idea that Hashem’s will can be applied arbitrarily.
A Jew is identified as but one thing: a member of the covenant between G-d and His Chosen People. That covenant does not assume a desire to abide by its demands at every turn. Indeed, we may desire the exact opposite at times. But we are not our desires. We are people called to define ourselves by the mandate to transcend our desires, rather than succumbing to them.