Parshat Chukat: The Parah, The Priest & Communal Obligation

Parshat Chukat takes its name from the word chukat which appears in the first verse of this week's portion: "Zot chukat HaTorah...."

The word chok carries special significance for the rabbis: it is not just any mitzvah implied, but a mitzvah whose reasoning is beyond us.

The mitzvah in question is the Parah Adumah (red heifer), archetype for alogical commandments.

When Jews come in contact with the dead, they are considered tamei, ritually impure. In order for the person who is tamei to again become pure (tahor), he or she must participate in the Parah Adumah process. The riddle intrinsic in the ceremony is that the priest's actions "heal/purify" that person, but leave the priest himself tamei.

Much has been written concerning why that should be so, but the Lubavitcher Rebbi addresses a different aspect of the story.

Let's think about things from the priest's perspective. To help his fellow Jew, he must hurt himself, sacrifice his own purity. He must put himself second. He must, in short, do the opposite of what so many of us do naturally and are taught to do.

The priest could rationalize, could focus on all the reasons why staying pure would enable him to do more, to grow more. He could even craft the spiritual equivalent of a cost-benefit analysis: I can help 5 people if I stay tahor, versus 1 person who needs purification.

But the priest's job is clear and his response assured. He will purify the Jew who needs it, he will sprinkle ashes, and go through the necessary steps, including the step and stage of his own suffering.*

How different is this from those who remain aloof, who don't extend themselves, who hide behind a cloak of holiness and in so doing turn away from what is a most holy obligation -- and opportunity. To help others is noble, and ennobling.

This past week, I heard a beautiful story about Rabbi Ari Berman, Rabbi of The Jewish Center in Manhattan and a former classmate of mine. At a gathering of rabbis, talk turned to the role of a rabbi. "What, at its core" these Rabbis asked each other, "is our role?"

Several answers were suggested.

To teach.

To inspire.

To guide the community closer to God.

"No," said Rabbi Berman said "Our role is to love each and every member of our congregation."

This comment moves me each time I reflect on its simple profundity.

A rabbi, a kohein, a moreh or morah in school, a pricipal: their obligation is to love.

It's not because the other things don't matter, but because when a leader truly loves the kehillah, all of the other responsibilities will flow naturally, and take care of themselves.

In Kol Torah, Rabbi Elie Munk makes an astute observation on the proximity of two p'sukim which come later in this week's Torah portion. In verse 12 (Bamidbar 20:12), Moshe and Aharon are told they will not live to enter the land of Israel, and verse 13 concludes the description of their punishment.**

The very next verse shows Moshe dispatching emissaries and doing all he can to help the Jewish people enter Israel. Citing the Midrash Tanchuma, Munk says:

"Although [Moshe] has just learned that he would not enter the Holy Land, he now finds nothing more pressing than to approach the King of Edom so that the people can enter the Promised Land as fast as possible."

Think about the emotions Moshe must have been feeling: disappointment, possibly even anger at the nation*** whom he might have felt "made me so upset I couldn't help myself."

Instead, Moshe rushed to help them, was happy for them. According to Rashi, he did not even wait for Hashem's instruction but, on his own initiative, Moshe continuued, just as before, to love them and look after them.

That's love. That's leadership.

That's dedication.

Like the kohein who purifies us, even when and if it means he will become impure.

We are a nation of priests (Exodus 19:6) and we must all look after each other.


-----------------------------------------------
End Notes:

*In The very first Torah U'Madda Journal, my father, Rabbi Benjamin Blech, amosh, has a beautiful description of a similar choice, in his case, between being a shul rabbi, and studying less personally, or remaining as a full time student and scholar. The backdrop for this story, and the support for his decision, rests on an ingenious exploration of the story of Joseph, and the laws of egla arufah.

**as well as possibly offering a further clarification of why they need to be punished; I will explain more elsewhere.


***This would be more than likely. In Al Hateshuvah by the Late Rav Yoseif Dov Soloveitchik, there is a fascinating description of the pyschology of sin, and its aftermath. Samuel 2, Chapter 13, tells the story of Amnon and Tamar.

In an analysis of the story of Amnon in which Amnon sleps with his half-sister Tamar, Rav Soloveitchik points out that after the sin, Amnon could not even refer to her by name, instead saying "Get this woman out of here...". In his mind, she became associated with the sin, and because he hated the sin, he hated her as well.

(the relevant verses are:

11 But when she took it to him to eat, he grabbed her and said, "Come to bed with me, my sister." 12 "Don't, my brother!" she said to him. "Don't force me. Such a thing should not be done in Israel! Don't do this wicked thing. 13 What about me? Where could I get rid of my disgrace? And what about you? You would be like one of the wicked fools in Israel. Please speak to the king; he will not keep me from being married to you." 14 But he refused to listen to her, and since he was stronger than she, he raped her. 15 Then Amnon hated her with intense hatred. In fact, he hated her more than he had loved her. Amnon said to her, "Get up and get out!" 16 "No!" she said to him. "Sending me away would be a greater wrong than what you have already done to me." But he refused to listen to her. 17 He called his personal servant and said, "Get this woman out of here and bolt the door after her."