Regardless of what I might want to write about on this Shabbat, like any Torah commentator I am guided, bidden and challenged by the parashat hashavua, the assigned parashah of the week. This week it is a double parashah: Akharei Mot and Kedoshim, “after death” and “holiness.” This is a not-unusual pairing, but it seems that each time it comes around, there is a new way to interpret these two concepts and how they are juxtaposed.
Akharei Mot refers to the death of two young men who were just starting out on their life journey. They had just been consecrated to the newly created priesthood of HaShem. On their first day, something went wrong, and all their good intentions and dedication, surrounded by all the support and love of the community, could not protect them from death. Death: the end of all hopes, all dedication, all vision of the future.
The tradition of Jewish commentary on the parashat hashavua, the week’s reading, is predicated upon the idea of conversation with those who have recorded their interpretations before me. We often begin with Rashi, that singular and greatest of commentators of all; and from his questions and insights we continue with two thousand years of those others who have brought to bear grammar, philosophy, midrash and mysticism upon the text of the Torah, the better to understand its relevance to us.
Nor is the current moment to be ignored. As I fly from the State of Israel toward the U.S. in these moments of reflection, I can’t help but notice the eternally unchanging presence of the fluffy white clouds above Greece, and then the European mainland. What a contrast to the fleeting nature of our lives! All our strivings and all our stresses, they pass, and the clouds and the wind and the sea and the sky remain.
Sad news of more confirmations of hostage deaths has come to us this week, and, perhaps even more tragic, the news that the Netanyahu government has assigned the rescue of remaining hostages the lowest priority in the ongoing war against Hamas. It is a nightmare to watch a video released by Hamas of human beings who have become aware that their lives are considered expendable by the community that they thought would do everything for them, even as they would do everything for it.
Faced as we are by so much death, of Israelis and of Palestinians who are also innocent victims of people with the power of the weaponry of death in their hands, we would be well justified in asking what is akharei mot about it, what is “after death”? When will we see the end of the murder of innocents barely started on the journey of life, whether young adults inducted into the Israeli army or young Gazans dying right now of famine induced by powers beyond their control, and not at all inevitable?
Our ancestors sought answers not in stars and constellations, and not in sweeping generalities, but in tiny details of the moment, and one such is this juxtaposition of the two parshiyot of our week. “After death” is followed by “holiness.” Not even a comma interposes; what might further investigation of the small details reveal?
“Holiness” in our Jewish tradition is not piousness, nor it is righteousness (that is a much later Christian overlay of meaning); rather, the Hebrew root ק ד ש is a technical term, which means “set aside for a specific purpose.” As my flight moves out of range of Houthi death-seeking missiles, I too am offered a chance to consider what it means to die, and what it means to live another day. Our tradition urges us to consider that what it means – to die, and to live – might be focused upon purpose. And that the best and highest purpose of a life, lived with conviction and with dedication, is what it means to live a life which is holy. In terms of Jewish thology, this idea summons us toward the vision of a life clarified and focused, clean of boredom and self-absorption.
“After death, holiness.” In this past two weeks I have been privileged to share the lives of Israeli and Palestinian human beings clinging to their holiness in the face of so much death, so much sadness, so much despair. I have witnessed the courage of those who, in the immortal wistful words of Rodney King, just want to “get along” with each other and with their lives. In the everyday moments of their lives they are demonstrating for us, we who, for now at least, live further away from the furnace of immanent Eternity.
Death is not the end of love. Those who cause death do not erase the fact that life is beautiful and worthwhile. Contrary to the capitalist saying, those with the gold do not make the rules; the rules of life belong to Eternity. And those rules declare that love is a power as strong as any.
שִׂימֵ֨נִי כַֽחוֹתָ֜ם עַל־לִבֶּ֗ךָ כַּֽחוֹתָם֙ עַל־זְרוֹעֶ֔ךָ כִּֽי־עַזָּ֤ה כַמָּ֙וֶת֙ אַהֲבָ֔ה
Let me be a seal upon your heart, like the seal upon your hand, for love is fierce as death. (Proverbs 8.6)
It’s not easy to remain committed to the single and singular purpose of love in the midst of despair, nor perhaps even to believe in it. This is what it means to be holy; it’s not a passive experience, but an active and committed attitude. It’s the Jewish people at our best, stiff-necked and stubborn enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other along our ancient and unending path: וְאָֽהַבְתָּ֥ לְרֵעֲךָ֖ כָּמ֑וֹךָ love your neighbor as yourself (Lev. 19.18), interpreted by Rabbi Hillel as אמר לו: דעלך סני לחברך לא תעביד – that which is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor (BT Shabbat 31a). Holiness is not an adjective, but an active verb – not a state of being, but a choice made over and over again.
As those with weapons of death continue to use them in the Middle East, in Eastern Europe and in Africa, and everywhere else that isn’t included in the news feed of the moment, may we find in the doubling of this week’s parashah an encouraging hint of what our response might be: “after death” as in after life, after sadness as in after joy”: “holiness.”
Torah for the 21st Century by Rabbi Ariel Stone 