“Sure, you
can go.”
That’s what
my father told me in the car that night. I was stunned. Totally taken aback.
You see, for as long as I could remember, my father (of blessed memory) had this thing about his children
celebrating the holidays at home. Especially when it came to the Passover
Seder. It was unthinkable for any of us to spend the holiday elsewhere. It was
simply blasphemous.
One of the
experiences many of my friends would talk about enthusiastically was the Chabad
program of sending yeshivah students
to remote cities across the world to arrange Passover Seders for the local
Jews, who often lacked full-time organized Jewish infrastructure. Many of my
friends had done this for a few years already, and the stories and experiences
they shared were tantalizing. I so badly wanted to experience it myself.
But I knew
my father would never agree. I’d even asked him the year before, and he would
have none of it.
That year,
however, I decided: “That’s it. I’m doing it, and I don’t care.” And so there I
was in the car, picking up my father at the airport in New York where I was
studying. He had come to attend a wedding, and for weeks I had mentally
prepared for the showdown that would certainly ensue. I steeled myself with all
the resolve of an impudent, determined twenty-year-old. In my mind, I was going
to wage this war to the bitter end.
So, after
exchanging pleasantries, I started to hem and haw. After he told me to spit it
out, I came out with guns blazing, firmly stating not my desire, but my
foregone conclusion, “I’m going this year!”
“Ok, sure.
If that’s what you want, go ahead.”
That was it?
All the mental battle-ready soldiers had just been casually neutralized without
a peep—just like that. I was speechless.
(Spoiler: I
didn’t end up going for technical reasons, but that’s not the point.)
My father
pulled a fast one on me that evening, and now that I’m older, and somehow he
seems to keep getting smarter, I think I understand what he knew then.
His little
secret can be found buried in the Temple trash of millennia ago.
Taking Out the Temple Trash
One of the
first rites carried out in the Temple each morning was something called,
“Clearing the ashes,” a mitzvah described in this week’s parshah. Each day,
ashes piled up on the altar from the many sacrifices offered there, and so, to
keep things tidy, the priests were tasked with clearing the residue.
Breaking it
down, the verse tells us that there were two distinct jobs:
And the kohen shall don his linen tunic, and he shall don his
linen trousers on his flesh. And he shall lift out the ashes into which the
fire has consumed the burnt offering upon the altar, and put them down next to
the altar. He shall then take off his garments and put on other garments, and
he shall take out the ashes to a clean place outside the camp.1
In other
words, the priest would first don his priestly vestments and move a token
amount of ash off to the side in what was largely a ceremonial gesture.
Thereafter, he would change into plain clothes, roll up his sleeves, and clear
the whole lot of ashes, carrying them out of the entire Temple complex.
Why did he
change his clothes in between? Rashi explains:
So as not to soil the garments in which he constantly
officiates. [By analogy:] The clothes worn [by a servant] while cooking a pot
[of food] for his master, he should not wear when he mixes a glass [of wine]
for his master.2
The removing
a small portion of ash an honorable, religious rite that warranted special
attire. The clean-up job was pretty much janitorial work, and it wouldn’t make
sense to wear the same clothes.
But here’s
the question: Was there a shortage of manpower in the Temple? What was the
point of this quick costume change mid-act, when there were plenty of other
priests clamoring for jobs? Couldn’t they have assigned these two jobs to two
different actors?
This Is Spiritual?
The fact
that the same priest did both jobs tells us everything we need to know about
serving G‑d, cutting straight to the heart of Judaism. The Temple was the
quintessential place of Divine service, so this was a teaching moment—right at
the beginning of each day—showing how we ought to approach every day of our religious devotion.
To explain:
Have you ever
asked yourself, “Is Judaism spiritual? Is it supposed to make me feel
spiritual?”
Think about
it: You don’t like the taste of matzah, but you eat it anyway. You’re not
particularly awake or interested, yet you wear tefillin, or distractedly light Shabbat candles.
You’ve done
a mitzvah, no doubt, but was it spiritual? Did it feel inspiring?
Can you
compare that with gazing at a magnificent sunset over the Grand Canyon or
staring into the face of a newborn baby? The euphoria felt while singing a
Chassidic melody with thousands of other people, or the awe-inspiring majesty
of the stones at the Western Wall?
Now that’s spiritual!
So what is
it about the dry, technical, highly detailed, and hyper action-oriented
choreography of Judaism? Can’t we trade the matzah for something tastier and
the tefillin for meditation?
It’s About G‑d
Well, if
Judaism was about you, then you would be right. If it was here to service you,
to make you feel good, inspired, or “spiritual,” well, then, go right ahead and
sing to your heart’s content.
But it’s
not. It’s about G‑d, creating a relationship with a Being who has reached over
the impossible chasm between infinite and finite and gifted us with the
opportunity to connect with Him. An extended hand to climb out of our puny
humanity and connect with something larger than life itself.
And he
instructed us that the bridge past that unscalable divide is a 6 oz. matzah, a
perfectly rectangular tefillin, and challah made from 5 lbs. of flour. If you
or me were dictating the rules of this game, perhaps we could have come up with
something that feels more inspiring.
But then it would be our game. If we
want to connect with G‑d, to experience true transcendence and meaning, you
guessed it, it’s in 5 lbs., not 4.9.
And that’s
why the same priest who performed the exalted ritual of taking a token amount
of ash in sacred attire got the dirty job of removing trash in plain clothes.
If the priest was concerned about the “spirituality” of the job, it would,
indeed, make sense to split the two jobs: ceremonial rites are great, but who
wants to take out the trash? Let someone else do that!
But each
day, as he began serving G‑d in the holiest place on earth on behalf of the
entire Jewish people, the same priest did both, broadcasting this message: The
same G‑d Who prescribed the sacred act wishes for the janitorial act. If I'm in
it for Him, it doesn’t matter what it is. Trash duty? I’m in! Let me just
change my clothes.
Real Love
My dad
understood the same with me. He may have wanted me to be home with the family
for Passover. In fact, I’m sure he did. But he was a loving parent. He
understood that if he truly loved me,
then he should let me go. As much as parents love their children, they must
take pause at times and ask themselves, “Am I doing/demanding this for my child, or for myself?”
If you’re
invested in a loving relationship, it will require doing things for the relationship—for the other, not
for you. You may want your child home for the holidays, it may even be the
“right thing,” but sometimes, true love dictates that you let your child go.
My father
taught that to me that night. I hope to do the same with my children.
