The Weekly Sedra – Chukas – Mortal Minds Don’t Always Think Alike. . .

One evening during World War II, Senate Appropriations Committee Chairman, Kenneth McKellar of Tennessee, found himself fretting over the administration’s request of some $2 billion towards unspecified scientific research.

He proceeded to call the Secretary of War, Henry L. Stimson, demanding answers: “Do you really expect me to sanction this enormous appropriation without any idea as to where it is going?”

After a long pause Stimson hesitantly asked, “Can you keep a secret?” McKellar assured him that he could, Stimson then whispered, “We are about to split the atom.”

McKellar erupted. “Are you crazy? This is a war; we have men out there; we need guns, planes, ammunition! And you There guys are fiddling around with atoms! Only months later did McKellar, along with the rest of the world, discover the true nature of this elusive program.

Our Parsha – Chukas discusses the laws of the Parah Adumah (red heifer). The lack of rationale or reason provided for this mitzvah has mystified mortal man from the day it was commanded. The logic and symbolism of these laws are indeed enigmatic.

In fact, Rashi comments that the nations of the world mocked Israel over their observance of this absurd command.

Still, while the logic and reason of these laws are a true mystery, they are no less sacred. So sacred, that the ashes of the red heifer which Moshe and Aaron prepared, were saved for posterity; passed from generation to generation. The vestigial ashes for Moshe’s original red heifer were actually incorporated into all of the subsequent formulas.

The ashes of each subsequent red heifer offering were similarly added to the remnants of the previous one. As such, the ensuing generations who performed the mitzvah of Parah Adumah doubtlessly believed, with unwavering faith, in its ritual power and magical energy.

But why do these spiritual edicts appear in the middle of the book of Numbers – a book that recounts the stories of human folly such as the miscalculations of the spies, the mutinous uprising of Korach, the grumblings against the heavenly fare of manna and the Jews who wanted meat rather than manna?

Would not these instructions have been better placed with the enigmatic laws of ritual purity and impurity – almost exclusively relegated to the book of Vayikra (Leviticus)? Wouldn’t the volume which is devoted to the subject of sacrificial offerings and a host of physio-spiritual conditions, not the least of which are the laws of Tzora’as, Zav, Zavah and Nidah, be a more fitting location for these laws?

Yet, after some contemplation, it appears the best place for these laws are indeed in the middle of the book of Numbers, precisely because it discusses the blunders of a generation that thought it was able to calculate and define everything according to logic.

The tome that tells of spies who returned from Canaan exclaiming that according to their calculations there was no way for Israel to conquer the land, the volume that relates the story of Korach, who complained that according to his way of thinking things should be done differently, is precisely where the statutes of the red heifer belong.

The Midrash depicts how Korach and his 250 followers, ranted and raved how illogical were the laws of a Mezuzah that was affixed in a room filled with sacred books and the laws of a Tzitzis as they apply to a Tallis that was all blue.

There is arguably no better place to discuss the red heifer and its para physical powers than when dealing with misguided mortals whose calculations attempt to redefine and limit Divine instruction and ability.

The red cow and its enigmatic laws attest to G-d’s infinitude and omniscient powers. They remind us that though we may reach for rhyme and reason, we must nonetheless observe the Mitzvos and Divine dictates. Since we and our intellect are finite, there is little wonder that some aspects of His infinite intellect may remain mysterious and elusive to us.

We must believe with uncalculating faith that there is great Divine method to the matters we cannot fathom. In that manner we shall merit to be committed totally to G-d’s will and not to our mortal distortion of it.

The following chapter from Rabbi Emanuel Feldman’s book, Tales Out of Shul, seems to offer a fitting case in point:

“A notice in The Jewish Times invited everyone to join a local group in “creative prayer” on the following Friday night. Are they implying that classical Davening is not creative, but static and lifeless?

Creative prayers: all one needs for this are a few records, some poems, and a guitar. Obviously, Judaism encourages spontaneous prayer: We can reach out to our Maker at any time and in any language. But Judaism also insists on a certain discipline in prayer. When and how we pray is not left completely up to us.

I try hard to understand the devotees of non-traditional Davening. They are innocent; their hearts are in the right place; they are striving mightily to reach out to G-d and don’t quite know how; we have not succeeded in touching their souls. But in less understanding moments I sense that one of the key motivations of these creative services is to discard the classic entirely. “Why bother with stuff that was written by someone else? Roll your own,” said one of the creativists to me.

Some of this stems from naiveté and from a complete unawareness of the nature of real prayer; but there is a healthy dose of arrogance mixed with insensitivity. Is it not an effrontery to refuse to “mouth prayers written by someone else” and to convince ourselves that our homegrown variety can equal the power and majesty of the classical Jewish liturgy? Especially without having troubled to familiarize oneself with classic prayers offered up by Jews for millennia.

If we were religiously sensitive, we would tremble when we approach G-d, for we really do not how to address Him. Hate and suspicion, made from dust and returning to dust – are given the privilege of standing before the Creator of all and speaking to Him.

We know not what to say nor how to say it. Because of this, we draw our prayers from the classical vehicles of expression created for us by our heritage: the Psalms of King David, the songs of Moses, the praises of Joshua, the hymns of Yehudah HaLevi and other religious geniuses. Are these beneath us?

All of these create a mood of prayer, identify us with our people – past and present and future – makes us as one with them, channel our hearts and minds towards the Creator, and express – beyond the written word – our innermost inchoate feelings.

Does a musician consider it beneath him to play Beethoven? And doesn’t Beethoven say something new to us every time he is played?

In our narcissistic age, we have seen our reflection in the water and can see nothing else. With us, man is created in man’s image. We even create G-d in man’s image.”