“What a coincidence!” remarked the minister upon encountering the Rabbi: “It was just last night that I dreamt I was in Jewish Heaven.”
“Jewish Heaven?” mused the Rabbi. “What is it like in Jewish Heaven?”
“Oh!” replied the minister, "in Jewish Heaven children with unclean faces, shirts un-tucked and clothes un-pressed, play in the dirt. Women haggle with fruit-vendors, as panhandlers rudely interrupt. Wash hangs from a maze of clotheslines, the dripping water adding to an already muddy surface. And of course,” continued the minister with a wry grin, “There are plenty of Rabbis running to and fro, with large tomes tucked under their arms!”
The Weekly Sedra – Va’eschanan – This Is The Torah
In the early 1900’s, the tenements of Manhattan’s Lower East Side were populated with Jewish immigrants. A Rabbi, who resided in the ghetto-like community, once attended an ecumenical function at which a notoriously anti-Semitic Episcopalian Minister was in attendance.
“What a coincidence!” remarked the minister upon encountering the Rabbi: “It was just last night that I dreamt I was in Jewish Heaven.”
“Jewish Heaven?” mused the Rabbi. “What is it like in Jewish Heaven?”
“Oh!” replied the minister, “in Jewish Heaven children with unclean faces, shirts un-tucked and clothes un-pressed, play in the dirt. Women haggle with fruit-vendors, as panhandlers rudely interrupt. Wash hangs from a maze of clotheslines, the dripping water adding to an already muddy surface. And of course,” continued the minister with a wry grin, “There are plenty of Rabbis running to and fro, with large tomes tucked under their arms!”
“How amazing!” retorted the Rabbi pursing his lips: “I too had a dream last night, in my dream I was in Episcopalian Heaven.”
“Really?” muttered the minister. ”I’ve always wondered what Episcopalian Heaven was like. Please tell me what you saw.”
I must admit; said the Rabbi with a wide smiled, “It is nothing short of immaculate.” ”The streets glitter as if they had just been washed and homes line-up in perfect symmetry; each with manicured lawn and a garden. The buildings are freshly painted and sparkle in the sunlight!”
“Not surprising,” said the pleased minister, as he nodded cheerfully. But tell me about the people! What are the people like?
The Rabbi frowned as he looked the minister in the eye: “People? What people? There were no people!”
There is an ancient Jewish custom; celebrated in Synagogues all across the world, that each time the Torah is removed from the ark and read in public, it is opened wide, raised into the air and turned in all directions for everyone to see.
As the Torah is lifted, the congregation rises to its feet; chanting in unison a verse from this week’s Parsha with love and admiration: “V’zos HaTorah Asher Som Moshe…” (“This is the Torah that Moshe presented before the Children of Israel”) (Deuteronomy 4:44).
One might’ve imagined that the verse recited during this sentimental ritual would relate to one of the loftier and inspiring aspects of the Torah – similar to the inspiration and awe that the sight of the unfurled Torah is designed to evoke. But this is at all not the case.
Ironically the words ”V’zos HaTorah” – used to proclaim the glory of the Torah in its entirety – follows a section of Torah that discusses the laws of the cities of refuge – the cities designated for people convicted of negligent manslaughter, or who are awaiting trial for that crime.
This is obviously a portion of Torah that we would rather never see come to fruition. Jews, we would hope, are not killers and are certainly not proud of people who kill. The Torah portion that deals with this element and issue, one might think, would be buried under the rug. Certainly it would not be showcased. Yet that is precisely what we seem to do when we raise the Torah and chant this particular verse.
The obvious question is why choose these particular words – which are related to the gravest human blunder – to summarize the essence and embodiment of the Holy Torah? And why are these words to begin with juxtaposed to laws that regulate our lowest point of downfall and failure?
Rashi comments that these words don’t really refer that topic but rather to an ensuing portion, which recounts the Sinai experience and the receiving of the Ten Commandments. Rambam explains that these words indicate that after Moshe’s admonition of the people, he resumed discussing the sacred laws. Yet the most basic and literal reading of the text does not really support this.
It has been suggested, by far more contemporary commentators, that perhaps by connecting the words: “This is the Torah that Moshe presented” with laws of the cities of refuge, the Torah is sending a profound and resonant message – a reminder that the Torah is meant for humans not Angels.
The Torah is essentially designed to guide the Jew through every dimension and experience in life; from the highest to the lowest; from the most honorable to the most shameful. Whether the Torah is commanding the laws of priestly blessings, or the sacred sacrifices in the Temple, or rehabilitating a man who accidentally killed another, it is the Torah of reality and truth.
Judaism doesn’t profess that man is perfect and infallible; it does not ignore our misfortunes or hide them as if they don’t exist. The Laws concerning thievery and murder are as much a part of the Torah as are the perpetrators a part of society.
The Torah doesn’t claim to be preaching to superhuman beings, nor does it gloss-over man’s animal dimension and propensity for unfortunate acts of failure and wrongdoing. When the Torah deals with this topic, it does so boldly – stating that this too, is the Torah that Moshe placed before the Children of Israel.
The Torah wants us to know that when we fail we are not freaks in the eyes of G-d but humans, and to be human is to occasionally fail. And that if we were not capable of failure of what value would be our successes and triumphs?
This may further explain why this seemingly shameful subject is placed together – in the same Torah portion – with the most remarkable event in history of mankind ever – the giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai – another portion for which the congregation rises to its feet.
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