Zilla Loon has K-8 teaching certification from the State of Israel. She began her career as an educator in the Israeli army when she was chosen to be a teacher to Druze soldiers and to soldiers who arrived in the army with weak Judaic backgrounds.
Zilla has also earned her BA in Philosophy & Hebrew literature, and certification for teaching high school from Tel Aviv University in Israel.
She received her MA in Education from The Ohio State University, and has since been teaching at Agudas Achim, OSU, Columbus Torah Academy, Temple Israel, and Congregation Tifereth Israel.
This week’s Torah Portion, P. Pekudei, includes the completion of the building of the Tabernacle. Moses saw the entire work and blessed the people, but there is no mention of God’s response to the completion of this awesome project, which God had commanded. What’s that about?
A midrash tells us that God did have a response. When God saw that the Tabernacle was finally done, God said, “Oy.” Why? The midrash explains God was tired of hearing the constant litany of complaints from the Jewish people, so God commanded the work of the Tabernacle as a distraction, figuring that the people would be too busy to complain. Once the Tabernacle was finally erected, God realized the complaints would start up once again. Here we have early evidence of a favorite Jewish pastime – the art of kvetching.
Kvetching, or complaining, is generally dismissed as undesirable behavior. We applaud the positive, abhor the negative, and so confidently tell our peers (and children) that all their complaining is really quite unattractive. Even God doesn’t like a kvetch (complainer). But rather than merely condemn it, God thwarts it, by assigning the kvetchers a grand project.
Complaining comes from a place of loneliness and powerlessness. When a situation is aggravating, and the circumstances are beyond my control and with no one on my side, I’m apt to feel the urge to express a little frustration. Having a project to create something; especially to create something beautiful together as a community, can grant us the relief of a sense of camaraderie and purposefulness. It can’t solve the root problem. After all, total control in life is ultimately illusory; and, ultimately, we are alone. But sharing a burden devoted to a higher purpose can restore a sense of control and solidarity to our somewhat beleaguered lives. Evidently, this is what erecting a Tabernacle; creating together a place of worship, was intended to be about.
Rabbi Mitch Levine
This Shabbat is called Shabbat Shekalim, which is the first of the four exceptional Shabbats before Pesach. The name comes from the maftir Aliyah reading which calls upon every Israelite male above age 20 to pay a half-shekel tax for the communal offerings made in the tabernacle (and later toward the Temple in Jerusalem). This tax was paid, even in diaspora communities far from Jerusalem, for as long as the Temple stood. After its destruction in the year 70 CE the emperor Vespasian ordered that the tax still be collected, but now it became the fiscus Judaicus (“Jewish tax”) and the revenue was redirected to the Temple of Jupiter in Rome. The Jews could not allow themselves to pay solely this humiliating tax. They were determined to find a way to continue to also pay a tax which supported a Jewish cause in which they might take pride. They found one: The House of the Nasi; the official leader of the Jewish community of the land of Israel.
A great-great-grandson of Hillel the Elder, a man named Rabban Gamaliel of Yavneh led the rabbinic community after the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed by the Romans. His title was “Nasi,” (the “Prince”). Rabban Gamaliel’s leadership dynasty of father to son rule ultimately created the highest political and religious Jewish office in the Roman Empire. This dynasty spanned over 400 years, making it the longest reigning in all of Jewish history, besting even the House of King David by a few decades. There is textual and archeological evidence that Jews all over the Roman Empire contributed an annual tax to the House of the Nasi until the death of the last Gamaliel (c. 429 CE), whereupon Emperor Theodosius II took advantage of the lack of an heir, closed the office of the Nasi, and diverted the taxes to the imperial treasury.
This long-ago 400 year tradition is really an anomaly, for despite half-hearted attempts ever since at establishing “Chief Rabbinates,” the Jewish people have generally eschewed centralized governance. Even the powerful Rabban Gamaliel of Yavneh suffered rebellion and dissent from within the ranks. His most relentless opponent, Rabbi Yehoshua, famously declared the law is “lo b’shamyim he” (“not in Heaven”), meaning that since the Torah has been given to the people no one, not even God, may henceforth decide matters autocratically. Therefore the only authentic way to decide issues of religious practice is according to personal conscience and democratic consensus. It is no mean feat to attempt to govern Jewish people singlehandedly, but the half-shekel tax is a remnant of an era when such things still seemed possible.
Rabbi Mitch Levine
Several verses emphasize and repeat that the Israelites were to remove their “edye” as God contemplates the people’s fate in response to the sin of the Golden Calf. It is not clear what an “edye” refers to; the term is often translated as “ornament” or “jewelry,” but our oldest translation (into Aramaic, called the Targum) renders it as “weapons.” Evidently, the people were obliged to face the wrath of the Almighty bereft of any means of personal defense. This seems a little like demanding that people facing a tsunami remove their galoshes- wouldn’t matter much, one way or the other, so what’s the point?
The Israelite error of the Golden Calf occurs while Moses is learning Torah with God on Mt. Sinai. The verse there says the people saw that Moses “delayed” returning to them. This delay prompted anxiety over the fate of their leader. This sense of insecurity led to the placebo of the Golden Calf. Perhaps this is where the impulse to idolatry essentially comes from – the human need to feel in control and secure. A false sense of security is not merely a distraction; it is akin to placing faith in an idol.
The text tells us the the people courageously removed their “edyes.” It never tells us that they ever put them back on. The human condition is to learn to accept uncertainty.
Rabbi Mitch Levine
This week’s Torah portion is largely given over to describing the various garments the kohanim (priests) were required to wear when performing their holy service. Back in the day, there was a corresponding expectation that congregants dress up when attending Shabbat services. Nowadays, many would prefer to dress more comfortably, and so it has become common to see a wide range of sartorial choices in the synagogue.
Clothing sends a message. It is well known that our choice of attire influences how others see us. More recently, researchers have studied a phenomenon called “enclothed cognition;” that is, how our clothes influence us, because what we wear also reflects how we see ourselves. For example, at Northwestern University, study participants were asked to wear plain white lab coats. Some were told it was a doctor’s lab coat and others were told it was a painter’s smock. In performing directed tasks, the former group was found to be the more focused and conscientious (no mention of what this says about painters). On the other hand, formality creates distance and more casual attire promotes conviviality and intimacy.
The Talmud instructs us to have clothing we’ve especially designated for wearing only on Shabbat, as a way of honoring the holy day. Having a garment reserved for a single day of the week was a great expense back then, so the Shabbat garment had to last a long time. The Talmudic injunction was observed so faithfully it became the butt of a Roman joke. One Roman would ask his fellow, “How long do you want to live for?” and his friend would reply, “As long as the years of a Jew’s Shabbat garment!” (Romans were known more for their engineering skills and military prowess than for their sense of humor).
Even amongst those who persist in dressing up for Shabbat, it has become prevalent to dress down a bit for Shabbat afternoon. The source for this custom seems to be a medieval practice of Jewish women, who would take off their fine jewelry in accordance with the slightly more mournful tone of Shabbat Mincha. The guys evidently took this as a green light for anything goes. My own practice has been to wear a tie on Shabbat. With this single tie, I fulfill two mitzvot: I put it on l’kvod (to honor Shabbat) and take it off after services for oneg (Shabbat joy).
Rabbi Mitch Levine
* a different format for the service,
* learning how to create/find meaning in the liturgy, and
* a more purposeful atmosphere for prayer.