A Holy Mindset
Parshas
Acharei Mos Kedoshim
Posted on May 5, 2017 (5777) By Rabbi
Berel Wein | Series: Rabbi Wein
| Level: Beginner
The direct message of
these two parshiyot is clear: In order to live a meaningful life that contains
within it the necessary elements of spiritual sanctity one must limit one’s
desires and physical behavior patterns. The Torah does not award accolades for
great intellectual or social achievements if they are unfortunately accompanied
by uninhibited physical dissolute behavior. It is not only the message that
counts – it is just as much the messenger as well.
There are many laws,
mitzvot and strictures that are the stuff of these two Torah parshiyot. The
Talmud warns us against the dangers of false preaching and hypocrisy. All
faiths and political systems are strewn with the remains of noble ideas
preached by ignoble people and dissolute leaders. The Torah is therefore
prescient in demanding that Jews must first dedicate themselves to the goals of
righteousness and probity before it instructs them in the details of Jewish
living and normative behavior.
The Torah is wary of
those who immerse themselves in purifying waters while still retaining in their
hands, hearts and minds the defiling creature itself. The Torah is keen to
apply this concept to its entire worldview. Justice is to be pursued but only
through just means. The Jewish nation is not only to be an obedient and
observant nation – it is charged with being a holy nation. Without the goal of
personal holiness being present in Jewish life, observance of the Torah laws
oftentimes will be ineffective, a matter of rote behavior and not of spiritual
uplift and improvement.
This required dedication to holiness in life is achieved in
the small, every day occurrences in human life. It defines how we speak and
what we say and hear. It prevents us from taking advantages of others in
commerce and social relationships. It fights against our overwhelming ego and
our narcissistic self. Holiness opens up to us the broad panorama of life and
allows us to view the forest and not just the trees.
It demands inspiration
and makes us feel unfulfilled if we achieve only knowledge. It creates a
perspective of eternity and of future generations and lifts us out of the
mundane world of the ever-changing present. It infuses our behavior with a
sense of cosmic importance and eternal value so that everything in life, in
fact living itself, is of spiritual importance and value.
It impresses upon us
the realization that we are not only to be judged by our current peers but by
past and future generations as well. Even achrei mot – after one’s departure
from this world – kedoshim tihiyu – shall later generations be able to judge
one as being holy, dedicated and noble. This is the mindset that the Torah
demands from us as we proceed to fulfill all of the laws and mitzvoth that are
detailed for us in these two parshiyot. For in the absence of such a dedication
and mindset, the perfunctory observance of those laws and mitzvot cannot have
the necessary effect upon our souls and lives.
Shabat shalom,
Rabbi Berel Wein
Parshas
Acharei Mos
The two festivals of
Pesach and Shavuos come in such rapid succession they almost seem like one
extended celebration. Indeed, some commentators compare the intervening days
between Pesach and Shavuos, when we count down to the Omer, to Chol Hamoed, the
Intermediate Days of the Festivals. By rights, this should be one long period
of uninterrupted festivity – but it is not.
The days of Sefiras
Haomer, the Countdown to the Omer, are also days of mourning and sadness. We
mourn a catastrophe that befell the Jewish people in Talmudic times, shortly after
the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. The Talmud (Yevamos 62) tells us
that a plague broke out among the disciples of Rabbi Akiva during the period
between Pesach and Shavuos, killing twenty-four thousand of them.
This was indeed a
terrible tragedy, but an annual memorial is nevertheless somewhat puzzling.
Unfortunately, Jewish history is a long succession of terrible tragedies that
blankets the entire calendar, and if we were to observe annual mourning for
them all, we would never cease to mourn. Our Sages, therefore, selected only
the most disastrous calamities for annual commemoration. Why then does this
plague rank among the most disastrous calamities ever to befall the Jewish
people?
Furthermore, let us
consider the cause of the plague. According to the Talmud, it happened because
“they did not have sufficient respect for one another.” Two problems
immediately come to mind.
First, why would an
infringement on the respect of their fellow disciples precipitate such dire
consequences?
Second, why indeed did
they fail to respect each other sufficiently? Rabbi Akiva was one of the
foremost proponents of ve’ahavta lereiacha kamocha, loving one’s fellow as
oneself; he considered it one of the fundamental concepts of the Torah. Surely
then, he would have stressed this idea to his disciples, impressing on them the
importance of treating other people with absolute respect. After hearing such
words from the holy lips of Rabbi Akiva, how could twenty-four thousand of his
disciples even consider being disrespectful to one another?
The commentators
explain that Rabbi Akiva’s disciples were certainly people of sterling
character who would never have dreamed of uttering a single rude word to
another person. Rather, their “disrespect” manifested itself in the intellectual
sense.
The Talmud tells us
that just as no two people are exactly identical in their appearance, they are
also not identical in their outlook and opinions. Every person has his own
particular way of looking at things, and no one else in the world has exactly
the same perspective. When Rabbi Akiva taught his disciples, each one absorbed
the teachings according to the nuances of his particular perspective. This was,
of course, as was to be expected. But how did they view the opinions of their
colleagues?
This is where the
“disrespect” came into play. They could not acknowledge the possibility that
other people’s perspectives might also have validity. Each one considered his
own opinion the absolute truth and the opinions of his colleagues as erroneous.
This attitude reflected a lack of objectivity and intellectual honesty. They
were so enamored of their own wisdom that they could not see the wisdom of
others and respect their opinions. The transmission of the truth of the Torah
to future generations, however, required intellectual purity and integrity, and
these disciples were found lacking in that respect. Therefore, in order to
prevent the chain of transmission from being compromised, these disciples
perished in a plague.
And we mourn. We
mourn the loss of twenty-four thousand great Torah scholars. But even more, we
mourn the riches of Torah knowledge and insight we could have gained from an
additional twenty four thousand conduits of Torah, with all the textures and
nuances of their varied perspectives – if only they had been worthy. How these
disciples could have made the Torah blossom before our eyes – if only they had
been able to achieve perfect objectivity. But they did not, and our loss is
irreplaceable.
In our own lives, we sometimes become so wrapped up in our own
point of view that we fail to acknowledge the possibility that an opposing
point of view may also have validity. There is an element of egotism and
conceit behind such an attitude. We love ourselves, and therefore we must be
right. But if we find it in ourselves to love our fellow as we do ourselves, we
will suddenly see the world with a new and profound clarity. Things that
bothered us will no longer do so. Things we did not appreciate will take on new
value and importance. And more likely than not, we will discover we have gained
much wisdom and peace of mind. Text Copyright © 2011 by Rabbi Naftali Reich and Torah.org.
Rabbi Reich is on the
faculty of the Ohr Somayach Tanenbaum Education
Center.
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