Tzav
Holding on to the page
We are now in the book of Vayikra, the book of sacrifices. This year I am finding it harder than usual to delve into discussions of the ritual sacrifices described in the Torah. In the past months I have sat at my desk in Newton where I have read and listened to horrific stories of sacrifice, feeling unbearably sad and helpless. Our later prophets and Psalms reject physical animal sacrifice in favor of mitzvot. After the temples were destroyed the rabbis replaced sacrifices with prayer and learning. It is precisely there, in the stories of the Talmud, that I have found some solace.
The Talmud is not a historical book but sometimes you can catch the echoes of the politics and culture of the time between the lines. The tractate Yevamot deals primarily with the commandment that when a married but childless man dies, his wife is to be married to his brother to continue his name. While today we practice the alternative of halitza, which releases the woman from this obligation, the rabbis of the first and second century were very concerned about securing marriage for widows. Some see the discussions of what happens to a widow when many subsequent brothers die as an intellectual exercise. However, most of the rabbis quoted in this part of the Talmud experienced the Roman occupation of the land and the bloody years of the Bar Kochba revolt. How to know for sure that husbands of widows were indeed dead and not just missing was a pressing question. Perhaps the desire to fix it through marriage was a reaction to so many soldiers being killed and the need to provide for lots of women and children. Maybe the discussions were sadly practical and not merely logic games. The desire to provide a roof and food for the survivors was a response to the sacrifice of the men.
In Yevamot 121a there is a story that gives a very Jewish kind of hope in a time of sacrifice. Rabban Gamliel tells a story about once being on a ship. He was one of the political leaders at the time and would travel to Rome to negotiate on behalf of the Jews in Israel. He saw another boat that shattered and sank from afar. He was sure that the younger scholar Rabbi Akiva was aboard and went on to grieve the loss of his great colleague. But when Rabban Gamliel disembarked he found Rabbi Akiva safe and sound, ready to resume their halachic deliberations. Rabban Gamliel asked him how he survived. Rabbi Akiva answered that he held on to a board and bowed his head as each wave came over him. There are many ways to interpret this story. One way to understand it is symbolically. Rabbi Akiva, however, certainly did not keep his head down during the Roman oppression—he kept illegally teaching Torah, which eventually resulted in his capture and death. But he did keep clinging to the supporting pillars of his world.
I find a second explanation more compelling. The word for board in Hebrew is daf, which is also used to describe a page of Talmud. While our present day printing of the Talmud did not exist in Rabbi Akiva’s time, some have argued that it was his holding on to the tradition, even through really difficult times, that kept him going. As it says in Taanit 11a, another tractate about how we react to disasters: in times of distress we have to stay together. This mandate is both physical and spiritual. Years ago I heard Amos Oz say that if we couldn’t live in Israel that we should at least pay attention. So each morning, I read the news, check in with friends in Israel and then I open up my Talmud to learn the daf of the day.
Shabbat Shalom with love,
Rabba Claudia