Emor, the Torah portion we read this week, teaches us the lessons that certain people have both obligations they must perform and rights they can enjoy. Both the obligations and rights are bundled together. And as long as one is able to perform the obligations, he must do so. However, if one is unable to do what the law obligates him to do; he does not lose his rights.

To serve as a Kohan, a priest, in the Temple one had to be in perfect condition. He was not allowed deformities or even blemishes of any kind. Consequently those born with birth defects who were Kohanim were not allowed to offer sacrifices. Those who were injured on or off the job were not allowed to continue in their Temple service.

Yet those very same people were allowed all of the rights, which included food, which all of the working Kohanim shared. The daughter of a Kohan was permitted food while she was single. If she married and was then widowed or divorced, she could return to the Temple for all the rights she originally had. Seems quite fair.

In a like manner, in modern society the homeless and even the skid row bums who by dint of their place in society have no obligations (ie. they have no money with which to pay taxes, etc) must not forfeit the benefits of American citizenship. They have rights.

Obligations and rights are one bundle, but each can exist separately.

Most words have multiple meanings and we usually choose the meaning that is most concrete. So when the third line of Genesis reads, “Let there be light,” we think of the sun and the moon. We never really get beyond that third sentence, because if we did we would find that the sun and the moon and the stars were created on the fourth day. Only then would we understand that the light of the first day had to be ‘intelligence’ or a plan of some kind.

We meet the same difficulty in translation in the sedra we read this week. The Torah states: “Do not put a stumbling block before the blind.” We think of the blind as people without sight. In truth those without sight or with low vision can usually get around quite well. They have tools so that they can recognize stumbling blocks. Blind here also has an intellectual component. We are commanded to speak clearly and honestly to other people.

In our modern world nothing is a greater stumbling block than the negative ads that politicians use to berate their opponents. Often the offending politicians use half truths or unkind references to slander the candidates they are opposing. And when the elections happen the blinded vote against their best interest because of the stumbling blocks that have been put in their way.

Physical blindness presents certain problems, but they do not compare to intellectual blindness which can corrupt our entire political system.

In ancient times pregnancy was considered a life threatening illness. The prayers for the pregnant mother to this day are the same as the prayer for a sick person. Today we do not recognize the implications of pregnancy, but in ages past many, many mothers died giving birth. Pregnancy had mortal consequences. It was not only a time to thank God for the creation of a new soul, but also, pregnancy often ended in a state of bereavement for a father and his other children. Pregnancy, in other words, was either a time for joy or a time for immense sadness.

The ancients saw the possibility of sadness in the blood, which accompanied pregnancy. They saw it in the smells of delivery and in the most evident dangers accompanying the birth process.

For this reason the sections of the Torah we read this week are devoted to the sacrificial aspects of birth. Those rites tie together both the blessing of birth and the fear and salvation from the dangers of birthing. The mother is declared unclean for a number of weeks and is not allowed to come to the Temple. Until the dangers of birth have passed she is a persona non grata in the Temple environs.

In a time that lacked the medical treatments offered in hospitals today, birth presented difficult challenges to ancient communities.

Our Torah is about respecting life, all kinds of life. We have laws, which protect fruit trees from destruction. We have laws that assure plants of all kind will mature in a safe and healthy environment. We have laws, which protect wild animals and preserve a sustainable habitat for them. We have laws which prohibit us from eating all amphibians, reptiles, water creatures, which have no fins and scales, most mammals (except for a handful of breeds) most birds and all insects save one species.

In the sedra we read this week, we learn the laws of kashruth, which allude to the dignity we must allow for animals and for the kindness we must evoke when we are raising those animals.

We have laws, which protect human life and forbid torture of any kind. We have laws, which recognize the sanctity of life of those in extremis. There should be no difference in the treatment of the abjectly poor and of the super-rich.

Our faith holds that we can never ask God to forgive our sins if we deal cruelly with any living thing. Our dogma speculates that we will be judged by the Almighty in the manner that we act toward humanity and to all life itself.

Can there be any better justification for the laws of kashruth?

RABBI’S COMMENTARY

Most Seders begin when the leader points to a plate of matzoth and says: “This is the bread of poverty, which our forefathers ate in the land of Egypt.” Our ancestors were slaves. They had nothing. The food they ate was meager. It had no frills. When they left Egypt, the meager food they ate was made of nothing but flour and water. They had little else to eat. They truly ate the ‘bread of poverty.’

Some editions of the Haggadah, however, hold that the matzoth we eat are not the ‘the bread of poverty,’ but ‘like the bread of poverty.’ People who have enough to eat cannot eat like the poor. People who enjoy their meals, especially at the Seder certainly do not eat ‘the bread of poverty.’

People of means can never eat the food of poor people. They can never understand the suffering of those who do not have enough to eat. They can eat matzah and wine. Their meals have several portions. They eat dessert. Matzoth for them is a special food used to demonstrate an idea, but it is never the ‘bread of poverty.’

Matzoth tells us about poverty. It describes poverty by its very form and shape. Yet, we can never hold that it allows us to be poor for even a minute. Poverty is a tragedy that the haves can identify, but never experience.

Shabbat HaGadol is one of two times in the year when rabbis were certain to give sermons. The other Shabbat preceded Yom Kippur. In both instances the sermons rabbis delivered were very long. Indeed Shabbat HaGadol is actually named for the length of the service including that very long discourse explaining what could and could not be eaten on the Passover holiday.

Passover demands far more than just eating Matzah and unleavened foods. The prohibition holds that we are not allowed to own such foods or even to see such food on our premises. The standard in every case is based upon zero toleration. The smallest crumb is a violation of the Passover laws. During the rest of the year some foods that might contain a minimal amount of a questionable substance would be permitted to eat. Even on Yom Kippur, according to the Torah one is not held to a zero toleration standard.

There is nothing ethical about this ritual standard of what is permitted and what is not. However, there are ethical implications to the zero toleration standards. Evil in any amount is deadly. Evil in language, action or deed begins with miniscule thoughts. Yet those thoughts ultimately can destroy institutions and even nations. On Passover we learn the dangers of the forbidden in any measure.

On Pesach we learn to clean house completely or suffer the consequences that comes from the Chametz we leave behind.

The sacrificial system was the manner by which our ancestors were able to sanctify the world and beg forgiveness from God for the sins and indiscretions of our people. For our forefathers and mothers Jerusalem was the center of the world. It was the singular place in the world where God positioned his godliness. It was there we could most directly find God and feel His Presence.

With the destruction of the Temple the people Israel and the world was left somewhat orphaned and without a central site where we could easily align ourselves with God and renew a life based upon holiness and right living. People were on their own. They had to find God and ask God for forgiveness by themselves.

It was at that time that prayer took the place of sacrifice. Every synagogue had ritual requirements. One could not pray in a group unless that group was composed of ten, but ten was a far cry from sacrifices presented in the name of the entire people.

The destruction of the Temple and exile from Jerusalem estranged our people from the normative conventions of any and every people. We also found ourselves estranged from God. We lived and continue to live with the idea of some kind of end to history, a messianic vision where that estrangement ends and people learn to live with each other, with the world, and with God.

Modernity has emphasized our estrangement and de-emphasized the supposed coming of a messianic age. We long for God’s Presence, but often find ourselves alone and lonely.

Moses, for the past few weeks describes how the Temple should be built and what vestments the Priests should wear while in the Temple. Next week we again speak of the Temple. A good part of the beginning of the Book of Leviticus, which we will read in coming weeks, is about sacrifices that we offer in the Temple.

Between all of the Temple details the Torah inserts a few sentences about Shabbat. Shabbat has nothing to do with the Temple. The former is about time while the latter is about space. The former must be lived through by all Jews, religious or not, Sabbath observers or not, while the later only applies to those Jews who sacrificed in the Temple while it was standing.

The Shabbat is a reality for all Jews. The Temple is but a memory (or a hope) for those involved in the definition of space. The Temple did not preserve Judaism. It could not. Nothing in space lasts forever. Anything in space is important only while it exists.

Everything defined by time, by the moment, exists for all eternity. Time cannot be created, manipulated or changed. All that we can say about time is that it is. When the Shabbat comes, it is. Every Jew has to live through the Shabbat, even if he refuses to accept its precepts.

For that reason, more than the Jew has kept Shabbat; the Shabbat has kept the Jews. You see, in the final analysis sanctity is found more in time than it is in space. And so Shabbat is the secret to the existence of the Jewish people.