Shemini

Aaron’s Silence

/ Leiah Moser / 5 Comments

This past weekend on Shabbat I spoke a little bit about the challenge of Aaron’s silence. If you recall, in parashat Shemini, the dedication of the mishkan (the portable sanctuary constructed by the Israelites in the wilderness) is interrupted by a terrible calamity when Aaron’s sons Nadav and Avihu are burnt up in a heavenly fire after offering “strange fire” before God. The response to this traumatic event is interesting:

Then Moses said to Aaron, “This is what HaShem meant when God said, ‘Through those near to me I show myself holy, and gain glory before all the people.'” And Aaron was silent. (Leviticus 10:3)

The oddness of this response might be summed up in this way: That Moses seems to be saying too much in this moment, while Aaron seems to be saying too little. In any case, their motivations are obscure. Is Moses trying to comfort his brother in some way over the deaths of his sons, or is he trying to articulate some kind of theological understanding or justification of the event? Does Aaron’s silence indicate shock, displeasure with Moses’ words, or something else entirely?

What I think is that sometimes silence is simply the only real response to something we have experienced. That is a difficult thought to articulate, particularly in a world and at a time when the cultural zeitgeist seems to demand that we speak out at all times, constantly. I think the trouble we have is with the inherent ambiguity of silence, the way that all the things we don’t say invite interpretation while denying the possibility of any definitive interpretation. Silence can have many meanings, but to settle absolutely on any one meaning would be to break the silence.

All of this, of course, applies to the experience we have of the silence of others, the external garment of silence, as it were. But silence also has its internal side, which tends to be very different from the face it presents to the world. The internal face of silence is not a mystery to interpret, but an authentic response to an experience for which we have no words — a lived truth which defies, at least for the moment, our ability to communicate it to others.

If it is hard for us interpret Aaron’s silence, and if that fact makes us uncomfortable, I believe this is because of our own tendency to fill that silence up with whatever words come most naturally to us — words emerging from our own grief, our own losses, our own sense of grievance with God. But in this moment the key thing to understand is that whatever the internal face of Aaron’s silence may be, it is very much his, personal to him in a way that defies our efforts to capture it in language. We fail to do justice to the silence of others when we (like Moses, perhaps) rush too quickly to fill the gap with our own interpretations.

You see, the other important thing about silence is that it marks the boundary of a kind of sacred space different from, and more personal than, the communal sanctuaries we build to connect with God together. Within the walls of this sanctuary of silence, we come face-to-face with the deep, troubling, inscrutable silence of God, and come away changed by that experience.

What emerges from that encounter is hard to predict, and even harder to define, but still it is an essential component of that mysterious process we call healing, or acceptance, or spiritual growth, or whatever other label may be handy at the time to define the ineffable. In time, Aaron may find the words to describe that experience. But for now, we need to recognize that there is also a wisdom in silence, in the honest acknowledgement of those moments when we don’t have the words to frame what has happened to us. Before the light, darkness; and before the words, silence.

Parashat Shemini: Dvar Torah for the Trans Jews Are Here Convening

/ Leiah Moser / 2 Comments

This convening was scheduled to coincide with the International Transgender Day of Visibility, which falls on Sunday. In recognition of this fact, I would like to talk a little bit about the issue of visibility in Jewish tradition and in our own lives. Fundamentally visibility is about the possibility of being seen, a subject which immediately raises issues of power. Everything in our society, our culture, conditions us to understand seeing as a manifestation of power over the one who is seen – simply put, sight is connected to knowledge and knowledge is a kind of power. This is why the experience of being observed by another can feel so invasive and uncomfortable – we instinctively feel that the gaze of the other puts a kind of hold on us, pins us to the wall and lays us out as an object of the other’s understanding. 

This is one way of understanding the relationship between the one who sees and the one who is seen, but it isn’t the only one. In fact our parsha for this week, parashat Shemini, contains a different approach to understanding the power dynamics of visibility. In chapter 9, verse 6 it says:

וַיֹּ֣אמֶר מֹשֶׁ֔ה זֶ֧ה הַדָּבָ֛ר אֲשֶׁר־צִוָּ֥ה הה תַּעֲשׂ֑וּ וְיֵרָ֥א אֲלֵיכֶ֖ם כְּב֥וֹד הה׃

Translation: And Moses said, “This is what HaShem has commanded that you do, so that the presence of HaShem may become visible to you.”

This statement is somewhat confusing for two reasons: First, because we may not be in the habit of thinking of God as visible. Regarding this, it is important to remember that God’s presence appears often throughout the Torah as a visible phenomenon, most often as a “cloud” resting over or within the sanctuary. God’s visibility is also closely connected with the festival holidays. Deuteronomy 16:16 reads:  

 שָׁל֣וֹשׁ פְּעָמִ֣ים ׀ בַּשָּׁנָ֡ה יֵרָאֶ֨ה כָל־זְכוּרְךָ֜ אֶת־פְּנֵ֣י הה אֱלֹקיךָ

Which is typically taken to mean: “Three times a year all your males shall appear before HaShem your God,” except that, given the odd use of the object marker אֶת, it seems more appropriate to read yeraeh as yireh, in other words: “Three times a year all your males shall see the face of HaShem your God.” This reading had its supporters even during the rabbinical period, as in the opening of masechet Chagigah where it is used to justify a ruling that one who is blind is exempt from the obligation of making pilgrimage during the festival. 

But there is another confusing aspect of our passage from Leviticus, and that is the way it reverses the equation when it comes to visibility and power. Here it is not the seer who gets to define the conditions of being seen, who gets to say, “This is what you must do in order to be seen.” On the contrary, it is the one seen, namely Ha Shem, who gets to define the conditions of Hir own visibility by saying, “This is what you must do in order for My presence to appear to you.” By reversing the equation, the dynamics of power between the seer and the one seen shift in surprising ways. No longer a position of command, the act of seeing here reappears in the vulnerability of desire, while God, the object of that desire, has the power to be seen or not seen according to conditions Zie Hirself lays out – in other words, the power to fulfill that desire… or to hold it in suspense. 

An important concept to consider in this context is the role of the garment. To the ordinary way of thinking, the role of clothing is to conceal the nakedness which lies beneath. Nudity is a shameful reality, clothing a means of covering up that reality. Thus, the first man, in response to God’s call, replies, “I heard the sound of You in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked, so I hid.” (Genesis 3:10) In making this statement, Adam reveals that he has completely failed to understand the spiritual significance of the garment, which is not in fact to conceal, but rather to reveal. It is an important, if somewhat paradoxical insight of the sages of the Zohar that one phenomenon which becomes “clothed” in another is not concealed, but rather revealed by its garment. The spiritual essence in itself, denuded of its garments, is too ethereal and abstract to grab hold of. It is the “garment” which encloses and gives form to an aspect of reality which had hitherto been completely internal with no exterior existence, and thus it is precisely in the act of covering itself that the inexpressible reality lays itself bare to the other, concealing its essence but opening itself up thereby to the outside, and therefore to a new possibility, the possibility of communication.

So – in the mystical tradition garments fulfill simultaneously the apparently contradictory roles of concealing and making manifest that which is concealed. But garments have an additional function – that of transformation. In the opening pages of the Zohar Rabbi Shimon bar Yohai and his son Rabbi Elazar explore together the relationship between two different feminine aspects of God, described as Mi and Mah, “Who” and “What,” Mother and Daughter. Ordinarily separated by a vast metaphysical gulf, on the day of the festival assembly when the Divine presence is said to make itself visible, the Daughter is adorned with “her Mother’s ornaments” and then, clad in male garments, is revealed before the assembly of festival goers gathered together in the Temple’s sacred precincts. It is in this moment that the higher aspects of God’s essence are drawn down and made manifest here on Earth as a visible presence before the assembled worshipers. That this sacred moment, in which divine absence is converted suddenly into presence, rests on an act of gender transgression is, I believe, no coincidence. For what is gender transition if not the trick of taking an absent but deeply felt reality and making it manifest in this world we all share as a palpable presence? In both cases what is at stake is visibility, or to put it another way, the leap in the dark necessary to bridge the gap between an impossible interior truth and an unbearable external reality.

Given the degree of power associated with seeing in a society increasingly structured around systems of surveillance, it is valuable to consider for a moment that the reverse is also true: There is power in being able to establish our own conditions for being seen. This power, which in our tradition falls under the heading of tzniut or “modesty,” does not often register for us as a form of power because its strong associations with femininity tend to render it invisible or trivial in the context of patriarchy, which seizes hold of what could have been a source of power and leverages it as a source of oppression. Nevertheless, the power to set our own terms for visibility can be a deep wellspring of self-determination and self-affirmation for those of us who have spent so many years of our lives literally begging to be seen – by family and friends, by the healthcare professionals we rely upon to provide lifesaving care, by employers and government officials. In a world in which being seen is so often associated with vulnerability, there is something profoundly transgressive, not to mention revolutionary, about taking on the authority to dictate to others the conditions which must be met to get a glimpse of our own transcendent and ineffable presence.

The kavanah I want to leave us with this shabbat morning is that we, like God, have a presence which brings blessing to those who are privileged to look upon it, and that, like God, we are the ones who ultimately get to define the terms of our own visibility. May we all be blessed in our lives to behold the divine presence, and may we all give blessing to others by the light of our own presence in the world.