from the heart of jerusalem

Channeling the darkness within

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I once gave a lecture on the ethical challenges of the seventh commandment (“Thou shalt not steal”). Afterwards, I was approached by a fellow from Vienna who was a Shoah survivor.

“Why do you assume stealing is always wrong?” he asked. “Sometimes, it is even an obligation.

“I always had a strong desire to take things, and I never understood why,” he continued. “It wasn’t that I needed things, I just loved being able to steal things from under people’s noses. I became quite good at it, though my conscience always bothered me. I was able to resist the temptation, but it was a struggle.

“I knew it was wrong to steal and never rationalized theft; I just loved the thrill of the take. It wasn’t my fault I loved to steal, G-d made me that way … it just didn’t seem fair.

“And then the Holocaust came. … My skills kept our family alive, and somehow I was always able to find enough for everyone to eat. One day, I was ordered to report to the police station. Did the Gestapo want me? Would I be allowed to leave once I came in? My first thought was to go into hiding, but they knew where my family was. I had no choice but to go.

“In the waiting hall, every few minutes, a person’s name would be called and a policeman would take them to an office. You could hear the cries of the person being ‘interviewed,’ and sometimes you would see them limping, bloodied and beaten, back down the hallway and out of the building. Sometimes you didn’t see them come out.

“My name was called. I found myself in an office where four or five other policemen sat behind small desks interviewing people. The fellow interviewing me barked out questions, and before I could answer, he would beat me on the head. … Eventually, I was made to sign something and then told I would be ordered to report for a labor battalion. Meanwhile, I could go home.

“All of the interviews ended at around the same time, and as the Jews were allowed to leave, the officers interviewing them also walked out. I found myself alone in the room. And I had a tremendous urge to steal something.

“On one of the desks, I saw a large pile of papers, and next to it an equally large pile of passports and identity papers. Clearly, these were of Jews being made to report somewhere, and it did not bode well for them. Without thinking, I took the entire pile and walked right out of Gestapo headquarters with all those papers under my shirt.

“Not only did I save 70 lives that day, but later in the war, we were able to doctor those passports to save an additional hundred people. From that day, I never had the desire to steal again. I now realize that G-d gave me that desire, not as a curse, but as a blessing.”

We struggle with desires that weigh us down. If we didn’t crave chocolate cake, wouldn’t it be easier to diet? How often do we have better things to do, but waste an evening unproductively watching a movie? If we were better off without these wasteful desires, why do we have them?

This week’s parsha, Acharei Mot, begins with a treatment of this topic. G-d tells Moshe to instruct Aaron, “after the death of his sons,” regarding the service in the Mishkan (Vayikra 16:1). Instead of relating the trauma Aaron experienced in the loss of his sons, the Torah begins a discussion of the two goat offerings that form the central part of the service on Yom Kippur. Why is the Torah introducing the Yom Kippur service immediately after the death of Aaron’s sons?

The sacrifices described here (Vayikra 16:5-11) are perhaps the strangest areas of service in all of Judaism, and arguably include the most bizarre sacrifice in the Bible. Aaron, as the kohen gadol, is told to take two he-goats as a sin offering. He stands before the tent of meeting on Yom Kippur and picks lots for them. On one of the notes is written “LaHashem,” for G-d, and this goat is offered as the central sacrifice of Yom Kippur in the Temple. On the other note is written the word “LaAzazel,” and the second goat is an offering to Azazel.

What or who is Azazel? The verse (16:10) suggests that the goat was taken into the wilderness and cast off the desert cliffs, symbolizing the destruction of our transgressions before G-d. But this leaves us with many questions. Why, in order to attain forgiveness for the Jewish people, must this goat be taken into the desert? Why not offer it up in the temple, like all other sacrifices? Further, what is the significance of the lots? Why not just let the Kohen Gadol choose the goats? And what does all this have to do with “the death of Aaron’s sons”?

The Ramban suggests an idea so at odds with all that Judaism seems to be that it has been labeled one of the most difficult and puzzling comments by this great commentator. He suggests that Azazel is really Samael, the “sar hamoshel b’mekomot hachurban,” the prince who rules in the places of destruction. On Yom Kippur, when we as a people find favor in G-d’s eyes, we need to appease this dark prince, so we offer him a special sacrifice in the darkness of the wilderness. Can the Ramban, one of the greatest rabbis and commentators in Jewish history, be suggesting that we offer sacrifices to the dark side? Is this Judaism? It smacks of paganism!

Years ago, in a sermon before Yom Kippur, my teacher, Rabbi Shlomo Riskin, shared a beautiful way of looking at this Ramban based on the teachings of Rav Soleveitchik, zt”l, who relates a discussion in the Talmud (Yoma 86b) on the power of repentance: “Gedolah teshuvah,” says Rav Shimon Ben Lakish, “shezedonot nehefachot lezechuyot.” Great is [the power of] repentance, for it causes premeditated transgressions to become merits.

A challenging statement. If I purposefully transgress, and subsequently repent and regret my actions, not only is my slate wiped clean and my mistakes forgiven, but these transgressions now serve as a merit to me! Certainly we should not commit as many transgressions as possible simply to subsequently repent and gain merit.

Perhaps what the Talmud in Yoma is saying is: If I have desires that pull me down, I can turn them to merit. Elsewhere, the Talmud advises that one who has the desire to spill blood should become a butcher, and one who has the desire to take other people’s money should become a collector of charity. In other words, take the desires you have, and use them for a good purpose.

Everything we are given in this world, however challenging, is ours for a reason. We each go through life with our own suitcase, full of talents and skills, desires and foibles; all the things that bring us up, and all the things that bring us down. Some are born tall; maybe they will become basketball stars. Some have musical talent, and others, the gift of knowing when to smile. We do not earn these talents — they are ours to develop.

The question, however, is what we choose to do with them. If everything comes from G-d, even weaknesses can be a gift, if only we find a way to channel them for the good.

This, perhaps, is the offering to Samael, the “prince who rules in the places of destruction,” described by the Ramban. There is a place of darkness inside each of us that threatens to destroy us, to bring us down. Some suggest that the only way to combat these desires is to retreat from the physical world, so as not to grant them a place — that if you have physical desires, live in a monastery, desist from contact with the world. Put it out of your head.

Judaism has a different approach: Don’t deny these desires, embrace them — in a healthy manner, channeling their energy to a good purpose.

This may be the message behind all the gold used in the Mishkan, despite the debacle of the Golden Calf. If you are going to seek to make Me tangible in this world, says G-d, do it my way, in the Temple. Channel that energy towards light, instead of darkness.

Perhaps this is why this message is given here, to Aaron, so soon after the death of his sons. There is no force in this world with more potential to swallow us whole than death. Confronted by the wall of our own mortality, we easily succumb to the idea that there is no purpose, no meaning, only an untimely end. But if G-d, truly loves us, and only gives us opportunities to grow, then perhaps, however painful, death, too, is an opportunity.

We live in challenging times. Israel, and the entire Jewish world, is fighting for survival. With terrorists opening fire on innocent worshippers in synagogues, and thinly-veiled anti-Semitism finding its way into the media, the crisis today is for the entire Jewish people.

Perhaps Hashem will bless us to, at long last, harness all of our energy for light instead of darkness. And what an incredible light that would be. 

Shabbat Shalom from Jerusalem.