Although, in the end, all tattooing is forbidden by halachah, one opinion in the Mishna (Rabi Shimon ben Yehudah in Rabi Shimon’s name) sees the prohibition as referring specifically to tattooing the name of an idolatry. The pasuk can be read as hinting to that approach: “And a tattoo you shall not place upon yourselves – I am Hashem” (Vayikra, 19:28) – as if to say “Nothing else is.” The contest, so to speak, is zero-sum.

And the Rambam, in fact, places the prohibition in his “Laws of Idolatry.” 

So it would seem reasonable, if seeking some message in the tattoo prohibition, to imagine that it might be a negation of designating something, anything, other than Hashem as an ultimate object of dedication.

And, in fact, tattooing is, at least in many cultures, not a mere “decorative” practice but rather a demonstration of devotion – whether to “Mom,” “Jane,” “Jim” or “Semper Fi.”

Or to any less-than-holy ideal, no matter how worthy. What to an idolater is his deity’s name or symbol is, to a contemporary potential tattoo-ee, any of the broad assortment of “isms” – socialism, capitalism, Zionism, environmentalism… that are popular at any given time. Rav Elchonon Wasserman indeed referred to isms as the idolatries of the current historical era.

And so, what the Torah is forbidding may be understood as inscribing one’s utter dedication to any such concept. In fact, the Hebrew for “upon yourselves” can be read just as easily as “in yourselves”; and Rav Hirsch contrasts the use of that word with the “in your flesh” language used regarding making mourning-cuts.

Political isms are still popular these days, but the most widespread ism of the nonce, I suspect, is the one beginning with the word “material.” Not easily depicted in a tattoo, perhaps, but it’s a most consuming (pun intended) idolatry all the same. 

© 2022 Rabbi Avi Shafran

I once witnessed an amusing exchange between a mother and her four- or five-year-old daughter. The former, trying to do some cooking with the child underfoot, told the little person, “You need to leave my kitchen now.” Which elicited the indignant, forceful response: “It’s my kitchen too!”

But, of course, it wasn’t either of the disputants’ kitchen, at least not ultimately. 

Addressing the man whose house has exhibited a nega, the Torah refers to him (Vayikra 14:35)as asher lo habayis, which, rendered literally, means “[the one] that there is to him the house.” 

“Is to him.” Chazal attribute nega’im to various sins, the appearance of the nega being a signal for the need to do better.  And the nega’im that appear on the walls of a house signal tzarus ayin, literally “narrow-eyedness,” or, better, stinginess. (See Arachin 16a and Maharsha there.)

Thus, the man is commanded to remove all the furniture and utensils from the house before it is pronounced tamei – letting all see things he has that he may have been asked to lend but claimed he didn’t have.

And that, explains the Kli Yakar, is reiterated by the words that translate as “that is to him.” The phrase reflects the mindset of a tzar ayin, a miser, that what he has is really his. Which is not true, since all we have is only temporarily in our control, on loan, so to speak, from Hashem.

Everything we think we have isn’t really ours at all. 

Everything, down to the kitchen sink. For that matter, to the kitchen itself.

© 2022 Rabbi Avi Shafran

“On the eighth day yimol b’sar arlaso – the flesh of his foreskin shall be circumcised” (Vayikra, 12:3).

Rather than directly command circumcision, the Torah here employs the future passive tense – “it shall be done” – instead of just “do it.” That might hint to the fact that, while the baby’s father is the one responsible for his son’s bris, in the absence of the father, other paternal relatives are then obligated. And, in the absence of such relatives, the bris becomes a communal responsibility (Kiddushin 29a).

But the Talmud Yerushalmi (Kiddushin 1:7:2) seems to understand the word yimol to mean not “shall be circumcised” but rather “he should circumcise,” with the subject being not the foreskin but the father. (The Talmud Bavli derives the fact that the father is the initial responsible party from the example of the commandment that was given Avraham [Kiddushin 29a].)

But there is no previous mention of the father as the pasuk’s subject. The Yerushlami, in other words, perceives in the text a person who isn’t there.

There’s a similar “missing subject,” interestingly, in the brachah that the baby’s father makes at a bris: “Blessed are you Hashem… Who sanctified us with His mitzvos and commanded us to enter him into the covenant of our forefather Avraham.”

Who is the “him”?  Presumably the baby. But there has been no previous mention of the baby during the ceremony.

What gives? Why would there be missing subjects in the Torah’s text about milah and the same mitzvah’s brachah? Might there be some connection between the two “missing men”?

I pose the question but have no answer.

© 2022 Rabbi Avi Shafran

Fire descending from heaven was something our ancestors in the desert experienced nightly for decades, as the daytime pillar of cloud was replaced by one of flame. It had surely become an expected, regular event.

And so the question has been asked: Why, in our parshah, at the dedication of the Mishkan, when fire descended “from before Hashem” and consumed the korban olah on the mizbe’ach, did the nation react so passionately, by “rejoicing and falling on their faces” (Vayikra 9:24)? Fire from heaven? Was that not a daily occurrence?

One approach might be that this fire descent took place during daytime – think of how we might react were the sun to suddenly appear for a few moments at midnight. Or, as Emerson wrote: “If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore…”

But the Shem MiShmuel points to something else here. The pillar of flame, like its daytime counterpart, the cloud, he notes, essentially served a destructive purpose, preceding the nation as it traveled and consuming any obstacles or threatening creatures in the Jews’ path. Here, though, the divine-directed fire’s consuming was of a korban, from the root meaning “closeness,” and thus was, beyond all else, a demonstration of Hashem’s love for Klal Yisrael. That is what so struck the people and brought forth their rejoicing.

Fire, indeed, is the obvious symbol of all that can be either powerfully destructive or constructive. In its natural, unbridled state, it is the former. Properly harnessed and directed, though, it can be the latter. And fire, in many midrashim, symbolizes the yetzer hara, the inclination to do what is wrong (see Kiddushin 81a). 

Left unfettered, it leads to doom. But it is also what allows the world to work. 

Rav Shmuel bar Nachman said that “Were it not for yetzer hora, no man would build a house, take a wife and beget children” (Bereishis Rabbah 9:7). When the chachamim tried to prevent the yetzer hora from operating, disaster resulted (Yoma 69b).

But, “pulled to the beis medrash” (see Kiddushin 30b), when its power is harnessed for good – it is invaluable.

© 2022 Rabbi Avi Shafran

“And for generations,” the Midrash, quoted by Rashi, adds to its assertion: “The word tzav [‘command’] implies ziruz [‘fervor’ or ‘zeal’] immediately…”

The context of the Midrash’s statement are the laws of terumas hadeshen and the olas tamid (the daily removal of a small portion of ashes from the heap on the mizbei’ach and the daily burnt offering). And, indeed, the Chasam Sofer notes, when something is done daily, it can easily devolve into a rote action, hence the need to consciously summon “fervor” – hislahavus, fiery ardor.

But the “for generations” addition implies even a future when there may be no Beis Hamikdash or offerings. And so the late fifteenth century Akeidas Yitzchak applies the exhortation to what takes the place of offerings when there is no Beis Hamikdash: tefillah, prayer.

It’s indeed all too easy to merely “recite” the five minute amidah, the essential tefillah offered thrice daily. For a prayer to be most meaningful, though, ziruz is essential.

Rav Shlomo Yosef Zevin, presumably because tzav is a word used by the Torah in a number of contexts, stresses the need for fervor in all mitzvos (which word, of course, is formed from tzav).

He notes further that when Haman slandered the Jews, he said “They sleep through the mitzvos” (Megilla 13b). Not “they neglect the mitzvos,” but rather “they perform them “as if asleep” – i.e. as rote, lacking fervor. 

Indeed, Amalek is the root cause of such spiritual nonchalance. In Parshas Zachor, we read that Amalek karcha baderech, “happened upon you on the road” (Devarim 25:18). The word “happened” can be read to mean “cooled you off” (see Rashi, ibid).

Purim, when we focus on Haman’s defeat, is an ideal time to capture fervor, hislahavus, for the moment and the future.

© 2022 Rabbi Avi Shafran