And G-d Spoke: Narrative, Commandment, and Doing the Work — Kendell Pinkney
Despite all of the years that I have read through parashat Vayikra (i.e. the beginning parasha on the book of Leviticus), or have heard it chanted in synagogue, I must admit, I find it to be one of the least compelling parshiyot in Torah. I know. I’m studying to be a rabbi. I’m not supposed to admit so readily that an important section of Torah confounds me, or leaves me cold. Nevertheless, it’s true. Furthermore, as a playwright and a modern, meaning-seeking human, I prefer narrative. The compelling narratives of Genesis and Exodus present me with a world of moral and narrative complexity with clear beginnings, middles, and endings. Vayikra, on the contrary, feels like the beginning of a long, meandering annal of laws without an arc. What am I supposed to do with an ancient collection of law that details the particulars of animal sacrifice, purification rituals, prohibitions against certain forms of slaughter, the day of Atonement, forbidden foods, shabbat, sexual crimes, blood, etc, etc, etc, with nary a narrative sprinkled throughout? Additionally, I feel the more rebellious part of myself rise up and say, “no book of laws can tell me what to do!” And yet, in contradictory fashion, I also believe in the dictum that “all Torah is worthwhile”. So how do I make sense of Vayikra? How do I make “meaning” of laws that ultimately don’t feel relevant to my life as a 21st century Jew who has a different set of concerns and practices? It is here that taking a step back might be useful.
Over the course of the last several parshiyot, we have seen the Israelites go on a harrowing journey: They escape slavery, then they build a spectacular, travelling tabernacle (one that is outfitted with gold and dolphin skins, no less!), and finally, in this week’s parasha, they receive a substantial set of laws. I think that by taking a look at this long arc of the Israelite narrative we might be able to find the relevance of Vayikra for our lives.
As I mentioned above, so often, I view the narrative passages of Torah as separate from the parts of Torah that are concerned with law. However, when we look into the grammar at the beginning of the book of Leviticus, we see that the Torah text doesn’t take the same approach. The parasha starts:
וַיִּקְרָ֖א אֶל־מֹשֶׁ֑ה וַיְדַבֵּ֤ר יְהוָה֙ אֵלָ֔יו מֵאֹ֥הֶל מוֹעֵ֖ד לֵאמֹֽר
“And [he; G-d] called out to Moses, and Adonai spoke to him from the tent of meeting saying…”
This is a peculiar way to begin a new book of Torah. Imagine starting a term paper in high school with, “And I am writing about…” I can imagine your English teacher reminding you not to start your paper with a conjunction. Yet, this is exactly what our parasha does. Now, we could view it as a syntactic mistake made by a careless editor; or we could view it as a simple convention of ancient narrative structure, and you wouldn’t be totally off base with that. However, these suggestions are purely descriptive. Furthermore, they don’t impart any meaning to the text. Instead, I want to suggest that starting in the middle of an idea/sentence is not a mistake. Rather, it carries a deeply important meaning for us and how we read Torah. In order to make this argument, I must ask you to permit me to nerd-out a bit more on Hebrew grammar.
The word vayikra (trans. “And he [ G-d] spoke”) is in this verb form that biblical scholars call the “vav-consecutive”. This might sound like a five-dollar word, but in essence, what this form does is indicate the order of progression in a narrative. For example, “Yesterday, I woke up at 8 am, and then I made myself a cup of coffee, and then I put on my tefillin and then I prayed…” You get the point. So, if we take vayikra to be in a verb form that continues narrative progress, then we are left with the conclusion that it is the continuation of a previous thought, or narrative. Since this is the first word of the book of Leviticus, that means that vayikra is a continuation of Exodus, at least from a literary standpoint. That raises the question, what story exactly are we continuing?
For that we have to look back in the previous parasha in the book of Exodus. In Exodus 40:34-38, we read that once the Israelites finished building the tabernacle, the presence of Hashem descended upon it in the form of a cloud. What is more, G-d’s presence was so substantial that Moses could not enter the tabernacle. In other words, the presence of Hashem enveloped this sacred space that was located in the midst of the people. It is only after this Divine indwelling that Hashem speaks out to Moses and begins giving instructions and commandments for the people.
So what meaning can we make of this? For me, this communicates that narrative and the accountability that comes through commandments/law are not separate processes. Rather, at least in the mind of our Biblical ancestors, they are tightly woven together. What is more, and possibly also profound, the Divine is located at the very intersection of narrative and commandment. Now, I should be clear, I do not take this to mean that every Jew’s practice needs to look the same. Quite the opposite, actually! I view Jewish pluralism as a blessing that reflects the flourishing of Hashem’s presence in the world. However, I do think that this approach to the inextricable nature between narrative and commandment compels us to ask, “How are the stories that we tell about ourselves and our communities reflected in our actions?” What is more, “How do we show up for each other, hold each other’s stories, and then use those narratives to develop a deep, grounded sense of commitment and accountability to one another?” My hope and prayer for this week is that as we slide into shabbat, we might all feel the space to find the unexpected connections between narrative and commandment, and that those connections might further enable us to step up and do the necessary work to make our community thrive.
Kendell Pinkney is the Rabbinic Fellow at Ammud: The Jews of Color Torah Academy.
