“Science takes things apart to see how they work. Religion puts things together to see what they mean.” That’s one of many great lines authored by the legendary Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks.
But we don’t always know what things mean, do we?
This week’s Torah portion is Chukat, which, in its simple definition, means a “decree.” There are different types of mitzvot, commandments, in the Torah. Some are perfectly logical, like not stealing or honoring our parents. We call these commandments mishpatim or “laws.”
Then there are laws that may not be so obvious. Once we are taught about them, we can see the sense in observing them, like Shabbat or the chagim, “Jewish festivals,” having a brit milah or wearing tefillin. They are known as eidot, “testaments,” and they are permeated with symbolism and deep spirituality.
But then there are laws of the Torah with no written, explicit or even logical reason. These are called chukim, “decrees,” for which the Torah gives no explanation. These are laws we need to take on faith. Most of Judaism is rather logical. But there are a handful of notable exceptions where we are required to respect the Higher Authority and bow our heads in submission to God. As believers, even if we don’t quite understand these laws, we still observe them.
The most famous of the chukim is the first item in our parsha, the red heifer. To be purified from having come in contact with the dead, one needed to have the ashes of a red heifer sprinkled upon them. Frankly, it was a very strange ritual that really did defy logic. That’s why it is called “The decree of the Torah.”
But it wasn’t only the red heifer. There’s also shatnez, which prohibits one from mixing wool and linen in the same garment. We still practice this today. Did you know that there are shatnez laboratories in organized Jewish communities to help people perform this mitzvah?
And believe it or not, even something as famous and commonplace as kashrut—eating kosher food—is also a chok, a decree. I mean, why shouldn’t we mix milk and meat? Why is it that if we take meat, which is perfectly kosher, and milk, which, too, is kosher, and put them together, does the food suddenly become treif? Is this logical? No, it’s not. It’s a chok, a statutory decree that we were not given to understand. These mitzvot challenge our faith, and when we observe them, we show ourselves to be loyal, even when it tests that faith.
Of course, we believe that God has good reasons for everything. Whether it makes sense to our mortal minds or not, we trust that there must be a good reason for it, even if we don’t quite get it.
But there’s another meaning to the word chukat. It comes from the word Chakikah, meaning “engraved.” By observing laws that challenge our rational minds, we demonstrate that the Torah is so much a part of our being that it is “engraved” in our hearts.
Back in the 1940s, two venerable Chabad rabbis were visiting Chicago. When they paid a call to a wealthy businessman, he assumed that they were there to collect funds for their institutions. But they declined his offer to contribute, saying they were not there to fundraise but to raise awareness of Judaism. The businessman was rather taken aback. He had never had such a visit before.
The visitors explained their mission by means of an illustration. In the old country, traveling scribes, sofrim, would visit smaller communities throughout Eastern Europe to check the tefillin and mezuzot of the country folk and ensure they were still kosher. After all, with the passage of time, the ink on the parchments could fade, rendering the tefillin and mezuzot invalid. The traveling scribes would examine the parchments and establish if they were still kosher or required some repair.
“We are like those traveling scribes,” said the rabbis. “Every Jew is compared to a letter of the Torah. We, too, are here to check in on our Jewish brethren and see if their own letters of faith, their Jewish identity, may have perhaps faded. If they need some re-inspiration, we are here to provide it. No fundraising.”
The man was impressed.
When the rabbis returned to New York, they shared this story with the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe—Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn—who remarked that their illustration was only partially correct.
A Jew is indeed compared to a letter of the Torah, but not to letters of ink on parchment, but rather to letters engraved in stone, like the Tablets that Moses brought down from Sinai. The difference? Letters on parchment may indeed fade. Letters engraved in stone, however, never fade. All that may occur is that some dust may come to settle on the letters, but engraved letters will never fade. Visit any Jewish cemetery and you will see the engraved inscriptions on tombstones well over a hundred years old, and they are still complete and fully legible. So, too, a Jewish soul can never fade. There may be some dust or dirt that has accumulated, but a Jewish neshamah remains intact forever.
A Jew is a Jew is a Jew. Never write off anyone!
While I’ve always known this intellectually, I must confess that now and then, I meet a Jew who challenges this characterization. He or she seems so far removed from the mainstream of Judaism that I mistakenly think that they are beyond hope. And so often, I am reminded that I was wrong when I witness their most incredible spiritual transformations. People I might never have imagined were even candidates for living active, Jewishly inspired lives continue to surprise me.
I hope I never again give up on anyone.