The Pause that Refreshes - Reflections on Parashat Bamidbar 5774

This week's parasha, the opening of the fourth book of the Torah, describes the census of the Jewish People taken at the foot of Mount SInai, just prior to our headlong thrust to claim our inheritance, the Land of Israel.

Census-taking. Number crunching. Head-counts. The material is...well...a bit dry; slim pickings, homiletically speaking. Pulpit rabbis are saved by the fact that, in most years, this parasha immediately precedes Shavuot, so there's lots to talk about there: the Shloshet Y'mei Hagbalah, the three days of preparation  prior to the giving of the Torah, etc. 

But not this year. We are compelled, by the calendar as it were, to spend time reflecting on Parashat Bamidbar on its own terms. Here's some food for thought.

This census was taken on the 1st day of Iyar in the second year of our departure from Egypt. In those 13 months, we had come a relatively short distance, but a very long way. 

We departed from Egypt as an undisciplined rabble; it was a scene of barely controlled chaos. One can imagine the frenzy of the departure: people running, screaming, arms waving wildly in the air; the strong moving faster, the weak falling behind, parents desperately trying to keep their families together amid the balagan; mules, camels, wagons, the nobility all moving at their own pace. The Torah states that the cowardly Amalekites attacked the stragglers: the oldest, weakest and most tired of the pack. 

Fast forward to our parasha, the 1st of Iyar, barely a year later. We have received the Torah from Gcd at Mount Sinai - an ethical/legal code unparalleled in the history of human civilization. We have a functioning judiciary. We have an executive triumvirate in the form of Moshe, Aharon & Miriam. 

We have an established an orderly community: three concentric circles composed of the Mishkan/the Tabernacle, surrounded by Machaneh Levi'im/the Levite encampment surrounded by Machaneh Yisrael/ the Israelite encampment, organized by tribe, clan and family, each with its own standard fluttering proudly in the breeze.

We have an order of march - never again will the the weak and the stragglers be left behind. We have an efficient system for disassembling, transporting and re-assembling the Mishkan, itself a marvel of engineering. We have a system  of communications with the shofarot and the silver trumpets.

And most important of all, we have the Shechinah, the palpable presence of the A-lmighty dwelling in our midst, with a pillar of cloud to lead us by day, and a pillar of fire to lead us by night.

We've come a long way, baby. 

Our work at Sinai is now completed. In the space of a year, we have imposed order on the chaos and built a functioning society. We are ready to go, to begin our campaign to reclaim the Land of Israel. But before we move out, we take stock. We do a head count; we take a moment to reflect on where we've been before we write the next chapter of the history of the Jewish people.

Sometimes life is not all about the next achievement, the next milestone, the next sales goal. It's important once in a while to take a step back and look at where we've been. If you don't know where you've been, how can you know where you're going?

Every Friday evening on my walk to Kabbalat Shabbat, I try to reflect on the week that was. And we have a little custom in our family that during Shabbat dinner, before we sing, even before we share words of Torah, we go around the table and everyone shares at least one good thing that happened to them this week.

So perhaps the message of Bamidbar is to take time out once in a while (maybe once a week? - hint hint) to reflect on our successes and and setbacks, and thus prepare ourselves for the great things that are no doubt coming our way.

Shabbat Shalom.

Truth or Consequences - Reflections on Parashat Bechukotai 5774

If Flannery O'Connor, Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King had a baby, and that guy set out to write the saddest, most blood-curdling story ever, it would read a lot like this week’s Torah portion. Called in Hebrew the “Tochachah” or Admonition, we are warned in the most graphic terms what will happen if we Jews abandon Gcd and His Torah – seven escalating stages of war, plague, famine, paralyzing fear, exile and painful death. Ouch.

The punishments are balanced by rewards. Happily, the beginning of the Torah portion begins with the flip side – the good stuff that will happen if we cling to Gcd and Torah. Excellent. Lovely. There’s only one problem with this whole setup. We are taught elsewhere in the Torah that we don’t know the rewards for obedience to Gcd’s will, or the punishments for rebellion. The Mishnah in Pirkei Avot states: “Be as careful with a light mitzvah as with a serious mitzvah, for no one knows the reward for either.” (2:1) Well which one is it?  It seems like a pretty serious contradiction.

In truth, the Mishnah is bang on: we have no clue what is defined as a big mitzvah or an insignificant mitzvah, or what the eternal reward is for any mitzvah, or even its opposite, Gcd forbid. Therefore, it follows that Bechukotai is not about rewards and punishments for deeds or misdeeds. It can’t be. In fact, (brace yourself, I’m about to say something very bold here) I don’t think Gcd punishes us at all.

What? No punishment? Ka-ching. Correct. Gcd, who is utterly and completely good; Gcd, who is the font of all goodness in the universe; Gcd, who wants only good for all of His creations; Gcd, whom we address with the title of “Goodness” three times a day*; that Gcd doesn’t punish us for our misdeeds. He doesn’t have to; we punish ourselves.

Bechukotai is not about reward and punishment, but it is all about actions and their consequences.  Good consequences naturally flow from good acts. The consequence is embedded in the deed itself, encoded, as it were, in the DNA of the mitzvah. And of course, the opposite is also, tragically, true. 

Gcd built the universe on cause and effect.  The universe is not random, and that is a very good thing. But that is also why the vast majority of the pain in our lives is self-inflicted: our pain stems from the consequences of our less-than-ideal choices.

Let’s say a person does something really heinous, like premeditated murder, and then does teshuvah – a very real, gut-wrenching penitence, meaning confession, regret, amends, resolve, etc.; a sincere teshuva that shakes him to the core of his being. Through his teshuva, he may be forgiven for the murder in the next world, the world of true reward and punishment; but even a genuine penitent must still deal with the consequences of his old ways in this world. You can fish the pebble out of the pond, but you can't take back the ripples.

The problem is that we don’t always see the fallout from our behavior right away; sometimes it takes years for the chickens to come home to roost. The heart attack at age 57 started with the daily ration of bacon and eggs at age 7. Folks live on the couch, eat plastic food for decades and wonder why they have cancer, heart disease, arthritis and diabetes. Then we start taking meds to correct these problems, and more pills to counteract with the side effects of the other pills…a downward spiral, kind of like the seven levels of the Tochachah. 

Comes Bechukotai to remind us of the ineluctable causality between action & consequence, even if the cause and effect are separated by decades. And maybe that's why this section is called “Admonition” and not “Punishment”. 'Pay heed,' the Torah is saying, 'crises don't arise in a vacuum. Connect the dots and you will arrive at the correct conclusion.'

So the silver lining in this very sobering parshah is that, through our decisions and actions, we are (at least in some measure) in control of our own destiny. That is very empowering. We are not victims of capricious, cruel fate. Next, popping up a level, the aggregate of our individual choices determines our national destiny, and by extension the destiny of the world. Hashem desperately wants us to choose properly, as does any parent who wishes to see their children spared of unnecessary pain.

In the run up to Shavuot, the festival of the Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, let us pray for less hurt, more healing, and perhaps...better decision making.

Shabbat Shalom.

* We say in the Amidah, "...Your Name is "Goodness" and to You praise is befitting."

The Petit Mort of Tumah - Reflections on Parashat Tazria 5774

A very dear elderly woman cornered me one Shabbat morning at kiddush. "I was taught from an early age that women are forbidden from ever kissing the Torah Scroll because we may have our period and be unclean."  She said it stoically, but the hurt of it lived in her eyes.

I confess that upon hearing this revelation, I almost choked on my pickled herring.

To those not steeped in the world of Talmud and Halachah, the concepts of "tumah" and "taharah" developed in this week's parashah are perhaps the most misunderstood in the entire Torah. A veil of superstition has enveloped these concepts, and it must be said that these misunderstandings have distanced many people from their Creator. It is a very, very deep and complex subject, and cannot possibly be adequately explained in a brief blog post. 

Daunted as I am by the complexity of the topic, I would nevertheless like, in the words of H.L. Menken, to 'unscrew the inscrutable' and attempt to offer a little clarity to this confused topic. So buckle your belts, here we go.

First, nomenclature: the word tumah (noun) or tamei (adjective) is usually translated into English as spiritually unclean/impure/defiled. Conversely, taharah (noun) or tahor (adjective) is rendered as clean/pure/holy. Here we encounter the heart of the difficulty; these English words carry with them connotations which simply do not exist in the Hebrew, so let's just agree that there is no good way to translate them. As we shall soon see, I shall propose an alternative framework with which to define these terms.

We have to begin our analysis of tumah/taharah by thinking about the concept of mitzvah/fulfilling the commandments of the Torah, and chet/violating or blowing off the commandments listed in Torah. Carrying out the commandments is positive and meritorious, and is the very definition morality and goodness, while violating them is the exact opposite. These concepts are crystal clear: mitzvah - good; chet - bad.

Having said that, I can think of mitzvot that by definition put us in a state of tumah, for example burying the dead. I can also think of mitzvot that can only be performed in a state of taharah, like bringing a Temple sacrifice. In fact, let's get all Cartesian here, and think of mitzvah/chet on a vertical axis and tumah/taharah on a horizontal axis like so: 

Since burying the dead is an act that is both a mitzvah and makes us tameh, that deed would be charted in the upper left quadrant. Bringing a Temple sacrifice would chart in the upper right hand quadrant. Murder would chart in the lower left. Get the idea? You could probably chart every mitzvah in the Torah in this way. 

Now let's take this idea one step further, as in our case of burying the dead. Gcd Himself commands us to perform this good deed, therefore Gcd is commanding us to enter a state of tumah, as it were. So if doing Gcd's bidding puts us in a state of tumah, how can tumah mean something dirty or defiled or unholy or impure?  It just can't be.

Unlike the vertical axis which represents good and evil, tumah and taharah refer to states of being. There is no perjoration attached to being tameh, nor is there any particular merit attached to being tahor. We make active choices to do good or evil, but in many cases, we are thrust into a state of tumah involuntarily. And unlike the good/evil axis, being tamei doesn't feel any different from being tahor.

Therefore, a more exact (if more clunky) rendering of tumah/taharah is a relative weakening/strengthening of our life force. OK...what the heck does that mean?

Just this: Gcd is the source of life, the eternal, constant vivifying force to all living beings. Thus Gcd is completely tahor. At the other extreme, the ultimate, mother-of-all-tumahs is a corpse. Death. The total absence of the vivifying life force and the polar opposite of both Gcd and everything godliness represents.

So where do humans fit into this scale? Somewhere in the middle. We cycle between states of tumah and states of taharah; that is the human condition. We are strong and then we weaken; we awake and then we must sleep. In fact, the Jew ritually washes his/her hands upon first arising to symbolize the "shaking off" of the tumah of nighttime, of the petit mort of surrendering our life force for a time while we sleep. But Gcd? The verse states: "Behold, the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps." Trying to avoid tumah is kind of like resolving to never sleep - it's just not possible for us lowly humans.

Why is a woman tamei after giving birth? Because the life that was within her is now external to her; she has experienced a relative diminution of her life force. And FYI: a man enters a mild state of tumah after a seminal emission, and for the same reason. It's not bad, it's not good; it just is. 

Women are not Calcutta lepers during their period; Gcd forbid anyone should harbor such a horrible misconception! Nor is there an ancient, backward  "blood taboo" in Jewish law, as pseudo-intellectuals would have us think. A menstruant is merely a drop less alive than before she shed an ovum, the potential of a new life. Again, it's not bad, it's not good; it just is. 

It is natural to desire life and eschew death, both physically and spiritually, as reflected in our innate yearning to connect with Gcd, our wanting to be tahor. But we are not angels, we are humans, and confronting our own mortality from time to time is part of the human experience. That is the objective reality of the state of tumah. And if you think about it, tumah is actually a gift - a time of refraction and introspection. Later, when the time is right, the Torah provides a means of restoration to taharah, allowing the cycles of our lives to begin anew.

The Torah Scroll is impervious to tumah, and both men and women share the common need to connect with Great Wellspring of Life. And so to my dear kiddush friend I say: Kiss Away.

Shabbat Shalom.

Sticktoitiveness - Reflections on Parashat Pekudei 5774

A striking characteristic of this week's parasha is the repeated phrase "As the Children of Israel were commanded by Gcd through Moses, so they did." 

Now, OK, I get it: the parshiot of Trumah, Tetzaveh and half of Ki Tissa were the instructions, the engineering blueprints, if you will, for the construction of the Mishkan, the portable desert tabernacle. And Vayakhel & Pekudei describe the actual execution of the plans and the construction of the Mishkan. Yet it seems that with every cut of the saw, every bang of the hammer, every stitch of the embroiderer, the Torah reminds us that (you guessed it) "as the Children of Israel were commanded by Gcd through Moses, so they did."  What are we supposed to learn from all the repetition?

The Kli Yakar and other commentators teach that this phrase is employed to punctuate the completion of each component of the Mishkan. Its appearance again after the Mishkan is completed suggests that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. 

Here's another idea: there is a quote that is variously attributed to either Mahatma Gandhi or that ancient and prolific poet, Anonymous (Don'tcha love that guy):

Thoughts become actions,
Actions become habits,
Habits become character,
Character becomes destiny.

True dat! No matter who wrote it, this is a very Jewish idea. Tiny actions, consistently performed, become habit; our habits come to define our character; and over time, our character, what we call in Hebrew 'Middot', ultimately determines our destiny. 

In other words, Destiny doesn't care what college you attended, or how sweet your ride is, or your good looks, or your wealth, or the designer label on your jeans. Your destiny - what you ultimately accomplish in your life - is determined by your inner character traits: honesty, integrity, industry, frugality, humility, alacrity, equanimity, deliberate speech, etc.

Unfortunately, the incident of the Golden Calf graphically demonstrated how the opposite is also true: an errant thought led to a tragic deed, compromising our character and almost dooming our national destiny.

Since, in the view of most commentators, the Mishkan was the corrective for the Golden Calf, this repetition of "ken asu" (thus they did) underscores the contrition, the willing hearts and hands, of the Jewish People in the aftermath of the Golden Calf debacle. The Jewish People were sincerely penitent (the thought); what the parashah is showing us is the next step: consistent, steady action solidifying into firm habit. This consistency, over time, repairs our national character and thus our destiny as an Am Segulah, a Nation Set Apart.

The Mishkan is also intimately connected to the Sabbath. So perhaps we shouldn't be surprised to find a hint of this idea in the Lecha Dodi, the ultimate Sabbath hymn, sung on Friday evening, as we "rush out to the fields" to greet the Sabbath Queen. The stanza says that even though the Sabbath was the last of Gcd's creations, it was foremost in the Divine Consciousness: "sof ma'aseh, b'machshavah tchilah" (last in deed, first in thought.) But this stanza can also be understood to mean "thought precedes action."

To embrace our personal and national destiny, we must begin by changing ourselves. One resolution, leading to one seemingly trivial deed, performed consistently over time, can come to change the world. Do mitzvot, good deeds, even if you don't feel like it. Make them a habit, and their meaning will become clearer in the doing. Pretty soon, you won't be able to wait to do that mitzvah again. This is the meaning of the gemara which states that a mitzvah done for the wrong reason will ultimately come to be performed for the right reason. (Pesachim 50b).

May the day soon dawn when we as a Nation, as a Community of the Faithful, be able to declare in unison "ken asu."

Shabbat Shalom.

The Monopoly Metaphor - Reflections on Parashat Trumah 5774

So there I was, playing Monopoly with my kids. The turn passed to my youngest, who was down to her last few bucks (and no, I don't play cutthroat with little kids - don't even go there). She asked me, "Abba, what should I do? I'm almost out of money." I responded, "Give Tzedakah [charity]." 

She thought about that for a minute. Her situation was truly dire. The tension around the board was TV game-show level. All eyes were upon her - what was she going to do? Finally, she took her last two dollars and pitched them on top of the bulging pot in the middle of the board. She rolled the dice, and lo and behold! - doubles, and the massive pot became hers. The crowd goes wild...true story.

I'm not dispensing financial advice here, but Number Four Daughter learned a very valuable lesson that day: the more you give, the more you get. In other words, the way to grow your stash is not to hoard it, but to give it away, and that is a seriously important life-lesson: to give tzedakah freely and with an open heart.

This week's parashah deals with the contributions collected by Moses for the construction of the Mishkan, the tabernacle in the wilderness. Among the items collected were gold, silver, copper and "red skins," pelts of a reddish goat. 

The Midrash Tanchumah sees a deeper meaning in these items. It brings verses to suggest that these items foretell the rise of the four Great Empires. The gold is a hint to the rise of Babylon, the silver to Persia, the copper to Greece, and the red skins to Rome, (and by extension) to Western Civilization.

OK, very clever...but what does predicting the future have to do with building the Tabernacle in the wilderness? What is the sub-text of the midrash and how are we to understand it? 

The Kli Yakar, the Chief Rabbi of Prague in the early 17th century, helps us out. He suggests that the gold that was given by the Jews in the wilderness was able to preempt -  or at least mitigate - the destruction that Babylonia would later wreak. The silver was a palliative against Persia, the copper contributions against the chaos brought by Hellenism, and the red skins against the depredations of Rome. We didn't survive unscathed, but we nevertheless survived, and the Kli Yakar wants us to know that our very survival can be attributed in some measure to the tzedakah given so freely in the wilderness all those millenia ago.

There are a lot of good reasons to give tzedakah - first and foremost, it is a Biblical commandment to provide for the poor, so much so that if one doesn't give tzedakah, he or she is reckoned as an idol worshipper. (harsh!)

Secondly, by giving tzedakah we act as responsible stewards of Gcd's abundance that flows through our hands. That's why tzedakah is not charity in the way it is commonly understood; we are not parting with that which is ours, we are merely passing forward that which is Gcd's.

Thirdly, we are taught that it is a powerful atonement for our sins, our past failings.

But the insight that the Kli Yakar brings is truly remarkable: that the giving of tzedakah today can help mitigate future unforeseen disaster. Kind of like a spiritual "Get Out of Jail Free" card. And who couldn't use one of those?

So give tzedakah! Be pro-active, don't wait for some needy person to knock on your door. Better to give a penny every day with an open and loving heart than a million dollars with resentment. It is said that if we donated the amount of money we spend on coffee everyday in America we could cure a major disease. 

Create opportunities to give. Find excuses to give. If you don't have one, buy (or better yet make) a tzedakah box for your house. It's a great project to do with your little ones. Get in the habit of throwing a coin in there every single day (except Shabbat, derp.) 

Me? I had an uncle that would stand around for hours and just run his fingers through the change in his bulging polyester pants pockets. It sounded like there was four or five thousand dollars in nickels in there. Ever since, the old-man sound of jingling-jangling pocket change drives me nuts, so into the box it goes.

In the grand and unpredictable Game Of Monopoly, I may be the shoe and you the top hat, but my advice for winning is still the same: give tzedakah. You always get back way more than you give.

Shabbat Shalom.

Stuff - Reflections on Parashat Mishpatim 5774

Remember George Carlin's shtick about "stuff"? That your house is really just a place to keep your stuff while you're out buying...more stuff?

Stuff. We all have stuff. Some of us have quite a lot of stuff. Carlin lampooned the mindless accumulation of stuff. And this week's parashah deals a lot with stuff (it also deals with a lot of stuff, but that's a different matter altogether.)

What struck me in re-reading Mishpatim this year is the careful language the Torah utilizes to describe a person's stuff.

Here's the case: Reuven is going on vacation and asks Shimon, as a favor, to keep any eye on his stuff. When Reuven returns, Shimon tell him, 'Bad news, bro. Your stuff was stolen.' Witnesses? None. Thief? Slipped away. 

So the two obvious questions are (1) Did Shimon steal the stuff himself? and (2) even if Shimon is innocent of the theft, does he bear any responsibility for making good on the stolen stuff?

The second question is dealt with at length in the gemara, Tractates Bava Kama and Bava Metzia. As to the first question, listen to the language of the Torah: If the thief is not found, then the householder will approach unto Gcd [and take an oath in Gcd's name] that he did not extend his hand against the work [במלאכת] of his friend." Exodus 22:7

Why does the Torah use the curious term "melachah" to describe Reuven's 60 inch HDTV? Further, "melachah" means productive, creative work, as opposed to "avodah", routine chores or mundane labors. What are we to learn from this?

By way of context: Judaism teaches that we none of us truly own anything, even if we did pay for it. The A-lmighty is the "koneh hakol", the owner of everything, by virtue of having created the elements, molecules, and compounds which compose the flat screen TV, and the laws of physics which govern how it works. Gcd apportions His assets to whom He sees fit, when He sees fit; we are, at most, stewards of Gcd's stuff.

Stuff, in and of itself, is meaningless. If you've ever had the regrettable task of sorting through the stuff of someone who has passed away, you're struck by how trivial are the things that once meant so much; a favorite handkerchief or a pair of slippers or a chipped coffee mug. The detritus of a life stripped of its context.

But "melachah" - creative, productive, goal-oriented work - is meaningful. Melachah is associated with the creation of the universe; so it is that we abstain from melachah on the Sabbath. When we harness our creative energies to build and improve the world, we partner with the A-lmighty in the unfolding process of Creation.

And to be a builder, you need tools. You need your stuff. Painters need easels, canvases, brushes. Writers need quill and ink. Stuff only has purpose and meaning in the context of its contribution to the greater creative enterprise.

Every one of us is a builder and creator. The purpose of Jewish Civil Law, with which this parashah deals, is to create a level playing field where everyone is free to dream, to conceive and to build - their lives, their homes, their fortunes, their families. (The Hebrew words for sons and daughters - Banim & Banot - derives from the Hebrew root Boneh to build.)

Therein lies the answer. While the immediate matter at hand is Reuven's missing stuff, Shimon must swear that he has not extended his hand to jeopardize Reuven's melachah, his life's work. For only in the context of our life's work does the stuff have value, relevance and importance.

What are you building these days?

Shabbat Shalom.

The Biomolecular Structure Of Torah - Reflections On Parashat Yitro 5774/Shavuot 5783

Judaism is dogma-averse, and there are very few religious axioms that we are asked to accept on faith alone. Maimonides named thirteen. Some say three. Perhaps there's only one - that Gcd simply is.

We proclaim one of those axioms after every public Torah reading. The Torah scroll is hoisted aloft for all to see the words inside, and we proclaim in unison: "And this is the Torah that Moses placed before the Jewish People, from the mouth of Gcd through the hand of Moses." This axiom itself is interesting, because the verse (Deuteronomy 4:44) ends after the words 'Jewish People'; the great sages of Israel added the extra five Hebrew words, "from the mouth of Gcd through the hand of Moses."

The Torah is the most unique document in human history. Within 100 years of Jesus' death, there were over 80 different gospels, with many wildly discordant accounts of his life & times; in the end, only four that reflected the orthodoxies of the early Church were selected to be included in their canon.

Seven variant texts were incorporated into the standard Uthmanic Koran, and Moslem scholars freely admit that transcription errors have crept in over the centuries.

But there's only one Torah. We have intact Torah scrolls dating back to the 12th century, and fragments going back two millennia. And they're all identical. Stop and think about that.

On a stormy summer Saturday morning 3,335 years ago, at the foot of a nondescript hill in the middle of nowhere, millions of people were eyewitness to the Revelation of Sinai. But, incredibly, we don't have millions of versions of what happened there. This is all the more remarkable in light of the overused aphorism about Jews: 'From two Jews, you'll get three opinions." (have you ever been to a synagogue board meeting?) We have only the one. No variants, no alternative fragments, no extra or deleted verses. No Torah of Korach the Rebel. No Sadducee Torah. No Karaite Torah. No Sephardi Torah, no Ashkenazi Torah. Just the one Torah, the very text given by Gcd to Moses, and faithfully and painstakingly transmitted from generation to generation since.

Understanding the provenance and authority of Torah is central to understanding who we are as Jews.

From a cryptic story told in Tractate Chagigah 14b, we learn that Torah study is divided into four layers of increasing complexity:

- Pshat: the plain meaning of the verses;
- Remez: hints, i.e., esoteric meanings of the verses beyond the simple;
- Drash: homiletics; and
- Sod: the deepest secrets of the verses.

The acronym for these layers is "Pardes" meaning an orchard or garden, and is the source for the English word paradise.

This gemara has always made me think of...proteins. 

When you stop sniggering I'll explain.

Proteins are the backbone of life. DNA are tinkertoys compared to the complexity of proteins. Beyond the structural value of proteins like muscle, hair and organs, millions of metabolic processes in the human body are mediated by enzymes (which are a specialized form of protein) custom engineered to their specific task. Without enzymes life is not possible.

Proteins also have four levels of structure:

- Primary: the simple string of amino acids that forms a polypeptide chain, often millions of amino acids long;
- Secondary: complex loops, helices and or pleats are formed in the string of amino acids by hydrogen & sulfide bonds;
- Tertiary: the pleats, loops and helices fold over each other creating a three dimensional structure; and
- Quaternary: several of these 3-D polypeptide chains interlock.

The primary structure of proteins corresponds to the pshat of Torah: like amino acids, letter follows letter, word follows word, all in perfect order.  This is the simplest meaning of Torah, the "quaint Bible stories" that most third graders know.

It is also interesting to note that there are 22 amino acids that are found in proteins; of these, only 20 are specified by the universal genetic code. (The others, selenocysteine and pyrrolysine use tRNAs that are able to base pair with stop codons in the mRNA during translation.)

There are also 22 letters in the Hebrew alphabet.

The secondary structure of proteins corresponds to the Remez of Torah: heikesh and gezaira shava (hermeneutical tools) are like the hydrogen and sulfide bonds that create loops and helices in the text;

The tertiary structure of proteins is the Drash: this includes the universe of exegesis, how we connect incidents in different parts of the Torah to each other, making the text come alive in 3-D, as it were; and

The quaternary structure of proteins corresponds to Sod: how the Five Books of Moses work seamlessly to create one integrated, organic whole.

Instead of thinking of the Torah as a string of words that tell a story, try to picture the Torah in 3-D: not so much a beginning, middle and end, but more like words linking words, folding, twisting, reaching out from Genesis over to Numbers, arching over from Exodus to Deuteronomy, creating a dazzlingly complex 3-D structure of ideas. 

And just like an enzyme, any minor alteration of the primary structure will affect the final 3-D structure and functionality of the whole. Every word and space MUST be in it's proper place. That is why it is critical to our faith that there be no transcription errors, omissions, extra letters or any other modification to the Holy Text. Any Torah with a scribal error or a missing/added letter is declared "Pasul," unfit for learning.

The metaphor can be extended. One idea of how enzymes work is called the lock-and-key model. The 3-D structure of the protein creates a highly specific receptor designed for a specific substrate. When the substrate 'locks' into the enzyme, it alters the 3-D structure of the enzyme-substrate complex. The metabolic process occurs, the substrate is released, and the enzyme returns to its original shape, ready to accept another substrate.



If Torah is the enzyme, then the substrate is the human mind. Like an enzyme, Torah is powerless by itself. But when we engage Torah, study it, grapple with its difficulties, reflect on it, laugh with it, we are both miraculously changed and amazing things happen in the universe.

The Torah is a singular document. It's not Shakespeare or Melville. The more we study it, the more it reveals it's depth, it's eloquence, it's complexity; the more it becomes apparent that no human - not even a Moses - could have been brilliant enough to forward-engineer a document that works on so many independent levels, and levels within levels. 

So perhaps it should come as no surprise that direct analogues exist between the way we're built and the way the Torah is built; after all, each was designed for the other and both share a common Author.

Now that's an axiom I can hang my hat on.

Chag Sameach & Shabbat Shalom.