Singing in a group is an inherently spiritual experience. It is no coincidence, I think, that every religious tradition has some practice of group singing. There is something about blending ones voice with the voices of others that has the ability to transport us out of ourselves and into a larger reality.
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The choir of Bevis Marks Synagogue in London, the oldest synagogue in the United Kingdom.
This week's Torah portion, I think, says something about that experience.

Parashat Bamidbar describes how the Israelites were encamped around the Tabernacle whenever they stopped their march through the wilderness. Each tribe had its own special place close to the portable Temple that was understood to be the dwelling place of God. As one would imagine, everyone wanted to get as close to they could to the God who saved them and sustained them through the desert.

Yet, there was a special place for the tribe of Levi, the tribe that included the priests and the men who were designated to care for and carry the Tabernacle. They were given the place closest to the Tabernacle and, according to a classical midrash, the other tribes made room for them there. They withdrew to allow the Levites to have the place closest to God (Midrash Numbers Rabbah 1:12). 

Rabbi Yehudah Leib Alter of Ger, the author of the Sefat Emet, wonders whether the camping arrangement would have caused resentments. He says, "Surely, there must have been some Israelites of great deeds who were of greater merit than the least of the Levites." Why would they have to yield their place close to the Tabernacle in order to make way for some guy who had the job of carrying the tent poles?

To the Gerer Rebbe, the midrash teaches a lesson in humility. He says that, "Even someone great in deeds must know and believe that none of his deeds could overturn the choice of the Blessed One." Your own estimation of yourself should never be a substitute for the reality that God has delivered to you. You think that your smarts and accomplishments make you more deserving of honor than someone else? Back off, my friend. You think your piety is deeper and makes you more worthy of praise than some poser? It is all a dangerous illusion. Real piety knows the bounds of humility. 

The commentary goes further. The true ideal is that we nullify ourselves (להתבטל). We should stand amongst the Jewish people and lose any sense of separation from them. It is like that experience singing in the congregation. We lose awareness of our own voice and enter into the experience of being part of something larger than ourselves. 

The Gerer Rebbe says, "You should submit yourself to serve God with dedication only because it is the Blessed One’s will, and you should not think that your deeds are a means to draw closer to the Blessed One. Knowing this, how is it possible for you to hold yourself higher than even the least of Israel."

When have you had that experience? What transports you into moments when you lose yourself and feel yourself to be a part of God? In those moments, do you, too, forget the desire to get closer to God and discover yourself simply tumbling down the rabbit's hole that, paradoxically, brings us the closest we can be to God?


Other Posts on This Topic:
Vayikra: The Joy of Contrition
The Blind and the Light
"Not One of Them Was Left"
 
 
People tend to feel a special relationship with the Torah portion they read when they became a  bar or bat mitzvah. For me, that is this week's Torah portion, Parashat Bamidbar.  After this Shabbat, that association will be multiplied for me. My daughter, Talia, will chant from the same portion on Saturday morning as she celebrates becoming a bat mitzvah.

Thirty-five years have gone by since I stood at Temple Emanuel in Rye, New York, in a light blue suit (it was the 70s, okay?), reading from this portion. It seems like a long time ago, but I anticipate that this Shabbat will seem to me like a continuation of the same moment. That is what Torah teaches us. When we live in God's presence, we realize that there is only now—and now includes Creation, Redemption, and the wilderness in between.

There is a classic midrash associated with this Torah portion that, I think, hints at this reality. The midrash tells the story of a prince who travelled from city to city. Each time he approached a new city, the people of that place would flee, treating the prince as a hostile conquerer. Finally, the prince came to a ruined city, one that already had been destroyed in battle and had nothing to lose. The people there greeted him with praise, causing the prince to say, "This city is the best of all the lands. Here I will build a home, here I will live" (Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah 1:2).

The prince, of course, is God who comes to enter our lives. How shall we respond? Shall we say, "I'm too busy" or "I am not ready" or "I don't believe"? Shall we, too, flee at God's approach? Will we, too, run away in fear that we will lose something—habits we cling to, conceits about our rationality, or fantasies about being self-sufficient—if we relent and submit ourselves to a meaning beyond ourselves?

The midrash teaches that it is only when we make ourselves like a ruined city—like a wilderness—that we will let God in. It is only when we realize the emptiness of our self-absorbed habits and thought patterns that we will discover the deepest joy of being a part of a universe that is given to us as a gift.  In that moment, we will see that all moments are one, and that the best thing we can do with our lives is to make it a song of praise for the Source of our being.

Bamidbar (literally, "In the wilderness") is the Torah's invitation to us to enter and become the ruined city. The rabbis found a hint of this in the creative re-reading of a verse to say, "From wilderness, there is a gift" (Numbers 21:18). The Talmud takes this verse as an instruction to "make yourself like a wilderness" to receive the gift of Torah (B. Eruvin 54a). 

On this Shabbat, as I watch my little girl as the baby she was, and as the woman she yet will be, I want to feel that expansive sense of being in that moment of blessing. In such moments, we know ourselves to be a place without time, without boundaries, without anything to lose—a place fit to receive God's presence.