FOCAL POINT |

If a man makes a vow to the Eternal or takes an oath imposing an obligation on himself, he shall not break his pledge; he must carry out all that has crossed his lips. (Numbers 30:3)

D'VAR TORAH |

Just a few weeks ago, at the beginning of this year’s reading of the Book of Numbers, my youngest child became a bar mitzvah. As he recalled the instructions his ancestors received in the desert, to complete a census as one tool to help them form a sacred community, my son implored those assembled in a modern-day sanctuary to stand and be counted. With the elegant innocence of an uncynical adolescent, he vowed to make a difference in our world, and spoke of those on whose shoulders he stands: his namesakes, my maternal grandfather and my younger brother.

For me, the beginning of this week’s double portion, Matot/Mas’ei, calls to mind all three of these men, two now having completed their earthly journey, and one hovering on the threshold of embarking on his. I thought about the different worlds each of them experienced and the common threads that unite them.

The parashah begins with an explication of the responsibilities one undertakes when making a vow to God or taking an oath upon oneself. Rabbi W. Gunther Plaut reminds us that a vow “represents a promise to do” and that we learn from this passage that “silent intent is not sufficient . . . what one says must correspond to what one means” (The Torah: A Modern Commentary, rev. ed. [New York: URJ Press, 2005], p. 1,100).

Reminiscent of some of the most powerful words in all of Jewish liturgy, these opening sentences mirror themes found in both the history and the words of Kol Nidrei, namely, that the vows we make should not be made lightly, even if Kol Nidrei releases us from them. As the lore surrounding Kol Nidrei reminds us, in the fifteenth century this prayer was associated with the Conversos, the hidden Jews who upheld their concealed faith, even after their forced conversion to Christianity during the Spanish Inquisition. Today, as Reform Jews living in an open society, we do not feel the need to hide our Judaism . . . or do we? Are we free to vow to struggle with God? To acknowledge what we know and what questions remain?

These themes of vows taken, vows yet to be taken, and what remains hidden resonate throughout our communal and personal histories. My grandfather, who emigrated from Lithuania, vowed to make a better life for his family by coming to America and to become a civic and religious leader in his adopted homeland. Yet, he kept hidden his struggles to reconcile his standing and position of esteem in the community with a failed marriage, and the never-too-distant otherness of being both an immigrant and a Jew in a community that  often did not understand or accept him.

My brother, driven to success in most things at a very young age, and active throughout his teenage years in temple and youth group activities, was unsure of the role of Judaism in his life as he moved into young adulthood. Yet among the hidden possessions found at the back of his closet upon his death at age thirty-three was one of the few items he had chosen to take with him from his childhood home: his bar mitzvah tallit, which became part of his burial shroud. He profoundly felt the need to keep hidden from most of his family and friends his illness, AIDS, and vowed to live a life as routinely as possible, for as long as possible.

My son, perched on the precipice of understanding the power of his vows, is still imbued with the purity of mind and heart that enables him to express what we who claim maturity often strive to keep hidden.

To what lengths will we go to uphold our vows? Think how we could better fulfill them if we were freed from the shackles of things we feel forced to keep hidden, either by society or by our own fears?

Perhaps between this week, when Matot/Ma’sei prompts us to recall the importance of fulfilling our vows, and Yom Kippur, when we stand as a community before God and pledge to search our souls for that which is buried deep within, each of us can vow to reveal one thing that is now hidden.

We can choose to show ourselves something hidden, in order to remove it as a barrier to the real work that lies ahead. Ultimately we need to reveal it to a loved one, perhaps to mend a breech in our relationship. Or, we need to reveal it to a clergyperson or mental health professional who can support us to continue on our journeys—in Judaism and in life—unimpeded by the weight of the undisclosed.

Let us vow to uncover that which remains hidden. As we prepare in just a few short weeks to enter the month of Elul and begin again the timeless cycle of return and repentance, let us also pray for renewal and the time when our vows empower us to reveal that which is hidden. In so doing, we can release our hearts, our minds, and our hands to do the valuable and important work of embracing each other and being God’s partner in repairing our troubled world.

BY THE WAY |  

Kol Nidre reminds us who do not have to hide, how many fearful cellars we inhabit that close us off from full acceptance of the Jewish faith, that muffle our acceptance of our parents’ pledge at Sinai forced on them by no one, freely made in the sunlight of the day.

Kol Nidre reminds us who do not have to hide, how many fearful cellars we inhabit that close us off from full acceptance of the Jewish faith, that muffle our acceptance of our parents’ pledge at Sinai forced on them by no on, freely made in the sunlight of the day. (Rabbi Richard N. Levy, quoted in High Holiday Machzor, Experimental Edition 2002–5702, ed. Rabbi John Rosove [Los Angeles: Temple Israel of Hollywood, 2002], p. 124)

• The Bible stresses the power and the solemnity of words, from the opening verses of the Torah, in which God creates a world with words, to the commandment to distance oneself from falsehood, to the repeated emphasis against insulting the convert or the physically handicapped. This emphasis continued in postbiblical Judaism. A word is not merely a sound; it is real, it has substance, with the power to hurt or heal, to elevate or to denigrate. . . . The power of speech is one of the unique gifts of a human being, a power we share with no other creature. In these rules governing vows and oaths, we see that human beings, like God, have the power to make things holy by words, by proclaiming them holy. (Commentary on Matot, in Etz Hayim: Torah and Commentary, ed. David L. Leiber [New York: Rabbinical Assembly, 2001], p. 941)

• We are the people of the word
  And the breath of the word fills our mind with light.
  We are the people of the word
  And the breath of life sings through us
  Playing on the pipes of our bones
  And the strings of our sinews . . .
  We must live the word and make it real.
  (Marge Piercy, “Meditation before Reading Torah,” The Art of Blessing the Day [New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1999], p. 134)