Parshat Metzora/ Spring Songs

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,

       When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,—

   When he beats his bars and he would be free;

   It is not a carol of joy or glee,

       But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,

   But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —

   I know why the caged bird sings!

- Paul Laurence Dunbar

Spring has arrived. Outside, the birds gather twigs for their nests. They return to Carpenter’s woods after long travels. They and we remember our songs.

In our Torah portion this week, we meet two birds involved in a ritual of reintegration for those who have been on the margins. Parshat Metzora describes the process of purification for an Israelite who has been diagnosed with tzara’at, a particular affliction of spirit and skin. While in this state of tzara’at, the individual is barred from coming close to sacred space. Rather, he or she must sit outside the camp until the condition clears.

Only the priest goes out to visit the metzora. When he sees that the metzora has been healed, the priest gathers ingredients.  Cedar wood, crimson cloth, hyssop and two live birds. One bird, he slaughters over a vessel of rain water. The second bird, he dips in the blood of the first.  He then sets this living bird free, to fly out into the open field.

Birds are a powerful symbol of freedom. Freedom yearned for, freedom thwarted and freedom unleashed. The commentator Hizkuni describes how the living bird in our parsha represents the metzora. At first isolated and immobile, the metzora is like a caged bird. After the illness passes, he is transformed. Like the bird released, he is free to return home.  Having survived an ordeal, he is full of new life and the potential to choose good, to come close to God and community. Like the living bird dipped in the blood of the bird that was sacrificed, he does not forget what he has been through. He will remember always that in order to become free, he had to leave parts of himself behind.

The ancient rabbis understood tzara’at to be a consequence of lashon harah, of mindless speech or hurtful gossip. For the commentator Keli Yakar, the two birds stand for our choices in each moment. The bird that is sacrificed represents the yetzer harah, the impulse to do harm, while the bird set free is the yetzer ha tov, the force inside us that leads us to life and to good.

The moon of Nisan is here. Outside, the birds call out, scope out treetops and pluck up worms. Inside, we sift through the contents of our pantries, amass boxes of matzoh and bottles of wine. We are gearing up for Pesach, getting ready to go out of Egypt again, to pass through the sea into the vast wilderness. We are relearning our freedom songs.

In the spirit of the seder, here are a few questions to chew on:

This Pesach, what parts of ourselves do we want to leave behind in Mitzrayyim? What parts of ourselves do we want to give the space to soar?

Missing

It has been raining for two days. This morning I woke up without a voice. Praying for this bug to pass, I am shaken awake to the miracle of my vocal cords. Fragile ribbons that serve each day, as I sing and praise and question and connect. I spent the first part of the day worried about canceled appointments. My whole life I have struggled to trust the wisdom of the body.  Today when it hurts to talk, I am reminded that it is also my livelihood to listen.  A day inside and inward. Blankets and a busy electric kettle. A pull back to the page. A search for missing words. Here's hoping . . . Talk soon.

Parshat Tazria: Spirit & Skin

Parshat Tazria deals with the mysteries of the human body. Our ancestors, as they wandered through the wilderness, wondered and worried about their bodies. Our parsha speaks at length about skin conditions, scaly patches, rashes, sores, boils, burns and baldness.

In Ancient Israel, there was no such thing as a dermatologist. If an Israelite saw a strange patch on his or her skin, he or she would consult the kohen, the priest. The kohen would visit with the person and make a diagnosis as to whether or not it was a condition called tza’ra’at. Tzara’at has no precise translation into English or medical terminology. A person deemed by the priest to have tzara’at was sent into isolation. Once the condition improved, the priest would perform a ritual to bring him or her back into the community. Tzara’at was viewed as a spiritual affliction as much as a physical one. The ancient rabbis understood tzara’at to be a punishment for speaking malicious gossip. In this case, the prescription given of isolation from others, was meant to stop the spread of hurtful rumors. Sitting outside the camp, a person with tzara'at could take time to reflect and to curb his or her habit of gossip. Those with tzara’at are not banished forever. They are given a time-out of sorts, a chance to transform spiritually and physically and then to re-enter the community.

Moving from Ancient Israelite medicine to views of wellness today, how does each one of us experience the relationship between body and spirit? I want to share one perspective from Elizabeth Lesser, a teacher, healer and founder of the Omega Institute for Holistic Studies. In her book, Broken Open: How Difficult Times Can Help Us Grow, Lesser tells a story about a connection she made with a participant in one of her workshops. He was a heart surgeon who worked at a high profile hospital in a period of personal crisis, at once grieving for his father and going through a divorce. At the end of the workshop, the participant came up to Elizabeth to thank her. He said “I crack open people’s hearts every day for a living, but you do the real kind of open-heart surgery.” He told her that before the workshop, he hadn’t cried in years. Seeing everyone in the room, like him, going through something big in their lives, without knowing what to do, made him feel less alone and gave him permission to cry. Moved by the opportunity to watch Elizabeth’s work, the surgeon invited her to come to the hospital to watch him at work. Elizabeth took him up on this opportunity.

Reflecting on this experience of witnessing open-heart surgery, Elizabeth Lesser writes:

“It reminds me of our dual nature: our spirit, which beats to the big sound of the universe, and our human form, which relies on the perseverance of the heart and the lungs. I have fallen in love with hearts and lungs. While I am here, contained within bones and muscles, organs and skin, I want to take care of the gift of my body. I want to feed it well, move it gracefully, and rest it deeply. I know that the life force beats on, even when the heart has stopped, but while I have a heart and lungs, I want to treat them with sacred awe. And while I dwell with others who are just like me, I want to see them for who they really are, in all of their fragility and all of their majesty.”

Our Torah, in Tazria, speaks to the fragility, majesty and interconnectedness of our bodies and spirits. As we revisit these ancient words, may we be inspired today, to treat ourselves and others as the holy vessels that we are.