Understanding Parshat Ha'Man

EDIT: Okay, so after more days of digging through this portion I noticed something else that sort of throws a wrench in my "food specific" issue. At the beginning of the portion HaShem says he'll provide basar in the evening and lechem in the morning. It's only when the people actually receive the food that we read that the basar was specifically quail (shlav). This raises two questions for me:

1. Quail is considered fowl, but here it is specifically called basar or meat. So why is there such a gripe with chicken and other fowl being considered meat when it comes to the separation of meat and milk? 
2. Is it possible that the Israelites were valid in their request to understand what lechem exactly they were getting, since HaShem went from broad to specific with their evening course (i.e., basar to shlav and lechem to ....?)

---

I've been reading with astonishing regularity Parshat Ha'man -- the portion of the Torah in Exodus in which HaShem hears the people kvetching and gives them manna to keep them fed during the 40 years in the desert. The idea behind reading the portion every day is that it's a segula for parnassah. 

Okay, that's a lot of words you might be unfamiliar with. In Judaism there are many different types of segulas or things that Jews do to try and change the course or the way things are. It can be a procedure of activities or simply a prayer, but the idea is that it will create a change or provide some type of new "luck."

In this case, the segula for parnassah (or livelihood) is to say Parshat Ha'man every day for forty days (except on Shabbat). It's not magic, but some people find it kind of hokey. Other people have different segulas for getting pregnant (go to the mikvah after a woman who has several children) or for meeting a spouse.

So I've been reading the portion about manna, and with every day I read new questions arise. It's not an incredibly long portion, so the small things slowly start to create questions without answers.

The basic summary of the portion is that the people are kvetching about their situation in the wilderness, so HaShem says he'll provide them with quail in the evening and bread (lechem) in the morning to eat. As it goes, there are specific instructions about when to go out and collect the bread, and every person is to gather only according to their needs and the needs of their house. The people went out to collect it, and marveled at the miracle said, "man hu?" meaning "what is it?" and henceforth called it man instead of lechem. On the sixth day, the people are told to take a double portion for the Sabbath. Some people disobeyed and HaShem lamented the people disobeying the command. For the next 40 years the people ate the man and then entered the land.

My biggest beef with the portion so far has been in understanding the food -- there's quail, there's lechem (bread), and there's the man. In reality, the man and lechem are the same thing, with the main difference being that HaShem, Aharon, and Moshe insist on calling it lechem and the people seem to be averse to the term, marveling and calling it man.

Moshe even seems irritated at the people, reiterating that it's lechem. It seems to me that he's saying "Seriously, people, it's bread, that's what it is, and you know what bread is!"

So here's my question: Why do the people insist on not knowing what it is? Why do they insist on calling it man instead of lechem? Is it emblematic of the rest of the portion, of the people being resistant and stubborn, blind to what is before their eyes? 

Are We Chosen? What About Israel?

Eikev is, in truth, one of my favorite parshiot. It repeats a lot of what we heard elsewhere in the Tanakh, but clearly HaShem thinks we need to be swung over the head a few times to really have things sink in (we are, after all "a stiffnecked people"). Last year I wrote some thoughts down on the parshah, and I'm repeating them here. Why? Because no one reads my parshah posts anyhow. This is more self-gratifying than anything. But I hope you do read. Especially this first bit and the last bit.

---

Eikev comprises Deuteronomy 7:12-11:25 and is a continuation of Moshe's final words to the Israelites in which he implores them to follow the word of HaShem and he reminds them of all of those ... missteps ... that they're so well known for, the Golden Calf incident among them.

In Deut. 7:14, it says

ברוך תהיה מכל העמים

Most would probably use this line as proof, especially with the English translation, that Jews view themselves as greater, holier, more special than other people. The English translation often reads "You will be blessed above all people." The Hebrew uses the preposition min (מן or -מ), which means "from." It's a comparative preposition, and it would be used to say "I am smarter than him" (אני יותר חכמה ממנו). A literal translation would be "I am more smart from him," but that's how Hebrew works. When you're comparing two things, you're setting them apart. Something is XXX from XXX.

Thus, this specific phrase from the parshah, which is found in a million other places in the Torah actually means that HaShem has made us different from other nations. Different, separate, unique. Remember that when you're eating a big plate of bacon with all of your non-Jewish friends. (I'm only half-joking here.) Is our uniqueness granted by HaShem inherent? Or must we act different?

....

Later on in Deut. 9 I find it odd that the retelling of the Golden Calf incident from Ki Tisa doesn't mention an important aspect of the narrative. When Moshe descends the mount and finds out what has happened, the Golden Calf is burned and its ashes are spread into the water that trickles down from the mountain. In Ki Tisa, the people are then required to drink the concoction of ashes and water, but in Eikev, there's no mention of this ritual. I find it interesting simply because this very ritual of ashes and water was a very common one in the Ancient Near East, which makes me wonder if when the writing of Deuteronomy was going on the ritual was taboo among the Israelites. (Remember: The Golden Calf is one of my academic pursuits du jour.) 

....

There's also a lot of talk in this parshah about going to "possess" the land that HaShem as given our forefathers. It makes me jealous of those who've been able to make aliyah (or moving to Israel) a real, tangible thing. And maybe what that nagging empty feeling that really strikes me at random intervals is. All I can say for now is, in time. Ultimately I'll be in Israel, I just don't know when. HaShem promised it to my -- OUR -- forefathers, so it's only right that we should make it happen. It's not a "maybe," it's a "must be."

Note: I'm jealous no more! A year ago I was longing for freedom from a bad marriage, for aliyah, and now? Well, here I am -- it's happening B"H!

....

But the way the parshah ends has me a little unsettled. From Deut. 11:22-25:

For if you keep all of these mitzvot that I command you to do, to love HaShem, to walk in all His ways, and to cleave to Him, then HaShem will drive out all of these nations from before you and you will possess nations greater and stronger than you. Every place upon which the soles of your feet will tread will be yours: from the desert and Lebanon, from the river, the Euphrates, and until the western sea, will be your boundary. 

No man will stand up before you: the Lord your G-d will cast the fear of you and the dread of you on all the land upon which you tread, as He has spoken to you.

This sort of makes it sound like we're going to be some big scary force that the rest of the nations cower before, and I'm not sure I like the sound of that. There's no real "how" for this, and that also has me worried. And the word "possess" ...? Of course, I'm thinking of the physical, when perhaps HaShem really means possess in terms of possessing respect and acknowledgement. The verb is לרשת, which translates to inherit or succeed, so I suppose it's pretty clear that it's a physical take-over or succession.

But now I wonder ... back then, nations were small, nations were made up of peoples sharing a similar geographic boundary. Nations aren't like what we have today. The boundaries are clear in this portion, so perhaps, then, the claim has been satisfied -- almost. Maybe it doesn't mean world domination, but simply geographic domination over the specific land area that HaShem gave our forefathers. Does this mean we're just that much closer to redemption? It does say "HaShem will cast the fear of you and the dread of you on all the land upon which you tread," so perhaps it does intend something bigger, something greater, something more massive than the geographic boundaries of Eretz Yisrael. However, maybe that bigger, greater thing isn't domination in the sense of politics or military but rather a domination as I mentioned before -- one of the heart and mind, one of respect and acknowledgement.

Perhaps HaShem meant for us to have Eretz Yisrael, but perhaps he also meant for us to have the hearts and minds of the rest of the world. The children of Israel, set apart from all other people yet loving and caring for those unlike ourselves. Perhaps HaShem expected us to fight for mutual respect.

The Fingerprint of HaShem

Clouds rolling in over the mountains in Centennial, Colorado. 

Something funny happens when you get divorced. At least it did to me. While visiting home in Lincoln, Nebraska, I was tempted with the urge to throw it all away. To go out to my favorite treif (not kosher) restaurant. To just throw all caution and devotion the wind and give it all up.

But it was fleeting. Incredibly fleeting.

My dad lamented that he couldn't take me out to eat, and I managed to find some kosher meat at the local Trader Joe's and made some meatballs and brussels sprouts. I was content. I stood my ground. I stood up to the inclination to give everything up.

And then something else funny happened.

I joined Frumster.com, a frum Jewish dating site. Yes, I've only been divorced for a few weeks, but something in me said "find a husband already! You're not a spring chicken! You want a family! Find a super frum guy to guide you! You're a converted divorcee, you're going to have to work hard to find a husband!" I found myself looking only at the men in black hats and beards -- there's something dashing about a Lubavitcher or devotee of Hassidus. Something that says, "Wholly devoted to HaShem, wife, family, Torah, life." It's too soon.

I know what you're thinking: Chavi's gone off the deep end. She's going to become a Lubavitcher and start praising the rebbe as mashiach or something. (PS: I love Lubavitchers.)

The funny thing that happens when your life stops and starts again in a new place with a new haircut and new people is that you're tempted -- in good ways and bad. Throwing it all away, taking up the uber-frum torch. And every day is a challenge. Every day I wake up after a sleepless night and think to myself "Who am I? What has become of me? What does HaShem want from me?"

Clearly, I guess, I'm not ready. I'm not ready to move on, but I'm tired of being here. I mourned my marriage for six or nine months, give or take, and the fatigue of feeling alone has worn me down. I have already made many good friends here in Denver, and I absolutely adore the community. I love being able to see the mountains no matter where I am or where I'm going. It's like witnessing the fingerprint of HaShem every moment of every day.

And the uncovering of my hair? Well, I'll admit to you all that it isn't what it's cracked up to be. Maybe it's just that the girl who cut it didn't do a good job or something, but I feel like I'm trying to step back and be someone I'm not. I'm trying to go backward when all I can do is move forward. A marriage changes you, relationships change you. And yes, it changes your hair and how you feel about it, too. I chose to uncover because according to Rav Moshe Feinstein, there is a leniency for young women without children, especially when they relocate to a new community. I asked one of the rabbis on the beth din of the get (divorce), and he advised me to uncover, so I thought, score! Uncovering! Hair liberation! But after you've covered, it's just not the same. As much as I kvetched about hair covering, I miss the ease of throwing on a hat. My head is plenty cooler on a hot day, but I don't know that that alone is worth it. I'm sure I'll write plenty more about my hair covering, and I'll give you the various sources for uncovering after divorce -- stay tuned.

So where am I? I have no idea. I really want to find a nine-to-five gig so that I can have a reason to wake up in the morning and do something with myself. Right now I feel a little lost. I need to get back into parshah study and learning, because I know that there is something that HaShem wants and needs of me, I just don't know what it is.

I guess we're all waiting for our sign.

A Spiritual Drought

Drought.

Okay, we're not experiencing a drought. We as in the greater global community, that is. So far as I know, especially after all the flooding a few weeks ago (global warming!?). I'm talking personal drought. Spiritual drought. People always tell me that they're mind-blown about my attitude toward being Jewish and toward Judaism. I'll admit, I do get kinda overly stoked 99 percent of the time about everything related to being Jewish and living Jewishly. I can't help it. My neshama is perpetually on fire. But then there's that 1 percent of the time (I'll admit, it's probably greater than that), where I just feel, well, droughty.

Now, as it seems, is one of those times.

I'm guessing it's largely because I haven't stepped foot in a synagogue in a month. We've had Shabbats in the Poconos and Manchester and then those days in Florida. We'd hoped to be in the community for this past Shabbat and the last two days of the chag but as it turns out, my body didn't agree with Passover this year. First it was a stomach ache, and then it was a day of dizziness that started off with me falling over after getting out of bed. The weekend continued with the stomach ache, me popping pills and sleeping a ton. I went out and bought more vegetables, thinking that the more produce I consumed the less my body would reject the matzo that was in everything (if it wasn't matzo, it was farfel or matzo meal). But it didn't let up. I didn't sleep Sunday night or last night. I got up today and ate breakfast, subsequently crawling back into bed for three hours. Then, today, mid-meal my face got warm and flushed and after looking in the mirror I realized the left side of my face was bright red.

It was Passover and a girl couldn't catch a break.

I'll admit I feel better after going out and buying some Honey Kix, yogurt, Arnold's flats, and beans and corn for a proposed Crockpot Mexican Chicken. My face is still warm, but less red. My stomach has calmed a bit, but not enough that I feel comfortable sleeping.

I know, I know. I'm kvetching, a lot. But I feel like I have to force myself into synagogue this weekend, no matter how I feel, so I can feel more myself. I don't know if synagogue will do it or if I throw myself back into my academic work (there's less than a month left and I'm freaking out) I'll suddenly feel more plugged in.

The long and short of it is that there's no shame in feeling drought-worthy. Not in my book anyway. No one can be 100 percent on with HaShem all the time; in fact, if you do, then something's wrong. You're not battling and conversing and questioning enough. Sitting back and taking stock of where you're at is part of the game, no matter what religion to which you belong. If everything always feels right, you're setting yourself up for a complete crash. A brick wall. A loss in something grand.

Anyhow. I'm praying that getting some regular dairy and bread back in my system will help me not feel like World War III is rocking my body. Not sleeping, waiting for everything you eat to make you sick, these aren't fun. They're keeping me from my community.

I need a good, serious daven. A private moment with HaShem in the arms of the community.