The Eighth Day
Parashat Tazria – HaHodesh
Rabbi Daniel Cotzin Burg
Beth Am Synagogue
March 29, 2014 ~ 27 Adar II 5774
A few years ago a Hillel colleague created an initiative called, “Ask Big Questions.” It was an
attempt, around Pesach time, to remind us the purpose of religion is to consider life’s larger
mysteries. This doesn’t mean the answers are readily available, though. There is no particular
verse in Torah that tells us the reason for suffering or the meaning of life. Surprisingly, though,
there is a specific verse that lays out humanity’s purpose on Earth – in creating the first human
being, God includes a job description: “Vayikach A-nai E-him et ha’adam vayanichu v’gan eden
l’ovda u’l’shomra, God took the man and placed him in the Garden of Eden to till it and tend it”
(Gen. 2:15). We know, from the start, that our task is to partner with God in creation’s unfolding
process.
Today’s parasha deals with the disease called tzara’at, which is something like leprosy. The
role of the priest is principally that of diagnostician. On the seventh day he examines the
metzora, the one struck with the affliction: “V’ra’ahu hakohen vayom hashvi’i…” (Lev. 13:5). If
the tza’arat has not spread and remains unchanged in color, he isolates him for another seven
days. Again, the kohen examines the individual. Again we’re told, “v’ra’ah hakohen oto bayom
hashvi’i…” (v.6): “On the seventh day the priest shall examine him again: if the affection has
faded and has not spread on the skin, the priest shall pronounce him pure.” A question we might
consider is why the Torah reads “the seventh day?” If you were paying close attention, you
know that the purification is proclaimed on the fourteenth day, two full weeks after the affection
is identified. The answer shouldn’t be surprising. The number seven is our magic number. The
Menorah, the most ancient Jewish symbol, has seven branches. Two of the Pilgrimage Festivals
last seven days. And the Torah presents time in multiples of seven: sefirat haomer which begins
on Pesach and continues 49 days and the Yovel or Jubilee which occurs twice a century after
“seven weeks of years.”
Why is seven important? The answer is obvious: the world God entrusts to us was formed in
seven days – six days of hard labor and one day to let the paint dry. All those sevens reflect that
original seven; they are attempts to quantify and stratify religious time. So it makes sense that in
next week’s parasha, we’re told that after shaving off his hair, washing his clothes and bathing,
the metzora is considered “pure.” Here’s the problem, though. The text goes on to describe
another elaborate ritual requiring two male lambs, one ewe lamb, plus some choice flour and oil.
We read: “These shall be presented before the Lord, with the man to be purified…” (Lev. 14:1011). And when does this second ritual occur? On the eighth day! And, in fact, the cohen takes
blood and oil from this sacrifice and, placing some on the person’s right thumb, ear and big toe,
and some oil on his or her head, offers one final sacrifice on the altar and again pronounces the
man or woman tahor or ritually pure (v. 20). But, wait a second; didn’t we just say this person
was pure on the seventh day?
It turns out, Judaism has another magic number, and that number is eight. Eights pop up, in
Torah nearly as often as seven! There is no Torah portion named Shvi’i, but last week’s parasha
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was Shemini, “eighth.” Much like the final day of purification for the tzara’at, here too we have
a series of sacrifices offered at the culmination of a process. In this case it was the priestly
ordination. Aaron, his sons Nadav and Avihu plus Eleazar and Ithamar, undertake a number of
detailed and transformative rituals meant to prepare them for the kehunah. The Torah tells us:
“Vayehi vayom hashemini kara Moshe v’Aharon u’levanav u’leziknei Yisrael…, on the eighth
day, Moses called out to Aaron, his sons and the elders of Israel…” (Lev. 9:1). This is it, says
Moses, after all the preparation, the capital campaign and Tabernacle construction. After
extensive seminars about the particulars of sacrificial worship; after comprehensive beta testing,
market research and a few failed prototypes – most memorably the Golden Calf – we are, at long
last, ready to worship. This initiation, the execution of the tasks to which the cohanim were
charged, is what happens on the eighth day.
But an eighth day appears not just in next week’s parasha metzora and last week’s parasha
Shemini. This week’s parasha, too, features a very special eighth day. If I were to ask you, what
happens, in Jewish tradition, on the eighth day? My guess is that very few of you would say
“Aaron’s ordination” or “the return of the leper.” No, you would all say on the eighth day we
Jews do a bris! And, low and behold, at the beginning of tazria it says, when a woman gives
birth to a baby boy, “u’vayom hashemini yimol basar orlato,” on the eighth day the flesh of his
foreskin shall be circumcised” (Lev. 12:3). This is, in fact, the most ancient Jewish ritual we
have – the first mitzvah commanded directly to the Jewish people.
Why, then, is a bris done on the eighth day? Is that when we make boys Jewish? Actually no,
the blessing recited after a bris is clear about this: “asher kidesh y’did mibeten, …who sanctifies
this dear child from the womb” (Talmud Shabbat 137). Children, boys and girls, who are born to
Jewish mothers are Jewish when they are born. A bris, though obligatory and deeply
meaningful, does not effectuate one’s Jewishness. So argues Rabbi Isachar Be’er MiZlatshov,
the Mevaser Tzedek. But another Chassidic tradition led by the Kotzker rebbe points out
circumcision is a necessary component for Jewishness if one is converting. In other words, one
is created Jewish by dint of his or her parentage, but accepting the covenant, the brit, and all it
represents, falls to the parents who agree to teach those values to the next generation. The bris
or, more commonly hatafat dam brit for a Jew by choice, enables that person to be spiritually
“reborn,” a process sealed by the waters of mikvah representing the womb.
So, what’s the purpose of this eighth day? I want to suggest that whether the High Priest, the
metzora or the circumcised baby, eight is the human fulfillment of a divine urge, an achievement
of our primordial mandate: to “till” and “tend” the creative enterprise. At Yom Kippur Neilah,
we chant Shema once but seven times A-nai hu HaElo-im. God is one. God’s creation is seven.
We are eight. We are the relay man in the cosmic game of Jewish baseball. It’s not that seven is
irrelevant. Jews do lots of things in sevens, of course, as we’ve seen. But seven is our imitation
of God and God’s work. Eight is our response. It is our ownership and extension of the creative
endeavor.
And where is God in all of this? What happens when the ball reaches the relay man and the tag
is made at home plate? If there is a living God, surely, we are not solely accountable for the
world; God hasn’t simply “checked out” since creation. Think of a time when you took on a
responsibility previously done by a parent or grandparent. Doing laundry? Taking out the trash?
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Leading your family’s seder? I remember the last days of my father’s life. He was on hospice
care, sleeping in my childhood family room adjacent to the kitchen. He didn’t have much of an
appetite, but suddenly had a craving for mom’s brisket. So we went out, bought a first cut
brisket, and there I was doing “dad’s job” – for the first time trying to cut the damn thing. And
as I’m struggling with the carving knife, there’s my dad, lying quite literally on his deathbed,
calling out, “You’re doing it wrong. Cut against the grain!” Think of God and humanity as
partners. We begin as junior partners, as children are to their parents. God does the heavy
lifting. But with the eighth day, God does what the kabbalists call tzimtzum, retracting and
promoting us to senior partner. While the father retreats to the back, we are expected to run the
front of the store. And God serves in an advisory capacity, sometimes gently encouraging us,
occasionally barking orders, but always proud to see us growing into our new role.
There is seven and there is eight, but it’s really seven plus one. This is why Shavuot is the
fiftieth day, and why the Yovel or Jubilee is the fiftieth year. The Omer is seven weeks, seven
sevens. And the Jubilee follows seven weeks of years. Because both Shavuot and the Yovel, as
the Torah tells us, occur just after the unit is complete, the one after the last seven. Rabbi
Shimshon Rafael Hirsch describes ascending octaves on a piano. God plays and we accompany
(do, re, mi, fa, so, la, ti…) and then, lovingly, God withdraws so we can complete the final note
(do!). And, such is the nature of the world, that eighth note leads to another octave and yet
another after that. We join again and again with the creative process and, at least when our work
is worthy and valuable, ascend higher and higher as we go.
Which leads me to one final point: bris is relatively rare and the Temple priesthood is
functionally no more. But there is an eighth day we experience on a regular basis, and I wonder
if we might think differently about it. It comes every week, but we often take it for granted – or
at least we don’t think of it in the stratification of religious time. It’s Sunday. Sunday is our
eighth day, just as it was the very first eighth day. So often we focus on Shabbat. We prepare
for Shabbat. We cook for Shabbat. We daven and rest on Shabbat. But how much thought do
we put into Sunday? We may do yard work or housework or schlepp the kids back and forth to a
dozen birthday parties. Some of us come to morning minyan at Beth Am! But what if we were
to think of Sunday, not only as the first day of the week but as the eighth day as well? What kind
of week might we have if we begin as Aaron began his vocation – with gratitude for the past in
conversation with coming moments and their sacred purpose? What if we begin our week like a
patient discharged from a hospital or a prisoner who has just been paroled? Would our food taste
better? Would our loved ones seem dearer? Would we decide not to do that thing we always do,
that we hate, but we do it anyway because we think it’s more important than it really is. And in
the absence of those things would we do more that fulfills and builds and grows and inspires?
This week, let’s think about Sunday. For most of us, it’s a day off from work. Can we read
something we haven’t had time to read? Begin building or organizing a project we’ve been
avoiding? It doesn’t have to be fun (though it surely can be) - but it must be important,
something constructive - one final note in the octave that has enough resonance to become the
first note in the next. And then, having begun such work, having made it again to Shabbat, try
the following exercise. Next week when you sit down for Friday night dinner and you are about
to say Kiddush, pass the cup around the table and have each member of your family take a
moment to express your gratitude for this new thing. The cycle of Jewish living is that creation
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begets appreciation which begets creation again. This is how Shabbat Shalom is best followed
by a Shavuah Tov and how each week, with the right attitude and forethought, can become
something better than the last.
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