Developmental Readiness, Dismantling the Holy & Finding God
When I was in high school, a teacher taught us that we couldn’t brush our teeth on Shabbat. I was perplexed because I knew that my family was halakhic [Torah observant] and we very clearly did brush our teeth on Shabbat. I asked my father, who showed me the section in Nefesh HaRav (pages 168-169) by Rav Hershel Schachter in which it’s clear that this is a permissible practice. I brought the sefer [religious book] to my teacher and showed it to her. She agreed that it was true- but refused to teach it to the rest of the students.
I was very upset by this unwillingness to showcase the diversity of Jewish opinions. My teacher tried in vain to remonstrate with me and to tell me that the high school I was attending was governed by the Agudah and needed to only promote Torah views and halakhic opinions that would accord with those in line with the Agudah. She argued that my fellow students would be “confused” if the school were to deviate from this.
I did not think we would be confused and said so- stridently. I was informed that I was an unusual student and that while I wouldn’t be confused, the same could not be said of my classmates. This frustrated me because I had more faith in my classmates’ intelligence and ability to appreciate a multiplicity of opinions than my teacher did.
This is an example of ‘the elites vs. the masses’ - a divide that exists in Maimonides’ work as well. As a student, I detested being told that certain content was only for an elite group while simpler content had to be provided to the masses. In my world, everyone ought to have equal access to the truth.
As I grew older, however, I began to realize that life was not that simple. People should be exposed to the content they are ready to handle, and not exposed to content that would shatter their lives. It is a question of developmental readiness. We understand this about children. To take an extreme example, even though the sexual act is holy, pleasurable and special, it is not for children. It is only for adults. And in fact, if children are exposed to it too young, it can leave a lasting negative imprint upon them. (Obviously, I don’t think teaching about differing toothpaste practices is equivalent.)
The issue, then, is navigating the tension between protecting individuals from topics they are not ready for and actually helping them to gain readiness so they can understand those topics at the appropriate time. There are also some topics that perhaps not everyone needs to know- but that only exist for those who wish to seek them out. For example, I appreciated learning about academic Bible and biblical criticism in my Intro to Bible class at Revel. (I was taught by Dr. Sid Z. Leiman, who is a masterful teacher.) But I am not certain that every student needs to be exposed to this information. There are some scenarios where it might do more harm than good.
So then you will say, Chana, are you advocating lying to people? And the answer to that is absolutely not. If someone is old enough to ask the question, they deserve an honest answer. It’s important to be truthful. But if someone is not even asking the question, is it right of me to force that question on them? I think what I would need to consider is whether that question is in their best interest. Will it help them to grow? Will it help them to develop a happier, more joyful, more uplifted connection to God? And am I thinking about their welfare from a place of empathy- what they actually need- or from a place of hubris- what I wish they needed so that I could have the enjoyment of teaching it?
These questions are difficult and all teachers grapple with them. This week, as we encounter Parshat Bamidbar, Rabbi Adin Steinsaltz z”l shows how they are dealt with in the Torah.
Rabbi Steinsaltz notes
Parshat Bamidbar deals with, among other things, the service of the Kehatites. An important part of the Torah’s description of their service is the warning to Aaron and his sons to take care to cover the vessels of the Tabernacle before the Kehatites draw near to carry them. The Kehatites, despite their important role as bearers of the sacred vessels, are not allowed to cover them:
“Do not let the tribe of the Kehati families be cut off from among the Levites. This is what you must do, so that they survive and not die when they come into the Holy of Holies. Aaron and his sons shall go in and assign each of them to his service and to his burden. They will then not come and see the sacred [objects] being covered, and they will not die.”
Regardless of whether “cut off” here means death by the hand of G‑d or by the laws of man, regardless of whether this is an obligation, a prohibition, or a warning, it is clear that, for the Kehatites, witnessing the “covering of the sacred” involves mortal danger.
But why is this?
Rabbi Steinsaltz explains that there was a major distinction between the Mishkan [Tabernacle] and Mikdash [Temple]. The Mishkan was designed to be portable. What that practically meant was that when it was set up, the section that housed the Aron [Ark] was the Kodesh Kedashim [Holy of Holies]. It was wholly sacred and none could trespass. However, once it was packed up
the place that previously had been the Holy of Holies ceased to be the Holy of Holies, and everyone could then walk on that place with impunity. Men and women, zavim and zavot, menstruant women and women who recently gave birth – they all are permitted to tread on this place.
In contrast, when it came to the Mikdash [Temple] - nothing moved. The holy places were set, permanent. The Ark was sealed off by a curtain; it could not even be viewed by the people.
Steinsaltz explains that “the transition from relating to the Tabernacle as God’s holy Sanctuary, to dismantling it and transferring it elsewhere is not simple, and it even involves danger.” He elaborates
As long as one stands at a distance from the sacred, as long as one does not touch it and does not deal with it, and it remains in its place in its existing condition, one can see the sacred and stand in awe of it. But what happens when one has to dismantle the sacred? How does one switch from the stage where everything is sanctified to the stage where the sacred must be carried on one’s shoulder?
He brings examples of what happens, including the tragic story in I Samuel where the people of Beit-Shemesh disdained the Ark. Seeing it out of its holy context, the mystery was ruined, and they were unable to conceive of it as the “same holy vessel.” As Steinsaltz puts it
The difficulty was coming to grips with the fact that the sacred vessel that was captured by the Philistines and moved from place to place was still the same sacred vessel that it was originally. It was hard to believe that just as it was sacred in the Holy of Holies, it is still sacred even now, and will continue to be so tomorrow as well, when it will be established in a new place. How could they absorb this truth? How could they witness the sacred vessels being taken in this fashion again and again?
Steinsaltz then expands the idea of dismantling the sacred beyond the holy vessels- and into the realm of Torah study, with a particular focus on Talmud study.
Torah study is, in a sense, a kind of battlefield. One takes a page of Talmud, cuts it into pieces, and reduces it to dust and ashes. One takes a halachah, which he knows exactly how to implement in practice, and begins to demonstrate that it is built on compromises – between the Shach and the Taz or between Rava and Rabba. It is not a matter of merely sharpening the mind, where one looks for problems for no reason; these problems can actually be found everywhere, in every subject of Torah study. And for one who deals with matters of faith, the matter becomes even more complex than this.
When people explain to children that a man with a long white beard sits in heaven, holding a stick in one hand and a candy in the other, this may be an unsophisticated conception of the world, but it is simple and clear. After one begins to study, and the more one learns, the world does not become simpler and smoother. On the contrary, in a certain sense it becomes more and more complicated, more and more complex. What this means is that study entails a kind of traumatic process, a process of breaking things apart.
I was reminded of Ecclesiastes 12:12.
וְיֹתֵ֥ר מֵהֵ֖מָּה בְּנִ֣י הִזָּהֵ֑ר עֲשׂ֨וֹת סְפָרִ֤ים הַרְבֵּה֙ אֵ֣ין קֵ֔ץ וְלַ֥הַג הַרְבֵּ֖ה יְגִעַ֥ת בָּשָֽׂר׃
A further word: Against them,-q my son, be warned!
The making of many books is without limit
And much study is a wearying of the flesh.
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik also wrote about this, when he argued that religion was far from an opiate or a panacea- in contrast, the more one understood religion, the more difficult it became. Here’s an excerpt from ‘Sacred and Profane’ where he discusses it.
Let’s return to Steinsaltz. He explains that as demonstrated in the parsha, “not everyone can bear the process of dismantling the sacred.”
As he put it
There are various levels in this notion: Anyone who is tahor may touch the boards of the Tabernacle, but not everyone can perform the dismantling and the assembling, the carrying and the dragging. Most people are not allowed to participate in this process of changing from sacred to profane and back again. They do not touch the dismantled Sanctuary; for them, there is only a complete Tabernacle. Anyone of Israel may visit the Sanctuary, and when a person wanted to eat meat, he would bring his animal to the Tabernacle forecourt to offer it as a peace offering. But when it came to dismantling, carrying, or assembling the Tabernacle, he is told that he has no part in this work; for him, the Tabernacle may only be seen in its complete form.
(This reminded me of Genesis Rabbah 17:7, which explains why Adam had to be put to sleep when Eve was formed. If he would have seen her being created, he would have been disgusted by her. Similarly, there are people for whom the Tabernacle can only be seen in its complete form; viewing it as its composite parts would ruin the experience for them.)
Steinsaltz continues
Similarly, in Torah study, some people can only tackle the simplest types of questions, while others can ask deeper, more incisive questions. Sometimes, when a student begins to cross the boundary of his spiritual limitations, we advise him not to push further: There are questions that even an outstanding scholar should not ask, for he would not be able to bear the dismantling of the sacred and its subsequent reassembly. For this reason, every student must assess himself and determine his personal spiritual level.
His next clarification put me in mind of the Four Sons in the Passover Haggadah.
Everyone must ask questions in order to learn. Even a small child must be encouraged to ask questions, for this is the only way he will understand. However, the distinction is in the type of questions one may ask. Some people can ask only very simple questions, and one must accordingly supply them with simple explanations. Other people can take apart deeper matters. The ordinary person’s problem is not that he is unable to take the Tabernacle apart and break it down, but that he cannot always reassemble it.
This speaks to my thesis of developmental readiness. People need to know themselves and where they fall on the bellcurve of spirituality. If one does not have the necessary foundation, he cannot jump to the next step. A baby must learn to roll before he can sit up and eventually walk. So too, a person should ask the questions - and receive the answers- that are appropriate for their stature, and this refers to their spiritual readiness and ability to understand.
What happens later, when one wants to relocate the holy? How does the new location suddenly become holy? How does this place become the Holy of Holies? How can one be exposed to all the questions and contradictions, and after all that, still relate to the subject with the proper awe and fear? This level of spirituality is not easy to attain. It is a problem that is inherent in Torah study, in faith, and in Judaism: How can one question, take apart, demolish, and rebuild, and at the same time preserve the sense that one is in the realm of holiness?
Only those who can bear it – the sons of Aaron, the Priests – may enter the inner Sanctuary and dismantle it. Only they can they see “the sacred [objects] being covered” each time, because only Aaron was on such a level that he remained whole after the shattering of the sacred.
Steinsaltz’s essay speaks to me on a personal level.
I have a unique orientation to finding God in the world. It was the tagline of my original blog, “Looking for God in humanity.” For me, God really is everywhere. In everything. There is no place devoid of His presence. אין עוד מלבדו.
And I find Him everywhere. In the stories of my Uber drivers. In shows like ‘Bridgerton.’ In the secular books I read. He’s with me, wherever I may go. The darkest depths, the highest heights- He holds me.
And it’s because I feel Him that I turn to Him, talk to Him, rage at Him, share everything with Him. He has all of it- my anger, my joy, my passion, my sorrow. My whole life has been one long conversation with God. Sometimes I disappoint Him, sometimes I please Him, and sometimes I lie to myself and say that something I am doing is for Him when it’s anything but. But He’s always on my mind, in my mind, and everything I see is filtered through the lens of: where is He in this?
And that’s just not the experience everyone has. It isn’t. I wish it were.
There are things I can do that not everyone can do- that not everyone should do. Not because I’m more elite or better than other people. But I am different from other people. I see things differently. What would shatter one person will not shatter me, just as some can bear torments I can’t endure. But here’s what I can do. I can see holiness in broken things. Ugly things. Forbidden things. There are sparks everywhere. It’s a world of light.
And I want to share that with people. I want other people to see the things I see. To be uplifted by them. Excited by them. I want people to see the holiness in the individual boards, in the Ark out of context, and not only in the completed, permanent Temple fixtures.
But here’s the thing. Not everyone can see this.
And so we come back to what it means to teach. It means always asking, “Why am I doing this? Am I doing this for me? Or for them? Is it good for me? Or is it good for them? Is this the right time to push? Or do I need to let it go?”
That’s where I need God’s guidance. Because it’s a hard line to walk. And I don’t always know the answer. So I pray. I dance on a tightrope. And I hope that my efforts will heal, not hurt. If I find out I messed up, it stays with me. I try to fix it for the next time. Sometimes it can’t be fixed, and those are the worst times of all. It’s when I’m at my most powerless and most distraught. So I pray. Not in a traditional way. In my own words, whispered before I go to sleep. Or in movie theaters, moved by the storyline. There’s a reason I’m alive, I remind myself. There’s something I still need to do.
