Shavuot (Midrash)

An Essay on Holiness

The theme of holiness (kedusha) runs like a thread through Sefer Vayikra (the Book of Leviticus), whose reading we completed last week: the opening imperative of Parashat Kedoshim, which stands at the center of Vayikra is “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” (Lev 19:1). This theme is likewise of central importance for the festival of Shavuot: Ibn Ezra and others note that this chapter may be seem as a kind of reworking of the Ten Commandments of Sinai, and “You shall be holy” may be seen as a gloss or interpretation on “I am the Lord your God.” Moreover, the call, “you shall be a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exod 19:6), stands at the introduction to the revelation at Sinai. But what is meant by holiness?

My friend Mark Kirschbaum, in his weekly parsha sheet “Radical Readings,” recently raised an important issue relating to this question. (This parsha sheet is quite interesting, and in many ways sui generis, presenting an amalgam of post-modern thinkers in the areas of language, art, critical theory, etc, with various Hasidic thinkers, both early and late; those interested may contact him at ) He notes that the conventional definition of kedusha as a human goal is defined largely in a negative way, in terms of living an abstemious, somewhat ascetic way of life, confining ones enjoyments of physical pleasures to a minimum, etc. “The medieval paradigm for holiness entails a withdrawal and distance from sin… a negative definition, whose attainment requires a distancing of oneself from temptation.”

Holiness is defined in the Bible in terms of distinction (havdalah) or separation (perishut); God is celebrated, in Havdalah, as He who draws multitudinous distinctions (cf. Lev 11:44-47; 20:25-26). Commenting on the first verse of Parshat Kedoshim, Rashi identifies kedusha with perishut, with separating oneself or withdrawing “from prohibited carnal relations and from that which is forbidden” (i.e., species of animals forbidden for food, and the like). Ramban, in his famous polemic with Rashi on that verse, adds that “holiness” consists not only in separation from that which is explicitly forbidden but, more generally, living a life of “separation” and aloofness from excessive indulgence in physical pleasures. A person, he argues, can be ”a boor with the permission of the Torah,” focusing the bulk of his time and energy on consuming sumptuous kosher meals, indulging in frequent sex with his wife or wives, and speaking in a coarse and vulgar manner. Lev 19:1, he argues, enjoins us to behave in a circumspect, modest, even ascetic manner, over and beyond the formal limitations of the Law.

But there is a possible alternative viewpoint. This ascetic, negative approach is one which many if not most modern people are likely to reject as somehow too repressive and confining, fearful, life-denying, pinched, and old-fashioned. (And, some might add, because the demands are so inhuman, such an approach almost seems to invite a kind of hypocrisy or cant, a kind of pious posturing; compare, e.g., see the numerous portrayals in literature of the typical neuroses of Catholic girlhood.)

Is there a viable alternative? Kirschbaum finds in Ibn Ezra, in R. Obadiah Sforno, and especially in R. Moshe Hayyim Luzzatto (better known as Ramhal: 18th century Italy), a model in which holiness is defined more in terms of human ethics, caring, fellow community. He quotes Mesillat Yesharim (specifically, in the recently published 1738 “dialogue” version from one of the recently released Petersburg manuscript collections), who says that ultimately holiness consists in maintaining the inner spark of God consciousness, of attachment to God in all aspects of life, throughout ones everyday round: “the holy person, who is constantly attached to his God and whose soul walks among the true intelligences with the love and fear of his Creator… is himself like a sanctuary and a temple and an altar.”

Maimonides posits a similar goal at the end of the Guide of the Perplexed, where he speaks of the wise man and “lover of God” who, while performing everyday tasks and engaged in interaction with his fellow man, is constantly aware of the all-enveloping Divine presence. In Guide III.51, he speaks of “one who has apprehended the true realities peculiar only to Him after he has attained an apprehension of what He is… Through his apprehension of the true realities and his joy in what he has apprehended, [he] achieves a state in which he talks with people and is occupied with his bodily necessities while his intellect is wholly turned toward Him… so that in his heart he is always in His presence… while outwardly he is with people.”

Kirschbaum remarks, with more than a little irony, that even in our “post-auratic age (i.e., when nothing bears an aura)” we still “recognize an individual who is ‘holy.’” I visualize in my mind's eye the image of those rare people who seem wholly at peace with themselves, radiating a kind of inner joy, calm and serenity. I think of old photographs of Rav Kook, or recall the serenity on the face of Rav Gedaliah Koenig z”l, an old-time Yerushalmi hasid, or even of the mystical peace and wisdom that shins from the face of one of my friends, a hippy, New Age seeker who as far as I can judge has attained some deeply-rooted insights through his own personal synthesis of paths (no, not through drugs). All of this is so different from the obsessive, compulsive type of religious behavior that one tends to see in certain parts of the Orthodox world, of the religious perfectionist who tries to perform every mitzvah in a perfect way, who is obsessed to distraction with not wasting time on things other than Torah study; I think of certain faces that seem filled with an almost unbearable tension and nervousness, and wonder why they don’t collapse. (Perhaps this is why attempts to introduce meditation as a Jewish option have been met with lack of understanding in certain such circles. Not so much for being suspect of non-Jewish roots, but because its emotional resonance is almost diametrically opposed to what is commonly thought of as “yeshivish.” At some point, the mystical path involves an emptying of ones mind to receive the Divine presence. The idea that a person’s mind need not be working at a ferocious pace every waking moment seems contrary to that ethos. Even Habad, with its mystical meditation, is more a highly structured, intense form of mental concentration on certain cognitive symbols than a mystical path in that sense.)

I would like to add that perhaps there is much to be learned about holiness from the feminist movement, or more properly from the resurgence of feminine consciousness in today’s culture. Judaism has traditionally , been intensely male dominated; halakhic analysis is oriented toward sources and precedents, based upon book learning, a male mode of thinking (see Haym Soloveitchik’s important article, “Rupture and Reconstruction,” published in Tradition around 1994, bewailing the ever greater tendency in contemporary Orthodoxy towards reliance on formal written sources, and away from the mimetic way of traditional Jewish society). I have recently had the experience, in Internet discussion groups and elsewhere, of people (admittedly not necessary learned) looking at halakhic problems in rigid ways, totally without context, without the human angle, and without the sense of breadth that comes from, if one may put it this way, God consciousness.

The concept of “feminine intuition” may not be considered politically correct, but there is nevertheless much truth to it. Women tend, on the whole, to be less ego-centered and aggressive, somehow more human and compassionate than men—no doubt due to the experience of bearing and nurturing children, coupled with centuries-old tradition in almost all human cultures in which, thanks to this role, they stand at the vital, emotional focus of families—both immediate and extended—and thus become adept at the more subtle side of human relations. Women more often seem to have the intuitive sense of what is required in any human situation, of how to calm an angry person, how to comfort one in pain, how to calm an ugly dispute—less with words of reason, than by their very being: by a look of the eye, by a touch of the hand. This is a spiritual advantage as well: their approach tends to be less polarized and dualistic, more unitive than the classic male one; humility, self-effacingness, make them more open to the touch of the Divine spirit. (All this is of course true of men who are open to the “eternal feminine,” the anima within themselves, as well.)

To return to our main theme: the first verse of Kedoshim may be read, not as relating to that which precedes it in its biblical context (i.e., the chapter on forbidden sexual relations in Lev 18), but to that which follows: the series of laws in Leviticus 19, which taken as a whole seem to emphasize human relations, that seek to construct a model of human society based upon mutual responsibility, empathy and caring, and to imbue the individual’s thought and outlook with these same values (see vv. 9-15 and 16-18, respectively). Thus, this chapter expands and extends the idea of holiness, not in the direction of theocentric, mystical transcendence of the human condition, and of the world itself, but more in the spirit of the Kotzker’s comment on another verse: “You shall be holy people to Me” [Exod 22:30]; anshei kodesh tihyon li—with a human kind of holiness; in Yiddish, menshlikhe heiligkeit.

This is likewise the sense of the midrash in Lev. Rab. 24.9: “You shall be holy for I am holy.’ Could it be that this means [that you must be holy] like Myself? The Torah says, ‘for I am holy.’ My holiness is above your holiness.” That is to say, the call to holiness is not one to superhuman asceticism, beyond ordinary human capability; but rather, a spirituality based upon acceptance of the human condition, of ones “thrustedness” into this situation of living in a body, with all the demands and needs of the body—and living in a godly way within those parameters.

I cannot enter here into a discussion of the issue of purity, which is closely related to that of holiness, and which is also a central theme in the book of Leviticus. What is the precise meaning of the term? In what way does it differ from holiness? Why are the two so often paired together? With God’s help, I will elaborate this point on some future occasion.

An Excursus on R. Pinhas ben Yair

A brief word concerning the baraita of R. Pinhas ben Yair, upon which the Ramhal bases the scheme of his book Messilat Yesharim. This passage presents a graduated scheme of a series of personal characteristics that lead upward, culminating in the Eschaton and the resurrection of the dead. There are two rather different versions of this text. The first one, used by Luzzatto in structuring his book, appears in the Talmud, Avodah Zarah 20b:

Rabbi Pinhas ben Yair said: Torah leads to carefulness (zehirut), carefulness leads to diligence (zerizut), diligence leads to cleanliness (nekiut), cleanliness leads to abstinence (perishut), abstinence leads to purity (taharah), purity leads to piety (hasidut), piety leads to humility (anavah), humility leads to fear of sin (yirat het), fear of sin leads to holiness (kedushah), holiness leads to the Holy Spirit (ruah hakodesh), and the Holy Spirit leads to the resurrection of the dead.

There is a mixture here of qualities that a human being can presumably attain through his own concerted effort, through will-power and systematic changing of habit, etc. On the other hand, the higher levels, those of the Holy Spirit and the Resurrection, are clearly Divine gifts: the one a rare gift granted to certain individuals, the other a feature of the messianic End of Days. In any event, kedusha, “holiness,” is here viewed as the highest level among those attainable through ordinary effort (or is it too a gift?). But the continuation of the sugya seems to belie this conclusion:

And piety is greater than them all, as is said, “of old You spoke in a vision to Your pious ones” [Ps 89:20]. R. Joshua ben Levi dissented from this, saying: Humility is greater than them all, as is said, “The spirit of the Lord God is upon me, for the Lord has anointed me to bring tidings to the humble ones” [Isa 61:1]. It does not say here “His pious ones,” but “the humble ones.” Hence, we learn that humility is greatest of all.

I shall leave aside the question of the relative merits of humility and piety. What seems clear here is that the final conclusion is that either “piety” or “humility,” both more obviously ethical qualities, rather than the more spiritual, theocentric, possibly ephemeral quality of “holiness,” is seen as the ultimate human good. The other version of this text points in a similar direction. This text appears as a kind of addendum to the Mishnah text—appearing in some manuscripts and printed versions but not others; sometimes in parentheses or smaller letters, sometimes in regular print. Epstein’s Mavo le-Nusah ha-Mishnah puts this under the rubric of festive “additions at the conclusion of tractates” taken from beraita material. Mishnah Sotah 9.15:

Rabbi Pinhas ben Yair said: Diligence leads to cleanliness, cleanliness leads to purity, purity leads to abstinence, abstinence leads to holiness, holiness leads to humility, humility leads to fear of sin, fear of sin leads to piety, piety leads to the Holy Spirit, the Holy Spirit leads to the resurrection of the dead, and the resurrection of the dead comes about through Elijah, may he may be remembered for the good /well. Amen.

Again, the emphasis is on hasidut, “piety,” rather than kedusha. This term, whatever its exact meaning, comes from hesed, “loving-kindness.” It may be best described as God consciousness spilling over into an effulgence of good deeds, whether passionate, ecstatic prayer, enthusiastic performance of mitzvot, or acts of love and caring towards the other based upon Hesed. It is not holiness in the sense of withdrawal from life, but rather active doing.

Nevertheless, Why “Separation”?

Having come to this point, and presented an alternative, world-affirming, maybe even a “humanistic“ interpretation of holiness, I must nevertheless address a fundamental issue. What is the great power of the negative definition of holiness? In virtually all cultures, we find images of the “holy man” as one who withdraws—from the sexual life, from eating meat (in Eastern religion, especially), or from society altogether. This is the origin of the hermit, whether he lives on a mountain top in Tibet, in a cave (like Elijah for significant periods of his life?), in a monastery carved out of desert rock (as in Wadi Kelt), or on the top of a pillar, like Simon of the Desert. All these diverse examples suggest that this derives from something deeply rooted in the human psyche—a Jungian archetype, if you will.

Where does this come from? My intuitive feeling is that this somehow relates to what philosophers call the Mind-Body Problem. There is an inherent duality in human experience: between our mental and spiritual life, which somehow occurs within a thinking, reflective consciousness located in the mind or brain; and our bodily experience, which occurs in a physical world independent of our consciousness. Thus, the mind observes bodily pleasure at the very moment of it being experienced from a certain distance (“In the midst of my pleasure I was very much pleased”). As God is perceived through the mind, the spirit, the soul, the intellect, there is an almost natural sense of dichotomy between it and the body. For a certain kind of theocentric mystic, the body is seen as a kind of dead weight, preventing man from soaring to higher worlds. (There is even a concept of mystic death, of mystics who died because their souls “forgot” to return to their bodies after mystic ascent. Some medieval Kabbalists even went to the point of abjuring their soul to return to their body afterwards, so as to prevent this from happening).

One last thought about a possible basis for an alternative, non-dualistic theology of holiness. A famous saying of Hazal (whose source I cannot locate at the moment) tells that God, in response to the rather foolish prayer of certain pietists, agreed to slaughter the Yetzer Hara, the Evil Urge. Instantly, the whole world came to standstill: no chickens laid eggs, no calves or lambs or babies were born, no man wanted to lie with a woman or even get up in the morning to go to work. The point of the story, of course, is that our corporeality, our carnality, is the source of vitality; and vital life energy is the truest manifestation of the Divine Life within the universe.