Tazria-Metsora
Leviticus 12:1-15:33
2 Kings 7:3-20
When my father died recently, one of the things that I noticed most powerfully was the special quality of the words and the silence that surrounded me and my family as he lay dying, and as we continue to grieve.
It was a long-anticipated death: We had notice. In fact, at times, the dying process seemed to be moving in exaggeratedly slow motion. But when things shifted and it was clear that he was actively dying, a hush descended over his room. Everyone who entered the room came quietly and spoke to my father, my mother and me ever so gently and tenderly. There were lots of hugs and no chatter, and lots of companionable time in reverent silence.
This awe-filled hush was palpably present at the cemetery. I had observed this many times before, yet one element surprised me, now that it was my turn to be a mourner rather than a comforter. I have often talked with people about the painfully jarring sound of earth being cast onto the casket — the harsh sound of the reality of death. I was braced for that terribly painful moment, but it did not happen the way I’d expected. As loved ones shoveled earth into the grave, my attention was drawn over and over again to the tenderness in their hands. The gentle motions of shoveling earth, oddly, felt like silent expressions of love, as people did their part to offer the last possible bit of care for my father’s body.
To a lesser extent, silence was a presence at the house of shiva as well. Many a friend opened the door and said nothing, just opened loving arms as the most eloquent possible expression of comfort. Then, of course, there was speech, but the speech, too, had a tender, simple quality. None of the usual chatter or banter or cleverness that is around me at normal times. I heard many simple, heartfelt words that week, and read many loving words in condolence notes. The words had a particular quality — a knowing that no language could suffice, that human speech simply could not fix this or accomplish anything nor make sense of anything. The words, like the hands at the cemetery, were simply an expression of love. There were many beautiful turns of phrase, but the simplest words, too, were imbued with that holy awareness that the speaker and I stood in the face of a reality much larger than our speech and a grief that only love could heal.
What has all this to do with this week’s parashah? The rabbis of the Talmud were no doubt puzzled by the Torah’s descriptions of “leprosy” (a disease different from the one we know by that name) and the punitive way in which the “leper” is to be treated. The rabbis connect the biblical plague of leprosy with “evil speech,” as in Miriam’s illness after speaking ill of Moses and his wife (Numbers 12), so that the harsh punishment described in the Torah falls not on a person who is ill, but on any one of us who chooses to use speech in a way that sullies our own humanity. Rashi then interprets the use of birds as part of the healing ritual in accordance with this understanding of leprosy as a “disease” of language. He says that two birds are used (Leviticus 14:4-7) because birds, which chatter, are the way to purify the “disease” of harmful human chatter.
The Sefat Emet takes this interpretation a step deeper, suggesting that the two birds used in the healing ritual represent two different stages in the purification of speech. The first bird is slaughtered, as a symbol of our own tendency to debase our gift of speech. The second bird, which is set free, represents the possibility of pure speech, “which is the very essence of the human being.” In fact, Sefat Emet affirms the teaching of Proverbs, that “death and life are in the hands of the tongue.” (Proverbs 18:21)
Can words really kill or give life? My experience as a mourner teaches me that reverent silence and simple, heartfelt words can truly be life-giving, and that people intuitively know how to practice this, especially at times when death is a presence. Why, then, should we wait till times of loss to purify our speech, to use the gift of language in the holiest, most loving possible way?
Rabbi Amy Eilberg, a Conservatve rabbi, is a spiritual counselor in private practice.