Sources from essay by Rabbi Lisa J. Grushcow, DPhil in The Mussar Torah Commentary
Tazria is all about identifying illness-tzaraat, a skin disease that, perhaps ironically, we are not entirely sure how to identify. For our purposes here, we will call it "leprosy." The focus of the Torah portion is diagnosis and quarantine, and the eventual reintegration of the sufferer into the Israelite camp. The priest here is not a doctor or a healer; his role is to determine the presence or absence of the disease and the corresponding response.
It is a challenging parashah. Adding to a person's suffering by excluding them from the community is deeply problematic. When, as most traditional commentaries do, we try to justify this approach by pointing to the sin at the root of the sickness (generally lashon hara, "evil speech" or "gossip," associated with leprosy because of the episode with Miriam, Aaron, and Moses in Numbers 12), we can find meaning-namely, that our actions have consequences-but at what cost? Both responses— exclusion and condemnation-seem at odds with the Jewish value of rachamim, "compassion."
-Rabbi Lisa J. Grushcow
It seems that there is a hint here, that when one checks a person, one must not see only what they lack, in the place of the affliction; rather, one must see them in their entirety, including their elevated qualities. And so Balak said (to Balaam): "You will see only a portion of them [the Israelites]; you will not see all of them-and damn them for me from there" (Numbers 23:13). Therefore: "the priest will see the affliction" —and after that-"the priest will see the person" —he should see them in their entirety.
-Rabbi Israel Joshua Trunk of Kutno (1820-1893)
It is striking that Balak understands that Balaam can only curse the Israelites if he sees them partially; if he sees them in their entirety, he will understand that they, like him, are three-dimensional human beings with their own stories and hopes and dreams. He will see that they, like him, want to live; that they, like him, want to be blessed. He will see that they are not so different. When someone who is healthy encounters someone who is ill, the first instinct is often to distance oneself; to remind oneself of all the differentiating factors between ourselves and the person who is sick.
"She has lung cancer; she must have been a smoker." "I knew he'd end up in hospital; he's so out of shape." "It's so sad that she lost the pregnancy; I wonder what she did wrong." And the subtext is: "I am different. I'll be okay." When it comes to illness, even
as our human defenses motivate us to differentiate ourselves from the sick when we are well, our human condition should remind us how fine a line there is between these states.
-Rabbi Lisa J. Grushcow
Illness is the night side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.
-Susan Sontag
What appears before us when we look at another in this way [with eyes of judgment] are that person's accumulated deeds and habits as they stand right now, which we judge from our own vantage point. When we lower or transcend the boundaries of self, however, and draw closer so that we can feel within us the truth of that other person's experience, and so see with eyes of compassion, we still ought to see that person as they are now, but something else will be added to that picture. We will also see more deeply to perceive the untainted soul that is the kernel of that being— the image of the divine that is reflected in ourselves as well...The soul-trait of compassion may be more accurately defined as the inner experience of touching another being so closely that you no longer perceive the other one as separate from you?
-Alan Morinis
Just as one would want compassion in his time of need, so should one have compassion on others who are in need.
-Orchot Tzadikim
It has often been noted that the Hebrew word rachamim is connected to rechem, "womb." The same is true in Arabic. In both Judaism and Islam, this quality is associated with God. Haroon Moghul, a scholar and commentator on Islam, wrote about this aspect of the Divine:
"God is like a womb, within which creation is created, out of which life is issued, from which we emerge, but always [God] is the ultimate boundary, the shield and shell around us."
What might it mean to cultivate this divine quality in ourselves? In some ways, it is the polar opposite of the p'shat, the plain meaning of the biblical text. In Tazria, the person who is afflicted with leprosy must be sent beyond the boundary of the camp. But when we look with the eyes of compassion, we see that in fact we are all within the boundary of Creation. The resident with the chart, who imagines he will never be a patient; the rabbi standing at graveside, who thinks she will live forever; the friend coming to comfort a friend on her divorce, reassuring herself of the stability of her own marriage-as much as we may try to separate ourselves, we are all in this world together. The more we see that, the more we cultivate compassion.
In Mussar, we endeavor to emulate the priest who saw not merely the skin disease but the whole person, striving for rachamim as among the most noble of the middot.
-Rabbi Lisa J. Grushcow
Questions to Ask
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What are the situations in which you notice that you have the least compassion? Are there qualities in yourself from which you are trying to gain distance in these encounters?
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When have you experienced pity from others rather than compassion? How might you use this experiential knowledge to approach others with compassion rather than pity?