While studying in Israel during Rabbinical School, I had a lot of different teachers. But none of them were as special as a Heredi man named Dov Laimon. A ba’al tshuva, Dov looks as you would expect—he’s an older gentleman with a long, grey beard, tzitzit worn overtop his white shirt, tucked behind his black suit jacket with a black velvet kippah affixed to his head that only reveals itself when he removes a rather large, black hat as he enters the classroom.
Yet that’s about as far as assumptions will get you with Dov, as he has spent most of his adult life pushing against assumptions and building bridges between communities that would otherwise stay separate. Dov is a trained sofer—a professional scribe—and despite his community’s objection to women learning the trade, for three and a half months he taught me (along with a mixed-gendered classroom) the laws, art, and spiritual practice of Hebrew writing.
He loves letters—the act of forming them, the midrashim contained within them, and the mystery surrounding them. And because of him, I also love letters.
So when I had the chance this week to revisit my love of Hebrew Scribal Arts at a seminar Hebrew College was running about Torah repair, I couldn’t resist. In this seminar, the instructor (Soferet Julie Seltzer) taught that one cannot write a Torah scroll from memory or from dictation. Rather, one must copy the words directly from a tikkun or previously existing scroll.
It’s a bit curious, then, when we come to the end of this week’s parasha, after we receive dozens of laws about interpersonal relationships, liability for damages, and even some fundamentals of keeping kosher, and we read that Moses wrote down all the words of God, and presented this “sefer ha-brit” (Book of the Covenant) to the people. It seems as if Moses writes a Torah from that which God dictates directly to him, something we know isn’t halakhically permissible. Soferet Seltzer explained that there is a tradition about a primordial Torah—a scroll that existed alongside creation itself—and it was from this scroll that Moses transcribed his Torah. According to tradition, this primordial scroll contained all the letters of the Torah, but without any breaks between them, so the words were indistinguishable without God’s guidance as Moses wrote them.
It’s easy to take for granted the words of the Torah, and that’s why each week, Rabbi Hamilton and I try to focus in on some of the particular nuances in the text that we may otherwise be tempted to skim over. And if it’s true that these words are easily taken for granted, then something I learned when acquiring the skills of Hebrew calligraphy is that all the more so is true of the letters themselves.
The practice of writing requires intense focus on small, particular actions. One cannot sit down and write a Torah in one stroke—one cannot even write a single word that way. Rather, one must focus on each stoke of each letter one intends to create. A “bet” for example (the very first letter I learned to form & the first letter of the Torah itself) includes not only the three major strokes typically associated with it (two parallel ones at the top and bottom and a vertical line connecting them at the right), but also three tiny “taggs”—two small vertical lines on the top left and bottom right corners and a small diagonal line on the top right of the letter—, and finally, it’s topped with a crown. This letter—one of the most simple letters to form—contains seven independent strokes. How could one even begin to think of writing the “resh” of bereshit—the very first word of the Torah—before fully completing each step of the “bet”? Impossible. Instead, one must learn to think step-by-step, stroke-by-stroke.
My mind returns to Moses, as he writes out each letter by hand—stroke by tedious stroke. Why was this really necessary? Prior to writing down God’s words, Moses transmitted them to the people orally. He instructed them about all the laws and commandments that God had told to him directly, and the people respond “Na-a-say” (“we will do”). Based on this, the people fully expected that they would act in accordance with what God wanted on account of what they heard from Moses, so it seems somewhat extraneous to then go and write down these same words to give to the people again, as Moses does just a few verses later. Yet, when he does this, the people respond differently: “Na-a-say v’nish-ma” (typically translated as “we will do and we will listen/obey”).
I want to suggest that the act of writing down the Torah has a transformational affect on the people’s relationship to it.
See, “nish-ma” can also be understood not just at “we will listen/obey” but also as “we will pay attention,” and I like to believe that the painstaking attention Moses gave to writing each letter of the Torah modeled for the people their call—our call—to take it seriously in our lives, to pay attention to the Sacred that surrounds us in every moment, in every stoke of the quill. We’re not just expected to live out the commandments blindly—doing them exactly as we’ve been instructed—but rather we’re called to pay close attention to their role in our lives and the value of these ritual actions.
In this way, it’s not enough just to keep kosher, for example, as this week’s parasha details, but we must also take the time to think about and appreciate the nuances of our food practice and the ethics within them. When we go to buy kosher meat, we have the opportunity to reflect about how that animal was raised and slaughtered with compassion, and to connect with the generations of those before us who made similar choices about food as a result of their Jewish identity.
Just as Moses did, we’re called to focus in on each stroke of each letter, dwelling within the details that make up our spiritual lives.
Of course it’s good to reflect about our religious practice in general terms, to zoom out and appreciate that which we experience on a yearly or even weekly basis. But, we’re also called to focus in on the minutia that makes the overall experience possible: to offer a word of appreciation for the act of opening our eyes in the morning, for noticing the smell of the crisp winter air, for dwelling in the wonder as we imagine just how small we are in the vastness of creation. By paying attention to these details, we can’t help but experience our daily lives differently, we can’t help but to see the Divine at work in them.
In an age when we could easily photocopy or print off the text of the Torah in minutes, instead we continue to rely on the handwritten work and careful attention of scribes—taking a year to a year and a half to complete a single scroll. We do this in part to remind us of our commitment not only to do (na-a-say), but also to pay attention (nish-ma), to every stroke of every letter of our lives.
May this tedious and focused work transform our experience, evoking for us new opportunities to connect with that which is Sacred. May the intentionality we bring to our actions elevate them to invite Divine encounter. And may we strive to appreciate even the smallest strokes of the quill that leaves a mark on our lives and the lives of those around us.
Read more sermons by Rabbi EBC at https://baseboston.org/sermons
Yet that’s about as far as assumptions will get you with Dov, as he has spent most of his adult life pushing against assumptions and building bridges between communities that would otherwise stay separate. Dov is a trained sofer—a professional scribe—and despite his community’s objection to women learning the trade, for three and a half months he taught me (along with a mixed-gendered classroom) the laws, art, and spiritual practice of Hebrew writing.
He loves letters—the act of forming them, the midrashim contained within them, and the mystery surrounding them. And because of him, I also love letters.
So when I had the chance this week to revisit my love of Hebrew Scribal Arts at a seminar Hebrew College was running about Torah repair, I couldn’t resist. In this seminar, the instructor (Soferet Julie Seltzer) taught that one cannot write a Torah scroll from memory or from dictation. Rather, one must copy the words directly from a tikkun or previously existing scroll.
It’s a bit curious, then, when we come to the end of this week’s parasha, after we receive dozens of laws about interpersonal relationships, liability for damages, and even some fundamentals of keeping kosher, and we read that Moses wrote down all the words of God, and presented this “sefer ha-brit” (Book of the Covenant) to the people. It seems as if Moses writes a Torah from that which God dictates directly to him, something we know isn’t halakhically permissible. Soferet Seltzer explained that there is a tradition about a primordial Torah—a scroll that existed alongside creation itself—and it was from this scroll that Moses transcribed his Torah. According to tradition, this primordial scroll contained all the letters of the Torah, but without any breaks between them, so the words were indistinguishable without God’s guidance as Moses wrote them.
It’s easy to take for granted the words of the Torah, and that’s why each week, Rabbi Hamilton and I try to focus in on some of the particular nuances in the text that we may otherwise be tempted to skim over. And if it’s true that these words are easily taken for granted, then something I learned when acquiring the skills of Hebrew calligraphy is that all the more so is true of the letters themselves.
The practice of writing requires intense focus on small, particular actions. One cannot sit down and write a Torah in one stroke—one cannot even write a single word that way. Rather, one must focus on each stoke of each letter one intends to create. A “bet” for example (the very first letter I learned to form & the first letter of the Torah itself) includes not only the three major strokes typically associated with it (two parallel ones at the top and bottom and a vertical line connecting them at the right), but also three tiny “taggs”—two small vertical lines on the top left and bottom right corners and a small diagonal line on the top right of the letter—, and finally, it’s topped with a crown. This letter—one of the most simple letters to form—contains seven independent strokes. How could one even begin to think of writing the “resh” of bereshit—the very first word of the Torah—before fully completing each step of the “bet”? Impossible. Instead, one must learn to think step-by-step, stroke-by-stroke.
My mind returns to Moses, as he writes out each letter by hand—stroke by tedious stroke. Why was this really necessary? Prior to writing down God’s words, Moses transmitted them to the people orally. He instructed them about all the laws and commandments that God had told to him directly, and the people respond “Na-a-say” (“we will do”). Based on this, the people fully expected that they would act in accordance with what God wanted on account of what they heard from Moses, so it seems somewhat extraneous to then go and write down these same words to give to the people again, as Moses does just a few verses later. Yet, when he does this, the people respond differently: “Na-a-say v’nish-ma” (typically translated as “we will do and we will listen/obey”).
I want to suggest that the act of writing down the Torah has a transformational affect on the people’s relationship to it.
See, “nish-ma” can also be understood not just at “we will listen/obey” but also as “we will pay attention,” and I like to believe that the painstaking attention Moses gave to writing each letter of the Torah modeled for the people their call—our call—to take it seriously in our lives, to pay attention to the Sacred that surrounds us in every moment, in every stoke of the quill. We’re not just expected to live out the commandments blindly—doing them exactly as we’ve been instructed—but rather we’re called to pay close attention to their role in our lives and the value of these ritual actions.
In this way, it’s not enough just to keep kosher, for example, as this week’s parasha details, but we must also take the time to think about and appreciate the nuances of our food practice and the ethics within them. When we go to buy kosher meat, we have the opportunity to reflect about how that animal was raised and slaughtered with compassion, and to connect with the generations of those before us who made similar choices about food as a result of their Jewish identity.
Just as Moses did, we’re called to focus in on each stroke of each letter, dwelling within the details that make up our spiritual lives.
Of course it’s good to reflect about our religious practice in general terms, to zoom out and appreciate that which we experience on a yearly or even weekly basis. But, we’re also called to focus in on the minutia that makes the overall experience possible: to offer a word of appreciation for the act of opening our eyes in the morning, for noticing the smell of the crisp winter air, for dwelling in the wonder as we imagine just how small we are in the vastness of creation. By paying attention to these details, we can’t help but experience our daily lives differently, we can’t help but to see the Divine at work in them.
In an age when we could easily photocopy or print off the text of the Torah in minutes, instead we continue to rely on the handwritten work and careful attention of scribes—taking a year to a year and a half to complete a single scroll. We do this in part to remind us of our commitment not only to do (na-a-say), but also to pay attention (nish-ma), to every stroke of every letter of our lives.
May this tedious and focused work transform our experience, evoking for us new opportunities to connect with that which is Sacred. May the intentionality we bring to our actions elevate them to invite Divine encounter. And may we strive to appreciate even the smallest strokes of the quill that leaves a mark on our lives and the lives of those around us.
Read more sermons by Rabbi EBC at https://baseboston.org/sermons
(א) בְּרֵאשִׁ֖ית בָּרָ֣א אֱלֹהִ֑ים אֵ֥ת הַשָּׁמַ֖יִם וְאֵ֥ת הָאָֽרֶץ׃
(1) When God began to create heaven and earth—
(ז) וַיִּקַּח֙ סֵ֣פֶר הַבְּרִ֔ית וַיִּקְרָ֖א בְּאָזְנֵ֣י הָעָ֑ם וַיֹּ֣אמְר֔וּ כֹּ֛ל אֲשֶׁר־דִּבֶּ֥ר יְהוָ֖ה נַעֲשֶׂ֥ה וְנִשְׁמָֽע׃
(7) Then he took the record of the covenant and read it aloud to the people. And they said, “All that the LORD has spoken we will faithfully do!”