Whether it is a text, a painting or ourselves, what defines perfection is not a finalized, unalterable nature but the infinite dimensions of meaning to be found there. View the study sheet here. Watch the recording here.
The book of Leviticus presents itself to us as a text absorbed with the importance of borders, boundaries and distinctions. And the dangers of violating them. It is, after all, that portion of Torah dedicated to the responsibilities of the priestly class, those charged with overseeing holiness, with maintaining separations between the pure and the impure. This week’s portion, Emor, concludes with one of only two narrative tales in all of Leviticus: a story about the stoning of a man who had cursed God’s name. The ultimate crossing of a line.
Yet, embedded within the portion is a cautionary message about the dangers of being too fundamental, too narrow, in our vision of life, of one another and perhaps even of God. The middle of the portion recounts holy days to be observed. The terms used to describe each are moed (an appointed time with a fixed calendar date) and mikra kodesh (a sacred assembly convened by human proclamation). Among those holy days are Passover, Shavuot, Sukkot, Rosh HaShanah, Yom Kippur, and…Shabbat.
The inclusion of Shabbat produces a discordant note in this chorus of holy day itemizations. Shabbat is neither a moed nor a mikra kodesh. It has no fixed date on the calendar. It is not an assembly convened by human proclamation. Shabbat was proclaimed by God at creation and falls on whatever calendar dates the progress of time produces.
This discordancy is amplified by its appearance in a book supposedly dedicated to the urgency of definition, differentiation and clear distinction. The eleventh century commentator Rashi cries out: “Why is Shabbat included in an itemization of festivals?” It strikes him as an inappropriate mixing of materials.
The disturbance of the text’s surface noted by Rashi brings into focus something we may not have noticed before: the multiple layers of Shabbat’s identity. The Exodus text of the Ten Commandments provides a reason for observing Shabbat: “God made the heavens and earth in six days and rested on the seventh. Therefore, God blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy” (Exodus 20:11). The Deuteronomy version identifies Shabbat’s purpose differently: “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that Adonai your God brought you out of there. Therefore, Adonai your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath Day” (Deuteronomy 5:15).
The Exodus text urges us to see God in the intricate complexity of the natural universe, that which is beyond the human realm. It looks back to the birth of all existence. The Deuteronomy text reminds us of our sacred responsibilities within the realm of history. It looks forwards to a time when all who are enslaved will be free. The Leviticus text about Shabbat occurs within a context about appointed times and convocations. It calls us into the present moment and the power of now.
Shabbat shares all those identities. All those time dimensions. It took a disturbance of order for us to see it. A disturbance which occurred in the most order-oriented book of Torah. Leviticus’ form is the most structured, the least disrupted by the chaotic behavior of human beings of all of Torah’s books. Yet, that is where we discover Shabbat’s complexity.
Still life painting was, according to classical art tradition, the least prestigious genre. It contained no religious instruction, no moral message, no grand and uplifting narrative. Just some fruit, a table and tableware. With no complexity to challenge one’s creative talents, most artists who wished to be taken seriously avoided the genre.
Paul Cezanne took the simple forms of still life and revealed to us their multi-dimensionality. He abandoned the system of one-point perspective that had been in use since the Renaissance. Instead of viewing a composition from a single, fixed point and presenting each element based on how it looks from that one position, Cezanne depicts the elements from different viewing angles. Suddenly we find ourselves exploring planes of presence we had not known existed.
Pablo Picasso embraced Cezanne’s explosion of planes and perspectives and advanced it even further. Pictured here is his painting Still Life, done in 1918. Picasso’s Cubism fractures the elements in the image to maximize the points of view that might occupy the canvass. In distorted vibration are table, chair, vase, paper, the room itself. And occupying center of field is a guitar, a source of vibration and harmonics.
We step away from these paintings realizing that we have witnessed still life that is hardly still. Multiple dimensions where we had expected but one. A field holding many points of view, and the beauty they together create. Nobility where outmoded authorities had seen only the lowly and merely common. We turn from the canvass and find ourselves in the presence of others. And we marvel at what stirs within a painting, a sacred text and those all around us.
Join us here at 7:00 p.m. (PT) on Thursday May 16 as we explore still life that is hardly still.
