A Thought on Parshios Behar Bechukosai

"...v'eschem Azareh ba'goyim..." "...and I will disperse you among the nations..." (26:33) There is great pain and fear in the threatening words of the tocha'cha this week. HaShem has given us the ground rules for survival as a Jewish people in our own land. We have rules to obey, we have practices to promote, and we have standards to excel at. The Torah gives us the fearful alternative fate of failing in those areas. The concept of exile is outlined, with all of its consequences and destruction to life as we should have lived it. Our verse here enunciates an aspect of exile which seems definitional. Of course if we are exiled, we leave our homeland. Ergo, we go elsewhere. What is it about being "dispersed" that is worse (and different) than merely being exiled? What is the scourge and tragedy of being dispersed? After all, the Talmud states that being dispersed helps guarantee our survival in exile! If we are scattered into smaller communities, as opposed to congregating in one land or location, we are able to exist without such easy detection. We are able to maintain some level of safety even if our brethren in some other land are in trouble r'l. So, what does our verse portend in understanding the horrors of exile? What is tragic about dispersal? Rabbeinu Avigdor - drawing on the same midrashic theme taken by Rashi -offers that for a Jew, this dispersal is actually the hardest part of exile. He reasons that when we are distressed or down, it can be most comforting to connect with our fellow Jews. It is calming and reassuring to have family, relatives, "landsmen" in our lives. People feel nechama - relief and comfort - when they see their compatriots. In contrast, when we are as disconnected "as barleycorns thrown to the fields", the feeling of isolation is unbearable. Rabbeinu Avigdor cites a verse (Yechezkel 20.:23) which declares "And I will cast you out among the nations and you will be scattered across many lands." That is terrifying because of the abject lonesomeness which dispersal entails. He writes that this is the "midda kosha" - the worst that can happen to us. I have noticed over the last many years that, whether in my own town or when I travel, when Jews pass each other in the street or chance upon one another on some mountain trail or other spot, sometimes some of us avert our eyes, avoid interaction or at best mumble something not unkind but unintelligible. In contrast, I can remember growing up in California and because of the relative scarcity of Jews, when you saw someone - even a stranger - who was a "landsman", you would go so far as to cross the street in order to greet him. Last summer, my wife and I took our oldest grandson to Yosemite. My wife had on a baseball camp, left over from some family reunion, which said "Savta." Some woman on one of the hiking trails noticed it, came over and said "Shalom" and the two of them talked a bit in a warm "heimishe" manner. I remember driving home from the desert once and noticing a car stopped on the side of the highway. There was a man with a yarmulka next to it who looked worried. This was not the New Jersey Turnpike where such can happen. This was no place. I remember pulling over and asking if he needed help. He seemed irritated and uncomfortable with that. I wondered later if I had not looked Jewish if he would have felt more at ease. I will never know. What touches me about this view of Rabbeinu Avigdor is that he is mindful and sensitive to something which we sometimes are unfeeling about: exile is a lonely place yet the balm to help relieve the hurt is having co-religionists nearby to connect with. We need that. They need that. That can be our source of comfort and can help pave the highway which we will travel in our journey out of golus towards geula. I am sending this out a bit early because I depart shortly for Jerusalem b'H. I will also try to get out my Parsha Thought on BaMidbar soon. Good Shabbos. D Fox