To adorn, to repair

There is a beautiful custom to hold night-time learning sessions on the eve of Shavuot. These are called "Tikkun", or more fully, "Tikkun Leyl Shavuot". What I realised this year for the first time is how the meaning of this word, its connotations, have changed.
Although a Tikkun is first described in the Zohar in mythical rather than practical terms, the practice of a Tikkun seems to have crystallised in 16th century kabbalistic circles around Joseph Caro (author of the Shulchan Arukh ("The laid table"), the classic compilation of Jewish Law, and Solomon Alkabetz, author of the Friday night hymn Lekha Dodi (see Daniel Matt, "Adorning the "Bride" on the Eve of the feast of weeks", in L. Fine, Judaism in Practice, 2007, pp. 74-80). The practice relies on the Zohar's description of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai "plying Torah" during the night of Shavuot, on what is described as the eve of the wedding day between the Torah and God. The rabbi and his disciples are described as the "companions of the bride", who "adorn the bride" with jewels of Torah. In this context, Tikkun means adornment [of the bride], decoration.
Today we have a rather different understanding of what Tikkun means. If we think of a compound in Hebrew, we think of Tikkun Olam, repairing or healing the world. The concept of Tikkun Olam also goes back to the early modern Kabbalists of Safed, where the ritual and contemplative (and sometimes magical) practices of the kabbalistic initiates were believed to have cosmic powers to bring about the repair of the primordial cracked vessel of the world, and to collect the sparks of divine light from among the darkness. The kabbalists of old held many other Tikkun events during the year. The followers of Shabbetai Zevi were particularly fond of holding Tikkun Chatzot, midnight study sessions.
In modern times, the term has experienced a remarkable revival in the form of social action and activism. Perhaps symptomatically, the magazine Tikkun: a quarterly Jewish critique of politics, culture & society was first published in 1986.
It seems to me that this semantic move from the mystical and celebratory wedding symbolism to social activism is a healthy one. We are no longer confident that the future is a (wedding) party. We are more concerned with the urgent work of social as well as spiritual repair that needs to be done. And communal (rather than individual) study during the silence of the night can have a share in building community for social action.

The Numbered and the Numberless (BaMidbar)

I am always intrigued by the relationship between the Parasha, the weekly Torah portion, and the Haftarah, the portion from the prophetic and historical books of the Bible, which the rabbis designated to be read together with the Torah portion. The Parashah BaMidbar stands at the beginning of the book of Numbers (BaMidbar). The book of Numbers begins programmatically with a strictly ordered census of the Israelites, or to be more precise, of the arms bearing Israelites (women and children not counted) according to their tribes and according to their position in the Israelite camp. Each tribes' and each family's position in relation to the travelling Sanctuary is precisely determined. For the modern reader, for this reader, there is a slightly numbing quality to this hierarchical order.

It is all the more interesting to contemplate the almost dialectical position of the Haftarah in relation to the Parashah. The Haftarah is taken from the prophet Hosea. Whereas the Torah portion insists on strict numbering and listing, Hosea proclaims:

"And the number of the children of Israel shall be like the sand of the sea, which cannot be measured nor numbered."

The grand metaphors of sea sand and heavenly stars of course corresponds rather better to God's promise to Abraham then the reality of military census.

Whereas the Torah portion lists all the tribes separately, and a Midrash even claimed they were divided by navigable rivers, Hosea prizes unity above tribal distinctions:

"And the children of Judah and the children of Israel shall be gathered together, and they shall appoint themselves one head..."

The book of Numbers only counts "all those in Israel who are able to bear arms" (1:3), i.e. only the men of fighting age. Ellen Frankel, in her The Five Books of Miriam, lets "Lilith the Rebel comment": "As a result of this census, the women now disappear from view..." (p. 198)

But I think it is possible to use the Haftarah to undermine this clearcut exclusion. Hosea says:

"And say to your brothers 'Ammi' (my people) and to your sisters 'Ruchamah' (the one who receives [divine] mercy)."

In placing side by side "brothers" and "sisters", Hosea reinstates the integrity of a people consisting of men and women working together - a utopian vision that we are still trying to realise.

The gap between the numbered and the numberless opens a space for reflection, something for modern sensibilities to ponder; it returns social responsibility to the individual reflecting on the Parasha and Haftarah, the two faces of the Torah portion, together.