The Wonderment

Center Text and Interpretation

Whose experiences, perspectives, and voices are at the center of sacred texts and the history of interpreting those texts matters. This week’s selection, Leviticus 14:1-15:33, is particularly illustrative of these truths. The sacred text discusses three forms of ordinary bodily fluids and how after we experience them, we may prepare for those extra-special days of offering at the Temple. And yet, even though we’re not going up to the Temple for the sacrifices, we have a whole lot of history of interpreting these three ordinary experiences of bodily fluids in some demeaning and destructive ways. For one thing, folks can read these ordinary experiences as defiling or evidence of sinfulness, when that isn’t really the meaning of the text, although that might be how the text is translated. Like the other areas we’ve covered already, these sections of Leviticus are mostly talking about ordinary usual human realities and how to move from everyday states of being and prepare ourselves to be in the most sacred of places at the most sacred of times. 

 

All of these ordinary states of being that have ways of preparing ourselves for the most sacred spaces and times tell us one thing: these ordinary states are not permanent, just as our mountaintop extraordinary moments of spiritual transcendence are not permanent. A person’s weeping skin can heal and that person is to be incorporated fully back into the life of the community. A person can have orgasms or menstruate, ordinary things bodies do, but these do not prevent people from preparing themselves for these holy spaces and times. In other words: no one is prevented from connecting with the Holy, renewing their covenantal bonds themselves and their faithful promises, just because they’ve experienced weeping skin, orgasm, or menstruation. And we aren’t expected once prepared for the most sacred times and places to be able to stay in that state forever. That would be rather cruel, expecting us to be something that isn’t really human. That’s not to say tradition, culture, and interpretations haven’t been applied or accreted that result in separating folks experiencing these ordinary ways of being human from their ritual life with the Holy. That’s the gap between how we live and how we aspire to be that we make faithful promises to try and cross or make a smaller gap.

 

So at times these texts have been interpreted and translated as though these ordinary human states are sinful, harmful, or defiling. Some people read exclusion on the basis of being sexually active (thus, the need to be celibate) and some read exclusion because a person might have ever menstruated or might be menstruating right now (one of the arguments against people who menstruate in religious leadership, touching sacred texts). A note on gender and bodily fluids: some women never have and never will menstruate; some men have at some time in their lives menstruated; some non-binary persons menstruate; any person who ever has menstruated will stop at points in their lives for pregnancy or from starvation or from illness or as part of menopause. Gender is not determined by whether a person menstruates, nor has that always been the case across all cultures and times, although that is probably a reasonable assumption of belief among the composers of Leviticus. 

 

Now, I’m aware there’s a lot of language and shame around menstruating in the culture I’m in. Menstruating is, for the most part, not just private, but secret, and heaven forfend that anyone know you’re menstruating. Consider just how many cultural slurs and comments are about menstruating or visibly menstruating people. Then there’s lots and lots of traditions about who’s pure enough to touch sacred things and when those are off-limits, along with other gendered teachings about religious and spiritual practices. But that’s not part of this text of Leviticus: that’s the history of interpretation weighing upon us, and how who’s interpreting and whose experiences are at the center matters. 

 

Here are two pictures of a painting by Sargent on exhibit (shown above) of a band playing in late Nineteenth-Century Paris. The first picture is what I see because of where the picture is hung and how I move through the world in a wheelchair. The curators make assumptions — as do any visual artists — about where the viewer’s eye level is and should be. Notice how that perspective changes with just a small amount of space in the second picture of this painting, where the camera is at the eye-level of a standing American adult of average height. What is most important in that painting and the whole experience of it changes depending on what height one is at. Social and physical location matter in how we interpret, because our experiences are different.

 

In this same museum, a few months ago there was another exhibit with a series of photographs on a reflective medium that depended on the viewers being able to see themselves within the pictures. I couldn’t see myself because of where they where hung. A friend used his camera to take a picture of one angled from above so I might see myself in the picture, and what is shown is that I’m still below and not fully inside the picture. We might have to do a lot of adjusting to bring our whole selves and everyone else in our incredible diversity into the picture.

 

When we read spiritual texts with historical context, when we consider the history of interpretation, and when we reflect on our own social and physical locations as we read the texts, we do both the spiritual texts more justice, in seeking to understand them, and ourselves, in seeking what may or may not apply from these texts to our lives. Naive or plain-sense reading denies that there’s any learned theology or traditions or social or physical location that matters in how we read the texts. Textual sense changes depending on our experiences and our culture, because how we read changes. And then you add translation to the mix and you have added another layer of someone else’s interpretation of the text, for a translator is always seeking what’s the “best” sense of a particular word and the right word to use.

 

Not only is this section of Leviticus not a set of reasons to discriminate against people for ordinary experiences of bodily fluids (weeping skin, sexual emissions, menstrual fluid), it is explicitly a text of how people move from ordinary states of being and aren’t excluded from the most sacred of places and times. In a society where we handle holy things, times and places with extreme care, rituals of preparation and inclusion can be compassionate as well as justice-making practices. We might pause to consider how we justify not including or centering the experiences of various peoples in our communities now, whether secular communities or faith communities. Whose experiences are represented? Whose experiences are not? How have sacred texts and traditions of interpretation aided or been drawn into supporting dividing and excluding all these people that reflect the Holy in our splendid diversity? 

 

As some of us who are Christian head into Holy Week and some of us who are Jewish prepare for Pesach and all of us face ordinary life amid these sacred times, may we consider those traditions and interpretations and those edited texts that promote hate and hurt and exclusion, and may we consider how to be people of faith and covenant, of faithful promises made and now needing to be lived into, living humbly with the Holy and loving our neighbors and strangers as we love ourselves. Let us revisit those texts, understand their context, their history, and our context and the world we are called to bless with love and equity and justice for each and for all, no exceptions.

 

Preparing to Meet the Holy

Leviticus is a lengthy meditation on how we prepare to meet the Holy. This week we encounter Leviticus 12:1-13:59, which details returning from an ordinary state after childbirth to an elevated state, that is, before heading to ritual life and practices of reverence as we nurture our relationship with the Holy. There’s also a lot on discerning when skin troubles are just ordinary rashes or when they separate us from participating with everyone else, like when we’re really too sick to do so. In a time when folks weren’t sure what skin ailments were dangerous or how people acquired them, this concern with what’s what is, among other things, a set of precautions. I also find, however, that in both states of being just after childbirth (about which I only read and hear about from others) or being in the middle of struggling with disease (although not a skin ailment, I have lots of experience living with illness) the rather frequent sense of encountering the Holy outside of official Holy rites, places, and hours. Parents and close family — blood, choice, adopted (lots of ways to be family) --  of newborn children tend at times to be starry-eyed as well as sleep-deprived and in that combination often elevated already in a state of awe and reverence. When living with a chronic illness, I’ve also frequently found myself rather more in awe and reverence, as well as pondering why and when and how long and help, certainly praying a great deal more than I would be if things weren’t quite so troubled. 

 

And yet, over time, these same rules, in both Leviticus 12 and 13, meant to acknowledge us in the various ways we’re people and might need some time for recuperation or healing or having some space to ourselves because of these wonderful, usual, and even awful things that might be occurring, have been interpreted to create more pain and suffering. The leprosy rules of exclusion and isolation and, by extension, any “blemish” equated to any form of disability, the treatment of childbirth as defiling or medicalized to be a problem state of being, eventually slide into explaining these very natural states of being human into evidence of failure, sin, and wrong-doing. Take a moment here and breathe a deep breath, as deep as you’re able to take, and then slowly let that breath out. Neither living with illness nor bearing children is really a sign of wrong-doing, sin, or failure. They’re part and parcel of being human.

 

Whenever I'm reading sacred texts, I find it helpful to keep the historical ground of the text in mind. I also turn a wary eye toward the history of interpretation, because in that history might be lovely, useful, heartening understanding to aid me living my faithful promises today, or rather the opposite of that, explaining why I struggle with the text. Sadly, the traditions of interpretation that oppress are rather alive and kicking lots of us in the shins and other bits. And so we need to return to understanding that we’re nottalking about sinful states or graceful states of being here. We’re talking about being human doing human things and how we in our communities and as individuals acknowledge these experiences, our sense of the Holy during them. And we’re talking about how we participate in and prepare for communal spiritual life during times when we might feel extra-ordinary, human being with the usual stuff, but not with the assumed-to-be-usual stuff. Illness and childbirth are both extra-ordinary experiences - the ordinary stuff of human lives, but for many people, not an everyday experience.

 

However, illness isan everyday, ordinary experience for a larger and larger number of us, thanks to adaptive equipment or tech and support programs and medicines and the wider range of living a productive, joyful, and meaningful human life that we push the envelope on every day. Living with chronic illness, we might indeed have a time or more than one of separation, where we need extra care or extra time to process how we adapt to what is right now. But those periods of separation should not permanent, nor should they be weighted with stigma or shame. And yet….well, some traditions of theological interpretation are very insidious and show up in the thoughts and mouths of people you respect and love, maybe even in your own thoughts and off your own lips.

 

The main issue, though, in Leviticus, isn’t whether childbirth or illness set us apart from everyone else who’s a human being. The main issue, historically, is whether we’re in a state to sacrifice to the One in communal rituals. Now the Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, and with that went the place of sacrifice. Folks don’t do the ritual of purification with the ashes of a red heifer, either, in part because where are they going to rush off and sacrifice at? If we’re going to think about the concerns and meet the texts today, we might instead want to ask ourselves: (1) how do we meet the Holy in daily life? (2) when do we prepare specially to encounter the Holy (and what do we do to prepare)? (3) what life experiences create a different way we may relate (whether for “thanks!” or “yahoo!” or “a little help here” or a "what the hey?!”) to the Holy?

 

Preparing for the sacred is a bit like preparing for the people you love and cherish and want to spend time with. In my everyday clothes, often a bit grimy and just as I am, I’m gladly surprised by the sacred most days, welcome as I would be to my grandmother’s kitchen (though I should wash my hands when I enter). But I also set aside times each day to nurture my sense of connection, to reflect on living my faithful promises, and to spend some time nourishing my heart, in the same careful way I would set my grandmother’s table with the everyday scarred dishes for something simple and nourishing. 

 

I also engage in communal worship, and for that my preparations are different, just like certain meals with friends and chosen family can be, where we pull out the reusable, special dishes and roll out our cooking skills for flavors we don’t make every day. For communal worship, I might wear different not-everyday clothes, or make sure I have used unscented everything so I can worship in community with folks with major fragrance sensitivities, and always preparing myself by studying the texts and songs appropriate for the occasion. 

 

And then there are the parties, the sad ones like funerals and other rites of loss or separation, and the exciting jubilant ones. On extra-special occasions, like weddings, namings, funerals, ordinations, installations, and other communal celebrations, my preparations will be longer, more elaborate, for these important times. Yours probably already are, too.

 

And when my illness flares and I can’t participate communally as easily or as often, I still prepare myself, trusting I belong to the Holy wherever I am, in whatever state of being I am experiencing.  Sometimes I’m in an elevated state of awe and reverence and I happen to have dirt under my nails. Sometimes I’m yearning for connection and love and belonging. But always, in attending to the sacred everyday and at special times, I prepare my heart for wonder, surprise, awe, reverence, and healing inclusive hope.