Have you ever heard a piece of music called Ravel’s Bolero? For those who have never heard it (and I recommend you do), this is a lengthy piece of music which starts quietly and builds up very slowly to a crescendo. If you are seeing this piece live, you might notice some interesting features. At the beginning of the piece, the spotlight is on the drummer, with the rest of the orchestra hidden in darkness. He starts the piece, by himself, tapping out a soft beat which continues steadily throughout the whole piece. In over 11 minutes, he just carries on playing the same, slow beat, while around him the music grows and changes.
The role the drummer plays in the orchestra is a strange one. He may not have the most glamorous part to play, and his job may not require the most talent. But he is absolutely crucial to this piece, and without him, the piece would be incomplete.
I have often thought that the Jewish people are comparable to an orchestra. No member of the orchestra has a more important job than anyone else, yet no member has the same job as another member. Each member, by himself, is insignificant, but as part of a magnificent whole he is essential. The Jewish People are comprised of millions of different parts, each Jew with different and unique talents, each trying to perform his unique mission, striving to do his best in his own way, within the framework of “the symphony”, the Torah.
And as in an orchestra, no one person is more important than another, despite occupying a seemingly “superior” role. Man and woman, Kohen, Levi and Yisroel, Rabbi and layman, and every individual in each category, each has a unique and crucial role to play in the whole picture, and none could be said to be playing a more important role than another.
Perhaps this can explain something puzzling in this week’s Parshah. Yaakov, on his deathbed, calls in his children to give them his final guiding words. Each son, destined to be the patriarch of one of the 12 Tribes of Israel, is spoken to, and informed prophetically by Yaakov his essence and the essence of his tribe. However, this is done in the presence of all the other sons; they are all present in the room as Yaakov addresses each one personally. Surely it would have made much more sense to call them in, one by one, and speak to them individually, rather than let the other sons hear words directed at one particular son?
The answer, offered by Rabbi Yaakov Kaminetsky, is profound and inspiring. Each son had to hear the different role prescribed to the other, because he had to understand that the others don’t need to be exactly like him. There are different roles to play, and it’s fine for someone else to be different from himself. The intention was that after hearing this, they wouldn’t challenge a different tribe, performing his duties in a different way. They would all understand that, as the Talmud puts it, “Both this way and that way are the words of the Living G-d”.
The apocryphal story is told of how G-d decided that the time had come to send the Moshiach. So he sent him, dressed as a Chasidic Jew, to a group of modern-Orthodox Jews. They were offended; Moshiach surely wouldn’t come in the 21st century, wearing clothes like that! So Moshiach changed his clothes, put on a small suede Kippa, jeans and designer shirt, and came to a group of Chareidi Jews in Jerusalem. They were shocked: Moshiach without a hat! So Moshiach put on a black hat, and bought a smart suit, and came to a group of Sephardi Jews. They didn’t pay him any attention; obviously Moshiach wouldn’t be an Ashkenazi Jew! And Moshiach went back to G-d, and said “Your people are obviously not yet ready for me…”
May we all come to love every Jew and realise the beauty and power of diversity in unity.
Good Shabbos,
Dovi