A commitment and dedication to seeing the holiness in others and respecting it

“And now, if you listen to My voice and keep My covenant… you shall be to Me a holy nation.” (Shemos 19:5–6)

Did Bnei Yisrael know there was a planned stop en route to Eretz Yisrael? Did they understand its purpose?

Yetzias Mitzrayim had two interrelated purposes, both of which were promised to Avraham Avinu: to end years of slavery and suffering, and to bring Bnei Yisrael to Eretz Yisrael. However, the stopover at Har Sinai was mentioned only generations later, to Moshe (Shemos 3:12). We cannot help but wonder if the Jews even knew it was on their itinerary. Couldn’t the emancipated slaves have proceeded directly to their final destination and received the Torah there? Was there some intrinsic reason to visit Har Sinai? (Rabbi Ari Kahn)

I was visiting my mother in Baltimore and needed to rent a car. I chose Enterprise, because they offered the service of home pickup to bring you to their office.

Sure enough, right on time, there was a knock on the door. I opened it to find a six-foot-four man, the keys to a Honda Civic in his hands.

“Hi, I’m James,” he said, chivalrously opening the car door for me with a smile. I commented how nice it was to be back in Baltimore, and prepared to chitchat as we headed to the office.

Har Sinai was “holy ground,” (see Shemos 3:5) and it was there that Moshe had received his “marching orders.” The Jews, too, would receive their “marching orders,” and become familiar with holiness, specifically at Har Sinai. While we cannot imagine Judaism without law, the choice of venue for the Revelation of this Law — the holiness of Sinai — was an integral element. If the Jewish People had illusions of being like every other nation, that belief was dispelled as soon as they received their instructions to be a holy nation. The Torah is not merely a set of laws aimed at regulating society’s proper functioning. The commandments are not exclusively concerned with serving G-d in the classic sense of ritual, prayer, or sacrifice. While some commandments center on service of G-d, others include honoring one’s parents and not coveting others’ possessions. In a radical departure from other belief systems, the Torah describes murder and theft as transgressions not only against one’s fellow man, but against G-d. The Torah proscribes these acts because we’re holy, and the G-d Who has designated us as holy demands this standard of behavior.

“So, can I ask you something?” James said directly, his tone warning me we were heading into sensitive territory. Growing up in Baltimore, I’ve been accustomed to such questions since my childhood,  but this question took me by surprise.

“So what’s with the strings?” he asked genially.

The strings? My mind frantically spun its own strings until I landed on his meaning. Tzitzis!

“So why do you guys wear those?” he continued.

I guess he hadn’t noticed I wasn’t wearing any.

My mind whirled. I’d been expecting something about Shabbos, kashrus, private schooling. But how do you explain tzitzis to a non-Jew?

As former slaves, the Jews might’ve anticipated that the laws they’d receive would promote a long-term educational plan of sensitivity, particularly to the disadvantaged, weaker elements of society. Yet the significance of receiving the Torah specifically at Sinai, a place of holiness, was to teach us that treating one another with decency is part of serving God, of emulating Him. This imparts a completely new, radical approach to human society. Sinai showed us that the key to Judaism isn’t secular humanism, but a commitment and dedication to seeing the holiness in others and respecting it. This had to be internalized before we entered Eretz Yisrael, so that we could live as a holy People in a holy Land.

“Well, the strings connect us, sort of like cables,” I started, hoping my words were more coherent than my thoughts. “By wearing them and seeing them, we’re connected to Heaven.”

I had a quick, vivid flashback of the small, simple dining room where Rav Scheinberg sat, covered with his many pair of tzitzis, and gently gave brachos to my children. “By putting on these strings,” I continued, bolstered by the image, “we’re reminding ourselves that everything we do, everything we wear and see all day, is a holy act, connecting us with G-d.”

We arrived at the Enterprise office, and I prepared to wind down. “In essence,” I said, “we are a nation with strings attached.”

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 830)