When I cut my skin, I am lacerating my body. When I cut you off from me, I am lacerating my soul

“You are children of Hashem, your G-d. You should neither cut yourselves nor make any baldness between your eyes, for the dead.” (Devarim 14:1)

T

he meaning of the Hebrew word “sisgodedu,” means to scrape off flesh. The Torah prohibits this behavior, as there must be limits to grief.

The Talmud in Yevamos 13b, however, adds a second meaning to this commandment. Here, the focus is on a different root of the word sisgodedu — agud, meaning groups. This commandment’s saying: Do not splinter yourself into separate groups; it’s a prohibition against the Jewish people becoming divided. (Rabbi YY Jacobson)

It was a perfect pool day. The sky was that incredible Israeli blue with a few scattered cotton candy clouds. The weather for once was enjoyable (it had been a crazy hot summer), and the afternoon air was pleasant with an energizing breeze. A few friends and I had rented an outdoor pool as an afternoon activity. We were just mommies chilling and celebrating having made it through another summer of sticky floors and endless laundry. School would be starting in another few days, and with it a return to structure and schedules, so we grabbed this window of opportunity for one more summer moment.

The Maharal points out a question. The Talmud and Midrash often present various interpretations for one biblical term or verse; but nowhere do we find two interpretations that are completely disconnected. Does the word sisgodedu relate to scraping the skin or not dividing a community? How do these two divergent instructions come together in a single word?

When we arrived, we were pleased to see that the pool was surrounded by lush greenery and boasted pretty umbrellas and beach chairs. Some of us wanted to do laps. Others just to hang out in the water, while a third group headed for the chairs, content to bask sleepily in the peace and quiet. The management had sent a lifeguard, a young teenage girl, with long black hair, dressed in a tank and cutoffs, with several facial piercings. She appeared completely disinterested in us, despite our attempts at saying hello, and just sprawled on her chair while communing with her phone. Time passed contentedly.

The truth is, that the two interpretations are not only not divergent, they’re actually one and the same. They both represent the same truth — one on a concrete, physical level, the other on a deeper, spiritual level.

The Torah prohibits us from cutting our skin as a sign of bereavement. Our bodies are sacred, precious, and holy; we must never harm them. Even difficult moments of grief don’t allow us to separate even a bit of skin from our sacred bodies.

But that is exactly what we are doing when we allow our people to become splintered. The entire Jewish nation is essentially one single organism. We may number 15 million people from different walks of life, profess extremely different opinions, and behave in seemingly opposite ways, but we’re essentially one “superorganism.” By cutting off a certain Jew from my life, or cutting off a certain Jewish community, I am in truth cutting off part of my own flesh.

When I cut my skin, I am lacerating my body. When I cut you off from me, I am lacerating my soul. Because our souls are one.

After a point, someone turned on music and an impromptu exercise group gathered in the shallow water, singing as well as splashing to Benny Freidman’s “Yesh Tikvah.” As I executed a quick box kick, I felt tension drain away; besides the regular demands of summertime, we’re always in the shadow of war, and one never really relaxes.

As the music switched to a new song, a circle began to form. “Hakadosh Baruch Hu! Ananchnu ohavim otcha!”

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with Klal Yisrael’s heavy yoke still uppermost in my mind. The women grabbed each other’s hands and the circle began moving faster as we all sang aloud.

Splash! Surprised, the circle paused a moment, as someone had jumped in and grabbed the hand of the nearest dancer. To our astonishment, our lifeguard, phone now abandoned, began twirling with the rest of us, long hair flying behind her, and yes, she knew the words, and she sang along as well. Together we swirled faster and faster, holding hands, as we sang the words loud and strong.

It was a perfect circle. I could only imagine what it must have looked like from Above.

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 908)