I apologize for the length of this post. Feel free to split it up into two or three reads.
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Why do we take three steps back and then three steps forward before praying the silent ‘amida’ prayer?
There are a number of answers to this question, such as: This ‘coreography’ is to remind us of the actions of b’nai Yisrael just prior to receiving the Torah at Mount Sinai. There, the entire nation steps back — some say to the distance of three miles — to express their awe and fear of God and the mountain from which the Torah will be revealed. Next, inspite of this fear, the nation is encouraged to approach the mountain nevertheless; if they truly want the Torah, they must actively accept it, which is symbolized by approaching it. Another suggestion: When a Jew prays, he is instinctively aware of all his flaws, and he realizes he has no right to stand in front of God. He thus recoils from standing so close. But then God does a hesed — an act of kindness — and encourages the Jew to approach him. As if to say: “Even though you are unworthy, I grant you permission to have an intimate conversation with me anyway.”
Another less symbolic reason is also offered: When one prays he is on a mission — or at least he should feel that he is on a mission. And one of the best ways to express such purposefull action is to step forward.
The only problem with this explanation is the first half of the custom. Yes, it explains well why we take three steps forward. But why the three steps backwards first?
To answer this question, let us consider another question. One of the most important parshiot we read in Synagogue is the parsha entitled Kedoshim. It begins “Kedoshim Tiyihu” or “You Shall be Holy.” As one might imagine, contained within this parsha is a great number of commandments that emphasize holiness, with ‘holiness’ being that aspect of Jewish life that separates us from our animal nature and elevates us towards the Divine.
[One of the best ways to understand this definition of holiness appears in the first book of the Torah, Genesis, when the text -- in the name of God -- says "Let us make man." All the commentators ask why is the plural used -- why does God say 'us' -- since there is only one God and such language suggests a duality Judaism does not condone. One answer suggested is that the 'us' being referred to are the animals, that God is speaking to the animals and saying "Let us -- you the animals, and Me, the Divine, create a new creature called man. This new creation will have both of us within him; he will have animal traits as well as Godly traits." Holiness is when this new creation either overcomes -- or better, transforms -- the animal traits within him to aspire to the Divine within him. It is for this reason there are many laws that relate to matters with which humanity shares with animals, for it is here that we must make the biggest distinction. For example: There are many laws that have to do with how we eat. Since eating could be simply an animal instinct, Judaism insists we elevate it -- with blessings, with ceremonies, with what and when we can eat, etc. -- to insure we elevate ourselves as well.]
Back to the parsha. So yes, there are a lot of laws that have to do with holiness. But there are also a lot of laws that are not related to holiness, but rather relate to ethics, to how humans relate to one another. Now ethics, of course, are not contradictory to matters of holiness; but nor are they identical. Holiness has to do with how we relate to God — and very often involve ritual laws — while ethical laws, though certainly not opposed to forging a relationship with God, are primarily concerned with improving our relations with other people.
So why does a parsha called “Holiness” that begins with the command “To be holy” have so many ethical commands contained within it?
Part of the answer perhaps can be found in the below youtube clip. If you choose to watch it — and I should warn you that its very graphic, so don’t feel obligated to do so — you will see how a male lion lives.
It is not always pleasant. For although he is ‘king of the jungle’ he also has a pretty hard life. As a young lion, he is kicked out of his pride and must become a nomad. But since male lions are not the best of hunters — usually it’s the women who do the heavy lifting here – they very often will starve unless they join another pride. Other prides, however, are not necessarily so welcoming. What often transpires, then, is a battle between the nomadic lions and the male lions in the pride; often, these fights are to the death. If the nomad succeeds, he becomes the new master of the pride; if he fails, he must search for another pride to take over, and once again risk starvation until he succeeds.
And then comes the worst of all things. If the new lion succeeds in ousting the old lion, he will instantly want to father children with the females of his new pride. To bring them into heat, he does the unthinkable. He kills all the young lions in his new pride.
Upon watching this clip you may become disturbed, as I was, for a number of reasons. First, doesn’t it seem so wasteful. Here are lions, the kings of the jungle, with no natural enemies. They’re at the top of the food chain. Yet, they still must live violent lives frought with danger – not because of threats from the outside, but from themselves. They are their own worst enemies.
A second reason for my discomfort is the parallel between these lions and human beings. We, of course, are different … but are we. We, too, are at the top of the food chain. We need not worry about any other species attacking us. Nevertheless, we still must confront violence and suffering, war and terrorism. Like the lions, we too are our own worst enemies — indeed, our only enemies.
But there is a major difference between lions and humans — and this difference is crucial. The lion’s behavior, though abhorrent, is not condemned. It’s part of his nature. He kills not to be cruel, but because that’s how he was programmed. We, therefore, do not speak of immoral behavior vis-a-vis the lion, despite the fact that it appears cruel and gruesome. Animals do not act ethically or unethically; they simply do what they do.
Humans, however, are to be held accountable. When someone murders, we think that’s terrible. We don’t excuse the person and say it’s part of his nature. Even when some of the motivation might be part of his nature. Selfishness is programmed in to us; so too is agressiveness; so too is ego and arrogance.
Nevertheless, because a person is not an animal, because we expect him to overcome his natural animalistic instincts, we do hold him responsible. We insist that he act ethically.
Now I believe we have an answer to our question of why this parsha called ‘holiness’ also contains so many ethical imperatives. Ethics, after all, only makes sense because a person is not an animal. If he were an animal alone — if he were like the lion — well then we don’t expect him to overcome anything and behave better. Therefore, if we want to promote ethics — if we even want to talk about ethics in any meaningful way — well, then, we must first insure that a person knows they are not an animal. And Judaism’s way of doing this is to instruct a person how to become holy. After all, the holier he becomes, the closer he draws to the Divine side within him, and further he learns to control the animal instincts within him.
The reason why ethical commandments appear in the same parsha as the holiness commandments is thus quite simple to understand. They only make sense as independent constructs when we learn about them together. Without holiness — without realizing we are not animals alone — ethics are irrelevant.
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Now lest one think I learn all my Torah from YouTube, here’s a beautiful insight from the Sachochover Rebbe that seems to make the same point.
He begins his exploration of the parsha by quoting a midrash that says Parshat Kedoshim is so important that everyone is gathered together in order to hear it. And why is it so important? Because contained within the many commandments of this parsha are all of the ten commandments — not the actual ten commandments, but references to each of them.
For example, the first verses of Parshat Kedoshim speak of the commandment to be holy, because “I am the Lord your God” and “I am holy.” This same phrase, of course, appears in the beginning of the ten commandments as well: “I am the Lord your God (that took you out of the land of Egypt).”
One problem says the Sachochover: Yes, the phrase is identical — “I am the Lord your God” – but the context is totally different. With regards to the ten commandments, the Torah is talking about God’s ability to take the Jews out of Egypt and grant them freedom. With regards to the phrase in Kedoshim, it’s talking about holiness, not the exodus.
Not a problem.
The Sachochover proceeds to share with us an amazing midrash. The evil Nebuchadnezer once threw three Jews into a fiery furnace. An angel approaches God and says let’s put out the fire with hail and water and thereby save their lives. Another angel, Gabriel, says no; let’s not use hail and water because that’s too obvious. That’s the normal way of putting out a fire. Let’s do something more radical. Let’s change the nature of fire. Rather than have fire burn, make fire not burn. Let it continue to surround these Jews, but let it have no effect on them. This way, You – God – will have performed a miracle within a miracle.
Why the need for the miracle within the miracle? Wouldn’t the miracle of having hail appear be sufficient?
The Sachochover says no, comparing the situation to a fight between two men. Eventually, one of the men wins the fight. So we say he’s a little bit stronger; maybe even a lot stronger. That’s what it would be like if God sent down hail. God is stronger than nature; he can put out the fire with water.
But that’s not the reality. God is not ‘a little stronger’ than nature. God is completely different than nature. God created nature; God controls nature. Fire is only hot because God says so. To teach this lesson, then, Gabriel says it’s not enough simply to put the fire out with water. That just shows God is stronger than nature. To totally change nature, however, that’s a different story.
Now let’s return to the Sachochover’s initial question. How can we say the two “I am the Lord your God” quotes are parallel?
The answer: The first phrase, the one in Exodus that talks about God taking the Jews out of Egypt, is all about God controlling nature. God changes nature with the plagues. God changes nature by splitting the Red Sea. God controls nature by sending down the Manna from heaven.
And what about the second time the phrase appears, this time referring to the commandment of being holy. Remember the full phrase: We are told to be holy because God is holy. We are to emulate God’s actions. And what are God’s actions, God’s acts of holiness? We just said — they are acts in which God controls nature. We, therefore, are obligated to do the same, but rather than control nature in the way God did — like splitting a sea — we simply have to control OUR nature. Yes, we have certain instincts and inclinations. Sometimes those may be good. Sometimes, though, they might not be. How are we holy like God? By overcoming these natural tendencies, by controlling OUR nature, by separating ourselves from the animal instincts within us.
Sound familiar? Again we see that holiness is about separating ourselves from the animalistic; and again we see the positive ethical result. God separates from Nature in order to create the exodus, the most important liberation story of all times. We separate from Nature in order to make room for all the ethical commandes of this parsha — like love your neighbor, do not take revenge or bear a grudge, leave the corners of your field for the widow and orphan.
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Now let us return to our initial question — which I realize was quite some time ago, so it perhaps bears repeating: Why do we take the three steps back if the reason why we take three steps forward is to symbolize the purposeful way we are meant to approach the task of prayer?
The Ben Ish Chai says as follows: When you take three steps back you turn your head to the side to see the people behind you. This is crucial. For it is quite possible when one approaches prayer, he will assume the task at hand is strictly personal. I’m praying to God, and that’s it. By taking three steps back, one realizes that he is not alone in this mission. He is part of a community, and the task at hand, the mission of praying to God — of praising God, thanking God and asking for God’s aid — is a communal mission.
Here, again, we see the link between that which is holy and that which is ethical. Prayer is a ritual that clearly is connected to holiness, about a desire to draw close to God. But wait, it cannot exist in a vaccuum. This holy act only makes sense when it is also connected to relating to others — the ethical. And vice versa. Thinking about engagement of the ethical — the forging of positive relations with others — only makes sense once we make ourselves holy.
