"Nothing so concentrates experience and clarifies the central conditions of living as serious illness."
-Arthur Kleinman
My grandfather treated Polio patients. My uncle treated AIDS patients. My brother treats COVID patients. Each was among the first of his colleagues to treat the sick on the "front lines." Each cared for his patients and reassured worried family members, taking calls at all hours. Each went to work, thoughtfully diagnosing patients and recommending courses of treatment.
Treating a person with a disease is the subject of this week's Torah portion. In Parashat M'tzora, we read about the ancient priests who served as diagnosticians for a skin disease known as tzara'at. The priests served as biblical dermatologists, assessing the skin condition and rendering a diagnosis and a treatment plan.
Rabbi Nancy Wiener, Founding Director of the Jacob and Hilda Blaustein Center for Pastoral Counseling at Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion, New York, teaches:
"In humans, tzara'at encompassed a variety of skin conditions (erroneously translated for many generations as leprosy); in buildings it was an invasive condition that could literally compromise and destroy the integrity of a building's structure. If tzara'at was suspected, consultation with an expert diagnostician was required. No individual could self-diagnose, nor could a concerned family member or friend make the diagnosis. The priest, the community's expert diagnostician, engaged in a close differential diagnosis, hence the need for the painstaking details in countless verses…"
What can we learn from those who diagnose? What are the spiritual lessons?
To start, Rabbi Wiener reminds us that we are not meant to self-diagnose. Just like the priest was required to diagnose tzara'at, so too, must we seek out skilled practitioners to treat our illness and resist the temptation to self-diagnose. There is a profound spiritual lesson right there. We are not meant to go through it alone. We can't see clearly without the perspective of others. We are not the center of the universe; our very health depends on being in relationship with others.
Next, accurate diagnosis offers a measure of clarity and helps chart an effective course of treatment. Just giving a name to the disease gives power to an individual. Clearly outlining a diagnosis is akin to outlining a halacha, a path forward that reveals a right way to live. What we do matters both when pursuing a course of healing and when pursuing a righteous life.
In my own family, each doctor helped to educate others. I have such high regard for my family members, my grandfather, my uncle and my brother, not simply because of their medical prowess, but because of their humane and generous care for all those in need. While they are medical doctors and I am a clergy person, we share a similar outlook as the ancient Priests: we are called to care for the whole person, mind, body and spirit.
I am reminded of a related story by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner.
True story of my first official task as the rabbi of my own congregation. It was over forty years ago and took me to a hospital. We had just moved into a two-bedroom apartment in Marlborough, Massachusetts. It must have been late July. I dutifully called the president to inform him of our arrival. He welcomed me and, in the course of our conversation, said that he had heard through the grapevine that a member of the congregation was in Massachusetts General Hospital. She was a young mother whom he heard was terminally ill. So I put on my rabbi suit (my only suit), drove into Boston, found MGH, and walked into the room. One of Boston's great physicians was just concluding a counseling session with her. He motioned kindly for me to take a chair and listen in. The woman said, "But how can I be a mother? I can't even get out of bed anymore?" But, to my astonishment, he only scolded her. "Is that what you have to do to be a mother?" he asked. "Is a mother just cooking and chauffeuring and playing?" "No, I guess not," she whispered. "A mother is supposed to love and teach." "So, nu*?" he replied. "Be a mother. Maybe you want to teach them about faith and about courage. Maybe you have an opportunity to love and to teach few mothers will ever understand." She wept. He wept. I wept. "Oh, thank you, doctor," she said. He kissed her, nodded to me, and left. I sat motionless, astonished, dumbfounded in the corner. Startled, she turned to me and said, "Who the hell are you?" The mark of a true rabbi/pastor? It's to stand with Moses before the sacred moments of life with those experiencing them, and to say, "Who the hell am I?" It's the ones who think they know we must avoid. (I'm God, You're Not, pp.6-7)
In our humility, we look to tradition. Judaism has hundreds of mitzvot, each of which has its own reward; but only a handful of them are singled out as limitless and having rewards that are also limitless. Not surprisingly, 'visiting the sick' is just such a mitzvah:
These are the obligations without measure, whose reward too is without measure:
To honor mother and father
To do acts of loving kindness
To arrive early for study, morning and evening
To welcome guests
To visit the sick (Morning Liturgy)
In each generation, there are diseases which have come to define our time. They have implications for the way we live our lives, parent our children, and care for aging parents. Only when we synthesize our physical selves and our spiritual selves, only when we look at our bodies and see not only muscles and bones, but holy vessels, only then can healing truly take place. Baruch ata Adonai, Blessed are You, Source of Compassion, who compels us to care for the sick in each generation.
