[13] Now these you are to hold-detestable from birds—they are not to be eaten, they are detestable-things: the eagle, the bearded-vulture and the black-vulture, [14] the kite and the falcon after its kind, [15] every [sort of] raven after its kind; [16] the desert owl, the screech owl and the sea gull, and the falcon after its kind; [17] the little-owl, the cormorant, and the great owl; [18] the barn-owl, the pelican, and the Egyptian-vulture; [19] the stork [chasidah], the heron after to its kind, the hoopoe and the bat. (Leviticus 11:13-19)
These seven verses list 24 species of bird[1] that we must not eat, because they’re sheketz ‘detestable’. So I was intrigued to learn that the 18th century spiritual master and renowned healer, the Baal Shem Tov[2] “learned all the names for all the remedies in each of the 70 languages from [these verses] enumerating the 24 … birds”.[3] How could the names of ‘detestable’ birds become a path to healing?
The first clue is that the writers of Leviticus didn’t simply refer to these birds as tamei ‘ritually impure’, but chose the word sheketz. Sheketz can imply that something is morally repugnant. By the way, it makes no sense to me to place moral judgements on the behaviour of birds and animals, who are, after all, simply following their nature. But many indigenous traditions across the world tell allegorical folktales about animals in order to pass on cultural values and morals, and I choose to read our tradition’s commentaries in that spirit.
So – picking up on a Talmudic teaching,[4] the 13th century Nachmanides[5] taught that these particular birds are notable for their claws, which they use to tear and eat their still-living prey; he wrote that eating such a bird would make our own heart cruel. Half a century later, Rabbi Bachya ben Asher[6] commented on “how much God hates the negative virtues displayed by birds of prey. This is why very often the prophets compared evil and cruel people to certain categories of birds of prey”.[7] Our first lesson, then, is to consider how our words and actions might—even unintentionally—be cruel. Maybe someone feels the sharpness of our reactivity. Do they feel picked at, or, worse still, even pulled apart by us? Maybe our actions, or non-action, are harmful on a much larger scale. What are we doing—or not doing—that makes this a crueller world? Who will support the Trans Protest march tomorrow in Oxford, for example?
There’s a bird mentioned in this list that seems to be an odd one out: the stork. The Talmud explains that this is “called chasidah, because it performs charity [chasidut] for its fellows, giving from its own food”.[8] Surely that’s a virtue? Then why is the stork listed with the other forbidden birds? After all, Maimonides[9], in ‘Laws on Gifts to the Poor’, taught that we must look after our own first:
“A poor person who is a relative takes precedence over anyone else. The poor of one’s household take precedence over the poor of one’s city. The poor of one’s city take precedence over the poor of another city, as it is said, ‘Open your hand to the poor and needy kinsman in your land.’ (Deut. 15:11)” (my emphasis)
I definitely sympathise with Maimonides; after all, if I am not for my own family, friends, community, and people, who am I? But the 19th century Chasid, Chidushei HaRim, saw a problem in the stork’s behaviour: “The chasidah’s generosity is limited to its own circle of friends, to the exclusion of others. Such partisan kindness is not what the Torah wishes us to practice.”[10] So if our bird-text’s first lesson was about cruelty, our second lesson is about kindness, and who we choose to extend it to. We’re not meant to use our claws to hold onto everything for ourselves and those closest to us.
At the start of the 20th century, Rav Kook, the first Ashkenazi Chief Rabbi of Jerusalem, reversed Maimonides’ guidance. Kook wrote: “Love should fill one’s heart for everything and everyone. The love for all creations in their entirety comes first. After this, love for all humanity. And then the love for the Jewish people.”[11] For me, this perspective mirrors God’s order of love as Creator first the world and its creatures, then humanity, and only much, much later, the Jewish people. I find that very challenging. Are we to love everyone, indiscriminately? Is that reasonable, or realistic? And yet, if we don’t extend love to everyone, without playing favourites, then can we truly be said to “love God with all our hearts”?[12] To love with this degree of openness and inclusivity is a command, and possibly an aspiration.
The command to love doesn’t come with a ‘how to’ guide, but I think the Baal Shem Tov was on to something when he saw possible remedies in this Torah ruling about non-kosher birds (dare I call it ‘The Birds Clause’?). Peace and kindness begin within ourselves. We can soften our hearts, work on our grasping natures, broaden our circle of generosity. What might that look like in practice? As a start, it could mean doing a kindness for someone who is not so obviously near to our hearts, someone just outside our normal zone of easy give-and-take. It could be a random act of kindness for a stranger. Or to stretch our hearts a little, we could extend ourselves—just a little at first—for someone who has irritated or inconvenienced us, for someone we find just a little difficult, or for someone we might feel like avoiding. In time, perhaps we can be thoughtful and compassionate towards someone whose outlook or actions we actively object to, or put people in harm’s way. As Tirza Firestone says in her book ‘Wounds Into Wisdom: healing intergenerational Jewish trauma’:
“when we distance ourselves from those who are unlike us, when we make them faceless objects of our distrust and fear, we are only one step away from denying their humanity. And so the cycle of violence and trauma is set in motion once again.”[13]
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Advanced compassion, and peacebuilding, take training and work. The first step is to put our claws away, and find a friendlier, more open-minded, open-hearted way of responding in our own hearts and minds. And practice makes … better.
Footnotes
[1] Many commentaries refer to 24 birds in these seven verses, although only 20 flying creatures are named. Chullin 63a resolves the problem, explaining that the phrase ‘and of its kind’ comes 4 times in this passage.
[2] Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer, ‘The Besht’ (1700-1760)
[3] “It was said of the Baal Shem Tov that he learned all the names for all the remedies in each of the seventy languages from the Biblical section enumerating the twenty-four impure [tamei] birds (Leviticus 11:13-21). I seem to remember that the Rebbe also said this of the Baal Shem Tov.” Chayei Moharan 557:1 (Biography of Reb Nachman, the Besht’s great-grandson, by his student Reb Natan)
[6] ‘Rabbeinu Bachya’ (1255–1340)
[7] Rabbeinu Bachya on Lev 11:13
[9] Moses ben Maimon (1138–1204), Laws on Gifts to the Poor 7:13
[10] “The Chidushei HaRim (19th century founder of the Ger Chassidim, and my cousin’s great-great grandfather) explains: The chasida’s generosity is limited to its own circle of friends, to the exclusion of others. Such partisan kindness is not what the Torah wishes us to practice. Hence, the chasida bird is non-kosher.” Rabbi Shraga Simmons, ‘Acts of Human Kindness’
[11] Rav Avraham Kook (1865–1935), ‘Universal Love’, trans. Burt Jacobson, Agada Magazine, II:3, Winter, (1984) 27-30
[13] Tirza Firestone (2019) Wounds Into Wisdom: healing intergenerational Jewish trauma, Monkfish, 15, 105