Parshios Tazria/Metzora deal almost exclusively with the laws pertaining to negaim, spiritual plagues, of which tzaraas is most prominent. These are physical manifestations which represent spiritual flaws in the character of the afflicted person. Thus, it begs elucidation that Parshas Tazria begins with the laws of tumas yoledes, the spiritual contamination of a woman who gives birth, followed by the exhortation to perform the bris milah on the eighth day of the infant’s life. How do bris milah and the laws of tzaraas align? Perhaps the laws surrounding bris milah and its underlying hashkafah, outlook, give us a glimpse into the character of the metzora and how a fine, upstanding Jew descends to the nadir of slander, disdain for his fellow Jew, due to his overactive superiority complex. The mere fact that Hashem visits plagues upon this person is, in and of itself, an indication of his spiritual self-worth. Hashem saw the downturn and subtly sent him a message to address the problem. He did not, and, as a result, he is suffering. How did it all start? Let us look at the laws surrounding bris milah to garner some idea.
Chazal teach that, while a male infant rests in his mother’s womb, he is able to see mi sof ha’olam v’ad sofo – from one end of the world to the other – and an angel teaches him the entire Torah. This is not a metaphoric description of prenatal spirituality. It is a statement about clarity. The child possesses an unclouded vision of reality, unencumbered by ego, desire, distraction or fear. Truth is transparent, and Torah is absorbed effortlessly, without resistance.
Just before the infant enters this world, Chazal relate that an angel strikes him just above his mouth, causing him to forget all the Torah he has learned. On the surface, this seems harsh. Why invest an entire soul with Torah knowledge, only to strip it away moments later?
The Michtav M’Eliyahu, citing the Alter of Slabodka, reframes the entire image. This is not a punitive strike. The angel does not erase the Torah; rather, the shock of transition itself accomplishes what the image of the strike is meant to convey. Leaving a pristine, elevated spiritual environment to enter a world saturated with coarseness, confusion and concealment is itself traumatic. The abrupt encounter with spiritual ambiguity is enough to cause forgetfulness. This insight teaches us that forgetfulness (with all its ramifications) is not imposed. It is not the angel; rather, it is a natural consequence of distancing oneself from the clarity of Torah and entering a world in which, at best, truth is concealed. Torah cannot remain fully conscious in a world/society that resists it. The mind can no longer access what it had learned in that prenatal, pristine environment.
We must add that, while the infant forgets the Torah that he has learned, the light resulting from it is not extinguished. The angel does not remove the light. It is concealed because the Torah which generated it has been forgotten. The light remains dormant – but alive – waiting to be reawakened.
One may ask what benefit emanates from light without its source. At the end of the day, the light is inaccessible. Light is our greatest source of hope. It enables us to navigate a world enveloped in spiritual darkness without surrendering to it. Even when the Torah is gone and its clarity is a thing of the past, the neshamah embedded in the infant remembers – perhaps instinctively – that, as a Jew, something higher exists, and he must strive to reach this plane. Knowledge can be lost; light cannot. It remains dormant until it is found once again. Light gives us the ability to sense the truth. It also explains why a Jew who is no longer connected with the Torah still retains discomfort in the presence of falsehood.
The loss the infant sustains upon entering the world is so real that the Rema writes that we visit the home of the newborn on the Friday night before his bris to comfort him over the Torah he has lost. This practice is notable. We are not consoling parents over sleepless nights or physical vulnerability. We are comforting a soul that has been displaced from clarity.
The Derishah adds that this idea explains why we perform the bris on the eighth day. The child must first experience seven days akin to a mourning period over his lost Torah. Only after this period of symbolic grief can he enter the covenant. Before he can be charged with rediscovering Torah, he must first come to terms – however unconsciously – with its absence.
A profound lesson may (should) be derived from here. Growth begins when one realizes that something is missing in his life. When we study Torah, we are seeking to reconcile and reunite with our prenatal roots. We sense that something precious is missing. One does not mourn that which he never had. He aches for what he has lost.
Thus, the human journey through life is one of recovery. Learning Torah is less about discovering something new and more about reconnecting with something we once knew intimately. Every dvar Torah, every insight, every time something in Torah is clarified, we sense a brief return to the halcyon prenatal moments when we were able to see clearly from one end of the world to the other.
The angel did not extinguish the light. He merely opened the door for the soul to come to grips with the reality that he must now learn to search for Torah – and appreciate every bit of its clarity. This is a lifelong search during which the light he garners through learning illuminates the darkness within.
Returning to our original question: What is the connection between bris milah and tzaraas? Bris milah teaches us that life is about growth through recovery. Unless one works at it, regardless of his past achievements, he will revert to the darkness. It is very much like one who is mired in quicksand. Unless he emerges completely, he sinks back in. The metzora was once a faithful, G-d-fearing Jew whom Hashem seeks to protect. However, one either goes up or goes down. He never stands still.
The metzora is a self-absorbed person, moving through life with an eye on satisfying his needs, while disregarding those of others. He views the society around him for the benefits they can provide him. If they do not serve his purpose, he has no need for them. Everything about him is obtuse – morally and even spiritually. Such a person lives enclosed in the bubble he has created for his own benefit. He will not grow, because he will not seek to reconnect. Hashem will visit him with reminders. As a result of his own smugness, however, he disregards them, because, after all, they could not be for him. He is perfect.
