At its outset, today's Torah portion states that "The Lord spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai" and then commences a detailed exposition of the laws of the Shemittah--the seventh year, in which the land must lie fallow as testimony to God's exclusive ownership of all.
Since this is the conclusion of all the priestly rules for the conduct of Jewish worship in the biblical period, we would expect something a little more ethereal, a little grander and loftier as a summary to all that came before. After all, this is God's timeless message to the Jewish people. Is the most important part of that message really to leave our fields alone once in a while? That same question occurred to the rabbis of antiquity.
In the Midrash Sifra, an ancient commentary to the Book of Leviticus, the rabbis open by asking "what is the connection between Sinai and Shemittah?" After all, weren't all the commandments given at Sinai, not just this one. So why does Shemittah merit the honor of first mention? What's so special about Shemittah?
The Sifra responds to its own question by asserting that the juxtaposition of Shemittah here teaches that "all commandments originated at Sinai." Rashi and Ramban both concur with that judgment. But it is possible to go beyond that reading, to see something more essential in Shemittah that singles it out for this place of honor. After all, any other commandment could have demonstrated the same point, that all mitzvot originate in the meeting of God and the Jewish people, in the sacred dialogue that unfolded in the Torah and the Talmud and our own day as well.
So if any mitzvah could have demonstrated that point, what is so special about Shemittah? What is the unique link between Shemittah and Sinai, between a vacant field and a mountain? To respond to that question, we must first look at the function of the sabbatical year.
The Israelite farmer planted and worked the field in accordance with the practices of Judaism (for example, by leaving the corners of the field for the poor to glean, bringing tithes to Jerusalem). As idyllic as a people at home in their land might be, there was a danger as well.
Jews living freely on their own homeland could well begin to think of the land as theirs by right. It would be a small step to assert that since the land responds to human labor, it is ultimately a tool for humans to use as they see fit.
Once every seven years, the mitzvah of Shemittah, presents a reminder that we merely use the earth, but that ultimately the land is not ours, nor any other human's property. As individuals, we are able to borrow land, utensils, and material things, but must ultimately return them to the cycles of nature.
As a species, we are a part of that recurrent cycle, and thus are permanently linked to the limitations and rules imposed on the world. The Torah, through the institution of Shemittah, records God's sacred truth that "the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me.
Ramban clarifies that verse by paraphrasing it as "don't think that you are so essential." The world is not a play-thing for human beings, and the vast array of organic and living things serve a purpose higher that human whim. Together with humanity, the rest of the cosmos is a living, interlocking symphony to our Creator. We are the tenants, but God is the only baal ha-bayit.
Distracted by the brilliance of human achievement, and deafened by the clatter of our own insolent self-absorption, we can too easily forget that we are part of an order we neither made nor sustain. A little lower than the angels, yes, but still a long way from being masters of the universe. Human beings are trapped in an illusion that we hold ourselves or our species to be the measure of all things. Only by linking our own destiny to something transcendent, by joining our future to an eternal living force, by molding our deeds into a song of praise and gratitude, can human beings escape the despair of our own mortality and fallibility.
Focusing on our own needs and desires, we will always be disappointed in ourselves and the world. But if we lift our eyes to a higher vision, if we set our feet on a more tested path, then we can soar above our plight, as on eagles' wings.
In the words of the Sifra, it is enough for the servant to be like the Master." By making ourselves godly, we partake of God's fullness: "When it is God's, then it is ours."
Shabbat Shalom!