Even God Needs a Break
On The Normalcy of Quarantine in the Bible
And they shouted to Lot and said to him, “Where are the ones who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us, that we may be intimate with them.” So Lot went out to them to the entrance, shut the door behind him, and said, “I beg you, my friends, do not commit such a wrong.” (Genesis 19:5-6)
But the agents stretched out their hands and pulled Lot into the house with them, and shut the door. (Genesis 19:10)
But if it is a white discoloration on the skin of the body which does not appear to be deeper than the skin and the hair in it has not turned white, the priest shall isolate the affected person for seven days. (Leviticus 13:4)
If only you would shut My doors, and not kindle fire on My altar to no purpose! I take no pleasure in you—said the LORD of Hosts—and I will accept no offering from you. (Malachi 1:10)
The Hebrew verb for “to isolate” or “to quarantine” (hisigiro) comes from the word sagar, meaning “to shut.” The first time we see this verb in the Torah is in the story of Lot. Lot shuts the door on the violent mob, keeping himself enclosed. When the angels take refuge in his home they shut the door.
In parashat Tazria, the vector moves in the other direction—the person with the skin perturbation is isolated from the group, not to spare him, per se, but to spare the group. In normal parlance, the person is taken away out of fear of contagion. Or so it would seem. But the literary parallel to Lot suggests an alternative possibility. The quarantined person is like an angel running away from a hostile society.
In Tazria, we are given little context for how or why skin inflammations appear, but classical commentaries suggest them as punishment for lashon hara, gossip or negative speech. Psychologically, we might say that lashon hara is a symptom of a fragile ego that draws its sense of validation from putting others down, or simply from meddling in the affairs of other people. A fragile ego feels useless or worthless and asserts itself where no assertion is needed or wanted. By giving that ego time out, it has time to reflect on the sources of its shame and anxiety, and to recuperate before returning to society.
But on another reading, the fragile ego is a wounded ego. The wounded ego is itself a symptom of a society that has made it feel out of sorts, a pariah. Thus, the quarantine is not a punishment but a protection. Go and gather your self-understanding from the wilderness rather than from the camp. Go and learn that you are not the labels that society burdens you with. You do not need approval to be worthy of love. In this telling, the inflammation is not a critique on the person, but on the entire society. Much like a discolored rash on a house, the person with tzaraat is a kind of blemish on society, asking them, “How did you produce this?”
In both cases, the quarantine merely externalizes something that is already true. In reading 1, the need for the fragile ego to find a healthier basis for security. in reading 2, the need for the wounded ego to gain self-confidence and self-esteem. Society also benefits in both cases from the break.
In Malachi we find that God Godself goes into quarantine, or at least asks to be left alone. A society that persecutes God, so to say, needs to leave God alone, both for God’s sake (as it were) and for its own. God needs a break from the feeling of being used, as it were, treated transactionally as a miracle or religious experience dispenser. And society needs a break from its tendency of placing all of its attention on God while neglecting itself.
A skeptic may look at the ritual of tzaraat and see in it a classic example of “scapegoating,” in which the sins of the collective are visited on an individual. Why should this person be quarantined if it’s an ecological problem? But this perspective assumes that quarantine implies blame. If even God goes into quarantine, then the same activity can be read as both a form of exile and a form of release. In Lot’s case, shut doors invert our perspective on Leviticus: in a corrupt society, quarantine preserves the individual from capture by his surroundings.
In Rav Soloveitchik’s telling, the human being originates from two creation stories. In one, Adam is born alone. In the other, he is born alongside his partner. Quarantine can be evaluated through the perspective of two different Adams. In one, it is a return to the original condition of solitary man, while in the other it is a dislocation of his original sociality. Viewed with double vision, we see that shut doors can be both a haven and an ordeal.
Was Noah imprisoned in his ark, or was the world exiled for not being there with him? Do the flaming swords protecting us from re-entering Eden mark the doors that keep us out or the doors that keep us in? Perhaps it is the Garden of Eden that lies in Exile from us, not us from the Garden of Eden. In any case, this perspective taking is enabled by the treatment of the tzaraat. While there is no direct application of this Biblical law today—we lack a priestly class that can adjudicate on the phenomenon—we do find ourselves living through variations of aloneness and togetherness (and aloneness in togetherness). The Torah presents a mixed picture of social separation, with benefits and challenges. But regardless, it describes social separation as a temporary condition, a normal part of the rhythm of life. Even God, at times, needs a break.
Shabbat Shalom,
Zohar Atkins
P.S.—Here’s my latest poem, “Self-Portrait as a Sovereign.”