Lost for Words |
The word Aveida, is used seldomly in the Torah, to describe what is to be done if someone comes across something that is lost. Perhaps most famously in Devarim 22:3;
וְכֵ֧ן תַּעֲשֶׂ֣ה לַחֲמֹר֗וֹ וְכֵ֣ן תַּעֲשֶׂה֮ לְשִׂמְלָתוֹ֒ וְכֵ֣ן תַּעֲשֶׂ֗ה לְכׇל־אֲבֵדַ֥ת אָחִ֛יךָ אֲשֶׁר־תֹּאבַ֥ד מִמֶּ֖נּוּ וּמְצָאתָ֑הּ לֹ֥א תוּכַ֖ל לְהִתְעַלֵּֽם׃
You shall do the same with their donkey; you shall do the same with their garment; and so too shall you do with anything that your fellow Israelite loses and you find: you must not remain indifferent.
Here, aveidah is relational. Something is lost, but not beyond recovery. The finder is summoned into responsibility. Loss becomes the beginning of connection.
However the more frequent association with this term is far more sinister. It occurs in this week’s portion of Emor. In conveying the restrictions that apply to Yom Kippur and the consequences of transgressing them, the verse, 23:30, stipulates;
וְכׇל־הַנֶּ֗פֶשׁ אֲשֶׁ֤ר תַּעֲשֶׂה֙ כׇּל־מְלָאכָ֔ה בְּעֶ֖צֶם הַיּ֣וֹם הַזֶּ֑ה וְהַֽאֲבַדְתִּ֛י אֶת־הַנֶּ֥פֶשׁ הַהִ֖וא מִקֶּ֥רֶב עַמָּֽהּ׃
and whoever does any work throughout that day, I will cause that person to perish from among the people.
This follows another harrowing verse that speaks of Karet, the punishment of being “cut off” from the people of Israel if one does not observe all of the laws pertaining to fasting and other rules of self denial.
The term may indeed still be ringing from both the stories of Purim and those told on Pesach.
וְנִשְׁל֨וֹחַ סְפָרִ֜ים בְּיַ֣ד הָרָצִים֮ אֶל־כׇּל־מְדִינ֣וֹת הַמֶּ֒לֶךְ֒ לְהַשְׁמִ֡יד לַהֲרֹ֣ג וּלְאַבֵּ֣ד אֶת־כׇּל־הַ֠יְּהוּדִ֠ים מִנַּ֨עַר וְעַד־זָקֵ֜ן טַ֤ף וְנָשִׁים֙ בְּי֣וֹם אֶחָ֔ד בִּשְׁלוֹשָׁ֥ה עָשָׂ֛ר לְחֹ֥דֶשׁ שְׁנֵים־עָשָׂ֖ר הוּא־חֹ֣דֶשׁ אֲדָ֑ר וּשְׁלָלָ֖ם לָבֽוֹז׃
Accordingly, written instructions were dispatched by couriers to all the king’s provinces to destroy, massacre, and exterminate all the Jews, young and old, children and women, on a single day, on the thirteenth day of the twelfth month—that is, the month of Adar—and to plunder their possessions.
And in the foundational story, used as the declaration made when bringing one’s first fruits to Jerusalem and told during our Seder
…אֲרַמִּי֙ אֹבֵ֣ד אָבִ֔י וַיֵּ֣רֶד מִצְרַ֔יְמָה וַיָּ֥גׇר שָׁ֖ם בִּמְתֵ֣י מְעָ֑ט וַֽיְהִי־שָׁ֕ם לְג֥וֹי גָּד֖וֹל עָצ֥וּם וָרָֽב׃
…“An Arami (Lavan) oppressed my father, who went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation…”
Why does the Torah collapse these meanings into a single root? What is the relationship between being lost and being destroyed? It would be comforting to read these verses as divine anguish, that “loss” reflects God’s grief over a child gone astray. But the textual tone resists such sentimentality.
Rashi quoting the Sifra explains that when the Torah states here והאבדתי, it teaches in respect of the term כרת that it implies nothing else than becoming lost. Lost rather than destroyed. A punishment is not being described rather a consequence. To be “cut off” (karet) is not simply to be expelled. It is to have already drifted beyond the boundaries that define belonging.
On Yom Kippur, the day that demands radical presence, self-denial, and communal alignment, one who insists on disengagement is not so much cast out as revealed to have already left. The Torah names this state with devastating precision,- loss.
The same word that obligates us to return a stranger’s lost object becomes the language that describes a person who has rendered themselves unreachable. In one context, we are commanded not to ignore loss. In the other, loss is what occurs when one has chosen to ignore.
The Torah, then, is not confused in its language, it is predictably extremely intentional. Community is capacious, but not formless. It thrives on multiplicity, but it is sustained by shared commitments. There are lines, not to exclude, but to define. To step beyond them is not merely to break a rule; it is to risk becoming disengaged, unmoored.
Perhaps the echo back to aveidah in its gentler sense still lingers. If loss once called forth responsibility, you must not remain indifferent, then even here, the question remains quietly alive: When someone is lost, who goes looking?
The Torah is not at a loss for words. Astonishingly and so pertinently in a portion titled Emor, – Say, speak up, no less. The double meaning of the very same term provides language and a framing that is both a warning and a charge; to build communities with clarity and courage, and to refute the indifference that allows loss to become final. Let us not lose that voice either.