Why being deaf is harder than being blind?

In memory of Sergeant Aviad Elchanan Volansky, of the 77th Battalion, who fell in operations against Hezbollah in Southern Lebanon. May his memory protect us. 

A few years ago, my father-in-law, a senior social worker, asked me, "Who do you think would feel more left out at a Shabbat table, a blind person or a deaf person?"

As a "foodie," the mere thought of having to stab aimlessly at meat, or vegetables, or slop up mashed potatoes, half of which would fall on my shirt, I naturally said, "a blind person." 

He said, "No. A deaf person would feel more left out. A deaf person would be able to see but without communicative faculties, and the ability to comprehend the dynamics and social exchanges taking place around him, would feel almost invisible, as if he had no place at the table." 

That idea, i.e. the centrality of the ears as the "window to the soul," is very much pronounced in the Parsha of Tzav. For, as part of the inauguration process, Moshe Rabbeinu needed to take the blood from Aharon and his sons' ram offering (the second of the two that were brought that day) and dab of that blood on their right ear. Aharon and his son were becoming consecrated, and Hashem, through Moshe Rabbeinu was teaching them how profoundly you can effect change in a person's life simply by listening to them. 

It is the very same request that Shlomo, the greatest of kings asks of Hashem, "May you bless me with a listening heart (Kings I, 1:9)."

It is the very ear that fails Eli when he cannot hear Hannah's prayers at the beginning of the Book of Shmuel, leading him to think she is sodden with alcohol. "To what extent will you come here in such a drunken state?" he asks her. "Do not come back if you are not sober (Samuel I, 1:14)!"

Eli, the Kohen Gadol, watched her lips but could not hear her, they made a sound, but it was inaudible. 

The ear, thus, is ever so central, and is what defines the Kohen more than anything else. For some reason, Kohanim have a reputation - I think baseless - of being quick to anger, but historically, and practically speaking, more than anything it's the helping ear, and the ability to "lend an ear," which defines the Kohen and exalts him above his fellow Israelites. The Kohen needs to be honored - there is a Torah commandment to that effect - because, by placing him first, giving him the choicest portion when dining, and the first blessing when the Torah is read, you pay homage to what he represents, i.e. one of the sons of Aharon, whose listening ear offset the goal-minded, executive, leadership role and functionality that Moshe Rabbeinu played.

The two needed to work in unison, and when the Maccabim, Beit Hashmonai or the Hasmonean Dynasty, who were Kohanim, usurped the role of kingship, reserved for the House of David, there was a breach of a clear demarcation meant to separate the two. 

One who needs to listen, be attuned to the particularistic and individualized need of each and every individual often can't be the same party who takes on national responsibilities, which, by their very nature, often mean trampling on the rights of individuals. Solomon the King needed to enslave his fellow Jews to build the Beit Hamikdash; a Kohen's job is to be there for each and every person at a time of need, using his ears - and less so, his eyes, to bring every Jew closer to Hashem. He may have been visually glorious, a dazzling breastplate with precious gemstones, a turquoise robe with pomegranate-shaped bells of turquoise, scarlet and purple yarn, and golden bells inside each and every pomegranate, along with a special, golden headplate that bore Hashem's name. It was the Kohen Gadol's ability to listen, though, to be attuned to the needs of his people, and pray for what they truly needed that distinguished him from his fellow Kohanim. The Kohen Gadol was the Kohen who could listen best. 

Eliyahu, who will visit us in a matter of days at the Seder night, was, our sages teach us, a Kohen (Baba Metzia 114). Hashem teaches him on Har Horev (Har Sinai) that it is the silence, the whisper of the poor, the infirm, the needy, the downtrodden, that defines him and his role, more than any bells and whistles or glorious miracle: 

“Come out,” He called, “and stand on the mountain before Me.” And lo, Hashem passed by. There was a great and mighty wind, splitting mountains and shattering rocks by Hashem’s power; but Hashem was not in the wind. After the wind—an earthquake; but Hashem was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake—fire; but Hashem was not in the fire. And after the fire—a soft murmuring sound."

It is not in the fire that Hashem brought down from heaven on Mount Carmel to lick up the altar, stones, wood, and burnt offering, nor is it what Nadav and Avihu sought by bringing a "foreign fire." Hashem's voice reverberates and echoes most powerfully when we listen sensitively to those who need us the most. At this time, as the holiday of Pesach approaches may we reach out to one person who needs us, who could use a pick-me-up, a gentle word, or a smile, or just a little bit of encouragement.