Lives of Service: Ancient and Modern

April 4th: Vaykra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Book of Leviticus (in Hebrew, Vayikra) seems to be a handbook for the Kohanim, the Priests. In fact, the Greek name, Leviticus, comes from the Hebrew for the Levites, the priestly tribe whose members have the responsibility of maintaining the holy Tabernacle and conducting the worship rituals.  

Tradition holds that the Kohanim, Aaron and his sons and male descendants, were the officiants at worship for both the Tabernacle (Tent Temple) and later the Temple in Jerusalem. The rest of the Tribe of Levi assisted them, chanting psalms, taking care of the sacrificial animals and foodstuffs before they were sacrificed, and carrying the (already wrapped up!) holy vessels when the Israelites moved from place to place. This is the traditional view, and it is reflected in the three categories of Jews and the order in which they are called up for Aliyot to the Torah: Kohanim first, Levi’im second, and Yisra’el (regular Israelites) third. 

However, the actual Torah text is not so clear. Some passages speak of the entire Tribe of Levi officiating at religious rituals, while other passages specify that only a subset of the Levites, the Sons of Aaron, officiate. Then there are questions about whether all sacrifices have to be performed by priests. Some passages suggest that individual Hebrews offered sacrifices for family worship settings—and only traveled to the Tabernacle for some holy days. Many modern scholars believe that these discrepancies/differences reflect an evolving religious culture and developing law—and some ancient give-and-take on how God is to be worshipped properly and who should be in charge. 

In any event, the priests seem to be in a privileged position. They get to be the important ones in worship, they wear special and exalted clothing, and they get some of the foodstuffs the Israelites bring to worship the Lord. They have status and sacred power—and are often the experts the people consult for medical, legal, moral, and ritual matters.  

However, privilege can often be a burden. First, while the Priests got to eat part of the sacrificial meals, they were dependent on the donations of the Israelite worshippers. There are passages in the Talmud reflecting how hungry they could be, waiting for the donated food to be cooked and available. Second, in order to work—and get that food, they had to maintain a state of ritual purity. This was not a matter of hygiene but a very strict separation from all kinds of de-purifying situations that crop up in daily life. And they were not allowed to marry divorcees. Third, the priests were not given a territory like the other tribes, and they were not able to raise crops and livestock. They were dependent. Fourth, as the population increased and the number of Kohanim increased, there was not enough Temple work for everyone. The Talmud describes families of Priests traveling to Jerusalem for six week “shifts” that only came a time or two during the year. Perhaps all hands were on deck for big holy days with lots of worshippers, but, other than the High Priest and his immediate family, the Priesthood was not a full-time job, and the Kohanim had to provide for their families in other, non-sacred ways.  

In other words, rather than seeing the Kohanim and perhaps Levites as high-status aristocrats, perhaps they are better understood as public servants. 

This is the point of Rabbi Jessica Kirschner in her recent Ten Minutes of Torah essay for ReformJudaism.org (or URJ.org). Clearly thinking about modern civil servants who are lately being vilified in some quarters, she speaks of the dedication and professionalism of the Israelites who crafted and assembled the Tabernacle. That was for last week. This week, we need to continue our appreciation and add the Priests and Levites who took what the Israelites prepared and offered and then made the holy system work. Their work was challenging and often quite dirty (slaughtering and butchering sacrificial animals), and yet it was crucial for the relationship of all Israel to God. Their diligence and efforts deserve our appreciation.  

This brings me to a personal mea culpa moment. Years ago, I heard a local politician being criticized as a “career politician,” and I nodded my head in agreement. He had served in the state legislature for many years and was now seeking local elective office as a township supervisor. “Get a real job,” the critique seemed to say, and, I am embarrassed to say, I agreed.  

A few years later, I ran into an old college friend, one whose brother had become a nationally known politician. In speaking of her brother’s fame, success, and eventual electoral defeat, she revealed a poignant insight from his experience. Though he was well-schooled in the rough and tumble of politics—and could “take a punch,” his feelings had really been hurt when an opponent criticized him for being a “career politician.” Politics had turned out to be his career, but he saw his role in terms of public service. He had started out on the local level and found that he was able to contribute to and improve his community. Then he ran for higher office and again found success and a sense of purpose. As he advanced to higher and higher offices, he continued this form of Tikkun Olam and eventually served with great distinction in Washington. Yes, he had been at it a long time, but his “career” had been for the purpose of public service. He had not pursued the work for personal aggrandizement and had eschewed more lucrative or less demanding professional opportunities in order to serve his community and nation. He understood the rough nature of political rhetoric, but it still hurt him that someone would not acknowledge his public service, his big-hearted and enthusiastic efforts and sacrifices for the common good. 

When I heard this story from my friend, I realized that I had fallen into a conceptual trap. Yes, the local “career politician” had spent a long time in elected office, but he was not running a swindle. He kept at it because he cared about his community and kept finding success in the legislative and election processes. In fact, after retiring from public life, he continues as a volunteer, building a better community and a better tomorrow. He is a good and generous man, and, even if one disagrees with some of his opinions, the generosity of his spirit and his efforts for the common good should never be disparaged. 

Fortunately, I never spoke aloud my agreement with the unfair criticism, but I regret (and repent) that logical and moral lapse. So, every time I see this local public servant, I squeeze his hand a little firmer in appreciation. Those who devote themselves to public service deserve our respect and appreciation. Like the ancient Priests, it is not their status or position or titles which distinguish them. It is their work and the energy they bring on our behalf.

More on the "Dolphin Skins"

March 28th: Pekude
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of my favorite Midrashim seeks to explain how some desert-dwelling, escaped slaves have in their possession dolphin skins—something God requests for the crafting and construction of the Tabernacle. The Hebrew term is orot techashim, and it is included in the original list of materials in Exodus 25 as well as the stories of the Mishkan’s construction. This week, we read it in Exodus 39.32ff:
“Thus was completed all the work of the Tabernacle of the Tent of Meeting. The Israelites did so; just as the Lord had commanded Moses, so they did. Then they brought the Tabernacle to Moses, with the Tent and all its furnishings: its clasps, its planks, its bars, its posts, and its sockets; the covering of tanned ram skins, the covering of orot techashim/dolphin skins, and the curtain for the screen, the Ark of the Covenant and its poles, and the cover…”  

In this Midrash, written by Rabbi Marc Gellman, we learn that the skins come from dolphins who are involved in the Crossing of the Red Sea. As Rabbi Gellman imagines it, the hallway of dry land in the midst of the waters is not only amazing and confusing for the Hebrews, but it is also something the fish have never encountered. Not understanding about the water ending in a wall, many fish swim right out into the air and fall to the ground, helpless and drowning. Some wise and helpful dolphins see the plight of their fish friends and start patrolling the walls of water and warning the fish away. Then, when the Egyptians pursue the Israelites into the Red Sea and get close, the dolphins flick their tales and knock water onto the dry ground—changing it into mud and slowing the Egyptian chariots. These kindly dolphins are so busy warning the fish and flicking water to stop the Egyptians that, when the waters of the Red Sea return to their normal state, some of them fall onto the spears of the Egyptians and are killed. When God sees the bodies of these brave dolphins on the shore of the sea, the Israelites are commanded to gather them, prepare their skins, and sew them together to make a tent cover for the Mishkan, the Tent Temple. As Moses explains, “Let this tent of dolphin skins remind us that we did not leave Egypt and become a free people without a lot of help.”
(Rabbi Gellman’s Midrash may be found at ReformJudaism.org. Search for “Dolphins Skins?”) 

This Midrash was first published in the 1980s, and its dating is significant and a commentary on Biblical translation. As you know, the Bible was almost all written in Hebrew (parts of Ezra and Daniel being Aramaic), but, as time went on and non-Hebrew readers wanted to know the Bible, God’s Word was translated into Aramaic, Greek, Latin, and many other languages. Translating can be a challenging process, especially as the years between the original text/context and the translation increase. Words and connotations change. Plant and animal species change or go extinct. Colloquial terms change as time goes by or people move from region to region. Though the stories and rules remain the same, details get harder and harder to translate with confidence. 

Such is the situation with “orot techashim”—a Hebrew term translated differently in various versions of the Bible.
The King James Version (1611) renders the term as badgers’ skins.
The 1917 Jewish Publication Society Version renders it sealskins.
The Revised Standard Version (1952) says it means goatskins.
The (Catholic) Jerusalem Bible (1966) translates orot techashim as fine leather.
The translation dolphin skins does not appear until the 1962 Jewish Publication Society “New Translation.”  

The first JPS Bible translation (1917) had continued the Elizabethan English of the King James Version but adjusted the translation to both (1) reflect Jewish understandings of the text, and (2) remove the KJV’s Christian biases. However, with the major archeological and textual finds of the 19th and 20th Centuries—as well as a desire to render the Holy Scriptures in modern (non-Elizabethan!) language, the Society mounted in 1955 a new Jewish translation, and presented it in three volumes: The Torah in 1962, The Prophets in 1978, and The Writings in 1982. The relevance for our discussion is that this new 1962 Jewish translation was a sensation in the Jewish world and would have been studied by Rabbi Gellman when he was in university and later the Hebrew Union College. So, whereas previous students of the Torah had considered badgers’ skins, goatskins, or fine leather, now Torah readers found themselves considering this new translation’s rendering of orot techashim as dolphin skins. I was not privy to Rabbi Gellman’s creative process, but one can imagine him thinking about these hides and what we know about dolphins being intelligent and friendly to humans—and the nearest source for such sea creatures. What emerged is a spiritual and social justice “backstory” that gives new meaning to the ancient list of building materials. Rabbi Gelman’s Midrashic vision takes that tent covering and uses it to teach us about selflessness, sacrifice, and appreciation. 

Meanwhile, there are other Midrashim and commentaries exploring this question, and some of them were taught by Rabbi Seth Goren in his recent Ten Minutes of Torah essay for the Union of Reform Judaism (urj.org or ReformJudaism.org). What exactly were the orot techashim? Some modern researchers think that the term refers not to a species but rather to a technique of preparing leather—thus leading to translations of “tanned leather” in Rabbi Everett Fox’s 1995 Torah translation or “fine leather” in the 1983 Birnbaum Chumash. Some Talmudic Rabbis (Shabbat 28b), however, teach that the tachash is a special creature that only existed in Biblical times. Some say that it had a single horn on its forehead and that it voluntarily presented itself to Moses. One Targum (an early Aramaic translation of the Bible) holds that the tachash was multi-colored and took pride in its rainbow-like appearance. The RAMBAN (Rabbi Moses Nachmanides) suggests that the tachash's skin was waterproof and used to protect the Tabernacle from rain. Other commentators write of its immense size—that it had enough skin so that the Israelite artisans could make curtains thirty cubits long! Many modern commentators are convinced that the tachash was a sea creature—leading to translations like dolphins, seals, duogongs, manatees, or sea cows. So, if it were a sea-creature with a single horn, perhaps the nachash was something like the modern narwhal.

It is an unsolved Biblical mystery that leads to all kinds of speculations and possibilities. But what is not a mystery is how the people take from what they have and construct a place of holiness and purposeful gathering. They invite God to dwell in their midst, and they seek to live in holiness.

Voting for a Better Zionism

March 21st: Vayakhel and Para
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

“Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them: ‘These are the things that the Lord commands…” (Exodus 35.1) The Lord commands, and Moses organizes: if we are to make the world habitable for God’s Presence, there is a lot of work to do. We need to gather together and get busy. 

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the upcoming World Zionist Congress—a modern day convoking of the Jewish people—and the importance of voting for delegates to the Congress. This is the continuation of the gathering called by Theodore Herzl almost 130 years ago in Basel, Switzerland. It was there that the World Zionist Organization—the Zionist movement – was founded. The Zionist movement, of course, led to the creation of Medinat Yisrael, The State of Israel, and the WZO continues as a non-governmental organization that is a major player in Jewish life in Israel and the rest of the world. In Israel, the WZO operates as the Sochnut, The Jewish Agency, an umbrella organization that funds and influences a host of cultural, religious, charitable, and education efforts. Though the government of Israel rules the country, the Jewish Agency plays a leading role in the civic life and social fabric of Israel—and, as such, its make-up is extremely important for Israeli society. 

In an effort to be democratic, the World Zionist Congress invites from all Jews in the world to vote for delegates, and the groups electing the most delegates have significant influence. Enter the decades old conflict between and among the various interpretations of Judaism. For years, Israeli society was divided between “Religious” (Orthodox) Jews and “Non-Religious/Secular” Jews. This stark divide was always a bit overstated for there are many varieties of Traditional Judaism under the rubric of “Religious,” and there are many varieties of Judaism under the rubric of “Non-Religious/Secular.” In fact, there is a lot of traditionalism and religiosity among the “Non-Religious.” Often their point is more that they are not Orthodox than that they have no feeling for or practice of Judaism. Funding the variations of “Non-Religious” Jewish religiosity in Israel has always been a challenge because the “Religious/Orthodox” have been so well represented in both coalition politics and the Jewish Agency. 

That all began to change some 30-40 years ago when the Liberal Jewish movements (Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist) began to organize and elect delegates to the World Zionist Congress—and thus to wield power in the Jewish Agency. Much progress was made in terms of offering Israelis Jewish religious options other than Orthodoxy. Synagogues and schools were funded, native Israelis were trained as Liberal Rabbis, and Israelis flocked to the more modern and liberal approaches to our ancient faith. It was still a struggle, but we were moving forward. 

Then there was pushback. Since every Jew in the world is eligible, some of the Orthodox movements started encouraging their people—including thousands of Yeshiva students—to vote for Orthodox delegates to the World Zionist Congress. At the last Congress, Liberal Judaism lost ground, and we are trying to regain that ground and influence in this election.  

The presence and influence of Liberal Judaism in Israel is dependent on Liberal Jews voting for Liberal Jewish delegates to the World Zionist Congress, and the time to vote is now. While the congress will be held in October, the voting goes only from March 10th to May 4th.  

To vote, go to this website: www.vote4reform.org
Click the link to bring you to the American Zionist Movement Voting Website.
There you need to register. 

(When I voted last week, I had trouble registering on my computer. However, it sailed right through using my iPhone. Apparently, there were some glitches on the website, but they have been addressed. So, hopefully there will be no glitches, but, if there are, please be persistent.) 

Once you register, they’ll send you a voting PIN.
Follow the prompts to the ballot.
There will be a series of questions in which they ask about residency, whether you voted in recent Israeli elections, etc.
On the ballot, there are quite a few options.
Please vote for Slate #3: Vote Reform.

There is also a payment section in which they charge $5 for administration of the election.
They take credit cards or Venmo or PayPal. 

Other than the false starts, the entire process took me less than five minutes. 

Remember, this is a simple way to positively affect Jewish life in Israel. By choosing the Vote Reform, Slate #3, you’ll be helping to send Reform representatives to the World Zionist Congress who will help set policies and allocate a $1 Billion annual budget that affects Israeli society and Jews around the world. 

It is also a way to make sure that our voices are heard as we reclaim Zionism as a Movement that champions equality, justice, freedom, and peace. Our Zionism is about protecting the body of the Jewish People and the State of Israel and about nurturing our souls.  

Please vote now. Slate #3: Vote Reform
www.vote4reform.org

Remembering...For a Purpose

March 14th: Ki Tisa and Purim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are several ways to approach the Golden Calf Incident (Exodus 32). First, it is a terrible embarrassment for all Israel, and as is often the case with scandals and shame, there is a tendency to try to reduce or eliminate culpability. The Midrash does not try to exonerate the people, but the Rabbis seem to work overtime “proving” that Aaron the High Priest is not to blame.
(1)   He only goes along with the mob because he needs to survive and officiate at the atonement rituals that will be necessary.
(2)   He only agrees to make the calf so that he can delay everything until Moses comes down from the mountain and stops the madness.
(3)   He agrees to make the calf but then demands that the people give up their gold earrings, thinking that they will refuse—and the calf will not be made.
(4)   He takes their earrings but then throws them into the fire—but then the calf miraculously pops out. (see Exodus 32.24).
(5)   He makes the calf but declares that the festival is to God (and not the calf).
Each excuse is more improbable than the last, but for those who believe that Biblical heroes are always heroic and right, it is important to wash clean a story that seems to besmirch our idealized High Priest. 

On the other hand, perhaps the Midrash is taking its cue from the Lord. Though the narrative seems to single out Aaron as a major and sinful actor, God does not seem to blame him at all. While lots of Israelites are punished by Moses and by God, Aaron is left completely alone—and he retains the priesthood! Notice how the chapters both before and after the Golden Calf Incident are full of verses affirming Aaron and his descendants as the Kohanim for all time. Complicity in the apostasy seems to be a non-issue for the Lord, and thus the Midrash may just be explaining God’s reasoning. Though it may seem that Aaron is guilty, in fact he is not.  

On the third hand, we could look at the story from a more realistic approach—one which sees Biblical figures as regular human beings who are capable of both good and evil, of both holiness and sin. The key to Biblical heroism is not perfection at every step but rather that the people who populate our Tradition realize their sins, repent for them, and improve. Why does Aaron fall into sin? Perhaps he is like the other Israelites whose faith is not as sure as God hopes it will be. When he sees the flaming top of Mount Sinai, “The Presence of the Lord appeared in the sight of the Israelites as a consuming fire on the top of the mountain. Moses went inside the cloud and ascended the mountain…” (Exodus 24.17), and when “the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain” (Exodus 32.1), perhaps Aaron is just one of those who think that Moses is dead. Despondent and in need of Divine leadership, the people ask Aaron to help them turn to the ways they knew before—and, whether they think the calf is a god itself or that the calf is a mount for El/God to ride, he acquiesces and forms the idol in a quest for Divine assistance.  

Alas that human memory can be so inadequate! One would think that, after witnessing all of God’s miracles, the people would feel eternally close to God—and obedient. They personally witness incredible miracles: the Ten Plagues, the Splitting of the Red Sea, eating manna every day, and the Revelation of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai! How many of us yearn for such an experience of God—so that we would really know that there is a God?! We may get an occasional glimpse of the Holy, but our ancient ancestors directly experienced God’s “mighty Hand and an outstretched Arm” over and over again. From a spiritual perspective, they are the most fortunate generation in history, and yet, they waver in their faith and give in to doubt. How can they be so untrusting—and forgetful? 

Yes, our memories are not as good as we wish they would be—even of wonderful things, and we need ways to keep memories alive. Think about the ways we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries—or observe Yahrtzeits—and bring past events to the fore of consciousness. And think about the way our holy days work—how they invite us to feel the emotions our ancestors felt. Whether they were in Shushan fasting for Esther, in Egypt huddled in their homes on the first Passover night, terrified at the Red Sea as the Egyptian cavalry thunders toward them, or glorifying God at the Temple in Jerusalem, our holy days call on us to relive our people’s greatest encounters with God. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel puts it: “We are a people in whom the past endures, in whom the present is inconceivable without moments gone by. The stories of Abraham and Sarah and our other ancient ancestors lasted just a moment, but it was a moment enduring forever. What happened once upon a time happens all the time.” (Quoted in Machzor Ki Anitani, page 90) 

Rabbi Heschel is almost right. These moments are eternal but only if we invoke the memories. As Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi used to teach, “Rituals are peak experiences domesticated.”  

Our Tradition comes to remind us of the pivotal moments of Jewish experience: our joy and our holiness, our fear and our weakness, our moments of godliness and the moments we have fallen into sin. Just as these things happened back then—at the Red Sea and Sinai and when we fashioned the Golden Calf, they happen again, “all the time.” God calls to us, and sometimes we answer. When we do, we find meaning in our lives and help in Tikkun Olam. When we do not, we detach ourselves from God and become untethered, unmoored, adrift. We may not realize it at the time, but distance from our Creator hurts and damages. God is always here, but sometimes God must beckon to us and invite us closer.  

Religion is not just an optimistic fantasy. It is a practical approach to human strength and weakness. Consider the mitzvah in Numbers 15.39:
“You should look upon the tzitzit and remember all of the mitzvot of the Lord and do them, that you should not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after you have gone wantonly astray.”
One way or another, we have all gone astray, and God wants us to remember those bad moments so that we can hopefully not go astray again. God knows our missteps but is nonetheless hopeful—and continually offers us acceptance, purpose, atonement, and love. 

We can read the Golden Calf Incident and appreciate the Midrashim that get Aaron off the hook, or we can read it as a reminder of our common human weaknesses—the weakness of memory, the weakness of resolve, the weakness of faith. We are imperfect, but God loves us, offering forgiveness and hoping for improvement.  

ARZA Election for the World Zionist Congress

March 7th: Tetzaveh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Torah portions in this part of Exodus focus on building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle or tent temple in which God dwells, but I would like to expand the discussion to a much larger dwelling place, the Land of Israel where both God and the Jewish people seek to live. The ancient goal was for the Israelites to “make a sanctuary so that God could dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8). The modern goal is for the State of Israel to be a place of holiness where the Jewish people can live both autonomously and Jewishly. As we sing in Hatikvah: “Li’h’yot am chof’shi b’artzaynu / to be a free people in our own land.” How best can this be done? 

Some Jewish self-governance in Israel began long before 1948 and independence. During both the Ottoman Empire and the British Mandate, a variety of Jewish organizations supervised and supported life for the Jews in Palestine. This included the charitable, educational, medical, and cultural realms. In addition to the Rothschild and Montefiore charities, there were three major groups. One was the Jewish National Fund that purchased land for kibbutzim and forests. Another was Hadassah which ran clinics, trained nurses, and eventually established hospitals. And there was The Jewish Agency—the Sochnut, funded by the forerunners of the UJA (United Jewish Appeal), that provided guidance and resources for the Jewish soul in Mandatory Palestine. This important social and civic work continued after independence, and all three are still very much active today. While the Israeli government obviously does a lot, the Jewish National Fund, Hadassah, and the Sochnut/Jewish Agency are so important that they function as quasi-governmental and play major roles in educational, cultural, charitable, economic, and health endeavors to this day. 

As in pre-independence days, the Sochnut/Jewish Agency functions as an arm of the World Zionist Organization—the one founded by Theodor Herzl in 1897. The WZO reconstitutes itself every five years in a World Zionist Congress where the members of that Congress make programming and financial decisions for how modern Israel fulfills the Zionist dream. Our concern today is representation. Who will be the delegates to the World Zionist Congress, and what kinds of decisions will they make? 

As you may know, the early years of Zionism saw the involvement of two very different groups of Jews—one focused almost solely on the Jewish religion and the other rejecting the religion and focusing on Jewish nationalism. In this binary approach to Judaism, the religious dimension was generally defined as Orthodox Judaism, while the nationalistic was defined as “secular.” Though there were other approaches and opinions, the politics of Zionism highlighted these two options, and alternative understandings of Judaism like Reform Judaism were largely ignored in Israel. Though there have been liberal Jews (Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist) involved in Israel and Zionism for well over a hundred years, their representation in the World Zionist Congress/Organization has been minimal, and funding for liberal Jewish endeavors has thus been very limited. Combined with the government monopoly over religion held by the Orthodox, liberal Judaism has had an uphill climb in Israeli society for many, many years. 

It has been uphill, but it has been a climb. The liberal Jewish movements in Israel have made remarkable progress, offering Jewish expression for thousands of Israelis who want to be religiously Jewish but for whom Orthodoxy is wrong.  

One way that liberal Judaism has “climbed” is by participating in the World Zionist Organization and demanding support for liberal Jewish causes and programs in the Jewish Agency. The more liberal Jews who join official Zionist organizations, the more votes the liberal Jewish organizations have in the World Zionist Congress, and the more funding and respect liberal Judaism gets in Israel. Among the liberal Jewish Zionist organizations is ARZA, the Association of Reform Zionists of America. 

We are now getting ready for the next World Zionist Congress, and it is therefore time for us to officially join ARZA and increase its/our ability to affect the Jewish Agency.  

The election of delegates goes from March 10th until May 4th—all in preparation for next October’s World Zionist Congress, and I am asking you to join ARZA. It is a simple process—only taking about five minutes to complete an on-line form AND paying dues of $5, and the instructions will be available (the website will be open) soon.   

For now, please realize that joining ARZA and thus increasing its delegates is an important way to influence Israel and to inculcate in Israeli society the Jewish and democratic values that are part of Reform Judaism. Please think about this and resolve to join ARZA. The instructions will be provided very soon. 

A Two-Fold Message from God

February 28th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The end of Mishpatim and the beginning of Terumah offer an interesting parallel. Mishpatim continues the revelation and adds fifth-three more mitzvot to the famous Ten Commandments. Then there is an invitation: “Then God said to Moses, ‘Come up to the Lord, with Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel, and bow low from afar.’” (Exodus 24.1) So, “Then Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel ascended; and they saw the God of Israel: under God’s feet there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity. Yet the Lord did not raise a hand against the leaders of the Israelites; they beheld God, and they ate and drank.” (Exodus 24.9-11) It is as though the mitzvot—the commandments of godly behavior—prepare and allow the Israelites to encounter God.  

The very next chapter begins Terumah and features the list of building materials the Israelites are to use when they build God’s Mishkan/Dwelling Place. Eventually God will dwell in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem, but in the wilderness and the early years in The Land of Israel, God dwells in the Tabernacle, a tent temple which can be transported as the Israelites travel. The list of materials is interesting—gold,  silver, yarn, and wood, etc., but the purpose is the most significant. “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8)  

The Torah thus gives us two parallel ways to feel God’s Presence—to encounter the Divine. First, we must incorporate ethical behavior in our daily lives, and second, we must draw close to the holy through religious rituals. As it turns out, this combination of the ritual and the ethical is a consistent theme throughout Judaism, and we just saw it in the Ten Commandments. Some commandments tell us how God is to be treated, and others tell us how God wants us to treat each other. Look at the list and consider the main “beneficiary” of each. Is it God, or is it humans? And what does this double message teach us about God?
I.          I am the Lord your God; you shall have no other gods beside Me.
II.        Do not make any idols or graven images and worship them.
III.       Do not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.
IV.       Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
V.        Honor your father and your mother.
VI.       Do not murder.
VII.     Do not commit adultery.
VIII.    Do not steal.
IX.       Do not bear false witness against your neighbor.
X.        Do not covet.

This lesson continues in that story about Moses and the leadership “seeing God.” Focusing on the “pavement of sapphire” upon which God is standing, the Midrash explains that it is what God builds when He is in slavery alongside the Hebrews in Egypt (Mechilta de Rabbi Yishmael, Piska 14). While the Hebrews are building Pithom and Raamses, God is building the pavement of sapphires. In other words, God is so invested in human welfare that, when people are oppressed and suffering, God is oppressed and suffering too.

Too Many Details!?

February 21st: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes we look at all the laws of Judaism and find them overwhelming and off-putting. Why does religion have to be so complicated? Why cannot we just be good people and think about God from time to time? Why must there be 613 commandments? Are not ten enough? 

Yes, the Torah does give us 613 commandments—603 more than the Ten Commandments we read last week. Just in this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24), we have fifty-three of the additional laws, and it can all be a bit daunting.  

And yet, we are not stupid people—incapable of dealing with complexity. Intelligent and sophisticated, we deal with a myriad of details on a regular basis and on all sorts of subjects. We deal with all the details because we know that they can make a big difference. I am reminded of an episode of the old sit-com Northern Exposure in which the main character makes dinner for some friends. Not wanting to trouble himself with clarifying the butter for a recipe or getting fresh mushrooms—and figuring that his Alaskan frontier guests will not know the difference, he melts the butter and uses canned mushrooms. Hah! “This is good,” one guest comments after tasting the dish, “But it would be better if the butter had been clarified.” “Oh,” asks another, “Are these canned mushrooms?”

We who are sophisticated enough to understand things like music, dance, cuisine, and fashion are certainly aware of the importance of details—how regular rice does not work in sushi, or how an off-tempo musician can really destroy a performance, or how certain clothing combinations “work” and others do not. My point is that we who deal with an amazing degree of complexity and subtlety must surely realize that leading a moral life requires a detailed consideration of exactly what that contains.  

So, for instance, while most of us assent to the principle of the Fifth Commandment: “Honor your father and your mother,” there could be some ameliorating factors. What about those whose parents who do not deserve honoring—who abuse or abandon their children? Or, what about the different between “honoring” and agreeing or obeying? Must one agree with or obey one’s parents in every instance? Do children have the right to their own opinions and a degree of their own autonomy? And, if this is true for children, how much the more so is it true for grown-ups –who may even know more about some subjects than their parents? My point is that we can take a simple principle and quickly see that it is not so simple. Further consideration of the context and implications are important if we are to take the mitzvah seriously. 

Perhaps the problem with sections like Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24) is that, while the Ten Commandments have a simplicity and elegance, the further list of commandments seems long and random. They are not memorize-able and easily understandable like the famous Ten. Going from the major principles declared from the heights of Mount Sinai to all the Israelite people, Mishpatim’s fifty-three mitzvot send our minds in all sorts of directions and on all sorts of subjects: marital rights and practices, animal husbandry, construction and farm practices, employment practices, and even some religious rituals.  

It might be better to think of Mishpatim as a reference book that contains advice to be consulted if and when it is relevant. If, for example, I am not digging a pit, then I do not have to worry about memorizing the mitzvah in Exodus 21.33: “When a man opens a pit, or digs a pit and does not cover it, and an ox or donkey falls into it, the one responsible for the pit must make restitution; he shall pay the price to the owner, but shall keep the dead animal.” I just need to have a general knowledge that this subject is covered—and I can consult it later if pit-digging is something I plan to do. Or, similarly, if I am not in the habit of seeing wandering livestock, I do not need to worry about the mitzvah in Exodus 23.4: “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back to him.” I just need to know where the rules are should I find myself in that position.  

If and when we find ourselves in these situations, the fact is that the standards and laws make a lot of sense. If my wandering ox falls into someone else’s open pit, it seems only fair that the pit owner owes me something. And it seems only fair that, once he/she has paid for my now dead ox, he/she should get to keep the carcass. The same logic applies if someone lets his/her livestock loose to graze on my land. As Exodus 21.4 holds, “he must make restitution for the impairment of that field or vineyard.” In such situations, just saying that we will be “nice” or “fair” may not be enough. We need to address the details and make sure that the social fabric is maintained with real fairness and neighborliness. 

Though the ancient discussions—in Talmud and other legal works—seem to continue infinitely, the fact is that there is always more to consider. There are always new situations that may or may not parallel the ancient scenarios and principles. Are swimming pools and construction sites, for instance, analogous to the ancient open pit, and are there safeguards that responsible pool owners or construction companies should put in place to protect against a wandering ox or donkey or child?! Or, if my brakes fail, and my car damages someone else’s property, is this not similar to the wandering flock that grazes in someone else’s vineyard? 

The myriads of laws that follow the famous Ten may seem obscure or overly detailed, but the fact is that true fairness and true responsibility have many facets. In a religion in which God wants us to be nice to each other, we need to think about exactly what that means. 

A final quasi-relevant story. We recently marked the thirty-ninth anniversary of the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. There is much to be said about the tragedy. Among other things, one of the deceased astronauts was Jewish, Judith Resnik. She was the fourth woman, the second American woman, and the first Jewish woman to fly in space—logging 145 hours in orbit on previous flights. The space shuttle was perhaps the most complex and highly sophisticated machine in the history of the world, and yet its undoing was the result of a “minor” detail: the O-rings that sealed the fuel tanks were designed for warmer temperatures. That morning, it was chilly in Florida, and the rubbery O-rings contracted just a little bit. Those few degrees ruined everything. Sometimes, sweating the details makes all the difference in the world.

How Close is Too Close to God?

February 14th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the most iconic and misleading images of a Jew is Michelangelo’s Moses. Sculpted for the tomb of Pope Julius II in Rome, it shows Moses seated and holding the Ten Commandments on his lap. It is perhaps the greatest sculpture ever done, but the horns on Moses’ head make the masterpiece problematic.  

The horns are based on a mistranslation of Exodus 34 which describes Moses’ appearance after the revelations on Mount Sinai. (There were several. First is the one we read this week, when Moses is up on the mountain as God proclaims the Ten Commandments to all the people. Second is the one described when the laws of Mishpatim and the instructions for building the Mishkan /Tabernacle are given—and when God gives Moses the first set of the Ten Commandments. Third is when Moses reascends the mountain to carve the second set of the Ten Commandments and hopefully “see God’s Face.”) When he descends from God’s presence—with the second set of stone tablets, he is changed.
“As Moses came down from the mountain bearing the two tablets of the covenant, Moses was not aware that “ki karan or panav b’dab’ro ito / that the skin of his face was radiant since he had spoken with God.” (Exodus 34.29)

The Hebrew word karan means beams as in beams of light. However, karan or keren can also mean horn—as in the horn of an animal or a cornucopia, a horn filled with plenty. (In modern Hebrew, this keren/cornucopia image is used for various charitable funds—like Keren Kayemet, The Jewish National Fund which in in charge of reforestation in Israel as well as agricultural development, and Keren Hayesod, The United Israel Appeal which funds and augments cultural, educational, and charitable efforts in Israel. Lots of our UJA money goes to this Keren Hayesod.) 

The Vulgate (the Latin translation of the Bible used by the Roman Catholic Church) renders karan as horns. Whether this was due to a mistake or to anti-Semitism is a matter of historical debate. However, in a Christianity working very hard to distinguish itself from Judaism and to vilify the Jews (and get the Romans to hate the Jews instead of the Christians), turning the most famous Jew into a horned creature seems a little convenient. Countless generations of Jews have been suspected and examined for their horns—and vilified as non-human demons. We do not know how Michelangelo felt about this, but he was clearly at the mercy of the Catholic Church and was forced to reflect their views in other works. A glaring example is his amazing sculpture of David in which the very Jewish boy is uncircumcised. An otherwise amazing work, the detail reflects a de-Judaizing tendency in mediaeval Christianity. The Brit Milah, the Covenant of Circumcision (also known as the Covenant of Our Father Abraham) is a Jewish sacrament long and continually practiced from the days of the Patriarchs—and specifically mentioned as a Hebrew custom in the Biblical books from David’s time.  

In any event, the real issue is the radiance that Moses picks up on the mountain and apparently keeps for the rest of his life. Being in close proximity to God has its lasting effects. 

Though Moses asks God for a closer relationship—and gets the radiance as a result of the encounter, the rest of the Israelites population is of divided opinions on the matter. In Exodus 19—the story of the Revelation of the Ten Commandments, some of the Israelites are attracted to the proximity of the Lord, and others more frightened.
“Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” (Exodus 19.18-19)
Apparently, many Israelites begin to rush to the mountain—a development which concerns God, and so Moses is sent running down the mountain to warn them off.
“Go down, warn the people not to break through to the Lord to gaze, lest many of them perish.” (Exodus 19.21)  

After God pronounces the Ten Commandments, the people seem suitably overwhelmed.
“All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance. ‘You speak to us,’ they said to Moses, ‘and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die’…so the people remained at a distance, while Moses approached the thick cloud where God was.” (Exodus 19.15-18)  

There is a curious ambivalence among most people in re proximity to God and the holy. Most of us are attracted to the holy to some degree, but there is also the fear of too much religion. For many of us, a lot of time and thought go into figuring out for ourselves the right dosage of religion and tradition. We want enough because religion and God are important, but we do not want too much because there are other things in life which are important and perhaps fun. It is not even an irreligious thought: God gives us the world to tend and enjoy, and it seems inappropriate to spend all of our time praying. Or, as God says to Moses, “You have stayed long enough on this mountain.” (Deuteronomy 1.6) There is a time to pray and study, and there is a time to work and play. 

This ambivalence between holiness and practicality—and the attraction to and fear of God—is reflected in a mysterious tale from the Talmud:
“The Sages taught: Four entered the pardes (Divine Orchard), and they are as follows: Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, Acher (Elisha ben Abuya), and Rabbi Akiva…Ben Azzai glimpsed at the Divine Presence and died. Ben Zoma glimpsed at the Divine Image and lost his mind. Acher beheld the Divine Image and lost his faith—became a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva came out safely.” (Chagigah 14b) 

How did Akiva emerge unscathed—and with secret wisdom revealed only to him? One answer is that “he entered in peace, and he departed in peace.” He approached the Divine with equanimity and humility, treading the road with both the spiritual and the practical in mind. Another explanation: “he entered, and he departed”—meaning that he dosed himself and did not try to drink it all in at once. He absorbed the amount of holiness he could handle and knew when it was too much. He dosed himself and was able to live a

The Art, Process, and Charm of Midrash

February 7th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The story of the Splitting of the Red Sea (Exodus 14-15) gives us a good opportunity to review the process, wisdom, and charm of Midrash. The term midrash comes from the Hebrew root D-R-SH which involves searching. Midrash is a kind of Rabbinic Literature which searches Biblical texts for meaning. Some examples of Midrash can be found in the Mishnah and Gemara—and are usually called Aggadah / stories. Other Midrashic stories are collected in works from the later Rabbinic Period: the Mechilta of Rabbi Ishmael, Midrash Rabba, Midrash Tanhuma, and Pesichta d’Rav Kahanna. Often, stories—or variants of stories are found in more than one source. For example, the story about Nachshon walking into the Red Sea to “jump-start” the miracle is found in both the Babylonian Talmud (Sotah 37a) and Midrash Rabba on B’midbar (13.7). 

The classic form for a Midrash has three parts. First is a koshi, a difficulty in the text. It could be a contradiction with another verse in the Bible, or something that does not make sense, or something that begs for more explanation. Second is an explanation that resolves the contradiction or provides the detail. Third is the moral of the story. A Midrash always has a moral or spiritual lesson. 

So, for example, in the Midrash about Nachshon, the koshi is in the phrase, “They went into the sea on dry land” (Exodus 14.22). It seems pretty obvious that what was the sea becomes dry land after God does the miracle—that the Israelites walk through a path in what was formerly water. However, one ancient reader thought more literally. To him, “the sea” meant water, and he realized that it is impossible to walk in water and on dry ground at the same time. This is the koshi the story attempts to fix.  

The answer—with Nachshon leading the people into the water until they are up to their noses—is an attempt to resolve the problem by making the phrase sequential. They go into the sea AND THEN it becomes dry land. It is a totally made-up story—a fanciful creation crafted by an ancient thinker. While the Torah does mention a Nachshon son of Aminadab, a leader in the Tribe of Levi and the brother-in-law of Aaron the Priest, the Torah does not say much about him. But, as an important leader, he is a potentially appropriate candidate/victim for this made-up story that “resolves” the koshi AND TEACHES A MORAL LESSON. 

In studying Midrash, it is important not to take the stories as history—to realize that they are not “in” the Torah. Additions that provide complementary “details,” their real purpose is as vehicles for moral lessons. In this case, the lesson involves the debate between belief in God’s miracles and solving our problems ourselves. Throughout Jewish history, there has been a tension between the two. On the one hand, we are taught that God can intervene, and that God sometimes does intervene and miraculously fix earthly problems. On the other hand, sometimes God does not intervene—and wisdom teaches us to find our own solutions. The Rabbis—the pious scholars who created Midrash—believed in miracles, but they were realistic in realizing that we humans can and need to solve many of our own problems. This Midrashic story presents a slight alteration to the most famous Biblical miracle and uses it to remind us that humans have a role to play in God’s solutions.  

A similar lesson comes in a modern Midrash by Rabbi Marc Gelman. His koshi is the dolphin skins that the Israelites are asked to contribute to the Mishkan/Tabernacle project in Exodus 25. Among the gold and silver and yarns and dyes and precious stones needed for the Mishkan, one of the building materials requested is orot techashim—translated as dolphin skins. Actually, translators have been a bit stumped by the word techashim. The King James translators rendered it badger skins, and the 1916 Jewish Publication Society translation rendered it sealskins. It was not until the 1962 Jewish Publication Society translation where, based on more and better knowledge of ancient Hebrew, techashim is translated as dolphins. Sometimes, it is hard to decipher ancient nomenclature—especially for flora and fauna that may have changed significantly over the centuries. In any event, since the 1960s, the standard Jewish translation has been the orot/skins of techashim/dolphins—which leaves us with a koshi. Why would the Israelites—escaped slaves wandering in the Sinai desert—have skins of sea creatures like dolphins? Logically and historically, there must have been ancient commerce that provided all sorts of things, and some Hebrews could have purchased them in Egypt and brought them along. However, the koshi opens up the possibility of a Midrashic tale and a moral. Enter the modern Midrashic mind of Rabbi Marc Gelman who offers this possibility:   

When the Israelites were walking through the Red Sea, “with the waters forming walls for them on both their right and their left” (Exodus 14.22), it was not only a miracle for the people. It was also a miracle and something completely unexpected for the fish. They did not know what to do, and many were just swimming out into the air, falling on the dry ground, and gasping for air. Fortunately, the dolphins were both intelligent and helpful, and they started patrolling the water side of the walls, warning the fish away from the air and death. Many fish were saved by these brave and kind dolphins. Then, when the Egyptians started pursuing the Israelites into the sea, the dolphins realized that the Israelites were in danger, so they started flicking their tails and splashing some of the water down onto the dry ground. This made it muddy and harder for the Egyptians to chase down the Israelites. “They moved forward with difficulty.” (Exodus 14.25) The dolphins were so busy protecting the fish and stopping the Egyptians that, when “the waters returned to their normal state” and “covered the chariots and the horsemen—Pharaoh’s entire army that followed the Israelites into the sea” (Exodus 14.27-28), many of the dolphins fell onto the upturned spears of the Egyptians and died.  

So, when “Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the shores of the sea” (Exodus 14.30), they also saw the dead dolphins and realized the brave sacrifices of these wonderful sea creatures. They decided then and there that they would honor the dolphins and use their skins for the holiest of the Israelites’ tents, the Mishkan in which the Shechinah, the Presence of God, would dwell.  

Made up? Certainly. Invented by a creative storyteller in the 1980’s? Yes. It is a fictional story but one that helps bring the Torah to a higher level and that teaches us the value of bravery and sacrifice and honoring those whose efforts bring blessings to the world.  

Midrash is an ancient and continuing Jewish Tradition as we search our sacred texts for meaning and for lessons that are continually blossoming forth.

Patience, Part III

January 31st: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When we speak of faith and patience, there are many perspectives. One is the patience of a Joseph who hopes for and is eventually gifted with redemption. After enduring the betrayal of his brothers, enslavement, the betrayal of his employer, and the betrayal of his fellow prisoner (the cupbearer who somehow forgets him for two years!), Joseph is lifted high and given great status and power. Perhaps those years of suffering are formative—that he has learned that his talents are not his but God’s: that he is a mere vessel for God’s blessings, and that ego is a distraction from God’s work. In any event, Joseph’s patience “pays off.” 

Another kind of patience in transgenerational. Though the blessings may not come in one’s lifetime, there is the hope that endurance, sacrifice, and faith will yield results for one’s family or group. I remember a family discussion years ago in which my two great-aunts and grandfather were talking about their father, Lazar Stein. His was not an easy life. He immigrated from Kovna in Lithuania and never quite “made it” in America. He peddled and moved from town to town, back and forth between the Ohio River Valley and the Mississippi Delta. A resourceful and resilient man, he endured much and struggled his whole life. While the “American Dream” was always in his sights, it was always just beyond his reach. But, as my aunts reflected to my grandfather, “Wouldn’t Papa be proud? He has seven great-grandsons in college!” The blessings that I have received could only have been possible with the struggles of my great-grandfather. Our family’s blessings are the fulfillment of his hopes. 

Another more dramatic example comes from the days of the Chalutzim/Pioneers in Israel. One of the early Zionist leaders was Yosef Trumpeldor, a man who had fought in the Tzar’s army before moving to Eretz Yisrael and defending the pioneering settlements near today’s Kiriat Shemona. In one battle with marauders, he was fatally injured, and as he lay dying, he uttered these words: “Tov lamut b’ad artzaynu. / It is good to die for our country.”  

(Apparently, Trumpeldor was quoting the Roman poet Horace who, in the Odes, 111.2.13, writes a line known by and quoted by warriors for centuries: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. / It is sweet and proper to die for one’s own country.” Trumpeldor’s word artzaynu/our country spoke to his deeply held belief in Zionism—that Eretz Yisrael is his patria/homeland.) There can be satisfaction in the hope that one’s actions will bring blessings to the future—and in patiently trusting that the blessings will come. 

A third kind of patience comes when we realize that we are not in control—that things are going to play out at their pace regardless of what we do or say. Who would have imagined the last several months in Syria—that the utterly failed “Arab Spring” revolution would somehow, all-of-a-sudden succeed? Who would have imagined, back in the 1980’s, that the Iron Curtain would come crashing down? I think of this unknowability particularly in regard to the continuing conflict between Israel and her Arab neighbors. Though many of us may know a lot about the matzav (situation) and hear from all kinds of experts, I suspect that we are all in the dark about what is really going on—and what will happen from month to month and year to year. Though we have our opinions, at a certain level, the only realistic approach is patience—and faith. 

A fourth kind of patience is eternal—though it may be uncomfortable to discuss. When we die—when whatever we have done in this life is complete, and we “shuffle off this mortal coil,” hope can continue. Our Tradition tells us that God will be with us forever.
From Gevurot: Um’kayem emunato li’shaynay afar.
God keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust.
From El Maleh Rachamim: Ba’al Harachamim yitz’ror bitz’ror hachayim.
The God of compassion binds up the souls of the departed in the bond of eternal life.
From the Torah Blessings and Gevurot:Note’ a b’tochaynu chayeh olam.
God implants within us eternal life.
Though we try not to die, and endeavor in all sorts of ways to survive and continue, there is the sensibility in our faith that God implants within us immortal life, that we continue, and more importantly that God continues. Psalm 90 reminds us of the eternality of eternity—that’s God’s perspective is for the very long term: “For in Your sight, a thousand years are like yesterday when it has passed, like a watch in the night.” (Psalm 90.4) The Psalmist reminds us that God’s view—as well as God’s purposeful will in the universe—is on a much larger scale than we can imagine. Though what happens to us is important, there are greater agenda’s afoot, and a fitting response for us is to patiently trust in God and in God’s long-range and ultimate goals. As we counsel ourselves in Adon Olam, “Adonai li, v’lo ira / When God is with me, there is no fear.” Trusting in God—really trusting in God—can render our worries less worrisome.  

And finally, there is a kind of patience that comes with a change in perspective. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a Jesuit, a mystic and a scientist, offers the following: “We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a physical experience.” I find this sensibility both alluring and counter-intuitive. Yes, I believe that God has imbued within us eternal life—Note’a b’tochenu chayeh olam. And, as such, this physical life which is so central to us is inevitably limited and finite. It will end one day, and we will continue in another form. The details and concerns of our daily lives are therefore of limited value. However, we should not discount their importance. What we do matters. We were put on this earth for a purpose, and achieving holiness through the details of our lives is clearly a God-assigned task. And yet, we can get so wrapped up in the trivialities of life that we forget our higher and more eternal reality. We can be too focused on the tiny details of personal preference or pleasure, and at those moments, it is helpful to remember Teilhard’s words. There is a higher purpose for our lives, and patience can help us slow down and focus—and become not the grabbers of everything on earth but the blessings we were created to be.

Patience, Part II

January 24th: Va’ayra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

To quote myself, “The thing about cliffhangers is that they inspire a kind of creative anxiety.” The creativity part can be entertaining. The anxiety part can be plaguing, but it can also help us to bridge the gap between literary voyeurism and deeper empathy. Just as we do not know what will happen, so do the people involved in the story not know the ending. 

While we know—even at the beginning of Exodus—that the terrible enslavement of the Israelites in Egypt will end, the actual Israelites do not know. For some four hundred years, they suffer and do not know what will happen next.  

If we were Israelites lucky enough to live during Joseph’s days or in their immediate aftermath, things would be rosy. The Egyptians are happy to have us, and we have a refuge from the famine and other difficulties of our homeland in Canaan. This happiness, however, is only as long as the first paragraph of Exodus.  

In the second paragraph, a “new king” arises over Egypt, one “who did not know Joseph…” Everything changes—and for the worse. “He said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them…so they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11) 

If our ancestors were scholars of Torah, they might consider a relevant prophecy. In Genesis 15, in a dream, God tells Abram his people’s future: “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years; but I will execute judgments on the nation they shall serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.” (Genesis 15.13-14) This is sort of good news—except for that four-hundred-year part. 

And there is a problem with the number. Though God seems to say that the four hundred years will begin when the Israelites are enslaved, the usual Biblical chronology puts the Exodus as four hundred years after Abram’s dream. (This is one of many problems with the Biblical chronology—a problem exacerbated by the absence of any outside/non-Biblical corroborating references). In any event, the Israelites themselves have no idea what will happen to them and for how long this oppression will last. While we can look with joy at the eventual Exodus and redemption, our ancestors for most of those four hundred years face terrible conditions. “The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression.” (Deuteronomy 26.6-7) 

I have entitled this series of essays Patience, but I hesitate to be too sanguine about what our ancestors endured. Theirs was a difficult and tragic life, and, though we all experience difficulties and tragedies, I do not know how they could hold up and maintain any sense of hope—any sense of humanity. 

The Midrash offers us three possible ameliorative insights. The first comes from Leviticus Rabba and speculates that the Israelites’ survival as Israelites was dependent on four practices. First, they kept their Jewish names. Second, they kept speaking the Hebrew language. Third, they did not gossip (participating in lashon hara / the “evil tongue).” And fourth, they were not sexually promiscuous (like the Egyptians). While one wonders how the Rabbis of the 5th-7th Centuries CE (some 1700 years after the Exodus) could know such things, their point makes sense. In order for Jews to survive persecution and a world that is not particularly friendly, we need to maintain our both our Jewish faith and our Jewish moral values. Though the Midrash speaks about the time as slaves in Egypt, the Rabbis’ advice is something every generation of Jews should consider as we face our own share of challenges. 

The second insight comes in a discussion of theodicy—how God could let the Israelites suffer for so long. The Torah says in numerous places that God was aware of our suffering—hearing “our plea” and seeing “our plight, our misery, and our oppression.” Why did the redemption have to wait? One answer parallels questions about our long wait for the Messiah. If God is aware and good and powerful, what is the delay? The answer? God waits for the Israelites to redeem themselves—to break free of the Egyptians. As long as there is a chance, God holds back. However, when the Israelites’ spirit is finally broken—when “they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage” (Exodus 6.9), then God decides that only a miraculous rescue will work. As we learn in the Midrash about Nachshon “jump-starting” the splitting of the Red Sea, God empowers us and wants us to pursue our own redemption. 

A third insight speaks more about God’s comforting Presence. In the aftermath of the Revelation at Mount Sinai, Exodus 24 offers a curious passage about Moses and the elders “seeing God.” “They saw the God of Israel, standing on what looked like a pavement of sapphire, pure and clear like the very sky.” (Exodus 24.10) Other than the obvious question of such anthropomorphism, the Midrash focuses on the pavement and teaches that the sapphire pavement is what God builds while in slavery to the Egyptians. When the Israelites are suffering, God is right there with them, sharing their burdens, accompanying them, feeling their pain because it is God’s pain, too. 

We all experience suffering in our own ways. Some is clearly less severe than others, and some is less visible/knowable than others. However, we are bidden to remember that God is with us. In whatever befalls our people, our families, ourselves, God is with us—and God is continually reminding us of our holy potential. Even in the midst of difficulty, we can maintain our Judaism and our morality, we can work for our own liberation and redemption, and we can feel the supportive and loving Presence of our God.
Baruch Atah Adonai, Shom’renu, Go’alenu, v’Tzur Yish’enu.
Blessed is the Lord, Who protects us, Who helps us when we are in difficulty,
and Who is our eternal and everlasting hope.

Patience, Part I

January 4th: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we introduced our children to the original Star Wars Trilogy (Episodes IV, V, and VI), we confronted the problem of impatience. We started watching the films one night during vacation and finished the second one at midnight. When we suggested that we go to sleep and then watch the third episode the next day, there was great agitation. The Empire Strikes Back ends on a triple cliff-hanger—Han Solo is frozen in carbonite and being delivered to Jabba the Hutt; Luke Skywalker’s right hand has been cut off, and he is barely hanging on to the bottom of a floating city; and Darth Vader has just uttered the famous reveal, “Luke, I am your father,” (a line the famous and late James Earl Jones refused to declaim at his 2005 appearance at Penn State’s Eisenhower Auditorium), and no one wanted to wait. At this point, Joni and I resorted to the traditional but under-appreciated technique of parental reminiscence: Back in the old days, we had to wait two and a half years between The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. We old-timers were of a hardier breed, a patient breed… Our now-fanatical Star Wars fans were not persuaded. 

From the ridiculous to the sublime: Patience
The thing about cliffhangers is that they inspire a kind of creative anxiety. The mystery of what will happen stimulates our imaginations, and we come up with all kinds of possibilities. We craft predictions and agitate over them—sometimes even arguing about which resolutions are more or less likely. Ultimately, however, we do not know. Our knowledge is limited, and any “conclusions” we reach are inevitably a function of our impatience. We want to know what we cannot know, and in lieu of facts (what the storyteller has in mind), we impatiently fix upon our own opinion. 

We know that we are impatient creatures, but we may not be aware of its full dimension. For John F. Haught, human impatience has a theological problem. We are finite beings—very smart but ultimately unable to comprehend or definitionally capture infinity. We want to understand God, but, given that God is infinite and that our minds are finite, this is an impossibility. As the Bible tries to express it (the Lord speaking to Moses in Exodus 33.20), “You cannot see My Face, for man may not see Me and live.” Nonetheless, we seek a knowledge of the Divine and sometimes get carried away with our intuitions and impatiently come to conclusions on things we cannot know. This leads Professor Haught (a Roman Catholic theologian at Georgetown University) to make the following observation: “Idolatry is a form of impatience.”  

We usually think of idolatry as praying to statues of gods, and, in Biblical terms, as showing disloyalty to the One True God. In other words, the opposite of idolatry would be loyalty or virtue. However, Haught focuses on the limitations that idolatry inflicts on God—on the limitations that stone or metal or definition imposes on the continuing growth and development of God. Quoting the mystical sensibilities of Albert Einstein and Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (both of whom he has biographized), Professor Haught looks to the ever-unfolding universe. Things are not static. Nothing is fixed—nor amenable to finality. To Haught, “the opposite of idolatry is not virtue; the opposite of idolatry is hope.”

Whatever the current situation—or whatever we might predict, it is presumptuous to impose our impatience and relative ignorance on a cosmos that is inevitably and continually unfolding and opening itself up to the future. 

Though not the usual interpretation, Professor Haught’s thinking offers a profound insight into the four Torah portions of the Joseph Saga which we read this time of year: Parshiot Vayeshev, Mikketz, Vayigash, and Vayechi (Genesis 37-50). The story of Joseph is constantly surprising—constantly unpredictable. At every step along the way, we think we know what is happening, but our conclusions are always incorrect—always impatiently based on limited and current knowledge.  

When Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery in Egypt, we could conclude that the story of Joseph is over. Jacob certainly thinks so. Seeing the bloody Coat of Many Colors, he knows that his beloved Joseph is dead, and he mourns for him every single day. Joseph himself could conclude that his life is over—several times. Enslaved, imprisoned in Egypt for years, abandoned by his family, and betrayed by his employer and his employer’s wife, Joseph is even forgotten by Pharaoh’s cupbearer. But then, everything changes. Who could imagine that Joseph is still alive? And who could imagine his remarkable rise to power in Egypt? The fixed reality of every single person turns out not to be so fixed. Nothing is set in stone. 

Only at the end (Genesis 50.20) do we find out that a plan has been afoot—that God has been at work. As Joseph explains to his brothers: “Although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” With the benefit of patience and observation, Joseph sees what neither he nor anyone might have seen along the way. In all of the human and climate machinations, God has a plan. With time, the fuller picture has emerged. 

The lessons then can be twofold. First, let us consider God’s presence and purposes in our lives. Who knows how God could be using us for holy purposes—how the challenges of our lives could be channels and opportunities for godliness.  

Second, let us consider the wisdom that patience can bring. Though we are all tempted, impatience can bring all sorts of problems. Conclusions drawn too quickly, determinations made prematurely, and plans made without patience are often foolhardy. Let us not be distracted by the idols our impatience crafts; let us give the universe time to provide more information. If we can just hold on and patiently wait to see how things develop, we can understand better and respond better. 

There are clearly times for urgency and action, but there are also times when hurried responses are too hurried to be wise. Haught—and Teilhard and Einstein—seem to be reminding us that we can make idols of our impatient and hurried thinking and that these idols do not serve us well. Let us pray for strength and patience and understanding.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo vashalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people so that the Lord can bless our people with peace.” (Psalm 29.11)

Why is Chanukah So "Late" This Year?

December 27th: Ki Tetze and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The “lateness” or “earliness” of Chanukah and other Jewish holy days is the result of the relationship between the solar year with its 365 days and the lunar year with its twelve 28-day lunar cycles (months).  

Human culture often seeks to regularize and systematize everything, and so we invented calendars. It took a number of centuries before astronomers could figure out the schedule of the heavenly bodies, but eventually they understood the length of time the earth takes to orbit the sun and the length of time the moon takes to orbit the earth. (The moon was easier—and, since no one thought that the earth orbited the moon, less controversial.) Since many of the Biblical holy days are agriculturally and seasonally based, there is a need to observe them “b’itam,” in their correct times.  

Many Biblical scholars speculate that the ancient Hebrew pilgrimage festivals of Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot began as agricultural observances and were only later associated with historical events. Pesach was the celebration of the birthing season of lambs and goats—with the word pasach referring to the jumping up and down of newborn kids learning to walk. That the Exodus occurred at the same time of year made the combination unbeatable. Shavuot celebrated the Winter Wheat harvest, and the historical event of Matan Torah was glommed onto it as a kind of “harvest of the Exodus:” Israel receiving the Ten Commandments brought the Exodus to its fruition. Sukkot celebrated the Fall Harvest, and the addition of historical connections with the Exodus and with the Wisdom of Solomon followed very naturally: Though “man does not live by bread alone” (Deuteronomy 8.3), bread is nonetheless very important, and Sukkot reminds us of the many gifts of God: freedom, memory, wisdom, and abundance. 

The problem with the lunar calendar—with its 336 days (twelve twenty-eight-day cycles)—is that it does not converge with the solar cycle of 365 days. Using a lunar year would have our holy days move around—and arrive a little earlier each year. This is what happens in Islam where its most well-known month, Ramadan, moves around the year—sometimes in Winter, sometimes in Summer. (One can imagine how much more spiritually and physically challenging a Summer Ramadan is with all of its extra hours of daylight fasting.) 

We do not know how the solar and lunar years were managed in Biblical times, but during the Geonic Period in Babylonia (600 CE—1000 CE), Jewish authorities decided on a new Hebrew calendar that adds an extra lunar month (a leap month) seven times every nineteen years. With these leap years (years with thirteen months instead of twelve), the solar and lunar calendars are roughly coordinated, and we can maintain our agriculturally based holy day system. The only “cost” over the last 1200 years of our 4000-year history is that we have to deal with the slight shifts that a leap year brings to our Jewish schedules. The extra month (Adar II) moves everything around. While Rosh Hashanah is always in the Fall, it “moves” between September or October. While Chanukah is always in the early Winter, it “moves” between November and December. Whereas the Hebrew dates are consistent (Rosh Hashanah is always on Tishri 1; Chanukah always begins on Kislev 25), their convergence with the Western/solar year is not exact—and we speak of our holidays being “early” or “late.”  

Around the same time as the Geonim in Babylonia, several generations of scholarly families in Tiberias in the Land of Israel were at work standardizing the TANACH (Hebrew Bible) and standardizing its use in Jewish worship. First, they took variant manuscripts and determined a standard text—what we now call the Masoretic Text. (These scholars were known as the Masorites, the Traditionalists.) Secondly, they developed a series of notations—little dots and dashes—to remind readers of the traditional vocalizations of Hebrew words. Third, the Masorites added a system of musical notations to remind chanters of the traditional tunes for each word. Whereas assistants had formerly employed hand signals to remind the chanters of the little tunes, these “trope” signs helped the chanters when they practiced from annotated practice texts. And fourth, the Masorites divided up the Biblical Books into chapters and verses—giving us our current organizational structure for the Bible. 

Around this time, there was also an effort to define and standardize the portions of the Bible to be read during weekly services. We do not know exactly who was involved, but by the time we get to the Rambam, Moses Maimonides (1138-1204), a pattern had emerged. The Torah was divided into fifty-four portions so that Jews could read the whole Torah, week by week, through the year. (Interestingly enough, the Masorites’ chapters and verses do not match up with the weekly parshiot/Torah portions. Some weekly portions begin with verse one of a Torah chapter, and some begin in the middle of the chapter. Not everything is regularized and managed in Tradition; sometimes the chorus of voices and traditions abides.) 

In case you are wondering why we need fifty-four parshiot per year when there are only fifty-two weeks, remember the leap years when the extra month brings four extra weeks. With various Jewish holy days occurring on weekends—and having their own special Torah portions, we never need fifty-eight parshiot, but some years we need all fifty-four. And, for the non-Leap Years, some parshiot are combined. Among the most famous combinations is Acharay Mot and Kedoshim in April or May. This is particularly useful for Bar/Bat Mitzvah students for whom Acharay Mot (Leviticus 16-18) is much more difficult to expound than Kedoshim’s Leviticus 19 with its “You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy,” and “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” If their service is a few weeks earlier, it is a toss-up of whether Tazria and Metzorah are read together or separately. Leprosy, mildew, bodily emissions, and sexual immorality are all difficult subjects for early adolescents to discuss on the bimah… 

In any event and in conclusion, whether early or late, Christmas-adjacent or not, Chanukah is a special time for us Jews. May you all enjoy your celebration and find inspiration in the story of the Maccabees and God’s miracles!

In the Places We Sojourn

December 20th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion, with its mix of family problems, has many lessons, but we need go no further than the first sentence to get us started on a timeless Jewish discussion. “And Jacob dwelt in the land where his father sojourned, in the Land of Canaan.” (Genesis 37.1) Jacob is—as are Isaac and Abraham—a semi-nomadic shepherd who leads his flocks over great distances in search of good pastureland. This means that he does not have a settled home. He and his tribe live in one place for a while—a few months or a few years—but eventually move to another place. Their sojourning/wanderings are mostly in the Land of Israel—Beersheva, Gerar, Hebron, Shechem, Beth El, but the only real local “roots” any of the Patriarchs establishes is the Cave of Machpelah in Hebron which Abraham purchases from Ephron the Hittite as a burial place. Only in death do sojourners stop moving. 

This means that our ancient ancestors always have a sense of impermanence and feel as though they are strangers in each place they settle. Thus does Abraham, in approaching the Hittites to buy a burial place for Sarah, describe himself as a stranger. And thus does a modern translation of the above-mentioned passage render “be’eretz m’guray aviv / in the land where his father sojourned,” as “in the land where his father was a stranger.” For our ancient ancestors, being new and trying to fit it to the locality is a continuing endeavor. 

Lesson #1:
Jumping in and being an active participant is vital:
This week, our congregation honors Lauren Gluckman, a sojourner like us all who jumped into participation at Brit Shalom within minutes of her arrival some eighteen years ago. She began volunteering at the Pre-school and in the Religious Education Committee and continued in the Religious Affairs (Ritual) Committee, eventually serving as Vice-President for several terms. Even after phasing out of her board positions, Lauren continues as our official liaison with the JCC Pre-School. While raising her sons, pursuing her career as a legal librarian, and accompanying her beloved Bruce, she has been a consistent and positive worker in our congregation and thus profoundly merits the Helping Hands Award that she will be presented this Friday night. (Please attend the 7:00 Shabbat Service and join us in thanking God for Creation and celebrating Lauren’s holy work.) She came into our community and immediately started helping and making it her own. We are all in Lauren’s debt. 

Lesson #2:
Sometimes, our values can be at odds with those of our adopted communities:
We Jews have always been aware of how we appear to our non-Jewish neighbors. Phrases like “Mah yomru hagoyim? / What will the Gentiles say?” or “A Shanda for the Goyim” (an act of shame that will reflect poorly on the whole Jewish community) have peppered our anxiety for millennia. We have our standards and practices, but we are also acutely aware that non-Jews’ perceptions of us can have significant effects on us and our well-being. We therefore make a point of integrating into the full range of the community and doing our part in charitable and civic endeavors. Being active and constructive members of our local communities is both an important Jewish value and an important Jewish survival strategy. 

There are times, however, when some local values or practices are problematic. Our ancestors find themselves in such a situation in Genesis 34 when Jacob’s daughter Dinah is assaulted by the son of the local chieftain. Claiming to “love” her, Shechem offers to legitimize his assault by marrying her. At this point, our family has a disagreement about what should be done. Jacob seems resigned to accept what the local mores demand—and worries that a forceful/violent response will “make me odious among the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites and Perizzites among whom I dwell.” (Genesis 34.30). Mah yomru hagoyim? We need to safeguard our status among the Gentiles and go along to get along. Shimon and Levi have a different approach. “Should our sister be treated like a harlot?!” they ask rhetorically as they plot a violent response that leaves no doubt about the Israelites’ willingness to defend themselves. For Shimon and Levi, there are limits to what neighbors and colleagues can expect, and our integrity and self-preservation depend on standing our ground.  

Living as a minority throughout history has brought all kinds of pressures to assimilate—to go along with the majority culture or thinking. Sometimes we have found ways to remain true to our faith while participating in the local culture, and sometimes we have decided to resist. The Chanukah Rebellion—which we soon celebrate—is an example of when “going along to get along” was unacceptable. Other times, as in post 140 CE Pharisaism, we sought to be loyal citizens of the realm while maintaining an authentic and holy Judaism. As the Rabbis used to say in Aramaic, “Dina malchuta dina, / Unless the Law of the Land breaks Halachah, we should follow it completely.”  

In the modern world, there have been all kinds of pressures to assimilate—to de-Judaize our lives or de-Zionist our Judaism. Over the last year, it has been particularly hard for Jews who see themselves as humanitarians and Progressives because we are being instructed to disaffiliate with support for Israel as a Jewish State. It is not a matter of arguing about Israeli policies and strategies—something that is natural in all democracies, but rather of various Liberal and civil liberties organizations trying to criminalize the belief that Jews have a right to a nationalism of our own (Zionism!) and a national home. I remember the angst expressed by one member, an outspoke LGBT+ activist, who reported the “loss” of dozens of “friends” in the weeks following October 7, 2023. Not only was Israel attacked physically by the terrorists, but Jews the world over were attacked organizationally and emotionally in the Liberal and humanitarian circles where we thought we were allies and comrades in Tikkun Olam.  

And so, our sojourning presents us with some of the same pressures our ancestors faced. Do we go along to get along—no matter how much it betrays our Jewish values, or do we stand up for ourselves and insist that liberation, safety, cultural integrity, and self-determination for Jews are just as important as they are for non-Jews? Giving up on ourselves and our values is no way to build the Messianic Age. There are times to be flexible, and there are times to stand our ground. If we believe that Zionism is vital for Jewish survival, and if Zionism is part and parcel of our Messianic hopes for a better world, then we have no choice but to resist and reject those local or organizational pressures that want to stifle and warp our Jewish Identities.

We Children of ISRAEL

December 13th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

 This week, we read the story of our name—Yisra’el / Israel. 

After twenty-one years, Jacob is returning home from Padan Aram (Syria) and bringing with him his two wives, two concubines, eleven sons, one daughter, and a whole retinue of servants and employees. Afraid of a violent encounter with his brother Esau—who scouts report was “coming himself to meet you, and there are four hundred men with him”  (Genesis 32.7-8), Jacob prays for God’s protection and deploys his tribe into two sections. Then he retreats back across the Jabbok stream. Here is where the story gets curious:
“Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him.
Then he said, ‘Let me go, for dawn is breaking.’
But he answered, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’
Said the other, ‘What is your name?’
He replied, ‘Jacob.’
Said he, ‘Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed.’
Jacob asked, ‘Pray tell me your name.’
But he said, ‘You must not ask my name!’
And he took leave of him there. So Jacob named the place Peniel, meaning, ‘I have seen a divine being face to face, yet my life has been preserved.’” (Genesis 32.25-31) 

There are many questions to ponder, but, for now, consider this tripartite lesson:
We Jews who are called “The Children of Israel” should always remember how we got the name. It was the name given to our grandfather Jacob—Jacob who wrestled the angel, Jacob who would not let go. “Israel” they called him for he was a wrestler. “Israel” they call us for we are wrestlers, too. We wrestle with God as we search for wisdom. We wrestle with people as we struggle for justice. And, we wrestle with ourselves as we make ourselves better and more holy. Yes, we Jews are the Children of Israel, the children and grandchildren of a man who wrestled an angel. 

Faith and Healing, Part II

December 6th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we looked at the story of Rebekah’s and Isaac’s struggles with infertility and the way they pray for healing. Isaac pleads with the Lord and asks that Rebekah be granted fertility—a prayer that is answered. Once Rebekah gets pregnant, she is alarmed by a rumbling in her abdomen and herself goes “to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her.” (Genesis 25.22-23) As it turns out, she does not get relief, but she does get an explanation: her future twins are struggling, a pattern Jacob and Esau will continue after they are born. 

Twenty years seems like a long time for Rebekah and Isaac to wait for an answer to their prayers. However, as Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi used to quip, praying to God is not like ordering from Domino’s Pizza. (“Guaranteed delivery in 30 minutes!) Faith often involves great patience and persistence. 

In this week’s portion, the family’s fertility struggles continue with Jacob’s wives, Leah and Rachel. According to the Torah, God is involved, “opening Leah’s womb because she was unloved” by her husband Jacob (Genesis 29.31). God is also considered responsible when Rachel does not conceive. She complains to Jacob (also her husband), and he retorts, “Can I take the place of God, who has denied you fruit of the womb?” (Genesis 30.2) Many prayers are prayed, but only some are answered.  

This brings us to our two questions for this week: (1) How does praying affect the healing process? (2) How do we evaluate or enhance the sincerity of our Mi Sheberach prayers? 

As I mentioned before—and as Reb Zalman used to say, praying to God for healing is not like making an order. It is a request and could involve the Almighty altering the pre-determined course of the universe to effect healing. It could be unnecessary if the Choleh (patient) is already destined to recover. But, if the Choleh is destined to die—or to remain infirm, then upon what basis do we ask God for an intercession? And how sincere do we have to be? What gifts—sacrifices or tzedakah—do we have to bring? These are daunting questions—and our approach hinges on how we understand God. Can and does the Deity respond to our prayers and intervene in the world?  

Jews are not the only people who pray for healing. From Protestant prayer groups to Roman Catholic saints who are said to have effected miracles, many people believe in faith healing. Social scientists have sought to study this phenomenon, and, though there is no way to scientifically determine whether the prayers are effective, a number of studies have shown that patients for whom others pray often do better. Is this because God is answering the prayers, or is this because of a kind of emotional energy that the pray-ers send toward the patient? Science does not provide answers, but Reb Zalman picked up on this theme and explained how faith and prayers can indeed effect/affect healing. He begins by admitting that some people are simply too sick to recover, and that other people are already tending toward recovery. The patients who are in-between are the ones who can be helped by sending our spiritual energy in their direction. 

We are creatures endowed with spiritual energy. This is what it means in Genesis when it says that we are created “B’tzelem Elohim, in the Image of God.” And this is how Lurianic Kabbalah describes the partnership between God and humans. We are possessed of spiritual power—spiritual energy, and it energizes us to do good things in the world. It is also an energy that we can spiritually receive and send forth. We may not always be aware of it, but this spiritual/emotional energy manifests itself throughout our lives—in both positive way (“vibes”) and negative ways (“vibes”). As Reb Zalman taught, we are part of a spiritual energy field that moves to us and through us—and that we can direct to others who are in need. 

He used to compare it to the winter sport of curling. The stone is pushed in one direction, but its path is affected by the condition of the ice. To modify the ice and induce the stone toward the intended target, sweepers use brooms to sweep the ice and help the stone along its way. Our prayers cannot directly heal, but our spiritual energy can “sweep” the energy field of the patient and influence the path of his/her health. Our prayers can enhance their energy and healing.  

When we pray--whether we are directing our spiritual energy or beseeching the Almighty for an intercession, our Kavannah, the sincerity and intensity of our prayers, is vitally important. Notice how Isaac prays for Rebekah. He does not just call out his wife’s name at shul. He “pleaded with the Lord,” saying it like he meant it, and one figures that this depth of sincerity makes a difference in how the Lord responds. 

There is a tradition of just reading off a list of names in synagogue and hoping that God will pay attention. The names may be called in to the synagogue by concerned friends and relatives with trust that “the congregation” will pray for the Cholim. But we are taught to be sincere in our prayers—and never to recite a Berachah L’vat’alah, an insincere prayer, a principle that makes this tradition problematic. Are the callers-in coming to services to pray? Are they praying at home? Are the names on the Cholim list current? We used to have people on the list who had long-since recovered, or who had long since passed away. Once the list of names—often names who are not members of the congregation—is written, there is no mechanism for editing the list. And, while the congregation can be assumed to be good-hearted enough to pray for everyone who is ill, the sincerity of such “anonymous” Mi Sheberach’s is, to me, a questionable commodity. Are we praying like we mean it? 

So, for the last ten or so years, we have not been reading a list of Cholim for the Mi Sheberach at services. I always ask that those present think of those who are in need of God’s healing touch, and I encourage each worshipper to send forth his/her spiritual energy to those who are ill. Thus do we strive for sincerity and intensity—for Kavannah, and thus do we hope to enhance the efficacy of our entreaties.

One final thought: healing prayers can also be offered privately as part of our daily prayer life. I know that I have my own list and pray daily for loved ones, friends, and fellow congregation members who are in need of healing. We can channel the spiritual energy gifted to us by God and send it forth, blessing others with our prayers.  

Faith and Healing, Part I

November 29th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our usual focus in this Torah portion is the birth and rivalry of the twins, Esau and Jacob. Who is really elder? Who deserves to be leader? Is Isaac really fooled by the clumsy disguise routine? And is a blessing given under false pretenses valid? 

This year, however, I would like to go back a bit in the story to the twenty years of infertility suffered by Rebekah and Isaac—the infertility and the praying that preceded and accompanied Rebekah’s eventual pregnancy.
“Isaac was forty years old when he took to wife Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel the Aramean of Paddan-aram, sister of Laban the Aramean. Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived…Isaac was sixty years old when they (Jacob and Esau) were born.” (Genesis 25.20-26)  

So, after a very long wait, Rebekah gets pregnant. The couple’s prayers seem to be answered, but the pregnancy is difficult, and Rebekah prays to God for relief. Once again, God responds to her prayers—explaining that the rumbling in her abdomen is the struggling of her future twins.

When I was growing up and in the early years of my rabbinate, I do not remember any formalized healing prayers in the Reform movement—not in the Union Prayer Book (1940) or in Gates of Prayer (1975). I do not doubt that people prayed their own prayers when they or a loved one was ill, but I do not remember any formalized prayers in Reform worship services.  

Conservative and Orthodox services had healing prayers, but they were short, cursory, and side events in a very busy Torah service. One of several Mi Sheberach’s was for the Cholim (ill). The leader would ask for names of the Cholim, repeat them aloud, and then chant (in Hebrew):
“May He Who blessed our forefathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, Moses and Aaron, David and Solomon, bless and heal _______ because _________will contribute to charity on his/her behalf. In reward for this tzedakah, may the Holy One, Blessed be He, be filled with compassion and restore his/her health, healing him/her, strengthening him/her and revivifying him/her. May He send speedily a complete recovery from heaven for all 248 organs and all 365 blood vessels, along with the other sick people of Israel, a recovery of the body and a recovery of the spirit, swiftly and soon. Let us say: Amen.” 

The thing that always struck me about this Mi Sheberach is how unspiritual it is. Though the words ask for healing—and though the people who ask for the healing presumably really want it, the public prayer always seems very administrative or secretarial: “Let’s get this person’s name on the list for healing.” It did not seem to me, in other words, a very spiritual supplication.

This all began to change in the 1980s, and, for many of us, the notion of a spiritually moving prayer for healing can be traced to Debbie Friedman’s 1988 composition, Mi Sheberach.
Mi sheberach avotaynu, M’kor Hab’rachah l’imotaynu,
May the Source of strength Who blessed the ones before us
help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing, and let us say Amen.
Mi sheberach imotaynu, M’kor Hab’rachah la’avotaynu,
Bless those in need of healing with refu’ah sh’lemah,
the renewal of body, the renewal of spirit, and let us say Amen.

Co-written with Rabbi Drorah Setel, the prayer song brought to the wider world the work of feminist and neo-Hassidic thinkers who sought to infuse Jewish spirituality into the healing process. Though formal and congregational worship addressed general life issues, some felt that Jewish prayer services could and should provide assistance to Jews in more personal situations. 

Physical healing was one personal situation addressed, but there were others. As these thinkers considered other difficult personal moments in life—moments like miscarriage or divorce, they wrote prayers and rituals for them as well. “Judaism” has always “cared” about such times, but the traditional liturgy had no functional way to address them. In the case of miscarriage, there is no body to bury, and, because life has not yet begun, the usual memorial prayers do not seem to fit. In the case of divorce, there is the traditional Get ceremony, but it only nullifies the marriage halachically (legally) and does not deal with the emotions of such an event (either sad or happy). Such personal situations were relegated to the realm of friendship and family support, but some Jewish feminists and early women rabbis realized that such personal problems also need to be addressed liturgically. Cannot our dear religion that speaks of our deepest existential concerns somehow help us through difficulties that are deeply personal? 

The result of this sensitive thinking was the formulation of a number of prayers and creative rituals that bring God and spirituality into such sensitive rites de passage in Jews’ lives.  

Among them is Friedman’s and Setel’s healing prayer song. Fashioned in the world of feminist sensitivity and experience, it uses traditional wording as well as an awareness of chronic illness, disability, and terminal illness. Legend has it that Debbie Friedman’s own journey through chronic illness influenced and fueled her insights:
“Help us find the courage to make our lives a blessing...
Bless those in need of healing with Refu’ah Sh’lemah:
the renewal of body, the renewal of spirit.”
We need God at every moment of life—in both moments of happiness and moments of crisis. The job of a religion (and its liturgists) is to help us feel God’s Presence, and the success and universal appeal of this song testify to its relevance and usefulness as we yearn for God’s companionship and blessings in life’s difficult moments.

We shall continue this discussion of faith and healing next week, in Parshat Vayetze, and address two questions:
(1)   How does praying affect the healing process?
(2)   How do we evaluate or enhance the sincerity of our Mi Sheberach prayers?

Helicopter Parenting Biblical Style

November 22nd: Chayay Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Helicopter parent may be a modern term, but the phenomenon described is quite old—at least as old as this week’s Bible story. Worried that Isaac is not up to choosing a wife for himself, Abraham sends a trusted servant to Mesopotamia to find a wife for Isaac.
“Do not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell, but go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac…on no account must you take my son back there!” (Genesis 24.3-6) 

There is some logic in Abraham’s thinking. If Isaac marries a local woman, he could easily be drawn into the local pagan religious world—and depart from the path on which God is sending Abraham, Sarah, and their descendants. And, if Isaac goes back to the Old Country to get a wife “of his own kind,” he could be tempted to stay there and depart from the path on which God is sending his family. The only problem is that Isaac is a grown-up. He should be able to handle this himself, but Abraham does not trust his son—and Abraham over-functions.  

To be fair, there might be other factors at play. Mores are different in Biblical times—as we learn when Isaac’s older brother, Ishmael, is also the beneficiary of such parenting: “and his mother (Hagar) got a wife for him from the land of Egypt.” (Genesis 21.21) And there is the possibility that Isaac is somehow impaired. Of the three Patriarchs, he is the most quiet and the least active. Perhaps he is just shy, meditative, or not overly social, or perhaps there is something more problematic. Could the trauma of almost being sacrificed have left lasting emotional scars, or could he be mentally or visually impaired? Does Abraham need to take over, or is the over-functioning a result of Dad’s anxiety—and not Isaac’s inability or vulnerability? 

The problem with over-functioning/under-functioning is that it can be convenient. Having someone else make one’s decisions and do one’s work removes a lot of stress from life. On the other hand, the infantilization of under-functioners prevents them from taking responsibility for themselves. And sometimes their volition and desire for autonomy rise up and demand attention. 

Years ago, my wife Joni worked for the Kentucky State Welfare Department running a well-child clinic for welfare recipients. When Ronald Reagan became President, he slashed welfare funding, and the program was dismantled. Social activists decried Reagan’s failure to help the less fortunate—and we were quite unhappy about Joni losing her job. However, the fact is that the program’s money had not been well spent. Most of the welfare-receiving mothers did not show up for appointments—even after repeated reminders and offers of free taxi rides. The advice of the nurse was ignored, as were appointments made with specialists. Try as the staff might, the clients just refused to be helped. They were not interested in what the government was offering.  

The government thought it knew what the poor mothers needed, but the poor mothers themselves had different ideas. Though we personally appreciated the income that Joni earned (supporting us as I studied at the Hebrew Union College), the government wasted lots and lots of money on this ineffective do-good program. Could the program have been designed or executed better, or was the Government “sticking its nose” into other people’s business—in this case, the “business” of the Appalachian poor in Covington, Kentucky?  

We all have ideas about how to solve the world’s problems, and they often involve telling other people what to do. When we put these brilliant ideas into government policy or programs, we may be right—or we may be over-functioning and perceived as interfering in other people’s lives. There is also the possibility that the experts’ goals may not be the goals of the target populations. No matter what is done—which expert opinion or recipient opinion is adopted, experience shows that many of the recipients do not appreciate the “help” or find that the “solutions” are not effective for their problems. Sometimes I wonder how much anti-government hostility is based on such misbegotten “assistance.” 

The years have seen a lot of ink spilled and a lot of Liberal stomach lining shed over the problems of a whole host of downtrodden groups. Whether these people are weak or uneducated or bull-headed or culturally deprived or victimized or marginalized, the Liberal and do-gooder message has been that they need our help. The question, as we analyze and dissect the recent election results, is how many of them voted against Liberal wisdom. What if the people we pity do not want the kind of help we offer? Could that be one factor in the unexpected election results? Could the deafening roar of the recent ballot boxes mean that the Liberal agenda—in all its expansiveness and largesse—is not perceived as helpful as we imagine? 

There is a human tendency to dispense advice, and this is even more pronounced among those of us dedicated to Tikun Olam. Fixing the world is a noble goal, but sometimes, I fear, we can be guilty of over-reaching and over-functioning. As much as God wants to rule the world with goodness, God also gives us the example of Tzimtzum, of withdrawing from the world to make room for human agency—for growth, experimentation, failure, success, and responsibility. We shall be pondering this recent election for a long time—and analyses and opinions will be in a continuing state of flux. But for now, I am wondering whether the lesson of the election may be Tzimtzum—of not being so eager to solve other people’s problems, of not over-functioning.

Rebekah turns out to be a good choice—a fine wife. She does important work and helps steer the fate of our people and religion. She shows that woman can have both wisdom and strength—and is a true Matriarch. However, could not Isaac have found her on his own? If he is mature and pious enough to sacrifice himself on his Dad’s Mount Moriah altar, then he certainly knows what he needs and wants, and he should be trusted to find his own wife.  

One more thing. If we read carefully, we see that the servant is not the one who finds Rebekah. As Abraham himself says, “The Lord, the God of heaven…will send an Angel before you so you can get a wife for my son from there.” (Genesis 24.7) The servant prays to God, and the angel of God points out Rebekah. That same angel could accompany Isaac and assist him as he takes care of his own business.

Trying Not to Get It Wrong

November 15th: VaYera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

(This week, we share Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur morning D’var Torah, Trying Not to Get It Wrong.) 

A holy man was addressing a group of religious teenagers, but one of the young people was troubled. The teaching seemed ungodly, so he raised his hand. Where in the Scriptures is this found? It is there; it is the will of God. But where? It is there; it is the will of God. But where is it in the Scripture? There was no answer—no answer because the teaching was not in Scripture. The young man, the future Imam Abdullah Antepli, had studied the Koran and knew that this teaching was not in the Koran—neither Surah nor Hadith.  

Though set in a Muslim context, this story could have easily taken place in a Christian, or Hindu, or Buddhist, or Jewish setting—and unfortunately, it often does. Sometimes religious people believe something so strongly that they think it is Scriptural when it is not. 

Religions around the world know about this tendency, and they all have remediative stories to remind the pious about being humble—and about not putting their thoughts in God’s mouth. There are many variations, but here is the basic scenario. A faithful disciple says or does something and thinks that it will please his/her master. But, to the disciple’s surprise, the master is disappointed and redirects the thinking to a different and more important principle. Whether in Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, Christianity, Islam, Baha’ism, or Taoism, the process and lesson is the same. The disciple thinks he/she knows the truth and comes to the Master—Hassidic Rebbe, Sufi Master, Mother Superior, or Zen Master, thinking that this truth stated or performed will bring approval. The problem is that, in the zeal of religious fervor, the disciple gets it wrong.  

An example from Judaism is the story of the Baal Shem Tov and one of his disciples, Reb Yechiel Michel of Zlotchev. The young rabbi gives one of his students a harsh punishment for violating one of the Sabbath laws, thinking that the extra harshness will help the student remember the error of his ways—and thinking that his teacher, the Baal Shem Tov, will approve. However, when he reports his teaching technique, the Baal Shem Tov ignores it and instead sends Reb Yechiel Michel on a distant errand. The errand is urgent and cannot be delayed, and he needs to report back immediately—before Shabbos. The problem is that the errand requires eight hours of traveling when there are only only six hours before Shabbos begins. The Baal Shem Tov will not hear any objections, so Reb Yechiel Michel hires a driver with a good horse and wagon and hurries as fast as he can. He hopes he can make it back before sundown, but he does not. Though he urges the driver to urge the horse and they take no time to rest, they do not get back until after dark. Reb Yechiel Michel is bereft that he has violated Shabbos, and, when he arrives back in the village, there is the Baal Shem Tov standing outside the empty synagogue, waiting. As the after-dinner Shabbos songs float through the village air, Reb Yechiel Michel approaches his master with trepidation. He has attended to the errand, but he is remorseful and sure that he will receive a harsh punishment. Instead, the Baal Shem Tov seems unconcerned about the errand or Shabbos and very interested in how Reb Yechiel Michel feels. When he explains how bad he feels about breaking Shabbos, the Baal Shem Tov nods. Yes, you feel terrible. You feel disconnected from God and Tradition. It is a terrible feeling, and that feeling alone is punishment enough. It is all you need to remember not to violate Shabbos. The pious Reb Yechiel Michel thought he knew how to be a rebbe, but he needed correction. 

Another example is the Christian Parable of the Prodigal Son—found in the New Testament in Luke, Chapter 15. In this most famous of Jesus’ parables, a father has two sons, and the younger one suggests an interesting proposition. Give me my inheritance now, he asks his father, so that I do not have to wait until you die. The father agrees and gives his younger son a large amount of money, at which point the younger son goes off on adventures, and the older son stays on the family farm and works. Soon the younger son has wasted his money and squandered his inheritance and comes back home penniless and in need of refuge. The older son, noting his own loyalty and responsibility, is sure that the father will reject the younger son. Such impudence and disloyalty have earned him rejection. But the father welcomes back the younger son, embracing him and giving him his place back in the family. The older son—the responsible and loyal one—cannot understand, but the father reminds him that he loves his younger son despite his behavior. A son can do nothing that will destroy the love of his father. 

Christians use this story to teach of God’s unrelenting love—and other than the theological issue of Jesus’ role in connecting people to God, this is a perfectly good Jewish story about repentance. In fact, Jesus might have been thinking about the teshuvah he heard preached in his local synagogue. Be that as it may, if we step back and notice the form of the story, we see the ubiquitous story of the mistaken disciple. The older son—with whom most hearers immediately agree— thinks that he understands, but he focuses so much on loyalty that he forgets the greater context of his father’s love. The forgiving and embracing father plays the part of the spiritual master who sees the greater picture and offers the older son—and the reader a corrective. 

Such stories could be termed Tales of Chagrin, situations in which we think we know the right and pious answer but do not. Our piety or learning or aspirations lead us to a kind of self-righteousness, over-confidence, or lack of empathy, and we are in need of an adjustment from a higher level of godliness. 

Why are such Tales of Chagrin necessary? As much as we encourage and inspire religiosity, there is a self-awareness in religion that we can get carried away with our righteousness and piety and to take them too far. We strive to understand God’s will, and many times we discern a glimmer, but we need to retain our humility. We may hear the Voice of God ringing in our ears, but we may also be bending those spiritual sound waves and not hearing the whole message. Whether with ignorance or tunnel vision or active manipulation, there are those who claim to speak for God but who really misspeak the Divine Message. As much as we love God and endeavor to submit to the Divine, we need to keep our wits about us and our minds active—and our piety humble and open and attuned to correction.  

How do we work on this problematic tendency? Our Tradition offers these possibilities. 

First, look at the Tzitzit on your Tallesim. As we read in the Torah:
            וּרְאִיתֶם אֹתוֹ וּזְכַרְתֶּם אֶת־כָּל־מִצְוֹת יְיָ...וְלֹא תָתוּרוּ אַֽחֲרֵי לְבַבְכֶם וְאַֽחֲרֵי עֵינֵיכֶם, אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּם זֹנִים אַחֲרֵיהֶֽם:

When you look at the Tzitzit, you should remember all the mitzvot of the Lord, and that you have previously fallen into sin—going about after your own heart and eyes and going wantonly astray. We have sinned. We have missed the boat and the lesson. Let us be humble and try to improve. 

Hillel seems to have anticipated the overconfidence of the pious, for, in Pirke Avot 2.4, he counsels:
וְאַל תַּאֲמִין בְּעַצְמְךָ עַד יוֹם מוֹתְךָ. “Do not be sure of yourself until the day you die.”

We must always keep open minds and pursue frequent and constant reappraisal. We could get it wrong. We have gotten in wrong. We need to be diligent in not getting it wrong again. 

Second, re-education or reconsideration is a must. We may think we know the authoritative documents of our Tradition: Torah, Bible, Talmud. We may have studied them extensively. However, we have not considered all that they can teach and all the ways that their principles and stories can help guide us in previously unconsidered scenarios. Here are just a few examples of the Tradition’s self-awareness about how even the wisest need to keep studying and keep striving to find the right path. 

We can start with the famous passage from the Hagaddah in which Elazar ben Azariah says, "Behold I am like a seventy year old man, but I never understood why the Exodus from Egypt should be recited at night until Ben Zoma explicated it.” The prooftext and explanation are interesting, but beyond that, notice how one of the leading rabbis of the day, at age 70, finally understands something he has wondered about for years. It is a good thing he continued to pay attention.  

In Pirke Avot (5.22), Ben Bag Bag speaks of the wisdom of continually re-examining things one thinks are already known.       הֲפֹךְ בָּהּ וַהֲפֹךְ בָּהּ, דְּכֹלָּא בָהּ...
“Turn it over, and turn it over again, for everything is in it. Reflect on it an grow old and gray with it.” 

And, “Rabbi Hiyya bar Abba, in the name of Rabbi Yochanan, gives the following Midrash: When it says in Proverbs (27.18), ‘Whoever tends a fig tree shall enjoy its fruit,’ King Solomon is talking about Torah study. Since figs on a fig tree ripen at different times, the tree-keeper must look everyday to find newly ripened fruit. So it is with the Torah. Whenever we study Torah, we can find something new and wise for us to learn.”  (Talmud Eruvin 54ab) 

Humility. Openness. Reappraisal. Torah.
These are all part of Teshuvah. May we continue to improve.

Awareness and Teshuvah (and Willie Nelson Songs)

November 8th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This week, we share Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre D’var Torah, Awareness and Teshuvah (and Willie Nelson Songs) 

One of the problems in my line of work is that I may hear theological discussions where they are not intended. It was like that one day when I was listening to some country songs and heard Willie Nelson singing, You Were Always On My Mind.
            “Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have.
            Maybe I didn’t treat you quite as good as I should have.
            If I made you fell second best, Girl, I’m sorry I was blind,
            But you were always on my mind; you were always on my mind.”
Like I say, I hear theological discussions where they may not be intended. So, when my mind jumped to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, was it a total digression, or is this not just the kind of thing we Jews say to God? After a year of relative neglect, now, all of a sudden, we’re thinking about our religion and God. 

In the case of Willie Nelson’s imagined singer and his abandoned lover, was she really “always on his mind,” or is this just a poetic way of saying that he wishes she had been? Or was she “on his mind,” but buried below other concerns and interests? This song speaks to a moment of reflection—of thinking about his priorities and choices and realizing that he has absented himself from something of great importance.  

Many of us have a kind of ambivalence about God and religion. Whether we have theological doubts or a lack of connection to the rituals, or we just do not get around to doing them on a regular basis, the fact is that many of us do not feel attracted enough to Jewish practices to make them a regular part of our lives. We pick and choose—“dosing ourselves” with enough Jewishness, but not “too much.” Theoretically, this may make sense, but, is it enough? Is our current dosage of Judaism sufficient to keep our relationship with God healthy?
            “You were always on my mind, O God, but I didn’t always let you know.”  

Sometimes, reflection and regret comprise a kind of fleeting self-awareness, a moment that comes and goes. Other times, however, we turn reflection into resolution and fix ourselves. I wonder if Willie Nelson’s singer ever made this transition, recognizing that “always on his mind” is not enough. Did he ever see the void he had created in his life and try to improve? 

The same goes for us. When we reflect on our religious yearnings and perhaps regret the void in our lives due to absenting ourselves from Judaism and Jewishness and God, do we make the move to teshuvah? Do we try to be more attentive, to fill in the spiritual void, and re-engage the Divine? 

Anyway, back to country songs and my next probably unintended theological discussion. It arose when Willie Nelson joined Waylon Jennings for A Good Hearted Woman in Love With a Good Timing Man. It is a raucous song—a live recording where the audience breaks into hoots and hollers every time the singer says, “good timin’ man,” but I think I hear the singer having a moment of reflection.
            “She’s a good hearted woman in love with a good timin’ man.
            She loves me in spite of my wicked ways that she don’t understand.”
Though he ignores her, abandons her, and probably does things that are not usually considered part of marital fidelity, he knows that, 
            “…when the party’s all over, she’ll welcome him back home again.” 

Grace, in Hebrew חֵן, is a wonderful thing, and we are comforted knowing that some people’s love for us is not dependent on our behavior. However, grace does not protect them from the hurt that we cause. If we really love someone, why would it be okay to hurt them again and again? Does the singer just feel fortunate to have a “good hearted woman,” or does he ever consider being more attentive and present? Can Willie, Waylon, or any of the raucous partiers turn this moment of somber reflection into teshuvah? 

One may be surprised by this discussion of popular love songs on the High Holy Days, but there is an emotional energy in these songs that strikes a chord in our hearts, and I think that this chord may be worth strumming to motivate us in our current introspection and repentance. Moreover, there is ancient  precedent. The same kind of romantic trouble is found in the Biblical Song of Songs, Shir HaShirim, presumedly written by King Solomon himself. It tells the story of a king who loves a peasant woman and figures that his wealth, power, good looks, and ability to speak in incredible love poetry make him irresistible. The peasant woman is intrigued and attracted, but she also has eyes for a peasant man. He too is very desirable, and she has a hard time deciding between the two. Shir haShirim speaks of the King’s courtship—in which he appeals to the maiden with florid poetry. It is a love triangle with all the drama of a good country song because both are about humans.  

In any event, this ancient work turned out to be a controversial addition to the Bible. Many of the Sages believed that it did not belong in the midst of the Torah’s laws and the Prophets’ exhortations for moral and spiritual purity. Some objected to its suggestive poetry and less-than-holy story of an ancient love triangle, but Rabbi Akiva insisted on its inclusion in the canon. Why? He saw the story as much more than mere love poetry. To him, it is an allegory about Israel’s relationship with God. The King in the story is God, the peasant woman Israel, and the peasant man the pagan and idolatrous religions. We, the peasant woman, should be delighted by the love of God and be faithful to our Divine Love, but we keep getting distracted by the lures of paganism and idolatry. The story begs us to realize the wisdom of loving God—and resisting and rejecting the temptations that keep turning our heads.  

In other words, the metaphor compares our relationship with God with romantic relationships between humans and thus makes modern love songs potentially relevant. Willie Nelson is not King Solomon, but they do both approach the same topics. Why do we take love for granted? Why are we distracted from the people who really matter to us? Why do we allow ourselves to continue patterns of behavior that hurt the ones we love?  

We are taught that God yearns for an active and continuing relationship with us, and, just as our neglect can hurt the people we love, ignoring the Divine can hurt and diminish God.

God may be all-powerful, but God’s feelings can be hurt by us, and I would hate to think that God feels the same way about us that Patsy Cline felt when she sang Willie Nelson’s first hit:
            “Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely.
            I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so blue.
            I knew you’d love me as long as you wanted
            And then someday you’d leave me for somebody new. 

            I’m crazy for thinking that my love could hold you,
            I’m crazy for trying and crazy for crying, and I’m crazy for loving you.” 

While the singers in the first two songs seem aware of their bad behavior and how it hurts the ones they love, the singer in Crazy reminds us how sad, forlorn, and hopeless those loved ones feel. Our misbehavior is not a victimless crime. As both Shir HaShirim and the Kabbalah teach, our attention matters to God, and our lack of attention damages the Presence of God in the world. Conversely, when we pay attention to God and do the work of the Divine, we can help God and increase God’s Presence and Influence in the world. What we do matters. 

Perhaps one of the things that prevents us from turning moments of reflection into teshuvah is our faith in God—our belief that God loves us and that God will always forgive us. Like the “good timin’ man” who knows that his “good-hearted woman” will always welcome him back again, we Jews look at the Yom Kippur prayer book and its assurances of forgiveness. While we are supposed to be begging for forgiveness in Kol Nidre, we can turn the page and see that God is going to forgive us.

וַיֹאמֶר ה': "סָלַֽחְתִי כִּדְבָרֶֽךָ."
And the Lord said, “I do forgive you when you ask.”

Later in the Machzor, we praise God for the promise of continuing forgiveness.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה', מֶֽלֶךְ מוֹחֵל וְסוֹלֵחַ לַעֲוֹנוֹתֵֽינוּ...וּמַעֲבִיר אַשְׁמוֹתֵֽינוּ בְּכָל־שָׁנָה וְשָׁנָה...
We praise You, O Lord, Who year by year sweeps away our transgressions and misdeeds...
and annuls our trespasses...

Would perhaps a little more drama make us take it more seriously? 

Or perhaps we could consider a paradigm shift. We often look at religion as an obligation—an onerous burden. Bolstered by terms like Brit/Covenant, the mitzvot/ commandments, and Ol Malchut Hashamayim / the Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven, we may focus on the weight of religion. We may also feel a sense of obligation to our families—our parents, grandparents, and forebears who believed so strongly and who expected us to continue Judaism. However, this is not the only paradigm of religiosity, and the Song of Songs and other passages point to a different and more uplifting approach.  Our relationship with God can be based on love. It is in every evening service:

אַהֲבַת עוֹלָם בֵּית יִשְׁרָאֵל עַמְּךָ אָהָֽבְתָּ,
God loves us with an eternal love.

And it is in every morning service:

אַהֲבָה רַבָּה אֲהַבְתָּֽנוּ,
God loves us with a great love.

And, as we all know that we are urged to return that love:

וְאָהַבְתָּ אֵת ה' אֱלֹהֶיךָ, בְּכָל־לְבָֽבְךָ, וּבְכָל־נַפְשְׁךָ, וּבְכָל־מְאֹדֶֽךָ.
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart,
with all your soul, and with all your might.”

It can be a loving relationship, and, like any loving relationship that grows apart, repairing the relationship, re-entering the relationship, and enjoying anew the company of the loved one can be a pleasure and a blessing.  

Just as Willie Nelson’s characters in the songs have the opportunity to transform moments of reflection into changes that can reconnect them with their loves, so do we Jews sitting in reflection on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur have the opportunity to re-engage God and Judaism. By increasing our dosage of Torah and Good Deeds, we can work on our relationship with the Divine and find joy in this renewed closeness. 

It is not at all uncommon for someone—for various reasons—to re-engage with Jewishness and then report to me, almost with surprise, how much they like it: how much fun it is, or how meaningful it is, or how close it makes them feel to their pious ancestors. Whether it is more frequent Torah study, reading Jewish books, re-engaging in congregational life, or renewed dedication to Tikkun Olam, upping the Jewish content of our lives can bring joy and meaning and holiness. We can transform ourselves and re-engage the holy. We can transform ourselves and re-engage the holy.