The Limits (and Preconceptions) of Pacifism

December 5th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

I have been uncomfortable lately with friends who are pacifists. It is not that I am against peace, but some of them seem remarkably untroubled when it comes to the life-and-death struggles of others. While the Bible speaks of the blessings of peace, there is also an awareness that peace is not always the best path. In Genesis 14, Abram gets involved in the War of the Four Kings Against the Five Kings. While peace is a noble and serious goal, rescuing his nephew Lot is more important. In Genesis 21, we find that Abraham’s friendship with Abimelech, King of Gerar, is jostled when some of Abimelech’s shepherds invade Abraham’s territory and seize one of Abraham’s wells. The two meet and hash things out, but the Torah mentions that troops are present for the “peace talks.” Friendship is important, but strength is important too. 

In this week’s Torah portion, we have other examples of necessary and blessed force. The first begins with Jacob camping out alone and anticipating a stressful meeting with his twin brother Esau. Suddenly, a mysterious visitor appears—identified in some places as a “man” and in other places as an “angel,” and that “man wrestled with Jacob until the break of dawn.” (Genesis 32.25-29) Their encounter is not a discussion of philosophy nor a negotiation. Rather, it is a fierce and physical encounter in which Jacob emerges blessed and with a new name. As the angel explains, Jacob will be called Israel because he “has striven with beings divine and human, and has prevailed.” Sometimes, we are taught, we must wrestle with all our might. 

A second example involves the Rape of Dinah, Jacob and Leah’s daughter. Though Anita Diamant, in The Red Tent, portrays Dinah as a “liberated” young woman who voluntarily enters into a romance with Shechem, hers is a modern Midrash that clearly departs from the text. In the Torah itself (Genesis 34), Shechem takes Dinah by force, and Jacob/Israel’s family is faced with a crisis. Respond or acquiesce? Accept the assault and enter into an alliance with Shechem’s tribe—and be known as “pushovers,” or respond dramatically and forcefully and let everyone know that “you don’t mess with the Sons of Israel?” Jacob prefers to keep the peace at all costs, but Simon and Levi lead their brothers in a devastating attack on Shechem’s tribe, and everyone in the region presumably takes note.
 

Many of us remember the terrible event back in 2006 in which six Amish schoolchildren were murdered in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania. The Amish, known for their pacifism, mourned for their fallen children, but then, in an example of grace that amazed the world, forgave the shooter and his family. There has been much written about this phenomenon, but much of what I have read seems to miss the point. The salient factor, it seems to me, is the Amish belief in an Afterlife—one earned by Christlike forbearance, pacifism, and forgiveness. Their religious path is ultimately of more importance than the lives of the murdered children—whose souls presumably went straight to Heaven and were embraced by God. I do not mean to suggest that the Amish do not love their children, but in a life devoted to their particular path of godliness, how and when that life ends is less important than following the path and earning eternity.  

This kind of thinking typifies the martyrdom literature of many religions—including Judaism. The pious do their best while alive, but this world and what happens in it pale in comparison to the joy and love that await in the Afterlife. Thus, do many believe that religious observance and loyalty are more important than earthly survival, and, for them, conflict is a completely different kind of experience. Submitting oneself—one’s pride, one’s anger, one’s life—to God is seen as redemptive, as the “price of admission” to heaven. This, by the way, is why many Eastern European Jews walked compliantly and tranquilly into Nazi boxcars and gas chambers. 

In Biblical and Second Temple days, the Children of Israel were fierce, and stories about our valor and military successes abound. Things changed however with the overwhelming domination of Rome, and, after three disastrous rebellions against Rome, our Rabbis decided that fighting back is not a good survival strategy. Meekness, piety, and praying for the Messiah were prescribed, and, from around 200 CE to modern times, non-violent forbearance became the Jewish way. In the mid-1800’s, however, some Jews started questioning this response and developed a different approach to conflict. In villages and cities across Europe, young Jews gathered and learned self-defense, standing up to the anti-Semites who had been having a field day for over a thousand years. In many ways, this Jewish Self-Defense laid the foundation for Zionism and the tenacious return to our ancestral home. Belief in an Afterlife was beside-the-point as more and more Jews saw this world and our lives in it as worth defending. Like the Biblical Israelites and the Maccabees, modern Jews could be strong and proud and self-reliant. 

Such fierceness does not sit well with our pacifist friends. It is not that they do not care for the victims of violence, but their caring seems to be subsumed by their belief in peace at all costs. My concern is that they can too easily be sanguine about consigning others to death.  

One of my pacifist friends recently wrote to me with words intended as empathetic. Mourning with us over the “continuing trauma we must feel after the Holocaust,” my friend sees our current defensive posture as “limbic” and a matter of “misaligned chakras.” Though intended as kind, it looked to me like a diagnosis, and I found myself wondering about the chakras in those Israeli peaceniks murdered and tortured by Hamas. At what point is our defensive posture a spiritual/Vedic sickness, and at what point is it fighting off a gunman rushing at my family?  

If one “does not care”—that is, believes that whatever happens in this life is ultimately unimportant, then dying with perfectly aligned chakras and a peaceful disposition is okay. But, the premise of such a position may not be acceptable to all, and, for many of us, self-defense and the will to live is not a pathology.  

Judaism believes in peace. We pray for peace, and we yearn for peace. In verse after verse and prayer after prayer, we express the urgency and necessity of peace, but we see it as an aspiration, a hope that must sometimes be temporarily shelved when imminent destruction knocks at the door. As we are counseled in Psalm 29:
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo va’shalom.”
“The Lord gives strength to our people,” and through that strength, “the Lord will bless our people with peace.”

A Dream of Holy Potential

November 28th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

While the larger story arc involves Jacob leaving home, dreaming about the stairway to heaven, falling in love, getting married, and raising a large family, one minor detail strikes me every time I read this Torah portion:
“Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran. He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. He had a dream: a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down on it. And the Lord was standing beside him…” (Genesis 28.10-13)
Why use a rock as a pillow?! 

One explanation is that the rock upon which he dreams provides him with a permanent reminder of the vision. “Early in the morning, Jacob took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up as a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. He named that place Beth El/House of God.” (Genesis 28.18-19) Not only is the stone a reminder; it is in a sense a witness. 

Another answer has to do with danger. Jacob is alone and out in the wilderness. Unlike his twin Esau, he is not an outdoorsman. “When the boys grew up, Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors; but Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” (Genesis 25.27) This may be the first time he is away from home on his own, and he could be frightened. Sleeping on a hard stone could be his strategy of sleeping but not too deeply—so that he could respond to danger. Or the stone could be much larger than we imagine: sleeping on top of a boulder may be his way of protecting himself against dangerous ground animals. 

I sense, however, a deeper possibility. Perhaps Jacob is feeling alienated, estranged, and lost. Remember how quickly his life is disrupted. Living comfortably in the family’s tent compound, reconciled to his Dad’s intention of letting his stronger and more vigorous twin take over family leadership (and maybe even a little relieved), he is suddenly dragged into a palace coup. His mother Rebekah makes him dress in animal skins, pretend to be his hairy brother, lie to his beloved father, and steal Esau’s blessing. The plan works, but, when Esau finds out, he explodes with anger: “Let but the mourning period of my father come, and I will kill my brother Jacob.” Rebekah sends him away for his own safety: “Your brother Esau is consoling himself by planning to kill you. Now my son, listen to me. Flee at once to Haran, to my brother Laban. Stay with him a while, until your brother’s fury subsides…” (Genesis 27.41-45)  

He may be safe from Esau, but he is alone and in unknown parts, separated from his family and everything he knows. He does not feel safe. Manipulated, hated, and frightened, his confidence is very low, and he could be feeling very bad about himself. Some people with deep feelings of alienation or marginalization express themselves by self-harm. Some cut. Some stop eating. Some drink themselves into oblivion. Others try to overwhelm their sadness and anger with extreme and self-destructive behaviors. Archeologists report that some ancients ritualized self-harm and prescribed a mourning ritual in which close relatives ripped out their hair to show grief—a pagan custom that may have inspired Leviticus 19.27’s prohibition of “cutting the corners of one’s hair and beard.” The point is that choosing a stone for a pillow could be Jacob’s way of expressing inner angst with outer pain. Bereft and lost, Jacob is hurting badly and to his very soul. 

The irony—the blessed irony—is that this is the moment when God comes to visit. In the midst of this terrible crisis, God comes to Jacob and offers hope and purpose.
“I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants. Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land...” (Genesis 28.13-15) 

When we are immersed in a crisis, we may or may not receive such a vision or promise, but we certainly yearn for clarity and perspective—and purpose and love. Tradition reminds us to consider what we represent—how we are part of an ancient and continuing project, a project established by God, intended by God, and accompanied by God. Though they call us Israel because we wrestle with God, we are also called Israel because we wrestle with ourselves and with others, all for the purpose of Tikkun Olam, bringing Heaven’s blessings to the world. Jacob will one day be called Israel, but now he is at an impasse—a moment of doubt and pain. God is there to remind him that blessed potential awaits—and to comfort him, inspire him, and remind him that the Divine is always present. Always.  

I believe that we too sleep and stand at the portal between Heaven and Earth. We too can see the angels “going up and going down on the heavenly stairway,” but there is more. We are invited to join them—to be among God’s M’lachim/angels and to find holy purpose in God’s work.  

There are many texts that speak to us of our purpose—some traditional and other modern. Here is one of my favorites:  
“Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why. And yet, sometimes we seem to divine a purpose. From the standpoint of daily life, we know this: people are here for the sake of other people. Above all, we are here for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow humans, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received and am still receiving.” (Albert Einstein) 

More Than a Training Montage: We Need to Gird our Loins

November 21st: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
One of my favorite movie cliches is the training montage, a series of quick scenes in which a character or group of characters prepare for a mission or game (or heist). The goal is for the audience to get a gist of the process, but without spending too much time. There is a delicate line between so much training that the viewers’ attention will lag and so little training that the viewers will not adequately “feel” the character’s determination and struggle.  

The Rocky movies are famous for such training montages. Inspired by the famous Rocky theme—or Eye of the Tiger, or, in the case of Rocky IV, the two songs that accompany the dueling training montages of Rocky and Ivan Drago, we “train with” Rocky as he sweats, strains, worries, and struggles. And we are with him when he climbs the seventy-two stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art—or a nameless mountain in Russia—and yells to the universe that he is ready. We have struggled with him and know that victory awaits! 

As in all narratives, the idea is for us to get a glimpse of the characters’ reality—not to live it ourselves. The story teller’s task is necessarily reductive.  

Another cliché—delightfully parodied in The Muppets (2011)—is traveling by map. Rather than investing the movie time to show an actual journey—which could be long or difficult or impossible, the viewer is shown a map and a cartoon boat or plane moving across it. Reality is not the point; we just need the transition so we can get on with the narrative. 

I mention these unrealities because they represent fallacies into which we can sometimes fall. When the bad things in life come, we may wish that we could travel by map or be limited to a suffering montage, but alas. Real people must summon their patience and gird their loins. 

Think of the 400 years we spent as slaves in Egypt. Generations were born as slaves and died as slaves—the harshness of Egyptian oppression as all they knew. Reality for them was so much more than the bitterness of horseradish or parsley dipped in metaphorical tears. A deeper study of their suffering and perseverance would ask how they managed to find inner strength and faith. When it is our time to suffer, how can we learn from Tradition and find resilience? 

Another struggle comes to our attention this week. Rebekah and Isaac marry with great hopefulness, but they spend many years waiting for children. Though the Torah’s focus is on the birth of the twins Esau and Jacob—and the brouhaha of their rivalry, notice the time frame of frustration and hope:
“This is the story of Isaac, son of Abraham. Abraham begot Isaac…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 (Esau and Jacob) were born.” (Genesis 25.20-26) 

When we celebrate Passover, we do just that. We mention the hard times but move quickly on to celebrating God’s miraculous rescue. Before we even start, we already know the eventual and blessed conclusion, but that was not the case for the ancient Hebrew slaves. They did not know when their nightmare would end. In the case of Isaac and Rebekah,  we know that the many years of infertility will eventually end and that twin sons will bless the couple. But what were Rebekah and Isaac thinking during those long years?  

My goal is not to plunge us into the despair with which previous generations wrestled. We have troubles of our own, and dwelling on their tzoros will help neither them nor us. This could be why Tradition doses us in remembering our past difficulties. Like training montages or traveling by map, we need enough to inspire appreciation, but not so much as to destroy hopes.  

And yet, we are more than just observers of life; we are livers of life and sometimes sufferers. While our Tradition often presents celebratory history, the fact is that Judaism has also helped Jews though dark days. It may be thus helpful for us to reflect upon our other sacred stories, the ones which tell of suffering, patience, and resilience. There is holiness in them, as well.  

We could think about how our mother Rebekah put on a brave face and found meaning in her life even as she wondered if she would ever be a mother. We could think about how the Hebrew slaves put foot in front of foot every day, trying to endure the oppression and trying to find meaning in life despite terrible conditions. We could think about how our European ancestors found meaning and hope despite poverty and the ever-present Cossack. While part of Faith includes believing that God will rescue us or grant us our fondest hopes, a large part of our Judaism also involves searching and finding the blessings that are present. 

Some guidance comes from the ancient Sage Ben Zoma in Pirke Avot (4.1):  Who is rich? He who rejoices in his lot,” or as I like to render it, “Who is rich? One who rejoices in blessings that are available.” More than just an insight about appreciation, Ben Zoma’s larger lesson involves working within the parameters of our limited circumstances.
“Who is wise? One who learns from everyone.
Who is mighty? One who controls his/her evil inclination.
Who is rich? One who rejoices in blessings that are available.
Who is honored? One who honors other human beings.” 

In the gap between our idealized lives and our real lives, Ben Zoma counsels us to seek meaning in what we can do. What are our opportunities for finding meaning? What are, in that gap, the possibilities for joy, for service, for appreciation, or for holiness?  

Judaism has always been a profound mixture of spirituality and practicality. We need to take care of ourselves and our world, but we also need to expand our vision and search for God’s Presence in our lives.
The Lord is present always:
Helping us, pushing us, lifting us,
Teaching us, guiding us, saving us.
God’s power can be seen in our lives, and we can feel it within.”

Family Matters

November 14th: Chayei Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In this week’s Torah portion, we seem to have a lesson in parental overreach. After Sarah’s death, Abraham decides that Isaac needs a wife—and that someone other than Isaac should do the choosing. He sets his head servant on the task and gives these instructions:
(1) “Do not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell.”
(2) “Go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac.”
(3) “On no account must you take my son back there!” (Genesis 24.3-6)

The abnormality of such a situation begs for explanation. Some suggest that this strange course of action is just the way things were done back then: children did not choose their own spouses. Others wonder if there is perhaps a problem with Isaac. Could he be unduly susceptible to “bad” influences? If he falls in love with a local woman, she and her polytheistic and idolatrous family may lure Isaac away from God’s path. If Isaac travels back to the “Old Country” (Mesopotamia), he may be lured into staying there and abandoning the fate God has set for the family. Better to take care of things for him and bring him an appropriate wife.  

Another theory wonders if the trauma of almost being sacrificed by his father has left Isaac emotionally or socially disabled—that he may not be able to court and marry without assistance. If this is the case, it would mean that the family needs a wife who can take charge and guide Isaac and the growing tribe/religion. Or could he suffer from another disability? Though we hear about visual problems in his old age—“When Isaac was old and his eyes were too dim to see” (Genesis 27.1), some wonder whether they could have originated earlier. The Midrash speculates that, as he lies bound on the altar on Mount Moriah, the angels in heaven cry at the thought of Abraham sacrificing his son. Their tears fall into Isaac’s eyes, and his vision is permanently damaged. The point of all these possibilities is that Isaac is perhaps unable to travel on his own to find a wife. 

This notion of Isaac being weak and Rebekah being strong is one way of understanding their disagreement over which son, Esau or Jacob, should be the third Patriarch—a conflict which Rebekah “wins.” While the story speaks of Rebekah’s trickery, we should not forget that God sides with her by blessing Jacob and making him the Patriarch. My point is that Rebekah may be the more insightful leader in our ancient family. Even though men might be “in charge,” human nature suggests that, regardless of the official social practices, women nonetheless exercise leadership and influence. As Lainie Kazan explains in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck—and she can turn the head any way she wants.”  

One more clue about Rebekah’s spiritual power. When she has difficulty conceiving, Isaac prays for her. (Genesis 25.19-23) However, when the pregnancy is difficult—“the children struggled in her womb,” she herself goes to inquire of the Lord, and she herself gets a direct answer. No mere passive part of the story, Rebekah may be the spiritual leader of the family, and her “selection” into the family may be more than just social convention. 

Now let us look at Rebekah’s family. At first glance, Laban seems impressed with Abraham’s comparative wealth. Perhaps that is why he and Bethuel are so willing to send their sister/daughter off with Abraham’s emissary. However, notice the awareness of God’s Presence in both the interactions and the thinking.
(1)   Abraham’s servant speaks of God’s involvement when he recounts how Rebekah’s help at the village well provides the sign he has asked of the Lord: “I bowed low in homage to the Lord and blessed the Lord, the God of my master Abraham, who led me on the right way to get the daughter of my master’s brother for his son.” (Genesis 24.48)
(2)   Laban and Bethuel speak of complying with God’s will: “Here is Rebekah before you; take her and go, and let her be a wife to your master’s son, as the Lord has spoken.” (Genesis 24.51)
(3)   The Midrash speculates that Rebekah is only three years old—which would mean that her actions indicate an unusual giftedness and awareness. Watering the flocks, offering hospitality to Abraham’s servant, and agreeing to participate in God’s plan all indicate that she is fated for spiritual distinction and leadership. Thus, when Laban and Bethuel “call the girl and ask for her reply…‘Will you go with this man?’ And she said, ‘I will’” (Genesis 24.57-58), she seems ready, willing, and able to be God’s servant in our people’s unfolding narrative. 

In other words, what may first appear a case of Abraham’s over-functioning may in reality be a matter of God’s Hand at work in human affairs.  

A similar hidden dynamic may be a play in another example of questionable parenting. In Parshat Vayeshev, Jacob’s family experiences a number of crises, one of which begins when he favors Joseph over the other sons.
“When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father loved him more than any of his brothers, they hated him so that they could not speak a friendly word to him.” (Genesis 37.4)
Things get worse when Joseph has dreams of grandeur—and brags about them to his family.
“The brothers hated him even more for his dreams and for talking about them.”
Yes, “they were wrought up at him,” but Jacob seems to do nothing: “Israel kept the matter in mind.” Whereas Abraham seems to over-function, Jacob seems to be frozen and almost a non-presence. Should he not be in charge? Is he not the Patriarch? 

We should never discount the possibility of inadequate parenting. Even the best of us makes mistakes. However, there is another possibility: Jacob could be having a prophetic moment—could be beginning to sense God’s Influence in the family dynamic. “Israel kept the matter in mind” could indicate a growing awareness that this is all part of God’s plan: that the hostility will induce the brothers to sell Joseph into Egyptian slavery so that Joseph can eventually be in a position to have power in Egypt and save his family from the future famine. Far-fetched? Perhaps, but consider what Joseph himself says to his brothers, many years later and after the “plan” is fulfilled:
“Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” (Genesis 50.20) 

One of the lessons of religion is that we may not be the only ones acting in our lives. While Judaism teaches us to be responsible for our actions, we are also reminded that God’s Presence could be at work—that we could be part of the Divine Plan.

A Tale of Two Abrahams

November 7th: Vayayra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I did not like the film Lincoln by Tony Kushner and Steven Spielberg because the politics and wrangling were messy. Rather than the clear and clean moral victory that I learned in grade school, the political process portrayed was difficult and convoluted and unsettling. Much more to my liking was another 2012 film about Lincoln, a silly fantasy called Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. While lacking in historical accuracy, that story was much easier to follow, and the conclusion was in a certain sense much more satisfying.

 Kushner’s and Spielberg’s lesson about the messiness of political change came back to me when I read a recent Smithsonian Magazine piece on Frederick Douglass and his love-hate relationship with Abraham Lincoln. In When Historians Rediscovered These Frederick Douglass Letters, They Were Surprised by His Candid Opinions About Abraham Lincoln, Lucas E. Morel and Jonathan W. White recount Douglass’ consistent and absolute moral demand: slavery had to be abolished. However, President Lincoln had other agendas and strategies on his mind—as well as lots of opponents and obstacles. He also seems to have had a less intense objection to the chattel practices that had become so entrenched in American society.

 As many commentators on Southern culture have noted (among them, our own Richard Kopely in his recent book about Edgar Allen Poe’s years in Richmond), the moral problems with slavery were just so “inconvenient” that otherwise moral people found ways to ignore them. It was “the way things were”—and ending Slavery would have been highly disruptive and “caused problems” for the people who benefited. Such concerns are embarrassing in the face of  slavery’s evil, but these “problems” made the political and practical abolition of slavery a long and complicated process.

So, as the rediscovered letters show, Douglass pushed and demanded—and was sometimes more and sometimes less appreciative of Mr. Lincoln’s leadership.

The Jewish world recently lost a Douglass-esque figure, Rabbi Arthur Waskow (1933-2025), who spent decades protesting injustice and calling for moral and political improvement. With his very long beard, colorful kippah, and provocative rhetoric, he attracted a lot of attention and brought significant intensity to whatever he taught or preached. Though personally a pleasant fellow, he was extremely forthright and demanding—and was not someone you wanted to oppose. He came at arguments with full force and guns (metaphorical) ablazing.

I compare him to Douglass—a comparison I suspect he would have considered a compliment—and wonder how to measure their success. Is their intensity the kind that gets things done, or does it alienate the people who lead and manage institutions and corporations? Or does their intensity and absolutism create an emotional and moral pole to which others are eventually drawn? In the world of social change, one can often see how the extreme positions of some advocates prove useful for the middle-of-the-roaders who make the deals and arrange for the practicalities of progress. While acknowledging and distancing themselves from their colleagues’ alienating rhetoric, the middle-of-the-roaders can also point to the wisdom and morality that lie beneath.

What do you do when a great problem cries out for a tikkun, a fix or repair? Even when on the wrong track, something as big as a society cannot turn on a dime. How does one move from objection to persuasion and organization—from grievous problems to solutions that are accepted and not counter-productive? Debating great issues is exhilarating, but how does one move from the parlor debate to practical solutions—all while not destroying the social fabric?

The irony of Douglass’ dissatisfaction—according to the Smithsonian article—is that a quick and decisive Union victory might not have freed the slaves. Though Douglass’ moral position was absolute (and impatient!), the eventual emancipation could only have happened after a long and messy conflict. So, we ask, do moral absolutes get things done, or are they more self-indulgent than helpful? Or do they garner the attention and inspire the energy necessary for progress?

Enter our God and problems with Creation. In Parshat Noach, God seems unable to fix the world and decides to flood everything. Starting over with Noah, God hopes for a better world, but some parts are just as bad as the old one. As we read, “the outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin so grave…” that God is ready to destroy them and their inhabitants completely. (Genesis 18.20)

 We do not know why God seeks Abraham’s opinion, but the Patriarch finds himself in the position of wrestling with God’s moral quandary. Abraham is clearly in a position much different than Douglass or Lincoln or Waskow, but there is a subtlety to the Patriarch’s thinking that gets God to hesitate. “Will you sweep away the innocent along with the guilty? What if there should be fifty innocent within the city; will You then wipe out the innocent and not forgive it for the sake of the innocent fifty who are in it? Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” (Genesis 18.23-25)

As it turns out, there is not even a minyan of righteous people, and, after allowing the one righteous family to escape, God burns the whole place down. So much for Sodom and Gomorrah, but what about other “dens of iniquity?” Are they in any way salvageable? Is it possible to ferret out the good from the evil? How does one negotiate solutions that are both ameliorative and not unnecessarily disruptive or destructive?

 The problem with political and moral intensity is that its anger and impatience can lead to “burning the whole house down.” The problem with subtly and patience is that they can become so mired in preserving order and commerce that they are not insistent enough. Evil needs to be addressed, but immediate and dramatic “solutions” may bring problems of their own.

From a narrative point of view, Abraham Lincoln killing vampires with his silver axe is simple and dramatic. But it is a fantasy and silly entertainment. Kushner’s and Spielberg’s story is messy, frustrating, and much less entertaining, but it shows the way real progress is made—how great societal problems can be approached and how we can hopefully be put on the road to improvement. Thank God for those tenacious enough and patient enough to do this work.

Hebrew, Israelite, or Jew: Who are You?

October 31st: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though the word Jewish is not technically and historically accurate for our people until around 500 BCE, we often generalize and say that “Judaism and Jewish History begin around 2000 BCE,” when, in Chapter 12 of Genesis,
“The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.
I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you;
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you and curse him that curses you;
And all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”
Abram responds to God’s call, and he and his wife Sarai and their followers travel to the Land of Canaan. God assigns it to them, and they sojourn there. It is the beginning of a long and holy relationship.   

Now here are the caveats:
Abraham and Sarah were known as Iv’rim/Hebrews, a term which probably meant that they were part of a group that moved back and forth between Mesopotamia and Egypt. It might have originally been more a description of semi-nomadic shepherding in the region, but it eventually became a kind of ethnic designation.  

This is all before the subsequent ethnic designation of Yis’ra’el/Israel—a name that emerges from the mysterious wrestling match between Jacob (Abraham and Sarah’s grandson) and the angel. In the Torah and in the rest of the Tanach, this new name—Yis’ra’el/Israelites/Children of Israel is used, but not exclusively. In the stories of our people’s time in Egypt—first as welcome guests, then as slaves, and finally as the beneficiaries of God’s miraculous rescue, both Hebrew and Israel are used. And sometimes Ya’akov/Jacob. Notice this poetic synonymity in Psalm 114:
“B’tzet Yis’ra’el mimitz’rayim, Bayt Ya’akov me’am lo’ez…
When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people…” 

The time of our enslavement in Egypt is hard to date, but many figure that the Exodus took place around 1300 BCE. One clue is on an Egyptian stone monument—the Mernepta Stele—which mentions Israel inhabiting the Eastern coast of the Mediterranean around 1200 BCE. 

There is another use of the term Ivri/Hebrew in the Bible, but it may not be helpful. In Jonah, when the ship from Jaffa to Tarshish is caught in a terrifying storm, the sailors and passengers cast lots to see who is at fault, and
“…the lot fell on Jonah. They said to him, ‘Tell us, you who have brought this misfortune upon us, what is your business? Where have you come from? What is your country, and of what people are you?’ ‘I am an Ivri/Hebrew,’ he replied. ‘I worship the Lord, the God of Heaven, who made both sea and land.’” (Jonah 1.7-9)
The Book of Jonah is hard to date—and hard to verify as historical (as opposed to allegorical), but it is of note that Jonah identifies himself as a Hebrew—seemingly after the word Israel had begun to be used. 

The words Jews, Jewish, and Judaism do not come into play until quite a bit later. Around 500 BCE, most of those returning from the Babylonian Exile were from the Tribe of Judah. Their country had been called Yehudah/Judah before the conquest in 586 BCE, and the Persians let them call their restored nation Yehudah/Judah. The people were thus called Judeans.  

This was an identifier for the people, but what we call their religion is another story. The Biblical Hebrew/Israelite religion was based on a sacrificial worship system and was led by Prophets and Priests. However, around 200 BCE, a new leadership group of scholars—the Rabbis—took charge and directed the Priests in their holy work. And then, the unthinkable happened: the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, and these Rabbis found themselves shepherding our religion though an existential crisis. The needs were twofold: (1) maintaining our covenantal relationship with God, and (2) figuring out how to reconfigure worship and piety. This reformulated and reimagined religion—developed and defined in the Talmud (200 BCE-500 CE)—is when the term Judaism becomes operative.  

Though these various caveats qualify and contextualize the words we use to describe our historical and continuing relationship with God, we can nonetheless trace our spiritual and communal endeavor back to that call to Abram. Throughout the years, ours has been an ever-evolving religious response as we continue to learn about God and how to live in God’s Presence. It is thus important, in every generation, to remember our original charge and our continuing possibilities. 
“I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you;
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you and curse him that curses you;
and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”

Afterthought:
Even in more modern times, our choice for a self-identifying term has varied. In the 18th and 19th Centuries, the word Jew was considered derogatory, and Jews preferred Israelite or Hebrew. Jewish institutions founded in the 1800s reflected this word choice: Hebrew Union College, Union of American Hebrew Congregations, and the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. It was not until after 1900 that Jews started self-identifying as Jews, and institutions founded after 1900 include: The Jewish Theological Seminary, American Jewish Committee, American Jewish Congress, and the Jewish Institute of Religion.  

Going back a little further, one can see the use of words-other-than-Jew in George Washington’s Letters to the six Jewish communities in the new United States (Newport, New York, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia, and Richmond). Known as Hebrew congregations, each wrote a letter of congratulations to President Washington, and he wrote back. The most famous is his letter to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Israel. Included in his remarks: “…May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and figtree, and there shall be none to make him afraid…”

Avodah: What Kind of Work is Holy?

October 24th: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A number of years ago, I got involved in an interesting argument. It was in Minyanaires, our monthly program for 6th and 7th Grade students and their parents, and we were discussing the familiar quotation from Shimon HaTzaddik (Simon the Righteous) in Pirke Avot 1.2:
Al sh’loshah d’varim ha’olam omed: Al ha-Torah, v’al ha-Avodah, v’al G’milut Chasadim.
 “On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Loving Kindness.”  

The argument started when one of the parents—someone born and raised in Israel—corrected my translation. Avodah does not mean Worship, he explained. Avodah means work. He was sort of correct. 

Avodah is a Hebrew word for work, and it is common in modern Hebrew. However, in the ancient Biblical and Talmudic world, Avodah/Work was used in the specific context of the work done by the Kohanim/Priests in sacrificial worship. The Biblical word for daily work is M’lachah, and one can see this word used in the Torah’s prohibitions of work / m’lachah on Sabbaths and Holy Days—days on which Avodah/Worship Work is commanded. There were thus two kinds of work: Avodah, the work done by the Priest in worship services, and M’lachah, the work done by craftsmen, farmers, and other workers. 

So, in the context of explaining what Shimon HaTzaddik meant, I was correct. He was emphasizing the importance of Torah study (the Rabbis’ job), Worship (the Priests’ job—supported by the regular Israelites), and Deeds of Loving Kindness (everybody’s job!). 

However, the Israeli parent was also correct. He knew from speaking modern Hebrew all his life that the word Avodah is used in modern Hebrew for all kinds of work. And, as a kid growing up in Israel, he had been exposed to a particular reinterpretation of that ancient word—one important to modern Zionism.   

A.D. Gordon was one of the philosophical fathers of Zionism, and he believed that building a Jewish State was more than just a way to provide Jews safety from anti-Semitism. He believed that the physical labor in/on Eretz Yisrael would benefit Jews spiritually. The Jewish problem, as he saw it, was that Jews had been alienated from the land in Europe. Banned from land ownership for well over a thousand years, we had been forced to earn our livelihoods from “un-natural” labors—labors not connected to the land. Much like the ancient Greek myth of Antaeus, our separation/alienation from the earth had left us weak and in need of spiritual and cultural rejuvenation. Working the Land (especially our homeland of Israel) would reconnect us to the earth and feed our souls—as well as build up a Jewish State. Many early Zionists followed Gordon’s thinking and saw their labor as a spiritual endeavor—indeed as a modern version of the ancient Avodah/Worship Work. Note how the Labor Zionist folk song, Zum Gali Gali explains the dynamic:
“Hechalutz lema’an avodah. Avodah lema’an hechalutz.”
“The pioneering settlement of the Land requires work,
and that work benefits the Pioneers themselves.” 

And there is this poignantly phrased Zionist motto:
 “Livnot ul’hibanot!” To build and to be built.
The purpose of Zionism is to build the Land of Israel, and the builders themselves will be spiritually rebuilt by the work.  

Shimon HaTzaddik (circa 200 BCE) lived in a world where the Temple was still operating, and thus he spoke of the value of that kind of Work/Worship. However, in the Zionist movement, the ancient proverb had been adapted to reflect the modern Avodah to which the Labor Zionists dedicated themselves: building Zion was their holy work. On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on the sacred labor of working and reclaiming Eretz Yisrael, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness. 

In other words, our Minyanaires argument was one where both sides were right! 

The connection to the story of Noah (this week’s Torah portion) lies in a detail from the aftermath of the Great Flood. In Genesis 8, when Noah, his family, and all the animals emerge from the ark, we have one of the earliest Biblical mentions of Avodah/Sacrificial Worship:
“Then Noah built an altar to the Lord and, taking of every clean animal and every clean bird, he offered burnt offerings on the altar. The Lord smelled the pleasing odor, and the Lord said, ‘Never again will I doom the earth because of humans…’” (Genesis 8.20-21) 

It was common knowledge in the ancient Near East that people were created to offer sacrifices from which the gods got sustenance. Thus, in the Babylonian version of the Great Flood Story (in The Gilgamesh Epic), the gods regret killing all the humans because there is no one left to feed them. So, when Utnapishtim (the “Noah” character) comes out of his big boat and immediately offers sacrifices, the hungry gods “hover around the cooking meat like flies.”  

The similarities with our version of the story are striking, but so are the differences. While the Babylonian gods send the Flood because people are too noisy, the Lord God’s complaint is human immorality: “The earth became corrupt and was filled with lawlessness.” (Genesis 6.11) And while the Babylonians thought that their gods got sustenance from the greasy smoke of the barbecuing meat, our version has the Lord God just enjoying the aroma. As the Jewish understanding of sacrificial worship developed, the idea was that the aroma of the cooking meat attracted God’s Presence—and, with God present, we could then offer our prayers of praise, thanks, and petition.  

Judaism has changed over the millennia; we have not done animal sacrifices for almost 2000 years. However, we still work at attracting God’s Presence—drawing the Lord’s attention with our piety, kavannah (prayerful intentions), and good deeds.  

Building a better world; drawing God close: both kinds of work can be holy.

Wrestling with the Matzav

October 17th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur Morning Sermon: Wrestling with the Matzav 

There are many issues for us to think about today—a day intentionally filled with self-searching, but one, the Matzav in and around Israel, weighs heavily on many a Jewish soul. 

Matzav is the Hebrew word for situation, and it has become a shorthand term for whatever crisis Israel is currently facing. Unfortunately, the Matzav has been a perennial concern, as the Zionist dream has always hung by a thread. From its beginnings in the 1890s, through the early settlements under the Ottoman Empire, through the British Mandate, and from the 1947 U.N. Partition Plan and 1948 War of Independence, the Matzav has continually been fraught with controversy and anxiety. During times of both peace and war, the challenges for Israel have continued intensely. Why? Because building a Jewish and democratic state in a dangerous neighborhood is not an easy task. Though our present focus is on the massacre of October 7, 2023 and its tragic aftermath, the latest crisis is in some ways nothing new. There have always been those standing in the way of Medinat Yisra’el, and even those who love and support the Zionist dream have disagreed and fought about all kinds of decisions and strategies.  

The current Matzav is certainly unique, but it may not be as unique as we imagine. We are struggling with (1) competing Jewish values, (2) different points of view, and (3) neighbors with varying degrees of unfriendliness, and thus find ourselves in a Matzav very similar to other generations of our people. 

There are certainly different levels of involvement in our current crisis. Some are literally fighting the war between Israel and Hamas et al or sending their sons and daughters to battle. Others are dashing for bomb shelters when the sirens blare. But even those of us physically far away from Israel find ourselves connected to the situation over there. Regardless of our opinions on Zionism, Israel, Bibi Netanyahu, or anything else, many of us feel immersed in the war’s dynamics—and the political, philosophical, and spiritual maelstroms have left us battered and bruised. Indeed, many of us are seized by a disquiet that is both deep and profound. What are we to do? 

It is not my intention to weigh in on the various issues of the War. However, I believe that our tradition of faith, endurance, and holy survival can guide us as we struggle with the complexities, anger, and anxiety that grip us so. Here are some insights I find helpful. 

(1) Some people speak falsehoods.
This is not an accusation but a fact. Not all that is spoken is true. Whether the falsehoods are lies, motivated by various agendas, attitudes, or fears, or whether they are spoken from ignorance and a lack of knowledge, they are severe impediments to truth and understanding. Who is speaking and upon what do they base their views? We need to be discerning.   

(2) Some people believe the falsehoods.
Our people has been plagued by false accusations for centuries. From the Blood Libel which has been leveled against us for some 1500 years (and is still used in anti-Israel propaganda), to the Protocols of the Elders of Zion (which is still being published in Arab countries), to Nazi Racial Theory, people have believed all sorts of absurdities about Jews. In fact, people have believed all sorts of absurdities about all kinds of things. We hope that education will help them see the truth, but humans have a kind of multi-faceted gullibility that is incredible, and embarrassing, and often self-destructive. We cannot control other people’s gullibility—even when their misinformation threatens us. And, then there are those who brag about how their “Big Lies” can become “accepted truth.” Just because something is said does not make it true. 

(3) The public relations war is not the only or most important war.
There is a tendency to look at politics like a horse race, focusing only on who is ahead. This may or may not make sense in sports, but such an approach obscures policy decisions and intelligent analysis. Has Israel lost the public relations war? In some circles, Yes. But in many circles, No. Regardless, I believe that there is a fallacy in thinking that the publicity war is the real war. Proverbial wisdom does counsel that “a good name is prized above all,” but, at some point, there are other and more pertinent considerations. Though we all hope to avoid misleading or untruthful news coverage, the fact is that bad publicity is not as bad as death or destruction. 

We often hear warnings about how one or another Israeli policy will get the Arabs angry—or make Israel a pariah among the nations. Angry?! A pariah?! Has this not already been the case for decades? I cannot imagine anything that Israel could ever do to “de-pariah” itself or garner Arab support. When perpetually confronted with existential hate, it should be no surprise that many Israelis prioritize survival over publicity.  

(4) We are not Jewish because we agree with all other Jews on every issue—or because we like them.
We are Jews because Judaism touches our souls and gives us grounding, meaningfulness, and a sense of connection to the Divine. We unite with some Jews for some purposes, but the fact is that there are lots of Jews and lots of Jewish opinions on pretty much every subject under the Sun. We agree or disagree, but we not responsible for what other people do—even if we share a religion or ethnic background. And, just as we learn in our families, it is possible to love someone even when we disagree—even when their behavior is embarrassing or sinful. An example: I am a committed Zionist, but I am very unhappy with the Ultra-Orthodox chokehold on Judaism in Israel as well as the attitudes and behaviors of some West Bank settlers. I am angry with them. I argue with them or about them. I am opposed to much of what they say and do. But their behaviors do not define me or my Judaism. Nor do they make me want to stop being Jewish. Indeed, my Jewish identity and values are what inspire much of my opposition. 

(5) Going against peer pressure is no easier in adulthood than it was in middle school.
Though the cool kids, the powerful kids, the popular kids have a tendency to dictate styles, activities, and opinions, we are not obliged to take on their opinions. We have the right to think our own thoughts and to determine what we think is true. God gave us brains and judgment and expects us to use them. May God also give us courage—courage to stand up for our own principles and judgments, and to explain the subtleties that real wisdom requires. Courage is possible. Courage!

(6) It is possible to agree with and work with people on some things while disagreeing with them on other things.
Allyship means agreeing and working together on mutually agreeable goals. It does not give one ally the right to dictate what the other ally should think or do. A famous example is Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail. He is not addressing opponents of Civil Rights but arguing with allies about particular strategies and schedules. His arguments reveal the collaborative nature of working together and often debating the best courses of action. In my own interfaith experience, I have worked with clergy from some denominations on some social justice issues—and worked against them on others. Think of the people you know who are wrong on some subjects, but right on others. Working with them on good causes does not mean agreeing with them on other things. It is in the nature of democracy—and tolerance and neighborliness.  

(7) Hopefulness can slide into naiveté.
No one likes to be called naive, but think about how our hopefulness and idealism can run amok—how we can somehow think that our generation should be spared the challenges, tragedies, and unfairnesses previous generations have faced. We laugh at the slogan that World War I was the “war to end all wars,” so why would we think that winning World War II or the Cold War would prevent future armed conflicts? Why would we think that winning one social justice battle would prevent future battles? An example, why would people think that the election of Barak Obama would mean the end of racism?  

We hope and work for Tikkun Olam and the Messianic Age, but there is a lot more work to be done. We are proud of our high levels of civilization, tolerance, and democracy, but we are called to reverse undemocratic and oppressive tendencies that have been around for thousands of years. We have made wonderful medical and technological advances, but there are still imperfections in the human soul. We encourage optimism and hope, but it might be far-fetched to think that we will be the ones to cross the “Messianic finish-line.” Hopefulness and aspirations are great, but they are always in a kind of tension with the harshness of reality. We may be unique, but we are not so unique as to be spared the challenges of life.

This, by the way, is where religion has a role to play. Faith and courage can help us as we navigate these tricky waters. This is why and how religions developed, and Judaism gifts us with assistance and support in dealing with the difficulties of life.  

The most elemental problem is our finitude. We have infinite hopes but limited possibilities, and, when we hit the wall of those limits, religion is here to help us gain perspective and figure out the best and most holy responses. It is also here to help us find and appreciate the blessings of life—even when our infinite yearnings can imagine more. One of the prayers I say with great hope is: /שַׂבְּעֵֽנוּ מִטּוּבֶֽךָ,“May we learn satisfaction, and delight in the blessings we are given.” This lesson is often difficult, but it is necessary every day. 

We aspire to peace, calm, and prosperity. Isaiah prays (2.4)
לֹא־יִשָּׂא גוֹי אֶל־גּוֹי חֶרֶב וְלֹא־יִלְמְדוּ עוֹד מִלְחָמָה:
“Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.”

And Micah (4.4) adds:  וְיָשְׁבוּ אִישׁ תַּחַת גַּפְנוֹ וְתַחַת תְּאֵנָתוֹ וְאֵין מַחֲרִיד:
They shall sit, everyone, under their vines or fig trees, and none shall make them afraid.”
But these are prayers—lovely visions and hopes, and until those miraculous times, we must attend to the hard work of life, with courage, principle, and determination.  

The verse that helps me through the day is from Psalm 29:
ה' עֹז לְעַמּוֹ יִתֵּן ה' יְבָרֵךְ אֶת־עַמּוֹ בַשָּׁלוֹם:
“The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.”
To me, this is a call to summon my strength and my courage. It is through the strength that the Lord gives us that the Lord will bless our people with peace. And so, I need to get a grip—to gird my loins and be strong.

I also need to let God in. As Hillel (Avot 2.5) reminds me:
וּבְמָקוֹם שֶׁאֵין אֲנָשִׁים, הִשְׁתַּדֵּל לִהְיוֹת אִישׁ:
“In in a place where no one is a mensch, be a mensch.” 

God has given us both brains and strength—and Divine inspiration. There can be goodness in life. There are blessings to find. There is holy work for us to do.

When We Are Guilty, and When We Are Not

October 10th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre Sermon: When We are Guilty, and When We are Not 

We Jews have a particular affinity for guilt. One of our most well-developed talents, our mastery of the genre is wide ranging. We learn it in our families, bring it into our social lives and work lives, and even have jokes about it—jokes that are both self-critical and celebratory. Guilt permeates our theology and sociology and prayer books, and this holy day, Yom Kippur, is in many ways our “High Festival of Guilt.”  

Guilt can be a useful tool when we use it for introspection and self-improvement, but it can be misused when we assume too much guilt or volunteer for culpability. Guilt is a tool, not a goal.  

One of the most curious developments in Jewish “guilt thinking” came in the ancient Rabbinic teaching that “We were responsible for the destruction of the Temple.” According to many Talmudic Sages, our sins—the sins of the Jewish people—were responsible for the destructions of both King Solomon’s Temple in 586 BCE and the Second Temple in 70 CE. Even though it was really the Babylonians who destroyed the First Temple and the Romans who destroyed the Second Temple—both in wars involving imperial politics and international hegemony, the Rabbis declared that our sins were at fault. As they explained, שִׂנְאַת חִנָם /senseless hatred brought about the destruction of the Temples and our exile from our land.  

Though neither an accurate nor a historical explanation, this teaching follows an interesting theological innovation from the days of the Biblical Prophets. Back then, in the ancient world, conflicts between warring nations were understood as conflicts between their gods. Thus would one nation’s victory be understood as a victory for its gods over the gods of the defeated nation. It was common knowledge for the time, and we can even find this notion in our own texts. In the Torah, in the Exodus narrative, God describes one of the goals (Exodus 12.12): וּבְכָל־אֱלֹהֵ֥י מִצְרַ֛יִם אֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה שְׁפָטִ֖ים...
“And I will execute judgments on the gods of the Egyptians...”
Then, in the Song of the Sea, we praise God’s power with words we should recognize from Mi Chamocha (Exodus 15.11):  ‘מִֽי־כָמֹ֤כָה בָּֽאֵלִם֙ ה “Who is like You, O Lord, among the gods?!” 

When Prophets like Isaiah looked at the international military situation—and giant empires like Assyria, Babylonia, and Egypt conquering everything in their paths, they realized that the tiny Jewish kingdoms of Judah and Israel were in great danger. Not only were their conquests pretty much inevitable, but such a tragedy would also mean a theological crisis. If Israel or Judah were to fall, people would think that the Lord God had been defeated—perhaps destroyed. 

Isaiah and some other prophets studied this problem and came up with an intuition that pre-empted such a religious crisis—something we might call a theological elastic clause. If the Jewish kingdoms would be conquered, it would not mean that the Lord was defeated by the gods of the conquering nations. No, the the real explanation would be that God was using the great empires as chastening rods to punish us for Israel’s and Judah’s sins. Our defeat would not mean God’s defeat. Instead, it would demonstrate God’s incredible power—that the Lord is mighty enough to take a mighty empire and use it as a tool for dispensing punishment.  

According to these prophecies, our punishment would be severe, but, after a while, God would reconcile with us, welcoming us back, and restoring us to our Land and our Temple. As we read in Micah (2.12), these surviving Jews, שְׁאֵרִית יִשׂרָאֵל/ the Remnant of Israel, would be welcomed back into God’s embrace. Things would be good again. 

It was a powerful theology and one that helped our religion survive the destruction of Israel in 710 BCE by Assyria and the destruction of Judah in 586 BCE by Babylonia. It helped us keep our relationship with God and led to the development of monotheism, but it has had a problematic psychological effect. Instead of seeing bad things as sad or tragic, this thinking implies that they are punishments. If God is all-powerful and controls everything, then we deserve the bad things that happen to us. They are punishments for our or somebody elses’ sins.  

I think that this is too literal a reading of the Prophets—that perhaps there is another perspective from which we can consider their calls to righteousness. And, to introduce this different way of reading ancient texts, let me turn to an unexpected source, the movie version of Rogers and Hammerstein’s The King and I. In one scene, the king, played by Yul Brenner, is studying the Bible and cannot reconcile the Six-Day Creation Story with modern science. Mrs. Anna, played by Deborah Kerr, casually dismisses the perceived conflict and resolves it with a simple but utterly profound observation:
“The Bible was not written by men of science, but by men of faith. It was their explanation of the miracle of creation which is the same miracle whether it took six days or many centuries.”
As Mrs. Anna observes, reading Genesis with the expectation of scientific and historic accuracy is a mistake. The text is not a science textbook but rather a theological summary—and needs to be understood as such. 

Similarly, Isaiah’s views on our sins and the conquest of Israel and Judah—and the Rabbis’ view on senseless hatred causing the destruction of the Temple—are not intended as serious history. They are not analyses of historical causation. Rather the Sages took these ancient stories and, in creative pedagogical improvisations, used them as rhetorical platforms for encouraging introspection and תְשׁוּבָה/ repentance. Their moral lessons are serious, but they are not history. In many ways, they are like the fables composed by Aesop: the truths contained therein have very little to do with the historical veracity of the events described. 

Guilt is a complicated and ubiquitous presence in both human experience and in Jewish thinking. We are sometimes guilty, but sometimes we are not. And, the kind of introspection we need on this day requires serious thought about our roles and our culpability. In real תְשׁוּבָה/Repentance, habitual and automatic guilt is not helpful. 

In our daily Amidah, one of blessings praises God Who: הַמַּשְׁבִּית רֶֽשַׁע מִין הָאָֽרֶץ.
“Removes evil from the earth.” While we are tempted to interpret this as a request that God get rid of the bad people, the Talmud teaches us—in a famous story about Beruriah and her husband Rabbi Meir—that removing evil is about getting the bad guys to give up their evil and become good. It is not the evil people who are to be removed, but the evil in their hearts. Thus, when I am praying this b’rachah, I often find myself wondering which bad guys God should fix. And then, in a very Jewish way, I wonder: What if I’m one of them? What if I am part of the evil, or complicit with the evil, or not crying out against the evil enough? Am I praying for God to help fix the world—or to fix me? 

Sometimes asking the question assumes that the answer is Yes, and we can go down the rabbit-hole of perpetual inadequacy. Of course, I’m at fault. Of course, I’m not morally pure or politically or economically innocent of wrongdoing. Of course, I am culpable for evils both within and beyond my relatively small orbit. It is like the sensibility in our sin lists—the sins we have committed under duress or by choice, consciously or unconsciously, openly or secretly, in our thoughts, with our words, by abusing our power, by hardening our hearts, by profaning Your Name, by disrespect for parents and teachers, by gossiping, by dishonesty at work, or by hurting others.

Our guilt is multifarious and thus do we confess as a group: עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ
“For the sin WE have committed against you...” 

As we recite the list of possible sins, we are supposed to think about which ones apply to us. Some may indeed be ours, but others may not be ours at all. Even if there are tangential connections, the fact is that we are not at fault for most of the problems of the world. We are certainly imperfect and inadequate, but our guilt-colored glasses can make us much worse than we are and catch us in a morass of counter- productive guilt-mongering. Indeed, we can distract ourselves from real self-improvement. 

I think it is better to focus on the real issues and our real sins—and our real positives. While none of us is perfect, we might actually be doing pretty well. Navigating the vagaries of the world and the complexities of our many relationships is tricky, but we may be doing okay. In other words, maybe the cloud of perpetual and automatic guilt is neither necessary nor helpful. Serious Teshuvah involves distinguishing between our failures and our successes, between our sins and our moments of moral victory. Is guilt our goal, or is it a tool for improvement? 

I do not believe that the bad things that happen in the world are punishments for our sins. Bad choices and behaviors can led to negative consequences, but there are also just sad and tragic things that happen. There is a difference between sympathy and guilt, and we need to understand the distinction. We can feel sad about sad things without taking on responsibility and guilt. Again, guilt is not our goal; it is a tool for self-improvement.  

I am not here to absolve you. I am not here to say: צַדִּיקִים אֲנַֽחְנוּ וְלֹא חָטָֽאנוּ,
“that we are perfect and have not sinned.”
אֲבָל אֲנַֽחְנוּ חָטָֽאנוּ. חָטָֽאנוּ, עָוִֽינוּ, פָּשַֽׁעְנוּ.“In
deed, we have sinned—and transgressed and gone astray,”
BUT, we are not guilty of everything. We are not complicit or responsible for every evil in the world. And, since we are not in a position to fix every problem, we are not culpable for them all.  

What we are responsible for is thinking carefully about our lives and our actions, about our motivations, our attitudes, and our words. We are responsible for figuring out where we went wrong, where we went right, and how to make ourselves better. This is true תְשׁוּבָה/repentance and true הִתְכָּפְּרוּת/atonement. 

In the shadow of our tradition of guilt and ceaseless moral introspection, I am here to remind us that we may not be as guilty as the language of guilt suggests—that we may be doing fine in our struggles to bring forth the divine spark that God plants within us all. Where we are at fault, let us improve. Where we are fine, let us give thanks and endeavor to continue doing our best. The Mitzvah of Teshuvah can only connect us to God when we approach it with equanimity, with calm, and with thoughtful introspection. Let us appreciate the goodness in life and in ourselves, and work to bring more godliness into both.

"If I Had a Hammer"

October 3rd: Yom Kippur and Shabbat Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon: If I Had a Hammer: 

Last evening, I mentioned some of the folk songs that were so important to my generation—songs that seemed Jewish even though they were not. Among them was Peter, Paul, and Mary’s song, If I Had a Hammer. Listening to it recently brought back all kinds of memories—but also a few puzzlements. I realized, after years of hearing it and singing it, that I do not understand the song’s logic. It does not make any sense.        
     If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
    I’d hammer in the evening. All over this land....
Have I perhaps changed over the years? Or did this anthem of the 1960s about “having a hammer, ringing a bell, and singing a song” ever make sense? 

We’ll get back to this later, but now I’d like to shift to another memory of my teenage years. I was on the high school debate team, and, half-a-dozen times a year, we went on overnight bus trips to tournaments in other cities. A variety of drivers drove those buses, but one driver was clearly our favorite: Ted Hariu. He must have liked us too for he got the assignment most of the time. The thing about Ted was that, even though he was the total opposite of what was cool in our teenage eyes, he was cool anyway. Whereas our heroes and role models were rock musicians, incisive journalists, or young political activists, he was a middle-aged, blue collar guy with short greased-back hair. He did not have a beard or long sideburns, and he wore a Greyhound Bus uniform. His personal vehicle was a pickup truck—back before they were cool, and he was into country music, not rock. For our crowd—middle class kids, college bound, and trying hard to be both sophisticated and intellectual, the idea of driving a bus or a truck for a living was the furthest thing from our minds. Indeed, any kind of blue collar career was not the grand future we envisioned for ourselves. And yet, we liked to hang out with Ted during the tournaments and considered him cool: a friend.  

Part of it was the way that he, like those few adults to whom teenagers gravitate, took us seriously, paying attention to us and not being put off by our teenage hair, clothes, music, or attitudes. This was not the custom of many parents who were often critical of youth culture. But more than that, there was a seasoned toughness in Ted and his life and the way that he talked about the decisions he had made, the opinions he had, and the goals he had in mind. He was, in the parlance of the time, real, and we respected his skills—both in life and in maneuvering that very large, double-clutch Greyhound bus. 

For all of our pretensions of grandeur, there was something very substantive and admirable about this blue-collar guy—someone who had developed skills and used them well, who had a place in the world, and who was kind to others.  

Back to the song. What was If I Had a Hammer all about? Was it an expression of our hopes and expectations? Perhaps, but I think that it also revealed our awareness that we were not yet the heroes of our dreams. Though we sang about having a hammer, we could all have easily gotten one—borrowing one from the home tool box or buying one at the hardware store. Why then did we sing as though the mere possession of a hammer would somehow be significant. Ringing a bell was equally unsubstantive. It was just a way of making noise and calling attention to ourselves. As for singing a song all over this land, I understand the inspirational quality of songs—and, of course, prayers, but, if they do not inspire concrete deeds, then they are more hollow than hallowed. Mere singing is not enough. 

Perhaps we teenagers understood deep down that the real challenge was not in getting a hammer, ringing a bell, or even singing a song, but in learning how to use that hammer—actual or metaphorical—in building something. Perhaps that is why Ted Hariu the bus driver seemed so real to us. He had developed his skills and was doing something of substance. 

In retrospect, I think that songs like If I Had a Hammer are developmental—efforts to clarify our values. They showed our teenage awareness of our own immaturity. We sang such anthems of adolescent impotence and desperate hope in the anticipation of eventually doing something real with our lives. 

I am told that the most successful new military officers— graduates of West Point, Annapolis, or ROTC programs—are the ones who find a non-commissioned officer to mentor them. Though these new lieutenants have authority, they do not yet know how to sail a ship, load a cannon, or manage troops. They are in command, but they need a Master Chief or Sergeant who knows how to fight a war and how to prepare for one. By paying attention, young officers can infuse their leadership with practical experience and wisdom. It is not a matter of disrupting the chain of command but rather of respecting real knowledge and putting the mission above rank and ego.

This, by the way, is also a feature of the management system known as Total Quality Management. Based on techniques developed by W. Edwards Deming (1900-1993) that led Japanese industry to economic dominance in the 1970s and 1980s, it was eventually adopted by many American companies and the US. Navy. One of the main features was the inclusion of lower level employees—shop stewards, production line workers, and sailors—in decision making. No matter how highly trained an executive or line officer is, there is value in regularly talking to the people who actually do the work of the company—whose real world experiences are crucial for good corporate decisions.  

As you cogitate on this, you may begin to recognize the old Ivory-Tower-versus-practical-reality tension that so pervades the interface between academics and the average Joes and Josephines who make the world go around. It is a curious tension and one that can be seen over at Penn State—a place where there are several different dimensions. The students live in one. The faculty and researchers live in another. The office staff and administrators live in a third world. And, the OPP guys (those in the Office of Physical Plant) have their own Penn State, one focused on plumbing and electricity, on rooms to set up and gardens to tend, on the steam plant and parking, and every kind of infrastructure. Everyone has a role, but, at a certain level, the OPP guys are... Penn State. Without them, nothing happens. 

This gets us to Pirke Avot, the most popular tractate in the Talmud. The greatness of Rabbinic Judaism can be seen throughout both Mishnah and Gemara, but page for page, Pirke Avot is our best source of Jewish wisdom. Its brief p’rakim/passages are also much more accessible than the complex and lengthy discussions in the rest of the Talmud. This is why Pirke Avot is so popular, with its proverbs studied and quoted both frequently and fondly. However, as explained by Rabbi Dr. David Aaron of the Hebrew Union College, the Rabbis who populate Pirke Avot were part of an elitist fraternity of scholars. There were strict rules, limited admission, and an attitude of intellectual superiority. They considered themselves the brain trust of the Jewish People, and they were very exacting of whom they admitted and what behaviors were required for continued membership. In addition to general Jewish wisdom, much of Pirke Avot records their high standards and single-minded devotion to Torah.  

However, in the midst of their elitism, one can also find self-awareness of the limitations of such high status. In dozens of their sayings, they also speak of the importance of practicality, realism, and the Am Ha’aretz, the little guys—people like bus driver Ted Hariu and the lower level workers that Deming believed in including in decisions. These average agrarian workers or craftsmen are also God’s people, and they possess their own kind of experience, wisdom, and innate worth. Here are some examples:  

In Avot 4.5, “Rabbi Zadok said: do not make the Torah into a crown for self-exaltation, nor a spade with which to dig.” The ancient Sages did not believe in getting paid for studying or teaching Torah, and the Talmud often mentions their various vocations or non-Torah sources of income. One, Rabbi Yonatan Hasandlar (Jonathan the Sandalmaker), was even known by his craft. In later ages, RASHI (Rabbi Solomon son of Isaac) grew grapes and made wine, RAMBAM (Rabbi Moses son of Maimon) was a physician, and the Baal Shem Tov (Rabbi Israel son of Eliezer) was a shochet. Making a living grounds even the wisest and helps them understand life. 

In Avot 1.5, “Yose ben Yochanan of Jerusalem says: Let the poor be members of your household.”
Though the Sages emphasized and congratulated themselves on their intellectual acumen, they were warned about disrespecting those who were not part of their elite fraternity. 

In Avot 2.4, Hillel warns his fellow scholars about judging without really understanding:
“Do not judge your fellow man until you have reached his place.” 

In Avot 4.1, Rabbi Ben Zoma goes further,
Who is wise? He who learns from every man.”
Even the poor and illiterate have something of value to teach.  

This thought is continued by Ben Azzai in Avot 4.9:
“Do not despise any man, and do not discriminate against anything, for there is no man that has not his hour, and there is no thing that has not its place.” 

In Avot 3.9, Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa expands the discussion to include the importance of good deeds backing up good words.
“Anyone whose deeds exceed his wisdom, his wisdom is enduring, but anyone whose wisdom exceeds his deeds, his wisdom is not enduring.” 

And of course, there is the most famous of them all from Avot 1.2:
“The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.”
Simon the Righteous does not need to remind his fellow scholars about the importance of Torah study and worship. They already know and are fully invested in the system. However, lest they fall into the trap that their intellects and piety are all that matter, their leader reminds them of the ultimate and equally existential value of kindness and good deeds. For the original audience of elite scholars, the first two, Torah and Avodah, are just set ups for the third component and its vital dose of practical goodness. 

I do not regret singing If I Had a Hammer. Its words, like those of many poems and prayers, transcend logic and speak of ineffable aspirations. But, there is more to life than singing about a hammer. Getting one and using it is the necessary step in making our aspirations and dreams come true. I think we knew that back then and, while ringing bells and singing songs, we worked on respecting and emulating those for whom Tikkun Olam is more than just words.

Jewish Music and Our Souls

September 26th: Rosh Hashanah and Shabbat Shuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon: Jewish Music and Our Souls 

There is an encounter described in Deuteronomy 29 between God and the people—read both last Shabbat and on Yom Kippur morning: אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי ה' אֱלֹקיכֶם

 “You are standing this day, all of you, before the Lord your God.” It is a very moving account, but its context is not clear. Is it a remembrance of the Revelation at Mount Sinai, or is it describing a second covenantal ceremony, forty years after Sinai and just before the Israelites enter the Promised Land? If it is a new ceremony, solidifying the covenantal relationship, then all the people involved are Israelites. However, if it is a reminder of the original covenantal event at Mount Sinai, then, according the Midrash, the whole world was the “audience.” As the Mekhilta (de Rabbi Ishmael) asks and answers: Why did God give the Ten Commandments at Sinai? Would not the Temple Mount in Jerusalem have been holier? True, but Jerusalem belongs to the Jews, and giving the Torah there would suggest that the Ten Commandments are only for the Jews—and not for the other nations of the world. God chose Mount Sinai, a place out in the middle of the desert—a place owned by no one and accessible to all, to make it clear that the Divine Law is available and applicable to all humans.[1] 

So, we can ask, are the Ten Commandments ours, or do they belong to everyone? We love it when other faiths are influenced by Jewish Tradition, but is it really ours to own and control, or does God’s wisdom belong to all of God’s children? And, what about wisdom or spiritual practices that come from other religious traditions? Are these religious or cultural things “theirs,” or are they universal and “owned” by all? When we get down to it, what makes a religious custom or insight Jewish or Christian or Muslim or Hindu? Are they not all from the same Divine Source—and would this not challenge the notion that certain groups have proprietary rights for things that originated in their cultures or religions?  

This kind of question has particular relevance when we Jews are presented with wisdom, spiritual practices, or customs that come from non-Jewish sources. Whether we are talking about flowers at funerals, Yoga, singing Christmas carols or hymns like Amazing Grace, or yard decorations at Christmastime/ Chanukah, we often find ourselves trying to figure out whether some customs or observances are kosher.  Are they non-Jewish, but okay for Jews? Or are they non-Jewish and crossing a line beyond what is properly and loyally Jewish. By the way, this is not a new question, with plenty of examples in both the Bible and the Talmud. What makes something Jewish; what makes something non-Jewish; and what makes something parev?  

One of the areas where relative Jewishness can be questioned is in music, and let me introduce it with a song:
            If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
            I’d hammer in the evenin’, all over this land.
            I’d hammer out danger. I’d hammer out warning.
            I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters,
           All over this land. 

I first heard this song at a Reform Movement summer camp in 1965, and it seemed very Jewish. We sang it at Jewish worship services and youth group activities. We sang it with kavannah and felt very Jewish singing it, and it took me years before I realized that it is not a Jewish song at all. Peter, Paul, and Mary seemed Jewish, but only one, Peter Yarrow, was actually Jewish.[2] Nonetheless, their music seemed Jewish, as did a lot of the secular Folk Music Revival of the 1950s and 1960s.  

The songs seemed Jewish because the American socialism and progressivism that typified the music had a Tikkun Olam sensibility to it. Though the term Tikkun Olam was not used back then in the context of social justice, our Tradition has been calling for social justice since the days of the Bible—“Justice shall well up like water, righteousness like a mighty stream.” (Amos 5.24), so one can understand why many Jews saw labor unions, socialism, and even communism as paths to the Prophetic dream. Judaism sees justice, righteousness, and universal love as paving the way for the Messianic Age. 

So, even though songs like If I Had a Hammer and This Land is Your Land are not particularly Jewish, they partake of values that are also found in Judaism—and thus we Jewish teens sang them with heart and soul and in Jewish settings. 

Part of their appeal was that these folk songs were part of general youth culture—the youth culture of the beatniks and rock’n’roll and hippies that so enervated the formative years of the post-World War II Baby Boom. The music was very appealing, and it filled in a gap in Jewish music. In the early 1960s, Jewish music consisted of:
(1) fancy classical or operatic sounding choral arrangements for choir and organ—or for a capella choirs
(2) big voice cantorial pieces using traditional nusach but with operatic flourishes
(3) congregational sing-along tunes—sometimes inspired by nusach or European folk tunes
(4) Klezmer music from Eastern Europe
(5) Labor Zionist folk tunes and marching songs
There was no Jewish youth music, and we Jewish teenagers wanted music that would “speak to our generation.”  

The revolution in Jewish music occurred when youth group and camp songleaders—teenagers who played guitar—began putting prayer book and Bible passages into folk tunes, tunes with the chord progressions and styles of folk and rock. 

A similar effort was being mounted in Israel—especially with the immense cultural energy after the 1967 Six Day War. So many young Israelis started putting holy texts into folk-rock settings that an annual showcase, the Hassidic Song Festival[3], was organized and became a worldwide Jewish phenomenon. One of its songs continues in our own worship service, the repeating version of Shema by Tzvika Pik.

One of my first experiences with what we could call home-grown Jewish folk music came around 1969 when I heard about a teenager my age from Houston, a songleader, writing his own Jewish song. Using the old-fashioned worship language of our prayer book, he composed a youth-style tune, rendering Psalm 8 in a way I had never heard it before:
            How glorious! How glorious Thy Name!
            How glorious Thy Name in all the earth!
Who knew we could write our own Jewish music—music that was good and cool and Jewish? It was a revelation for me—a real seminal moment of Jewish possibilities. That teenager, by the way, is now Rabbi Les Bronstein, recently retired from a Reconstructionist congregation in the New York suburbs.  

Another revelation for me came in college when a friend showed me an album by a girl he knew from St. Paul, Minnesota. Her name was Debbie Friedman, and she was a songleader in Temple youth group and Reform summer camp. She had written a bunch of her own songs and, in 1972, recorded an album. You have to understand, this was back in the days when albums were not something anyone could just record. It was a big deal, and the fact that there was an album of Jewish youth music was astounding. Who knew such a thing was possible? 

Debbie went on to compose dozens and dozens of songs, record many albums, and inspire several generations of songleaders and composers of Jewish youth music. For many years, she was part of an early summer event in which camp songleaders from all over the country gathered to learn the latest in Jewish folk music—so that they could teach it at their camps and keep everyone up to date.  

As with much of the youth revolution in the 1960s, there was pushback from our elders. Accustomed to a different ambience in worship services, the guitars and more energetic rhythms were unsettling. Whereas we teens thought of standard Temple worship as boring, many pious adults loved services the way they were—finding their style of worship and their music dignified and elevating. These two different worship preferences resulted in quite a tussle, and many lines were drawn in the sand.  

One example. The setting of Shalom Rav which we all know and love was written in 1974 by two Reform movement songleaders, Dan Freelander and Jeff Klepper: שָׁלוֹם רָב עַל יִשְׂרָאֵל עַמְךָ תָּשִׂים לְעוֹלָם...
They went on to became clergy—Dan a Rabbi and Jeff a Cantor, but, back then, they were just students. And, when they wanted to play their setting of Shalom Rav in the Hebrew Union College Chapel in New York, their idea was totally squashed. There was a firm line between camp music and Temple music, and the College was not going to allow that line to be breached.  

Things changed as the teens of the 1960s grew into adulthood and leadership in synagogues and in the movement, and in the early 2000s, the Cantorial School was renamed for one of our “rabble-rousing” teenaged songleaders, the remarkably talented and tenacious Debbie Friedman. This new Jewish music— combining folk guitar stylings and time-honored Jewish texts—had become more and more popular. In the Reform, Reconstructionist, and even Conservative Movements, this new style music became the way people connected with God.

Many of us may not even know how new some of our “traditional” worship music is. For example, this Vesham’ru, וְשָׁמְרוּ בְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת הַשַּׁבָּת..., was not handed down to Moses at Mount Sinai. It was written by two Rabbinical students at Camp Ramah in California in the 1960s. Moshe Rothblum and Yossi Gordon were writing a skit and needed to show that the scene was set at noon on Shabbat, and so they wrote a new tune for a prayer recited at Kiddush.  

Another example is Veha’er Aynaynu, וְהָאֵר עֵינֵֽינוּ בְּתוֹרָתֶֽךָ, וְדַבֵּק לִבֵּֽנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתֶֽיךָ...
The tune was written in the 1960s by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, an emissary of the previous Lubavitcher Rabbi, Yosef Yitzhak Schneersohn. The Rebbe wanted Reb Shlomo to combine Judaism with youth culture, and this energetic and spiritual setting is just one example of his impressive and lasting success. 

At our own Brit Shalom, the “revolution” involved the then-new Rabbi Jeff Eisenstat who was young and cool and played the guitar. People loved his music, but some worried that the Old Guard would not approve. The big moment came a few months after Rabbi Jeff’s arrival when the Patriarch of the congregation, Mr. Charles Schlow, came to services. Afterwards, everyone was waiting with bated breath to see what Mr. Schlow would say. When asked about the guitar music, he nodded his head in approval, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Rabbi Eisenstat’s legendary career was off to a great start. 

One more memory: I was a Temple-goer as a child and knew the English of the Ve’ahavta by heart: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.” There was a holiness to its subject matter, its language, and its cadence, and it was a beloved passage. So, when Debbie Friedman took that text and rendered it into a folk song that both honored the holy connection and resonated with our youthful musical tastes, it was a gift. I still remember how this song was both emotionally and spiritually exhilarating. 

Getting back to “Atem Nitzavim” and who was included in the Covenant Ceremony, music is a perfect place to consider what makes a cultural expression “Jewish.” Music connects on an emotional, a visceral level. As Duke Ellington used to reflect, it is extremely personal: “You either dig it or you don’t.” Jewish history contains thousands of different musical approaches to our traditional texts, and it is interesting to consider which of those settings we dig and why. For instance, there are more than 1500 settings for Lecha Dodi, and some may seem more Jewish or more holy than others. What is it about a text and a melody that does or does not connect us with the Divine? 

For many Jewish teenagers of the 1960s, If I Had a Hammer was a Jewish song—even though it was not. And for some of us, traditional Iraqi or Moroccan settings of Adon Olam or Yigdal may not seem “Jewish,” even though Iraqi and Moroccan Jews have used such tunes to connect with God for centuries. Cultural subjectivity is ubiquitous and inevitable, and I find the whole subject fascinating. How does Jewishness and kavannah work in our souls? It is a continuing work-in-progress, as are we, and, in our moments of holiness this year, let us think about our connection with God and how our Tradition contributes to it.   

[1]   Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael

[2]   Paul Stooky is Catholic, and Mary Travers—though she was fond of Reform Judaism in her later years—was never Jewish.

[3]   1969-1992

God's "Chosen People?"

September 19th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion begins week with a call for national formation and identity—for national purpose:
“You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God…to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God…so that you will be God’s people…” (Deuteronomy 29.9-12) 

It is a call that echoes God’s words at Mount Sinai. Just before the revelation of the Ten Commandments, God explains the basis and purpose of the Covenant:
“If you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. All the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.5-6)
If we follow God’s Covenant, we shall be God’s Chosen People. 

The idea that we are the Chosen People is both inspiring and troubling, both a source of support and a target for hostility. It is always a relevant question, but, these days, our chosenness and our holy mission seem to be more on our minds. With the conflict between Israel and Hamas, the political dissension in Israel, and the piling-on of commentators, “humanitarians”, and various nations, we find ourselves in a storm of turmoil—a storm that surprises those of us who thought that pogroms and rampant anti-Semitism were things of the past. Many of us are emotionally black-and-blue and shocked at the ferocity of attacks against Israel and everything Jewish. We may even find ourselves thinking about Tevye’s famous question in Fiddler on the Roof: “I know, I know. We are Your chosen people. But, once in a while, can’t You choose someone else?”  

Many words have been written about our current situation, and some of them have been helpful. Some of the best thinking has been presented in Sapir, a fairly new journal edited by Brett Stephens and published by Mark Charendoff. Appearing quarterly (both digitally and in print: info@sapirjournal.org), Sapir has offered a voice of reason and thoughtfulness amid the ideological maelstroms of our day. I recommend it highly and would like to share with you a recent essay by the publisher. His subject is Jewish Chosenness, and I find his words both clarifying and inspiring. 

In January 1983, the New York Times reported on a debate between John Murray Cuddihy, an associate professor of sociology at Hunter College, and Irving (Yitz) Greenberg, then the director of the Jewish National Resource Center. The topic? Chosenness.  

The debate was part of a series called “Turning Inward: The Retribalization of the Jews.” Cuddihy warned that chosenness leads to a “covert form of superiority” while Rabbi Greenberg argued that, for Jews, chosenness is less of a status and more of a calling. In fact, other peoples can be chosen as well, just for other callings. 

But what is our calling? Abraham Joshua Heschel said, “Man is a messenger who forgot the message.” So what is the “message” that we Jews are supposed to be delivering? And is that message static, or does it change as the currents of history carry it and us from place to place and from time to time? Did it shift after the Holocaust, as Jews pondered a world that seemed indifferent to their destruction? Did it shift in 1948 when we once again had a sovereign state for the first time in nearly two millennia? Did the message change on October 7, 2023, or on June 13, 2025? 

For many Jews, the notion of bearing a special message seemed embarrassing, an outdated mode of thinking — “tribalizing,” as the debate series put it. But many of those same Jews began finding their voice around 650 days ago. It seems that humanity did in fact need to be reminded of a divine message. They needed to be reminded that not every culture treasures life and protects its children at all costs. They needed to be reminded that evil does in fact exist. They needed to be reminded that freedom is fragile and must be protected. They needed to be reminded that all of humanity is created in the image of God and all are deserving of dignity. They needed to be reminded that study is important, not only to increase knowledge but to spot the rhyming patterns of history. 

And they needed to be reminded that we can never give up on hope and redemption, that better days lie ahead and our mission is to work together, getting us to those better days a little sooner, a little faster. 

Today’s Jews have reclaimed their message with newfound urgency and clarity as the Jewish state fights to deliver it. (Mark Charendoff, Sapir, Summer 2025) 

Perhaps our time together during the upcoming Holy Days—time spent with God and with other Members of the Tribe—will lead us to some good thinking.

See you soon.
L’shanah Tovah Tikatayvu!

Rhetorical Strategies for Our Prayers

September 12th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In the world of rhetoric, The term ad hominem refers to a logical fallacy in which one attacks one’s opponent rather than the opponent’s argument. In the world of rhetoric, we are taught to identify this tactic and avoid it. If one’s goal is to be, in the words of Quintilian, “Vir bonus, dicendi peritus / “a good man speaking well,” one is urged to find other ways to persuade. Ad hominem arguments are beside the point and unfair.  

That being said, we often find ourselves practicing the opposite, trusting someone because we like him/her and not because the argument makes sense. Some have suggested that these arguments be called pro hominem, and we see them all the time in celebrity endorsements. A fun example is Peyton Manning, an outstanding quarterback, a seemingly very likable fellow, and an alumnus of my Mother-in-Law’s high school in New Orleans (Isidore Newman). Nonetheless, one wonders about his expertise in cars (Buicks), pizza (Papa John’s), and credit cards (MasterCard). (Regardless of what cards he uses, I cannot imagine his financial situation and needs being similar to the people hearing his advice.) Nonetheless, we like him, and his smile is very good for a number of businesses.  

We should understand the logical fallacy of such behavior, but it seems tied to the human thought process. We respond to people who are likeable, and we are not immune to using such pro hominem arguments when they can work to our advantage. Examples abound in our High Holy Day prayers where, throughout, we ask God to take into account Zechut Avot, the merit of our ancestors. Because our ancestors were faithful and pious, we hope that some of their credit will be transferred to us. We remind God that Abraham, our ancestor (!) was a personal friend of the Lord. In places like Avinu Malkaynu and the Shofar Service—as well as in every Avot v’Imahot we say, we remind God of our long-term family relationship and the fact that God has had mercy on our ancestors and us for centuries. Please, O Lord, given that our ancestors were eminently likeable and holy, and given that you have loved us for a long, long time, could you please go easy on us? 

Perhaps this speaks to a desperation in our human situation—that we are all woefully inadequate and in need of mercy. We are never as strong as we wish we could be, never as good as we hope to be, never as resilient as we need to be. We are all weak and vulnerable and in need of Divine Love. Tradition considers our plight and teaches us that God understands—that God looks at our many flaws with Infinite Chen/Grace, Rachamim/Compassion, and Ahavat Olam/Eternal Love. God knows our imperfections, for the Divine is a totally accurate Judge Who sees everything and Whose moral compass is unassailable. Indeed, if the world were judged alone on its imperfection and evil, it would merit immediate and complete destruction. However, God is also possessed of a remarkable measure of understanding and tolerance and genuine affection for us, and God’s compassion always overcomes God’s justice. Thus are we allowed to continue our existence and get another “second chance.” 

It is a poignant situation, and our prayers acknowledge this dynamic and invoke God’s kindness to us and our people. However, despite the delicacy of our position, why do we need to resort to rhetorical strategies before God? Why do we need to say such things—to use these ploys—when God already knows about our noble yichus (family relationships), the history of Divine compassion and love, and our own hopes for improvement? God already knows all of the words of our prayers and pleas—about Abraham’s faith and Rebecca’s faith and Moses’ holiness and Ruth’s determination and love. For what purpose do we recite things God already knows? 

A psychological hint can be derived from this week’s Torah portion, from the prayer of self-identification that our ancestors recited when they brought their first fruits to the Lord. Most of us are familiar with the passage from the Passover Seder, but its original context was at a harvest thanksgiving ritual:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. 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. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

Were our ancestors reminding God of who they were—sort of like the way we identify ourselves to someone who has forgotten us or never paid attention to us, or could we look at these words of self-identification as reminders to ourselves of who we are? God already knows who we are, where we have been, etc., but do we remember? Do we remember the pivotal events in our lives—and the pivotal people and Influences? Do we remember what we represent—how we are the continuation of an ancient and continuing project in which Divine Energy and Goodness can be present in human life? 

Zechut Avot/the Merit of our Ancestors may be seen as a persuasive reminder for the Judge of All the World, but it can also be a reminder for us that we have holiness within. Zechut Avot means that we, like our ancestors, have noble possibilities and that we should have godly aspirations. Though we speak these words to God, the hope is that we listen to them ourselves. 

Pro hominem prayers are more than just cajoling. They are reminders that each of us can be a Vir Bonus, a good person, a Mensch, a vehicle that brings godliness to the world.

Words of Righteousness in Hard Times

September 6th: Ki Tetzay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion this week begins with words of war:
“When you take the field against your enemies…” (Deuteronomy 21.10)
In this passage—and in others in last week’s portion, the Torah attempts to guide us in the barbaric and desperate world of mortal combat.  

I have never been to war, and all I know about war comes from history books and movies. Some of the movies and books are exciting, but many of the movies and most of the history books are boring. Rather than a well-paced, excitement-filled Tom Clancy or Gregg Hurwitz thriller—or a James Bond or Jason Bourne movie, real war is complicated, plodding, full of factors and strategies and conflicting opinions—an undifferentiated mass of confusion and blood. My suspicion is that real war is akin to those endless battle scenes in Lord of the Rings, Saving Private Ryan, or Game of Thrones. Fighting and fighting and fighting and killing for hours and hours—or being killed, with comrades falling at your side and little sense of the dangers that almost randomly come at you. This is the Hell of warfare. And do not forget the other factors: supply lines, alliances, shifting alliances, political power-plays, misinformation, etc. All of these things are part of war, and their sheer complexity and multivalent shifting of sand makes war very difficult to discuss in soundbites, editorials, and sermons.  

Furthermore, even if someone has been to war, the perspective of being in the middle of a pitched life-or-death battle may not be overly helpful in understanding the larger vision that those in charge of wars must consider. For that perspective, we rely upon experts—line officers who have fought and supervised fighting and whose opinions are more reflective of the strategies and larger issues involved in warfare. The problem with them is that they have lots of different opinions about what is and should be happening. These experts are not always in agreement—and not always fully informed, and that puts those of us not-in-the-know still not-in-the-know. Though there is a lot of talk about war and how best to conduct it, it seems to me that a healthy dose of humility is important. A healthy dose of humility. 

Our Prophets look forward to peace:
“Lo yisa goy el goy cherev; lo yil’m’du od milchamah.
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.”
 (Isaiah 2.4 and Micah 4.3).
However, the Torah also presents a resigned acceptance of the fact that wars happen—that they may sometimes be necessary. Though we hold up visions of peace, the fact is that such sentiments are prayers—idyllic dreams and poignant hopes that are, unfortunately, more Messianic than practical. Why? Because there are bad guys out there who are trying to hurt/conquer/kill us, and sometimes the only way to stop them is battle. War is not a good thing, but it is too often thrust upon us. It is not one of those blessings in life to which we look forward. But survival is better than death, and freedom is better than enslavement, and sometimes our love of peace cannot find fulfillment.  

In a kind of poignant parallel, our Torah portion also speaks with resigned acceptance of another unpleasant possibility in life, Divorce. Deuteronomy 24.1 is the passage where Judaism gets our operative Halachic approach:  “When a man takes a wife and possesses her,” and the marriage does not work, “and he writes her a bill of divorcement…”  
Though a terribly dramatic event in some people’s lives, the Torah is pretty matter-of-fact about the dissolution of a marriage. For the Rabbinic Sages, divorce is not a positive mitzvah—something that God commands us to do. But, in the unhappy situation of a failed marriage, God nonetheless expects us to behave with righteousness. Thus do the Rabbis of the Talmud derive and prescribe the various mitzvot incumbent upon divorcing parties. The mitzvah is not to divorce but to be holy in even sad and difficult circumstances. Over the ages, this concern with righteous behavior has continued, and many adaptations have been made to render the process fairer and more compassionate. The Reform and Conservative Movements have been at the forefront of these modern innovations, but one can also see progress in parts of the Orthodox world. 

Our Jewish approach is in marked distinction to the attitude of traditional Christianity. Theirs has traditionally been vehemently anti-divorce, and they have considered divorce to be a human rebellion against God’s decision. They take their opposition from a verse that appears twice in the New Testament, once in the Gospel of Mark (10.9) and another time in the Gospel of Matthew (19.6): “What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” Whereas Judaism sees marriage as a relationship between and managed by humans, Christianity sees the sanctification of marriage by the clerical officiant as essentially removing the marriage from human “ownership” and making it God’s. Rather than being something owned and administered by the husband and the wife, the marriage is considered the “property” of God—something the humans have no right to dissolve. History is full of the chaffing that such an attitude has caused—with the machinations of rich and powerful people who try to finesse the system, and the changes that some modern denominations have made. Nonetheless, it is curious to consider how differently our two different faith traditions approach the divide that sometimes opens up between our ideals and our realities.  

When it comes to both war and divorce, we are sometimes forced to deal with things we do not want—with things we would rather not have to do. Our dreams of both peace and a perfect marriage may be strong but sometimes dreams evaporate. What do we do? Judaism in both Torah and Talmud urges us to deal with our problems righteously. We do not deny the sad and tragic parts of life. We stand up and face the truth—and try to figure out the most righteous and holy ways to navigate life’s tragedies.

Justice!?

August 29th: Shof’tim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion begins with a demand that public affairs be conducted honestly: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly; you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for brides blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20) 

Though public officials are generally “in charge,” we citizens pay attention and often find ourselves in animated discussions about the way public affairs are conducted. And among our concerns is the way our Justice System operates—whether and how it follows the Biblical mandate of, “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” (Though from a religious text, this mitzvah is certainly a part of the same “self-evident truths” that grounded our Declaration of Independence. It is a universal standard that transcends denominations and to which all should be held.) 

Thus, do we often find ourselves wondering about some of the decisions our modern American Shoftim/Judges render. Civil Rights advocates certainly wondered about Plessy vs. Ferguson’s approval of “Separate but Equal” public education. Conservatives were shocked and concerned over the “Judicial Activism” of the Warren Court. And for a variety of controversial decisions in recent years—Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission, Shelby vs. Holder, Obergefell vs. Hodges, Dobbs vs. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Judiciary’s rulings have attracted a lot of attention, analysis, and heat. Is Justice being pursued, and what is our role in it?  

Years ago, political commentator Rush Limbaugh encouraged his listeners to demonstrate outside of the Supreme Court—to push the Justices to a particular conclusion. I remember being quite angry at his advice, seeing in it a fundamental misstatement of our Constitution’s Separation of Powers. The Court is supposed to rule on the Law and not to court public opinion. Unfortunately, the late Mr. Limbaugh was not the only person who thought of the Court in this manner. This kind of rhetoric shows up all the time—even though it is civically mistaken.  

If we are unhappy with a judicial ruling—be it a traffic ticket, criminal case, or something at the Appellate or Supreme Court level, there are three types of objections/questions to pose:
(1)   Were the judges corrupt—taking bribes, pandering to powers, letting personal agendas overrule the Law?
(2)   Were the legal principles applied correctly—or did the judges/justices ignore important and countervailing legal principles or precedents?
(3)   Or are we just unhappy with the ruling? Are our “philosophical” objections more expressions of anger than logical discussions of the Law?  

There is always the possibility of corruption. My teacher, Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, used to teach that laws are written for precipitating reasons—that someone somewhere must have behaved dishonestly or inappropriately—and that any law telling us to be honest and fair must have been written to guide us and restrain our less-than-noble tendencies. However, dishonesty is not the only reason one side loses a case. There could be (usually are?) legitimate legal bases. If we really believe that fairness is important, then we need to separate our anger and disappointment from the logical discussion of legal principles and applications.  

One of my old classmates, Law Professor and Dean Erwin Chemerinsky, has been unhappy of late with many Supreme Court opinions, and his dissenting columns often appear in the Centre Daily Times and other newspapers. However, he and other legal scholars (like Noah Feldman) generally stick to the Law—discussing the legal arguments and not merely complaining that their side lost. Like the dissenting opinions written by Supreme Court Justices, these arguments are disciplined and dispassionate and contribute to the development and rule of Law.  

This is markedly different from much political speech and writing that decries (or praises) judges and their decisions based on how the decisions affect various groups or individuals. If we are unhappy with policies, it is the Legislature which must change the Law. The Court system’s responsibility is not to write Law, but rather to rule on whether it is being followed and applied.  

A public display of this issue came up during the Confirmation Hearings for now-Justice Brett Kavanaugh. When it was her turn, then-Senator Kamala Harris criticized Judge Kavanaugh’s judicial opinions because he was not a Champion of the Poor: he had sided with wealthy corporations in cases involving poor people. For the future Vice-President, preparing to run for office and having a moment on national television, being a Champion of the Poor was important. However, it is not appropriate for a judge to take into consideration the relative wealth or poverty of litigants. As the Torah warns us: “You shall not render an unfair decision: do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich; judge your kinsman fairly!” (Leviticus 19.15)  

Though from a religious text, this Biblical standard seems pretty ubiquitous—“self-evident” and universal. Tzedakah/charity is clearly a vitally important mitzvah, but the courtroom is not the place for it. The courtroom is the place for procedure and fairness—for championing the Law and not favoring the poor or showing deference to the rich. The mitzvah of helping the poor is properly performed in other arenas—in social policy or charitable giving—and not in a place dedicated to the Law. This division of realms is crucial to our system, and it can often be seen when judges themselves work in both worlds—ruling on the Law in their courtrooms and engaging as private citizens in civic and charitable efforts. Both realms should be respected—and kept discrete. So, though there may have been other legitimate criticisms for then-Judge Kavanaugh, his judicial opinions on matters of Law—especially since they were on the Appellate Level—should have only been evaluated in re legal issues. 

Many of us may not like to see Vice-President Harris and Rush Limbaugh mentioned in the same sentence, but I believe that both were laboring under a mistaken understanding of the way the court system is supposed to work. The role of the justice system is to rule on the Law. If we are unhappy with its results, our system provides elections to affect both the Legislative and Executive branches. Though we may yearn for a “white knight” to rescue us, each branch is supposed to “stay in its own lane.” The Torah’s command of “Justice, justice you shall pursue” is multivalent. There is a lot of work to be done, and there are many roles—with both possibilities and limitations—in our holy and long-term project.

Prophecy?

August 22nd: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Theologically, this is a pivotal week in the Torah/Judaism dynamic. Whereas the Torah and the rest of the Bible are based on the belief that God speaks to humans, this week’s Torah portion contains the “cut-off valve” for Revelation and sets up some interesting developments in the ways we Jews determine God’s Will for us. 

The passage seems simple enough:
“If there appears among you a prophet or a dream-diviner and he gives you a sign or a portent, saying, ‘Let us follow and worship another god’—whom you have not experienced—even if the sign or portent that he named to you comes true, do not heed the words of that prophet or that dream-diviner. For the Lord you God is testing you to see whether you really love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul. Follow none but the Lord your God, and revere none but Him; observe His commandments alone, and heed only His orders; worship none but Him, and hold fast to Him. As for that prophet or dream-diviner, he shall be put to death…thus you will sweep out evil from your midst.” (Deuteronomy 13.2-6) 

If we accept the Biblical chronology—that the Book of Deuteronomy was written/transcribed by Moses around 1400-1200 BCE, then this is just a cautionary warning about potential false prophets. However, if we accept the Documentary Hypothesis and its attendant theories, the passage has a vastly different implication. The term Documentary Hypothesis generally refers to a group of theories about the origin of the Torah, theories teaching that the Torah is not a single document, written/transcribed by a single individual and promulgated at the end of Moses’ leadership and the beginning of the Conquest. The Hypothesis/hypotheses suggest that the Torah is a composite work, woven together from several pre-existing Israelite documents that were composed/compiled between 1000 BCE and 600 BCE—that these tribal traditions were put together and edited around 500 BCE when many Jews returned from the Babylonian Exile. These returning Judeans reconstructed Judaism and built the Second Temple, and, scholars theorize, uniting behind a sacred text that represented the many Hebrew and Israelite traditions was an important part of that reconstruction.  

Scholars identify four basic pre-existing documents, and the latest of them is the Book of Deuteronomy. The theory is this book was written around 620 BCE during King Josiah’s religious revival and “found” in a storage shed around the Temple. It purports to be the final message of Moses, but, curiously and suspiciously, it gives advice that resolves several current (circa 620 BCE) issues and challenges—among them, the proliferation of “prophets” who advocate a variety of different national and religious policies.  

In a tradition that believed in revelation—that God communicates mitzvot/instructions to N’vi’im/Prophets who then bring the words of God to the population, the proliferation of many and conflicting prophetic views was both unsettling and disruptive. How could the leadership or populace know what God really wanted them to do when lots of different “prophets” were coming in from the wilderness and opening their proposals with, “Thus saith the Lord?”   

As Dr. Ellis Rivkin used to observe, the Deuteronomy 13 False Prophet passage effectively eliminated all prophecy. If some felt that God has spoken to him/her, either (1) the “prophet” could give a message that went along with the ways things had been done—a message that was therefore unnecessary, or (2) the “prophet” could give a message that deviated from the tradition and therefore risk execution. The passage was intended to calm things down and prevent prophetic cacophony, but the Deuteronomy’s influence was interrupted and delayed when, some thirty years after it was “found,” the Babylonian Empire attacked Judah and Jerusalem. In 586 BCE, the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, and a good portion of the population was exiled to Babylonia.  

When, some fifty years later, many of the Judeans returned from Babylonia, they began to rebuild Jerusalem and the Temple, but they were faced with lots of different proposals for reconstruction—proposals that claimed to be prophecies from the Lord. This is where the False Prophet/anti-prophecy passage found its purpose, as the leadership struggled to solidify plans and quell alternatives. Though we moderns may think in terms of democracy and free speech, the conditions of the return involved unswerving loyalty to Cyrus, the Shah-en-Sharan/Emperor of the Persian Empire. He allowed the Judeans to return, but they were “on a short leash” and the leaders (perhaps Ezra and Nehemiah) realized that anything perceived as rebellious or too independent could endanger the rebuilding project and their lives. 

Some of these  alternative proposals (different priestly leadership, a restoration of the Judean monarchy, questions about the necessity of sacrificial worship) still have remnants in some books of the Prophets, but the leadership felt the need to squash them, and the False Prophet passage seems to be part of the strong hand that they felt was necessary for Jewish survival.  

So, around 500 BCE, Prophecy stops. The traditional/Orthodox explanation is that God simply stopped speaking: all relevant instructions are written in the Torah, and there is no need for additional mitzvot. However, the view of modern scholarship is that Prophecy was squashed by the leadership and that they used Deuteronomy’s False Prophet passage in their unification efforts. Rather than jeopardize Judea’s and Judaism’s future, the leadership made Prophecy either unnecessary or dangerous, and this venerable institution of Israelite religion faded away.  

How do we know what God wants from us? Tradition insists that all of God’s instructions (mitzvot!) are in the Torah. Though the Rabbis of the Talmud insist on the non-admissibility of Heavenly intrusions into Rabbinic deliberations (“Lo bashamayim hi. It is not in the heavens!” from Deuteronomy 30.12 and Bava Metziah 59b), the fact is that the Rabbis’ Oral Torah offers significant enhancements and expansions of what the Torah prescribes. Then there is the Reform Jewish notion of Progressive Revelation, the belief that God “speaks” to us through the ongoing development of Judaism. It is not the same as literally hearing a voice from Heaven, but Liberal Judaism believes that study of Tradition and some accommodation to the modern world can help our ancient and continuing relationship with God thrive and prosper. Modern Judaism (Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist) holds that Tradition and modernity can enform each other—as can faith and science. We can live piously in all of these worlds, walking with God and cleaving to holiness.

Memory, Tradition, and Wisdom

August 15th: Eikev 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

There are two opinions regarding ancient memory and the way that traditions were passed down from one generation to another. One opinion says that the ancients were very exacting in their memorized teachings, with each teller repeating what he/she received without any deviations or editorial comments. The other opinion doubts this and questions how literal the ancients were in their stories and transmissions.  

Feeding these doubts is the fact that almost all ancient texts have different versions—with differences in names, in numbers, in terminology, and in other details in “copies” of the same text. This is true for The Iliad and The Odessey, and this is true for the books of the Bible, the Talmud, and the New Testament. Are these variances the result of scribal or oral errors—like the game of “Telephone,” where a message passed around the room changes?  Or could the notion of an original and authoritative version be a false assumption—a misunderstanding of the thinking the ancients brought to Tradition and how it is to be transmitted?   

First, let us consider the notion of accurate and complete reporting. When an event or conversation takes place, reporters inevitably choose which details to include, and which details are unnecessary or extraneous. We do not know, for example, what color socks Abraham Lincoln wore when he visited Gettysburg. Nor do we know what kind of sandals Moses took off when he beheld the burning bush. We do not know, and, according to those who reported the events, such details are unnecessary. Already and inevitably, there is a certain degree of editorial discretion. The idea of a total rendition of an event or a conversation is unrealistic. 

Second, there is the fact that reporters, composers, or writers often tell their stories differently as time goes on. It is not uncommon to find variant manuscripts of famous compositions or literary works—all in the hand of the originator. Sometimes Bach played his Minuet in A Minor one way, another times (and in other manuscripts), he added ornamentation or changed notes. The same can be said for Liszt who apparently performed his Hungarian Rhapsody #2 differently every time he did a concert. Add to this the proclivity of artists—like Vladimir Horowitz—who have their own preferences and feel empowered to “adjust” the arrangements of the famous pieces they perform. (For fun, check out the various versions of the Liszt classic on YouTube. There is a lot of variety, and the notion of a “real” version becomes elusive.) 

My lesson in this compositional flexibility came several years ago when I attempted to learn a hauntingly beautiful Avinu Malkaynu I had heard on a CD of traditional Spanish Jewish Music. When I could not locate sheet music, I consulted two well-known musicologists of Jewish Music. Both were kind, but both dismissed my search. The Tradition, they explained, was that every chazan between Constantinople and Casablanca had his own version of the piece, and that the most “traditional” thing I could do was to listen to the recording and then sing my own version. (This is the setting with which we open our High Holy Day prayers.) 

In other words, the notion of an authoritative version of almost any text turns out to be a conceit. Actual history shows multiple versions of pretty much every text, and this is significantly true for our sacred literature (Bible, Talmud, Midrash) as well. 

One variant shows up in this week’s Torah portion, in Moses’ recounting of Israel’s history. In Deuteronomy 10, he talks about the second set of the Ten Commandments—the set that replaces the first set that he destroys in front of the Golden Calf. In the Exodus 34 version of the story (the “original?”), we read God’s instructions: “Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and I will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first set that you shattered.” There is no mention of an Ark to hold the tablets—presumably because the elaborate gold-covered Ark of the Covenant is being prepared by Bezalel and other artisans.  

However, when Moses retells the story in Deuteronomy 10, there is a change: “The Lord said to me, ‘Carve out two tablets of stone like the first, and come up to Me on the mountain, and make an ark of wood.’” Moses does so and goes up the mountain. After God carves the second set with the same words as the first set, Moses remembers, “I went down from the mountain, and I deposited the tablets in the ark that I had made—where they still are, as the Lord commanded me.” (Deuteronomy 10.1-5) Still there? What about the elaborate Ark of the Covenant—which the Torah describes in great detail, and which presumably holds the tablets?   

The Bible has dozens of such inconsistencies—what Rashi calls koshis, and what we do with them is fascinating. The Sages use them to create Midrash, stories that comment on all sorts of peripherally/tangentially related subjects. Skeptics and heretics see them as proof that the Bible is untrue. Modern Biblical scholars use such inconsistencies to prove that the Torah is not a single work written by a single Writer/writer at a single time—that it is a composite text, woven together from several ancient scrolls.  

However, another way of looking at the inconsistencies is to reconfigure the way we understand the ancient practice of telling stories. Are the details important in and of themselves, or are they just settings for larger lessons? As I understand it, many of our ancient stories may be similar to the way modern jokes are created and transmitted. I am talking about those in which three people encounter a situation and respond in different ways. The first two always have conventional responses, but it is the third one who provides the amusement/the punch line. The identities of the first two are arbitrary—an Irishman, and Italian, a Cajun, etc. The key is the identity of the third person, whose amusing response somehow springs from his/her ethnic or professional identity. In such stories, the first two are merely set-ups for the third person, and their identifications can be changed without materially affecting the point of punch-line. The point is the punch line, not the details of the set-up. 

So, when we see two different Creation Stories in Genesis, or three versions of the Noah and the Ark story, focusing on the differences/discrepances may be beside the point—may be looking inappropriately at stories unconcerned about historicity. The point of the stories are theological and ethical lessons—how admirable people encounter the challenges of life and figure out their best responses. Wisdom is the goal, not a recitation of the details. In other words, inerrancy and literalism should be off the table in considering ancient texts, and we should look at texts like Deuteronomy not as false (or true) narratives but as literary meditations on our relationship possibilities with God and our fellow humans.

One More Chance for Moses to Inspire

August 1st: Devarim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though every death is sad, there is something about the death (and finitude) of our heroes that touches our hearts. Thus is there a profound sadness when we read about the death of Aaron:
“Aaron the priest ascended Mount Hor at the command of the Lord and died there, in the fortieth year after the Israelites had left the Land of Egypt, on the first day of the fifth month. Aaron was a hundred and twenty-three years old when he died on Mount Hor.” (Numbers 33.38-39: this is a repetition of the narrative in Numbers 20.27-29) 

It is also nearing the end of the road for Moses. God tells him in Numbers 20 (v.12), “You shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them,” and then gets more specific while also ordering the war against the Midianites: “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin.” (Numbers 31.1-2) Moses’ days are numbered, but he is not quite finished. He takes the little time remaining to him and gives a final set of lessons to his beloved Israelites: the Book of Deuteronomy which begins with, “These are the words that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan…” (Deuteronomy 1.1) He hopes that reminding them of their history will help guide them into their future. 

As with all histories and reminiscences, there is a certain amount of editorial “spin.” Instead of just stating the facts, Moses adds in comments and lessons. One might worry about such interpretations until one realizes that all histories and stories—even the ones told in Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers—are the products of editorial decisions. Someone—whether Divine or human—decided which of the millions of things that happened in the world and in the lives of our ancestors should be included in the Torah—and how it should be told. Everything included involved a decision by God or human storytellers or editors, and every one of these decisions  had a purpose. Our job, as Children of the Covenant, is to study the holy words, try to understand their purposes, and find wisdom.  

As we mentioned last week, the Jewish way is to study Torah—not simply believe it. Rather than a literal record of God’s words to us, Torah is best understood as a locus for accessing the Divine. As Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradion put it: “When two people sit together and exchange words of Torah, the Divine Presence dwells with them.” (Avot 3.2)  

The dynamic of Torah study is fascinating. One approach suggests that every word of Torah has four meanings. Another says that every word of Torah has seventy meanings! Indeed, the Torah grows and grows with each generation. There is even this rather incredible story:
“Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: When Moses ascended on High, he found the Holy One, Blessed be He, sitting and drawing crowns on the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, why are You giving the Torah these additions? God said to him: There is a man who is destined to be born after several generations, and Akiva ben Yosef is his name. He is destined to derive from each and every thorn of these crowns mounds upon mounds of halachot. It is for his sake that the crowns must be added to the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, show him to me. God said to him: Turn around. Moses found himself at the end of the eighth row in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall and did not understand what they were saying. Moses’ strength waned, as he thought his Torah knowledge was deficient. When Rabbi Akiva arrived at the discussion of one matter, his students said to him: My teacher, from where do you derive this? Rabbi Akiva said to them: It is a halachah transmitted to Moses from Sinai. When Moses heard this, his mind was put at ease, as this too was part of the Torah that he was to receive.” (Menachot 29b)
Our Tradition represents Progressive Revelation, a Divinely inspired process in which we study God’s words and reflect on how they fit into the world. It is a developmental process in which God’s wisdom flows and grows and is enhanced by reality and human wisdom. 

This is where we get back to Moses and his farewell lectures and interpretations. Rather than simply repeat what happened in the past, Moses enhances the stories with what he considers pertinent insights. Two examples can be found in his restating of the Sabbath Commandment, Number Four from Ten Commandments in Exodus 20. The Exodus version begins with: “Zachor: Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy,” but Moses retells it in Deuteronomy as: “Shamor: Observe/Guard the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.” A Midrash tries to resolve the difference by suggesting that God’s miraculous Voice says one word that the Israelites hear as two words, Zachor and Shamor. (This Midrash is mentioned in the first verse of Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz’s famous poem, Lecha Dodi: “Shamor v’zachor bedibbur echad. Guard and remember in one single word.) However, we can also look at the difference as an attempt by Moses to persuade the Israelites of the importance of Shabbat: Merely remembering Shabbat is not enough; we must observe this holy time that God gives us—practicing it and guarding it against the distractions that can decrease our joy in the Divine. 

There is also the difference in God’s rationale for Shabbat. According to Exodus, God establishes Shabbat in remembrance and celebration of Ma’aseh V’raysheet, the Work of Creation: “For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and hallowed it.” However, Moses takes the opportunity to remind everyone of another significant and perhaps more personal connection: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe (to do) the sabbath day.” Moses urges memory, empathy, and compassion: since we were slaves, we should have compassion for our own servants and give them the day off. 

As Moses nears the end of his days, he remains steadfast in his faith in God and in the developmental holiness which he has worked so hard to inspire. With his final words, he hopes that his people, the Children of Israel, will rise to the occasions presented to them and continue to bring forth holiness.

The Messages and "Truths" of Torah

July 25th: Matot/Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our relationship with Torah is complex—with some passages speaking of truths whose profundity takes the breath away, and other passages troubling us deeply. We are taught to revere both the document and the relationship it represents (with God!), and we speak of Torah as the channel of truth and holiness from Heaven to Earth. And yet, when the text talks about slavery or the legal inferiority of women, many of us feel ambivalence. Do we take such passages literally? Do we still follow them? Do we consider them infallible instructions from God—or are they time-bound and culture-bound ideas of our ancient ancestors who were putting their customs into God’s mouth? Do such passages perhaps need interpretation? 

While the Reform Movement has been straightforward about disagreeing with (or interpreting out) such passages—making women completely equal with men, removing some of the ancient “purity” rituals, and formally welcoming LGBT+ individuals into the embrace of Judaism, even the Orthodox struggle with many passages. When the Torah says that only men can initiate divorce, Orthodox authorities can “urge” bad husbands to grant their wives divorces by various measures of persuasion (including physical intimidation and incarceration). While Torah insists that no fires burn on Shabbat, the Rabbis found loopholes (arranged workarounds) so as to allow fires lit before Shabbat to burn on into the Sabbath and provide warmth, hot meals, and Oneg Shabbat/Enjoyment of the Sabbath.  

My favorite example in walking back a problematic text is not from the Torah, but it is nonetheless instructive. In the Mishnah, Pirke Avot 1.5, Yossi ben Yochanan of Jerusalem says, “Do not talk to your wife too much.” Other translations expand it to, “Do not talk too much to women.” The problematic-ness of such a statement is staggering, and later readers are both struck by and stuck with a part of our sacred Tradition that cannot possibly be God’s word. Nonetheless it is there, and commentators struggle to interpret it (away). Rashi says that it only refers to one’s wife during her monthly period—that a husband should not bother her then. Maimonides treats “talking” as a euphemism for sexual activity and urges men not to let such thoughts dominate their thinking. (And the modern Sage Selma Harris teaches that this means that men should not presume to tell their wives how to run the household and do the cooking. Women know what they are doing and do not need the meddlesome assistance.) In any event, what we have is an outlandish statement that, whatever its meaning in the Second Century, needs to be contextualized and re-read. 

I mention such problematic verses because this week’s Torah portion presents a real doozy. In Numbers 33, we have one of several places where the Israelites are commanded to totally destroy the non-Israelite population of Canaan:
“When you cross the Jordan into the land of Canaan, you shall dispossess all the inhabitants of the land; you shall destroy all their figured objects (idols); you shall destroy all their molten images, and you shall demolish their cult places.” (Number 33.51-52) 

Earlier in the portion, we read about the total destruction of Midian and all of its population (except unmarried women). It is a bloodthirsty business, and yet these and other campaigns are cast as mitzvot from the Lord. In the case of the Midianites, the term used is vengeance. “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites.” (Numbers 31.2) There are even statistics of the number of people killed and the number of people enslaved.  

Such instructions and records give us pause—until we realize that such destructions never happened. Though Numbers and Joshua record staggering destruction, there is no archeological record of this kind of invasion or devastation. And, according to the Biblical books that follow (Judges, Samuel, Kings, and the Prophets), all those “destroyed” nations and tribes were still around and neighbors of the Israelites for centuries. Why else would the Prophets rage about the idolatrous temptations they proffered? Why else would the Mishnah discuss how Israelite interactions with pagan neighbors could potentially enable idolatry? Why else would book after book and story after story talk about Israelites interacting—and sometimes marrying (Ruth!) non-Israelites? According to both the Bible and the archeological record, the Israelites moved into the Land of Israel and lived among and near the Canaanites, Moabites, Perizzites, Hittites, etc. It was a multi-ethnic, multi-faith society. 

In other words, the passages that command the destruction of the inhabitants and that record such destructions seem to be inaccurate. Why are they in the text? Could they be reflections of later generations finding “bragging rights”—discovering ferocity in their ancestors that bolstered their self-esteem? Could they be hyperbole attempting to turn a peaceful, generations-long migration into something victorious? We can only imagine the reasons for such inaccurate claims, but one thing we do know is that the various parts of the Bible were edited several times over the course of the centuries. Who knows how/why later generations enhanced the ancient stories—finding greatness, rooting traditions, expressing aspirations, or pre-resolving current conflicts?  

Another thing we know is that hyperbole and other figures of speech are used throughout the Biblical text. From Abel’s blood “crying out from the ground where it was spilled” in Genesis 4.10, to Abraham “falling on his face” in Genesis 17.3, to “ALL the people answering as one” in accepting the Covenant in Exodus 19.8, we see the Bible as very capable of using non-literal literary techniques to communicate its message. Indeed, perhaps this is a way to understand the scientifically improbable Six-Day Creation Story. Perhaps it is not meant as a literal record but rather as a theological summary of an obviously much more complex process. Whenever we read something improbable, it is useful to think of how it could be a metaphor or hyperbole for something else. 

The Biblical text presents us with a variety of messages—and some are to be taken more literally than others. Some are to be taken as timeless truths that emerge from our relationship with the Divine, and others are to be taken as human glosses inserted for a variety of less-than-heavenly purposes. This is why we study Torah—as opposed to simply believing it. Rather than a literal record of God’s words to us, Torah is best understood as a locus for accessing the Divine. As Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradion put it: “When two people sit together and exchange words of Torah, the Divine Presence dwells with them.” (Avot 3.2)

“Shopping for Prophets/Rabbis,” Part II

July 18th: Pinchas
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we (and King Balak of Moab) learned that God’s Prophets are not for hire. A Prophet (in Hebrew Navi, one who brings the word of God) can only prophesy what God tells him/her. So, though Balak tries to pay the Prophet Balaam to curse the Israelites, God orders a blessing, and that is just what Balaam does: “Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov, mish’kenotecha, Yisrael! How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob; your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24.5) 

That is the nature of Prophecy, but Halachah (Jewish Law) is a different kind of endeavor—one in which the already revealed wisdom of God must be understood, interpreted, and then applied to the vagaries and idiosyncrasies of human life. Sometimes Halachah is just followed, but sometimes adaptations are necessary. A case in point comes this week in Numbers 27 when Zelophechad, an Israelite who has already been assigned his piece of land in Eretz Yisrael, dies without a male heir. Though he leaves five daughters, the Biblical understanding is that daughters do not inherit. They are “taken care of” by marrying and then sharing in their husbands’ inheritances. So, when Zelophechad dies and does not have a son, his allotment in the Promised Land is forfeit—a situation his five daughters find unjust. Thus do Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah approach Moses and ask for a Halachic adjustment: “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen.” (Numbers 27.4) 

Moses consults God, and the final answer comes in Numbers 36 where the Lord essentially functions as the Posek (Halachic Judge). Modeling what is later called the Rabbinic or Talmudic Process, God looks into the matter, consults the affected parties, and issues a Halachic decision: The daughters do inherit their father’s allotment, but they must marry husbands from their own tribe, Manasseh, lest Manasseh land be controlled/owned by husbands from another tribe. It seems a just and straightforward solution, but more important is the dynamic: The Halachah gives a rule but following it in this case will be problematic. Someone complains to the authorities, and a Posek finds a way to adapt the Halachic principles and apply them with both righteousness and compassion. For some 2000 years, this how the Sages, Rabbis, and Poskim have worked for and with Jewish Law. Sometimes Torah is to be followed. Other times, it requires interpretation.  

Important in this process is approaching Halachah case-by-case, recognizing that changes in circumstances may require adjustments in practice. Last week, I mentioned an example taught by Reb Zalman about a Rabbi applying different degrees of strictness to people with different financial abilities. Similarly do some Rabbis prescribe adaptations based on different levels of knowledge and ability. When it comes to children, adults with intellectual or physical disabilities, or adult students working on their spirituality, the usually definitive rules for worship and prayer may be adapted. As much as Halachah involves obeying God, it is also a practical endeavor where Rabbis have room to focus more on what is helpful than on what is prescribed. 

Some adjustments are necessary because Halachah is not working as it is intended. 2000 years ago, Hillel noticed a problem with lenders, borrowers, and the seven-year Sabbatical Year Cycle. Since all debts were to be cancelled in the Sabbatical Year, lenders were reluctant to make loans as it approached. Even though the Torah prohibits such reluctance, they worried about getting their money back, and their hesitations made it difficult for borrowers to find needed funds. Hillel resolved the issue by altering the rules: instead of tying all loans to the standard Sabbatical Year Cycle, each loan was assigned its own seven-year cycle, giving a borrower six full years to repay a debt—and lenders better chances to be repaid. Called the Prosbul, Hillel changed the  “letter of the law” in order to better serve the “spirit of the law” and solve a problem.  

Of course, different human interpreters mean different interpretations—and Jewish Tradition is full of cases where one Rabbi disagrees with another. Some differences seem to stem from the personalities and dispositions of the Rabbis being asked, while others seem to be based on the Rabbis’ relative comfort with individuality and flexibility. Is flexibility a good strategy for Jewish observance and survival, or does it court danger and communal collapse? There are many examples of such disagreements, but one I find delightfully curious took place in Germany in the mid-19th Century. Some Orthodox Rabbis approved the modern style of men wearing short suitcoats, while others insisted that men’s suitcoats remain knee-length lest Jewish observance and survival be compromised. 

Our Tradition of multiple opinions is enshrined in the Mishnah and Talmud: minority opinions are recorded, respected, and often quoted in subsequent discussions. Thus do some modern disagreements continue ancient differences of opinion. This was the case in the early 20th Century when two prominent Orthodox Rabbis disagreed about the Kashrut of Coca Cola. Back then, the soft drink’s recipe included meat-based glycerin, a by-product of non-Kosher meat processing. One Rabbi ruled that the non-Kosher ingredient renders the beverage non-Kosher. However, another leading Orthodox Rabbi cited a Talmudic principle about substances being existentially transformed by chemical processing—and held that the animal-based glycerin had been changed from meat to merely a chemical—making the glycerin’s origin irrelevant and Coca Cola perfectly Kosher. Though diametrically opposed, both opinions were strictly Orthodox and based on ancient Halachic precedent. The Orthodox community was passionately divided on the subject until a change in ingredient-sourcing put the matter to rest. Coca Cola began using vegetable derived glycerin, and it has been unanimously Kosher ever since.  

A similar intra-Orthodox controversy created tension a hundred years earlier. During a time of real estate shortages and construction difficulties, some Orthodox congregations considered buying old church buildings. One Orthodox Rabbi ruled the possibility Kosher, ruling that former Christian worship places could be repurposed as synagogues. However, another Orthodox Rabbi prohibited such re-consecrations, and he cited Talmudic passages (Avodah Zara) about Jews not being too involved with their idolatrous neighbors. Are churches places of idolatry? Do such ancient categories still apply? Whatever the conclusion of each Posek, both were Orthodox, and both based their rulings on Halachic precedent. Thus were those new congregations put in a position of “Rabbi shopping,” looking for a Rabbi whose rulings they would choose to obey.  

The Halachic conversations continue in each generation, and the arguments take place both between our “denominations” and within them. Lots of Jews. Lots of principles. Lots of opinions. Above it all, however, is the One God Who watches, Who cares, and Who is endlessly patient.