In the Places We Sojourn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Children of ISRAEL

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

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

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

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

Faith and Healing, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith and Healing, Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helicopter Parenting Biblical Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trying Not to Get It Wrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awareness and Teshuvah (and Willie Nelson Songs)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it is in every morning service:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judaism's Chorus of Voices

November 1st: Noach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

(This week, we share Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Evening D’var Torah, Judaism’s Chorus of Voices.) 

One of the most useful phrases I have learned in recent years is often heard at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. Explaining the many different opinions among Jews, the phrase speaks of Judaism being a chorus of voices. Rather than seeing divergent views as contradictions or problems, it encourages us to see them as a part of a process where different people try to understand God and what God wants of us. This multiplicity of opinions goes all the way back to Genesis where many of the Torah stories have variant versions. For an example, look at the first two chapters in Genesis. Chapter 1 tells of the Six Days of Creation, but starting in Chapter 2.4, it is as though the entire first chapter did not exist. God begins to create the world, and without a timeline or number of days, does things in a very different order. The man and woman in Chapter 1 are nowhere to be seen, so God has to “form man from the dust of the earth,” and, later, when no animal proves to be a suitable companion, God takes a rib from the man and creates woman. From the very beginning, our Tradition presents us with more than one opinion. 

This was the point of my teacher, the late Ellis Rivkin of the Hebrew Union College, who used to joke that he was a Biblical literalist. Definitely not a Biblical literalist, he used to say that he believed every single word in the Bible—but, that since the Bible has multiple opinions about most subjects, he got to pick and choose what seemed right to him. 

I like the Hartman notion of a chorus of voices because it graciously helps us to feel a part of a process rather than being in the middle of a conflict. We are all in this together, trying to understand the un-understandable, trying to make sense of a very complex and often chaotic world. Our divergent opinions represent a community of sacred questing—and we Jews have been at it for quite a while. 

Among the most important subjects addressed is the question of good and evil, and reward and punishment, or, as Rabbi Harold Kushner puts it, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. A subject with which we are all familiar, one can see our ancestors in the Bible and Talmud struggling with the challenges of life. Our chorus of voices has been “singing” for many, many years. 

One view, known as Deuteronomic Theology, is presented in several places in the final book of the Torah. A familiar iteration is Deuteronomy 11.13-21—which is found in traditional prayer books as the second paragraph of the Shema. וְהָיָה אִם־שָׁמֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ אֶל־מִצְוֹתַי
 If we obey God’s mitzvot, we will be blessed with all manner of good things in this life:
“I will grant the rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late rain. You shall gather in your new grain and wine and oil; I will also provide grass in the fields for your cattle, and thus you shall eat your fill.”

However, הִשָּֽׁמְר֣וּ לָכֶ֔ם פֶּן־יִפְתֶּ֖ה לְבַבְכֶ֑ם...
if we disobey, we will be punished—also in this life:
“The Lord’s anger will flare up against you, and God will shut up the skies so that there will be no rain, and the ground will not yield its produce; and you will soon perish from the good land that the Lord assigns you.”

(Though our Biblical ancestors believed in an afterlife, She’ol, it was not a place of reward or punishment. It is just where the dead people went.) 

The problem with this Deuteronomic Theology is that experience and observation prove it wrong. Too often, the evil prosper, and the righteous suffer. If only things worked like the Torah assures.

Another voice in our sacred chorus may help explain. In the second of the Ten Commandments, after prohibiting idolatry, God adds:

כִּי אָנֹכִי יְיָ אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֵל קַנָּא פֹּקֵד עֲוֹן אָבוֹת עַל־בָּנִים וְעַל־שִׁלֵּשִׁים וְעַל־רִבֵּעִים לְשֹׂנְאָי:
וְעֹשֶׂה חֶסֶד לַאֲלָפִים לְאֹהֲבַי וּלְשֹׁמְרֵי מִצְוֹתָו [מִצְוֹתָי] :

“For I the Lord your God am an impassioned God, visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children, upon the third and fourth generation of those who reject Me, but showing kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments.” (Deuteronomy 5.9-10, Exodus 20.5-6)  

Could it be that the bad things happening to good people are the result of the sins of their ancestors? Could the good things happening to evil people be the result of the virtues of their ancestors? Hmmm. 

A contradictory opinion comes in Deuteronomy 24.16 where a very different principle is stated:

לֹא־יוּמְתוּ אָבוֹת עַל־בָּנִים וּבָנִים לֹא־יוּמְתוּ עַל־אָבוֹת אִישׁ בְּחֶטְאוֹ יוּמָתוּ:
“Parents shall not be put to death for the crimes of their children; neither shall children be put to death for the crimes of their parents; a person shall be put to death only for his/her own crime.”

Though this passage speaks about the death penalty, it certainly argues against the Second Commandment’s thinking.  

We are not the only ones to notice how the Torah is of several minds on this subject, and thus does the Book of Job enter our theological tug of war. Though it is presented as a historical story, it takes the form of a Greek play, and many scholars think that it is a fictional though realistic attempt to wrestle with this moral and theological problem—a problem philosophers call Theodicy. The Biblical writer presents Job as a perfect human being who nonetheless suffers grievously. He maintains his faith but desperately wants to understand God’s mysterious ways. Finally, he realizes that God’s ways are beyond human understanding.

עַל־כֵּן אֶמְאַס וְנִחַמְתִּי עַל־עָפָר וָאֵפֶר:
“Therefore I recant and relent (any questions), being nothing but dust and ashes.” (Job 42.6)

Job’s conclusion is that what may appear to be unjust may actually be just, and what appears to be unfair may actually be fair. Though we do not understand, we have no choice but to trust in God no matter what.

Some people are satisfied with this answer—and it does make some philosophical sense. Given the humility we ought to have in re God’s infinity, there is no way that we limited and mortal creatures can possibly fathom or judge the Infinite One. We just need to trust God, whatever may come. However, there were plenty of people who did not find this blind trust helpful, and the Pharisees and Sages of the Talmudic Age pondered the problem and derived a very different answer.  

It is not that they did not trust God. However, their trust in God led them down a different path. If God is ultimately just—if the righteous will be rewarded and the evil punished, and if these rewards or punishments do not occur in this life, then God must have arranged something after this life—a time when, as Torah promises, the scales of justice will be well and truly balanced. 

In other words, if justice is not done in this life, then it must be done in an afterlife where the truth of Deuteronomy is fulfilled. The just will receive their rewards, and the evil will receive their punishment. Just not in this life. 

This belief is not spelled out in the Bible—which is why the Sadducees opposed it vigorously, but the ancient Rabbis based their conclusion on intuition. Inasmuch as God is just, there must be an Olam Haba, a World to Come. Our faith in God and God’s justice demands this truth. It is the only way that God can ultimately right the scales of justice. It is as we sing in Yidgal,  

גּוֹמֵל לְאִישׁ חֶֽסֶד כְּמִפְעָלוֹ, נוֹתֵן לְרָשָׁע רָע כְּרִשְׁעָתוֹ:
“God deals kindly with those who merit kindness and brings upon the wicked the consequences of their evil.”

Yigdal, by the way, is from the 15th Century liturgist Daniel ben Judah Dayyan of Rome and is his poetic presentation of Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of the Jewish Faith. This belief in God’s ultimate justice is central to what our Tradition understands and believes.

The question of Theodicy—why bad things happen to good people—is one of the great conundrums of life. We like to think that our choices and deeds matter—and they often do, but often we seem to be victims of forces beyond us. We feel confused and caught—suffering or prospering—and not really knowing why. We yearn to understand, but no one really knows. We try to dredge wisdom from our sacred texts and Sages, but, ultimately, this is just a matter beyond us.

What we see in our Tradition—in its chorus of voices—is the attempt of our people to fathom the unfathomable and make sense out of infinity. Are there all the answers we need? No. But is there value in our thinking? Without a doubt! We seek, as our prayer book puts it, “to endow our fleeting days with abiding worth,” and our Tradition’s chorus of voices reflects our grappling and wrestling with God. We are, after all, בְּנֵי יִשׂרָאֵל the Children of Israel—the children of a man who wrestled with God and would not let go.

Merachefet / Hovering and Difficult Decisions

October 25th: Simchat Torah and Beraysheet
THIS WEEKIN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Genesis begins before Creation, with God “merachefet / hovering” over the “tohu vavohu / utter chaos.” God hovers and thinks—and then gets to work. Does God have any doubts about creating the world? According to the Midrash, yes: God is aware of all that could go wrong—and even convenes a council of the angels to discuss the matter. Bad things could happen, but not creating the world would prevent all the wonders and blessings that could come to pass. So, God creates the world and us and embarks on a long-term project that will “yamlich malchuteh,” make the world as godly as possible.  

How often are we in similar situations—embarking on a project but doubting ourselves and wondering about potential problems? Good planning requires thinking about both the benefits and the costs of an action or policy, and even good decisions have disadvantages—negatives that gnaw at the conscience. What are the costs—both financial and human? Do the advantages outweigh them enough to justify continuing? 

Some decisions are fairly easy, but sometimes, situations are fraught with uncertainty and danger. Instead of good answers, we may be faced with a set of competing evils. Hence the old expression “the lesser of two evils” with which we try to figure out the less bad choice. The problem is that choosing any evil, even a small one, is extremely worrisome.  

This is why some of us seek a kind of safety in ambivalence. Rather than choosing the lesser of two evils, we take on the role of observers and commenters, rising above the conflict and hovering. We think and we feel, retaining a kind of moral purity but avoiding responsibility. I even remember a church signboard encouraging this kind of moral aloofness: “When faced with two evils, choose neither.” It is an understandable prayer, but is hovering above the fray—and refusing to choose the lesser evil—really a moral option? I worry that such attempts at moral purity can bring disastrous results. When we refrain from choosing between evils, we allow the possibility that both evils will choose themselves. How good can we be if we eschew agency and let evil have its way with the world?  

Sometimes, we may be blessed with problems that are not ours to solve—and we can observe from afar and make wise comments. Sometimes, we have no business sticking our noses in other people’s affairs. However, sometimes we are the ones with a difficult choice to make. It could be us or our government or our people, and we do not have the luxury of detached ambivalence. We face the crisis, and merachefet/hovering is not an option. 

So, for example, let us imagine that we are at the table with President Truman, planning the end of World War II. The atom bomb has been prepared, and we could drop it on Japan. Or we could mount a ground invasion. Or we could just pack up and go home. My instinct would be to rise above the difficulty and hover, thinking of profound things to say. But my profundities would not be helpful. Everyone at the table already knows the full range of options and the terrible consequences of every choice. Whatever we advise and whatever the President decides, terrible things are going to happen. Hiroshima? Nagasaki? A million or more dead soldiers and civilians if we invade? Leave Japan armed and bent on conquest? Which evil is less bad? Which terrible option do we choose? 

When confronted with determining and then choosing the lesser of two evils, some of us seek refuge in public confessions of ambivalence. It seems important that other people know how unhappy we are with the options and the decision. We share our doubts, ambivalence, and angst, staking out a public position of moral dissatisfaction. It is as though our ambivalence is evidence of our higher ethical stature. 

The problem is that such public testimonials suggest that those who do not advertise their doubts and regrets do not have any. How often do we judge people who speak confidently and assume that they are uncaring or that they have not considered the costs and disadvantages of their actions? Is such pre-judging (prejudice!) fair? Moreover, is ambivalence a moral virtue, or is it merely the natural by-product of any decision-making process? An intelligent person thinks about the options and the benefits and costs when making a decision, but not everyone feels the need to share misgivings and angst. Some of us just like to share, but others prefer to focus on the course that their deliberations have counseled. In other words, jumping to the conclusion that they are unthinking or uncaring is both unfounded and highly insulting. We may not be privy to others’ thinking, but that does not mean that real moral considerations have not taken place. 

There is also the question of what comprises actual caring behavior. Ambivalence and hovering are understandable responses, but ultimately, they are limited in solving real and gut-wrenching difficulties. Sometimes, a resolute and courageous approach is the best and the most helpful.  

Take the current turmoil regarding Israel. Once one peels away the virulent anti-Semitism and double-standard-ism that subverts clear-headed thinking, there are legitimate concerns about non-combatants caught in the crossfire. On the Israeli side, this is a matter of great concern, and the Israel Defense Forces has taken extraordinary measures to minimize civilian casualties. As tragic as every human injury or death may be, the civilian casualties in Gaza and Lebanon are the lowest in the history of modern urban warfare. Contrast this with the “advocacy” of Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran et al who deliberately “sacrifice” Arab civilians—putting their own people in harm’s way and even preventing them from leaving targeted zones after Israeli warnings. Is this “caring” behavior? It is clearly a hellish situation, but the decision Israel faces has no good answers. Either Israel accepts destruction, or Israel defends itself. There are no good choices, but choices must nonetheless be made. They must be made, and they must be carried out, and an excess of ambivalence and angst is at a certain level distracting and counterproductive. In a life-or-death situation, Israel is choosing to survive. 

It is hard to “out oneself” as a Zionist these days. It is hard to speak confidently and be suspected of “not caring.” Many of us are tempted to seek safety in ambivalence. However, we owe it to ourselves to think clearly and not impute automatic immorality to those who do not have the luxury of hovering above the crisis. And we owe it to ourselves to remember the true moral standard of this incessant conflict. As Golda Meir explained,
(1)   “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but we can never forgive them for making our sons kill their sons.”
(2)   “Peace will come when the Arabs love their own children more than they hate us.”

Dimensions of Responsibility

October 18th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last year, I mused about the curious literary and television tradition of clergy investigating crimes. From the various vicars of Grantchester to Father Brown and the detective monk in Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, to the 10th Century Benedictine Monk Cadfael—and to Harry Kellerman’s Rabbi David Small, there is a curious intersection in which people of faith try to figure out why other people commit crimes. 

In the Torah, in Deuteronomy 21, we have an early mention of what we now would call a murder mystery. If a corpse is found  out in a field or on the road, what should be done? Though one figures that the authorities would try to figure out “who dunit,” the Torah seems to have a different concern. Measurements are taken to determine the closest town, and that town’s leaders are to assemble at the crime scene. The priests kill a heifer, and the leaders wash their hands over the heifer, saying: “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done. Absolve, O Lord, Your people Israel whom You redeemed, and do not let guilt for the blood of the innocent remain among Your people Israel.”  

It is a curious ritual because it does not seem to have anything to do with figuring out what happened—a fact not lost on the Rabbis of the Mishnah. They ask, “Why must the elders of the closest town declare their innocence? If no one is accused of the crime, they they are not responsible. If someone is accused of the crime, then he/she is the responsible party.” It is so perplexing that the Mishnah (in Sotah 9) even imagines God asking about it. “Why would it occur to you that the elders of the town are somehow involved or guilty? And, if not, then this declaration seems unnecessary.” Is there communal responsibility or not? If not, then why the ritual? And, if there is communal responsibility, then how would a mere denial of responsibility achieve justice?  

These questions continue in the Talmud (Sotah 38b), and the Sages work toward an explanation—recasting the question of guilt or innocence into a reminder of general social responsibility. According to the Gemara, when the leaders say, “Our hands did not shed this blood, and our eyes did not see it,” what they should be thinking is that, hopefully “(the victim) did not come to our village, and we did not dismiss him; we did not see him and leave him.” Hopefully, this dead person was not previously victimized by us ignoring him or refusing to help. 

The community is thus asked to think about any interactions they might have had with the victim—interactions in which warning signs were missed. If there were none—or if they had had no contact with the victim, then they could assuage the survivor’s guilt that often accompanies a tragedy. If there were contact—and warning signs were present but ignored, the community is thus warned to pay more attention in the future. It is not a matter of the victim’s death being their fault, but rather that some action on their part could have prevented the victim from falling into malevolent hands.  

Underlying this Talmudic discussion, there seems to be a psychological insight—that those who are close to a crime, even if they are not culpable, are nonetheless affected by the crime. An outrage or tragedy can inflict a kind of social or cosmic pain on a whole community, and there is often a need to come to grips with what has happened. 

As I studied this Talmudic section at a Rabbinic Seminar this past August, my mind kept jumping to eerily similar modern situations—situations in which people outside of the circle of the victims nonetheless feel a kind of trauma. This can be accentuated with television and the internet in that we can feel proximate to all kinds of far off tragedies. But it is more than just tragedy voyeurism. Remember, for example, how close we all felt to the events of September 11, 2001. Even though most Americans lived far away from the actual tragedies, many of us felt personally assaulted. Though many in New York felt that it was “their” tragedy—because, in deed, many New Yorkers were the victims and the fallen heros, the fact is that people all over the United States felt a very strong, almost local connection to the catastrophic events. It was not “their” tragedy. It was ours. 

And, though we may not be guilty when something terrible happens near us, many nonetheless feel a king of associative guilt. Unfortunately, our community knows this too well. When, some thirteen years ago, Jerry Sandusky was arrested, prosecuted, and convicted, our whole community reeled. Though none of us were responsible, most everyone in State College felt “guilt adjacent” and “gut-punched.” In addition to the legal processes which sought to deliver justice, the community as a whole felt the need for healing. Civic leaders worked on various ways for “the community to deal with the scandal.” Clergy teams dispersed to area congregations, trying to help people separate their angst from questions of actual culpability. The University and community all participated in various kinds of moral introspection—and various forms of amelioration or teshuvah.  

Evidence of this communal associative guilt can be found in the nomenclature—in what we choose to call the scandal. While it should be called the Sandusky Scandal—because he was the sole perpetrator, many refer to it as the Penn State Scandal. This is not because we are all guilty or culpable but rather because we all feel connected and remorseful and somehow tainted by the terrible things done in our proximity. Could this be the kind of psychological dynamic the ancient Torah ritual is trying to address?  When something terrible happens, we are all affected. 

I should hasten to add that dealing with our guilt-adjacent feelings is not as important as actually dispensing justice for the actual victims. The Talmud’s counsel is inwardly directed and clearly a kind of self-care—and does not deal with the greater issue of a potential crime. However, a community’s psychic health is important, and that is why the Talmud spends time addressing it.  

Now back to the moral introspection and inventory. Can we mean it when we say, “Our hands have not shed this blood?” Were there any warning signs that we missed? Could we have helped this person before he/she became a victim? If there were no missed signals, then the community can feel confident in their vigilance. But, if there were moral or charitable shortcomings, then the ritual declaration should remind everyone to pay better attention and to extend the hand of kindness and assistance. 

This talk of communal culpability and possible responsibility reminds me of a discussion we had last Yom Kippur afternoon. It involved my ambivalence about a famous declaration from Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel: “Some are guilty; all are responsible.” “Some are guilty; all are responsible.”  

Many people find this very meaningful, but I have always been troubled by it. Yes, when something bad happens, some are guilty. But, in my mind, Rabbi Heschel is trying to expand the blame to everyone else, and this does not seem judicious. 

Of course, Rabbi Heschel was a great Torah scholar and an exemplary social justice leader, so I am certainly not in a position to question his wisdom. So I have thought about his statement and wrestled with it for years. It always made be feel a kind of moral discomfort, but then I had a possible breakthrough—a possible resolution. What if Rabbi Heschel were using the word responsible differently than I was hearing it? What if I were misunderstanding his message? If there were other definitions of the word responsible, perhaps I could find out what the modern Sage was trying to tell me. So, looking up the word, I was pleased to find several different definitions.  

Responsible can mean “someone who causes something to happen,” but it can also refer to a “a duty or task someone is required or expected to do” or “a sense of moral obligation.”

In other words, sometimes the word responsible involves blaming something on someone, but other times the word speaks to how we see ourselves as constructive participants in solving the problems around us. 

So, if I may presume to interpret the fifty-year old English of a native German speaker, I think I understand what Rabbi Heschel’s meant when he declared, “Some are guilty; all are responsible.” It is not a matter of blaming everyone for the sins and tragedies of the past. Some are guilty. But, as children and servants of God who are committed to helping God, we should feel connected enough to the rest of the world to have a sense of responsibility for making things better. 

When something sad or egregious or tragic happens in our world, we are called upon to pay attention and to try to figure out where things went wrong. We are bidden not to ignore the imperfection which permeates the world but to develop a sense of responsibility for תִּקוּן עוֹלָם  / Fixing the World. The hope is that we can do our part   וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ / in bringing about God’s universal influence. 

In other words, when that ancient corpse was found—and presumably an investigation sought to find out what happened, it was also time for the community to do some soul-searching. Whether we were at fault or not, are there things we can do to prevent this kind of tragedy from happening again? Are there ways that we can help? Are there ways for us to expand our responsibility  לְתַקֵן אֶת הָעוֹלָם  / to repair God’s world?

Our Heritage of Wisdom and Hope

October 11th: Yom Kippur
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

We often mention the Mishnah, the Gemara, and the Talmud, classic Jewish texts which are central to the development of our religion. As a refresher, let us review the basics of these important sources. 

First, though, let us look at our first and most sacred text, the Torah (The Five Books of Moses). According to Tradition, it was given by God to Moses and the Israelites around 1200 BCE during their years in the Sinai. After the Five Books of Moses, God’s revelation continued with the many books of the Prophets (Nevi’im) and the various Writings (Ketuvim). Together, the three—the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings—are called the Bible or the Hebrew Scriptures or Tanach—TaNaCH being an acronym for Torah, Nevi’im, and Ketuvim. Though some call the Tanach the “Old Testament,” that name suggests that it is old, outmoded, and was replaced by the New Testament. This is not our Jewish understanding, so we try not to use that term.  

After the events recorded in the Tanach, Judaism continued to develop. Around 200 BCE, a group of scholars began enhancing the Bible’s Temple Sacrifice-oriented Judaism with personal spiritual practices that sought to bring forth the Biblical metaphor, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy people.” (Exodus 19.6) Though not priests, these scholars sought to develop a priest-like holiness in which ordinary Jews could participate and feel close to God. These scholars were called Rabbis, and the enhanced Judaism they crafted is called Rabbinic or Talmudic Judaism. Theirs was a slow and deliberate process—one mixed with applying Biblical principles and practices and dealing with the post-Biblical world in which Jews lived under the hegemony of the Greeks and later the Romans. For some four hundred years (200 BCE to 200 CE), this Rabbinic Judaism slowly developed and was transmitted orally. Only the Holy Scriptures—the TaNaCH—were to be written. But around 200 CE, the leader of the Rabbis, Judah Hanasi (the Prince/President) decided that the Oral Tradition needed to be written down. He organized it as a Law Code, and he called this work the Mishnah / The Teaching. It was finalized around 225 CE.  

Of course, being Jews and being very conscious of living in God’s Presence, the conversations did not stop. Generations of Rabbis and scholars studied the Mishnah and applied it to their lives and situations, and some of their most famous conversations were preserved. Eventually, many of these discussions were collected in a text called Gemara, Aramaic for Continuing. There were two collections of Gemara, one compiled in Babylonia (Mesopotamia) and the other compiled in the Land of Israel. Thus do we have one Mishnah and two continuations, the Babylonian Gemara and the “Jerusalem” or Palestinian Gemara. (Jerusalem had been destroyed by the Romans, but in honor of its special place in Judaism, the Gemara compiled in the north of Israel, primarily Tiberias, was called Yerushalmi/Jerusalem.) 

The combination of Mishnah and Gemara is called Talmud, and there are thus two Talmuds. The Babylonian Talmud is the combination of the Mishnah and the Babylonian Gemara discussions, and the Yerushalmi/Jerusalem/Palestinian Talmud is the combination of the Mishnah and the Gemara discussions compiled by the Sages in Tiberias. The Babylonian Talmud is more popular, but both are considered authoritative. 

The Talmud’s format has a paragraph of the Mishnah followed by a Gemara discussion. Some of these discussions are quite long—many pages, and they often employ a stream-of-consciousness series of subjects. Thus do our modern Jewish discussions—aided and abetted by modern rabbis—bear a delightfully traditional resemblance to the ancient Rabbinic discussions. Lots of digressions. Lots of analogies. Lots of ways that principles on one subject are applied to another. 

To get specific, my D’var Torah (sermon) on Rosh Hashanah began with a passage from the Torah (Deuteronomy 21) about a corpse being found out in the countryside. The ancient Rabbis discussed and analyzed this Torah mitzvah, and their opinions are recorded in the Mishnah—in Chapter 9 of the section called Sotah. The Gemara quotes the Mishnah’s findings and records further discussions by later generations of Rabbis. In the Babylonian Talmud, these further discussions are in a section also called Sotah (page 38b). Our sacred tradition is made up of layers upon layers upon layers as we Jews have sought—throughout our generations—to understand what God wants of us and how we can respond to God with holiness and goodness and love.  

ALSO:
Our candle lighting on Kol Nidre Eve will honor all of our young people. When Majorie Miller, our Director of Religious School and Youth Engagement, lights the candles, we shall invite all of our children and teens to come up to the bimah and be with her. Kol Nidre is probably the holiest moment of the whole year, and we want our young people to know that they are at the center of our holiness. We are all precious to God—from the youngest of us to the oldest of us. We all have a role to play in the closeness to God we hope will come that night.

Writing in the Book of Life

October 4th: Rosh Hashanah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

A few weeks ago, we read, “My father was a wandering Aramean,” the passage in Deuteronomy (26) with which our ancestors presented themselves and their sacrifices when they appeared before the Lord. Last week, we also read about appearing before the Lord: “Atem nitzavim / You are all standing here this day…before the Lord your God…to enter into God’s Covenant.” (Deuteronomy (29.1). Then, this week, the same message comes again. On Rosh Hashanah—also known as Yom HaDin, the Day of Judgment, we stand before God once more. It is what we could call a seasonal theme—a theme reaches it most intense level on Yom Kippur when we stand before God and chant Kol Nidre.  

Through Torah portions, prayers, and legends, our Tradition presents us with an exceedingly dramatic setting: we are assembled to stand before the Lord God of the Universe. And yet, the irony is that we are always in God’s Presence. We are always standing—or sitting or living—before God. God is always here, always with us, and always paying attention to us. As the Machzor reminds,
“You (God) know the mysteries of the universe as well as the secrets of every mortal. You search the deepest recesses of the human soul, and probe all our thoughts and motives. Nothing escapes You, nothing is concealed from You.”
The hope is that we can keep this basic fact in mind and maintain our integrity and good behavior. It is as the Psalmist imagines God’s intentions,
“Let me enlighten you and show you which way to go; let me offer counsel; my eye is on you.” (32.8)  

When we read the words in our prayer books, we can focus on the intellectual content and have a lively conversation about whether what we read is true. Is there really a Book of Life, big book in which God writes our fates for the coming year? Do our prayers have any effect on them—either for better or for worse? Will God really seal the writing at the end of Yom Kippur—or is there perhaps some more time, after the Gates of Neilah close, for more repentance? There is a lot to think about, and smart people—like you and me—have minds that prompt such intellectual ponderings. However, at a certain level, it might be useful to stop all the chatter and give ourselves over to the spirit of the occasion—to engage the emotional and spiritual effects the dramatic imagery is intended to inspire. If we allow it, the traditional language can stimulate our awareness, our humility, and our serious self-reflection.  

The legend of The Book of Life is only about 1400-1500 years old, and even though it is a popular part of the liturgy, its theology and persuasive power have always been up for discussion. One can even see some pushback. About a thousand years ago, the great pietist Bahya ibn Pakuda (Andalusia, 1050-1120) approached the idea of a Book of Life but suggested a slightly different dynamic. Instead of God writing in the Book, Reb Bahya imagined us as the authors. “Days are scrolls; write on them only what you want remembered.” We can even find alternative imagery in Un’taneh Tokef, the great prayer that formalizes the idea of writing our fates in the Book of Life—the prayer that ominously intones,
“Who shall die by fire and who by water, who by strangling and who by stoning…”
While it states directly,
“You write and You seal, You record and recount. You remember deeds long forgotten,”
there is also a kind of theological redirection:
“You open the book of our days, and what is written there proclaims itself, for it bears the signature of every human being.”   

While the Tradition is clearly concerned with what God does, the point of our introspection and teshuvah is that we will decide to be better people—that we will write our own good fates. We can help or we can hurt. We can bless or we can curse. We are authors too of the mythical Book of Life, and we need to inspire ourselves to write blessings. 

So, when we say “L’shanah Tovah Tikatayvu / May you be written in the Book of Life for a good year,” it is a multi-valent prayer. May God bless you with good things, and may you bless yourselves and everyone else with the goodness you have within.

Standing or Sitting (?) Before the Lord

September 27th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Sometimes, in our Torah study, we look at the big picture—the meta-narrative of God’s work in the world, and other times we focus on a single word, wondering what bit of wisdom it can reveal. For example, when we study the Shema and Ve’ahavta from Deuteronomy 6, we can meditate on the expansiveness of the mitzvah to love God “with all your, with all your soul, and with all your might.” What kinds of attitudes and behaviors does loving the Divine with everything we have involve? O, we can focus on specific things—things as specific as posture. When the Torah says to recite Shema “when you lie down and when you rise up,” does this mean we should literally lie down and rise up—or is the Torah talking about the times of the day we are to remember that God is One? The ancient Sages had quite a lively discussion on this one. Bet Shammai (the House of Shammai) held that the Torah should be taken literally: the Shema is to be recited lying down at night and standing up in the morning. Bet Hillel (the House of Hillel) took the phrase as a reference to the time of day the Shema should be recited: at the time when one goes to sleep and at the time one wakes up. The debate went on for quite a while—until, in a sort of climax, a follower of Shammai, Rabbi Tarphon, came to the Sages with a troubling report. He had been on a caravan and, when it was time to recite the Shema, got off and lay down. The caravan continued on its way, leaving him alone, and he was attacked by robbers. When he reported this to the Sages, they said that it served him right for following Bet Shammai’s needless literalism. (Babylonian Talmud Berachot 11a) 

Nonetheless, the position in which we say our prayers can be a matter of strong opinion. Traditionally, Jews have stood up for Bar’chu but sat down for Shema. The reasoning is based on the Ve’ahavta’s words: “You shall speak of them when you sit in your house.” Reform Judaism, however, focused on the importance of the Shema. Since it is so important—the “watchword of our faith,” Reform decided that the Shema should be recited standing up. 

The Amidah—the long prayer that takes the place of the ancient sacrifices—is another story. Though its official name is Tefillah/The Prayer, Tradition taught that people should stand up for it to show its importance—leading to its nickname, the Amidah / Standing Prayer. However, around 100-125 years ago, when Reform Judaism started standing for The Shema, it also started sitting for the “Amidah.” This practice was part of Classical Reform, a once popular modernizing approach that has been fading into a renewed traditionalism since the mid-20th Century. The 1975 prayer book, Gates of Prayer, sort of changed course, having the worshippers rise for the Amidah/Tefillah, but keeping the standing Shema.  

That same new prayer book introduced another posture-oriented controversy. Whereas the “old” Union Prayer Book (1940) had worshippers rise for Bar’chu, sit for the next two prayers, and then re-rise for Shema, Gates of Prayer had people remain standing from Bar’chu through Shema. When complaints of exhaustion arose, the explanation was practical. For people with bad knees, all that standing and sitting is difficult. Better to rise and stay standing for a few minutes.  

In any event, these kinds of questions come to the fore in this week’s very dramatic portion Nitzavim:
“You are all standing here this day before the Lord your God—your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer—to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God, which the Lord your God is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions; to the end that God may establish you this day as the Lord’s people and be your God, as was promised to you and as was sworn to your ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-12) 

We could focus on the standing part—and there are traditions about standing for the reading of the Ten Commandments since our ancestors stood as they entered God’s covenant, but we could also focus on the breadth of participation. Everyone was included—from big shots to servants to women and children. And there is more. In verses 13-14, the passage has a potentially mysterious comment about other attendees:
“I make this covenant…not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Lord our God and with those who are not with us here this day.”

In the original context, this probably refers to those who could not make it out to Mount Sinai from camp. With 600,000 people, someone was bound to be ill or infirm or on guard or taking care of someone else. God’s point seems to be that everyone is included—even people who were back at camp. However, the Rabbis of the Midrash saw two deeper possibilities.  

They began by speculating that those “who are not here today” could be the future generations of Israel—all the Jews destined to be born. Every Jew of every generation was there at Mount Sinai, affirming the covenant and entering into it. We were all there at Sinai and all included in God’s Covenant.  

The second Midrashic deepening involves our Gerim/Converts. If the assembly at Sinai included all Jews from all times, then those who would eventually convert to Judaism would also have “been there.” Such a notion is inspiring, and it also clears up a Halachic question. While Gerut/ Conversion is clearly part of the Tradition—with allusions to it in the Bible and prescriptions in the Mishnah and Talmud, there is an opinion which states that Judaism/Jewishness is a quality of the soul. Either one has a Jewish soul, or one does not. One might think that conversion is thus impossible—that one cannot change a non-Jewish soul to a Jewish soul. However, this Midrash resolves the question. If all Jewish souls of all time were there at Mount Sinai, and if this assembly included the future Gerim/Converts, then any person who converts to Judaism must have already had a Jewish soul. Born into a non-Jewish family, the Jewish soul slowly begins to realize that it belongs in Judaism and eventually works its way to the Jewish people and the Jewish religion. Our Gerim were Jewish all along; they just had to go on a spiritual journey to rejoin our covenantal community.

A final thought. The word nitzavim/standing could refer to the people’s postures that day, but it could also be a prompt about Jewish assertiveness. Being a Jew is certainly a blessing, but living as a Jew and bringing Jewish values into the world require that we stand up and participate in the covenant ourselves. Whether born into Jewish families or born into non-Jewish families, all Jews need to choose to be Jewish—to stand up and be genuine participants in God’s continuing and holy project.

Presenting Our Identities to the Lord and the World

September 20th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion this week begins with an ancient prayer—one recited by our ancestors when they brought the first fruits of their harvests to God in thanksgiving. When God’s promises were fulfilled—once they had settled in The Promised Land, farmed it, and harvested their crops, they were instructed to remember that God is the source of their blessings—and recite the following:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and there and became a great and populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us, oppressing us and enslaving us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand, an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. God brought us to this place and gave us this land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

The prayer presents a summary of our story—a ritual summary designed to remind us of our place in God’s world, but, as a summary, it does not include everything. A different ritual might have called for a different summary story—with perhaps something about Abraham’s faith or the awesomeness of hearing the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. Ours is a very rich history, and, since there is always more to say, the parts that match the occasion must be selected. 

This rich history and multidimensional identity of our Jewish people is also true of our individual identities. Each has a distinct background as well as wide ranging interests and affiliations. We each have an ethnic and family heritage and, when we consider our professional duties, our cultural interests and hobbies and charitable endeavors and civic activities, we each possess what we could call “multiple identities”—or a multi-valent identity. We each “wear a lot of caps,” and, at various moments, different aspects of our identities come to the fore. 

This variety makes our lives very rich, but it can also bring about some problems. I remember, for example, how, last October, an outspoken LGBT activist reported “losing dozens of friends” when her Zionism made her a pariah in some Progressive circles. For some, the conflict comes when their political party changes its position, and they find themselves in dissonance with longtime political allies. Sometimes, the conflict is in timing. What happens when a family event coincides with an important professional meeting—or when a big charitable project or sports event falls on Yom Kippur? It is like the old joke about the football fan who is stuck between the big game and Kol Nidre. His rabbi suggests that perhaps a VCR might provide relief. The man gets really excited and says, “Rabbi, you’d be willing to tape the service for me?!” Sometimes, we can get the conflicting events moved, but other times we are faced with making choices among our priorities—our identities.  

Back in the early years of the Zionist movement, some Jews opposed the development of a Jewish State because they thought it would jeopardize our position as loyal Americans. Can one have multi-identities without having “dual loyalties?” Some—both Jewish and non-Jewish—have worried about a potential armed conflict between the U.S. and Israel. Would Jews be loyal to America or to our fellow Jews? Fortunately, this theoretical fear has never come to pass, and hopefully it never will. Though there are often policy disagreements among friends and allies—and within each nation (!), the fact is that the United States and Israel are united in purpose and goals. As historian Ellis Rivkin used to say, Israel is the “beachhead of Democracy and American Developmental Capitalism in a part of the world where it is badly needed.” Israel is essentially an American asset in international relations and, though an independent nation, works with us at every step of the way.  

The more present conflict arises when our identity as Jews creates a dissonance with our identity as employees or students. What do we do when Rosh Hashanah falls on a weekday? Though our leaders have worked hard on this issue—and succeeded in getting laws and regulations that allow us to miss work on our Holy Days, still the conflict persists. Do we take off work and miss a big meeting or potential sale? Do we take off school and use up a “personal day” or miss a test or event? Freedom of religion means that we should be free to observe Judaism’s most holy days, but can we exercise this freedom without negative repercussions? Many of us feel pulled by our different identities and reluctant to miss work or school or services.  

There are many stories about these choices, but perhaps the most famous involves baseball legend Hank Greenberg who took the day in the 1934 American League Playoffs. He was the star of his team, but he went to Yom Kippur services instead of the ball field. It was a hard decision for Greenberg, and the difficulty was reflected in the decision he made just ten days earlier. On Rosh Hashanah, he felt the pull of both his Judaism and his team, and he ended up finessing the situation. He played on Rosh Hashanah afternoon (hitting two home runs and giving his Detroit Tigers a 2-1 victory) —but only after attending synagogue services that morning. On Yom Kippur, however, he made a different decision, praying in synagogue and skipping the game. He chose his faith over other important values, and his courage and dedication inspired Jews all over the country.  

When we live among non-Jews, there are so many questions to navigate. From singing Christmas carols in school to closing businesses on Yom Tov to participating in charitable work on Saturday mornings, we often find ourselves having to choose between our Judaism and our other important identities. It is just part of the territory, and we each learn to consider and decide and then sometimes redecide on our priorities. 

A final story. For some seventy years, my Mother lived a very Jewish life in very Catholic Cajun Louisiana. She encountered many challenges, seeing many accommodations and making quite a few herself. Some she understood. Others, in her mind, went too far. Among them was the local funeral home’s custom of putting a kneeling bench in front of the coffin—so that friends and relatives could kneel and say prayers for the deceased. This was the Catholic custom, and, since there were always Catholic mourners at funerals—even Jewish funerals, the kneeling bench was de rigueur. This really rankled her, and many times, during her last few decades, my Mom would look me straight in the eyes and implore me, “Please, when I die, do not let them put a kneeling bench in front of my coffin.” To her, this was a step too far, and I can report that, when she passed away, there was no kneeling bench.  

The High Holy Days are a good time to reflect on our multiple identities—and where we draw the line. Who are we? What do we represent? How can our actions express our highest values?

Visualizing World Peace

September 13th: Ki Tetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

“Oseh shalom bim’romav Hu ya’aseh shalom alaynu v’al kol Yisra’el v’al kol yosh’vay tevel.
May the One Who makes peace in the high heavens make peace for us, for all Israel,
and for all who dwell on earth.” 
World peace is a holy aspiration—a prayer and a sacred dream. We hope with all our hearts and souls that yam’lich Malchutay, that God’s peace will soon reign.  

World peace, however, is not a plan. It is not a policy. Between the dream and the reality, there are thousands of steps, plans, and policies—and it is worthwhile keeping this difference in mind. It is not a matter of visualizing world peace. It is a matter of figuring out, step by step, how we get to our goal. We also have to figure out how to get everyone else to work with us. 

As heirs of the Prophets, certain aspirations resonate in our souls.
“And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks. 
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they study war.” (Micah 4.3)
There is an element of messianism and utopianism in our faith—and we treasure it. And yet, the realities of life mean that this must be, for now, a distant dream. Our hopeful souls need to remember the many and challenging intermediate steps, and this week’s Torah portion comes with what we could call a reality check. 

Ki Tetze is concerned with dozens of difficult moments in life—situations that are messy and in which practicality and base instinct come face to face with the Torah’s hope for morality and holiness. Just look at the opening words, “When you go forth to war against your enemies…” (Deuteronomy 21.10) War! When war happens, it is serious business. Those other guys are trying to kill us—and perhaps our families and our future, too. 

Today, Israel—and in some ways the entire Jewish people—is at war. Terrible things are happening, and the hopeful among us often express their dreams for tranquility and love with utopian terms—terms like World Peace and Two State Solution. They are lovely sentiments, but is either a plan? The Two State Solution may be the obvious and long-term solution to the Arab-Israel Conflict, but it is not a policy—an actual possibility for this time. There is a big difference between utopian hopes and the current reality, and the recent and utterly gratuitous execution of Israeli hostages in Gaza is just a drop in a bucket of woe. 

If there is to be a Two State Solution, then there needs to be a polity of Arabs willing to step forward and constructively build it. There must be, in other words, Partners for Peace. When I usually hear this phrase, it is in the negative sense—and usually spoken by Benjamin Netanyahu. When he says, “There are no Partners for Peace,” some people hear this as an illustration of his intransigence and refusal to acknowledge the peoplehood and rights of the Palestinians. He is seen by many as a roadblock to any progress. Others, however, hear his words as exactly what he is saying: that there are no Arabs willing to step forward and make peace and build peace and preserve peace. I am neither a defender nor endorser of Mr. Netanyahu—or his politics or his military strategy, but, in this case, I wonder if he may know what he is talking about. 

There have been a few Arab leaders who wanted to work with Israel and build peace, but most of them are dead—murdered or maimed by other Arabs or Muslims who hate Jews more than they love the Palestinian future. Over the years, it has been very dangerous for Palestinian leaders to be too friendly with Israel, and this, according to many observers, is why Yasser Arafat refused land-for-peace offers that were 96% of what he demanded. Making peace with Israel would have put his life in danger—not from Jews but from more radical Arabs. So, whether we like Bibi or not, we need to answer the question: Are there Arab partners for peace? 

This is not a matter of a utopian vision; it is a practical matter of building and supporting a peaceful Palestinian State. By the way, simply speaking of a Palestinian State is not enough. For Israel’s existence, it must be a peaceful and cooperative Palestinian State, and a lot of people are waiting for the partners for peace to appear. Will they bravely step up and try to save their people from perpetual war—and will they survive to see it through? 

Let us not forget that Gaza is and has been an independent Palestinian State since 2005. From 2005 until now, the only times Israel has attacked Gaza have been in response to Hamas missile attacks or armed incursions from autonomous Palestinian Gaza into Israel. Remember that a cease-fire was in effect up until the moment Hamas launched its murderous and barbaric attack last October. Can anyone really think that Hamas—or Hezbollah or Islamic Jihad or even the terrorist-filled Palestinian Authority—are actual partners for peace? 

When we look at the latest outrage—the senseless and wanton execution of six Israeli hostages, we feel grief and anger and utter exasperation. But, we should not be surprised. The people who run and support Hamas are not good people. They are not merely people with different opinions. They are people who hate Israel and Jews more than they love their own Palestinian brothers and sisters. Filled with hate, they look for ways to torment and torture everyone in their orbit. 

One more consideration: the long-term hopes of the Palestinian/Iranian/Muslim coalition. Their hopes and plans have been, for the last year, well-voiced by the international public relations campaign launched in tandem with the October 7th attacks. There were no pleas for better relations with Gaza. There were no proposals for improving the economy or social fabric of Gaza or the West Bank. Instead, the persistent messaging has been existential:
“Israel has no right to exist.
Zionism is settler-colonialism—and is illegal and should be destroyed.
From the River (Jordan) to the Sea (Mediterranean), the land will be Judenrein.
Jews everywhere are the enemy of Islam.”
Ubiquitous messages like these give me pause: are there any partners for peace? 

When listening to dreamers and politicians and other hopeful types, I always try to distinguish between serious plans and idyllic aspirations. Are calls for a Two State Solution serious policy proposals, or are they just rhetorical flourishes— perhaps rhetorical signals that the speaker hopes for a better world. Is the Two State Solution a reasonable and practical possibility, or is it a just a nice dream that nice people have on their utopian list? I share the dream. I agree with the aspiration. But, I know that, until there are real partners for peace, we are stuck in a fight for survival. Let us pray to God for strength and fortitude.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo vashalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.” (Psalm 29)

The Greatness (?) of Leaders

September 5th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

King Solomon, I am afraid to say, was a bit of a problem. Yes, he shored up the united monarchy after this father David’s death. He built the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem—a magnificent facility that was famous the world over. He wrote the Books of Proverb and Ecclesiastes and the Song of Songs. He was known as the wisest of men. 

And, yet, his regime was not without foible or criticism. First, his building program included not only the holy Temple, but also a more ostentatious palace for himself—and he conscripted labor from the Israelites to build it. (Some speculate that the ancient story of slavery in Egypt—a story that has no historical proof—was concocted to object to the corvee labor that Solomon required of thousands and thousands of Israelites. The theory—and it is only a theory—suggests that the southern area of the Negev, around Timna, was a place of mining and hard labor, and, being “Egypt adjacent,” it is the basis of the story of Egyptian bondage.)  

Second, the lavishness of Solomon’s lifestyle—paid for by taxes levied on everyone in the kingdom—led to criticism and dissatisfaction. His palace was extravagant. Taking care of his 300 wives and 700 concubines in style was expensive. And, he had a thing for horses: according to the Bible, he had 12,000 horses, and archeological evidence has revealed stables from his reign that could accommodate hundreds of horses at his palace in Megiddo. This all seemed to be a part of a very high international profile, but the expenses involved put a real burden on the people. While there was murmuring during his lifetime, it reached its apex after he died. One of his officials, Jeroboam, wrested the Northern Ten Tribes from Solomon’s heir Rehoboam and established an independent kingdom. Thus were there two “Jewish” kingdoms, Judah in the South and Israel in the North. 

Third, and this is perhaps the most troublesome theologically, Solomon’s foreign policy involved pagan worship in Jerusalem. Dignitaries expected to be able to worship their gods when they came to the very cosmopolitan Jerusalem. And, many of those wives and concubines—married as part of political alliances—were allowed to set up temples for their gods and bring in both idols and their priests. Though Solomon’s power was great, this affront to Israelite monotheism did not go without notice, and zealots for the Israelite religion were outraged. 

Solomon died around 927 BCE, and the book we are now reading, Deuteronomy, was apparently authored/edited three centuries later—around 620 BCE, during the reign of King Josiah. It was a time of religious revolution—or, as they saw it, religious purification, and many long-standing and problematic traditions were eliminated. Among these were the various foreign/pagan temples still present in Jerusalem. And, when these purgers of ungodly outrages explained their religious purifications in the book authored as though Moses himself had written it, they included a warning about “out of control” kings. Here is what we read this week in Par’shat Shoftim:
“If, after you have entered the land that the Lord your God has assigned to you, and taken possession of it and settled in it, you decide, ‘I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,’ you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by the Lord your God. Be sure to set as king over yourself one of your own people; you must not set a foreigner over you, one who is not your kinsman. Moreover, he shall not keep many horses, or send people back to Egypt to add to his horses, since the Lord has warned you, ‘You must not go back that way again.’ And he shall not have many wives, lest his heart go astray; nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess.” (Deuteronomy 17.14-17) 

That is what a king should not do, but the Torah also includes what a king should do:
“When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching / Mishnah Torah written for him by the Levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching/Torah as well as these laws. Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from the Instruction /  hamitzvah to the right or to the left, to the end that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel.”  (Deuteronomy 17.18-20) 

Given his other ample credits, I believe that it is unfair to say that Solomon was not a godly man. He was a great man, but, like all great humans, he was not perfect. And, in the course of wielding power, he seemed to “deviate to the right or to left.”  How are nations to be led and greatness achieved? How is the “game of nations” to be played? And, how can this be done with morality and piety?  

Earlier in the parsha we read about the serious work of appointing leaders:
“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 bribes 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) 

Choosing the right leader is no easy task. There are lots of problems and lots of ideas about how to solve them. There are also lots of loud voices trying to persuade us. Amidst this cacophony, we need to remember the importance of honesty and principle. We also need to remember that the people are important and worthy of respect: both the people making the decisions in our democracy and the people who will be affected by the solutions and policies. Remember, “The people shall be governed with true justice…Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

The Place Where God's Name Dwells

August 30th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though Jerusalem was the capital of ancient Israel—both politically with King David and his descendants and religiously with the Temple of the Lord, it is not mentioned in the Torah. In the Torah, there is only a vague mention of a “place where the Lord shall make the Holy Name dwell,” but the specific location is not mentioned. Even if God had Jerusalem in mind as the eventual and permanent place of holiness, it took our ancient ancestors a number of centuries to get around to the Mount Zion and the Temple Mount and the City we have considered holy for some three thousand years. 

When the Israelites enter the Promised Land (around 1200 BCE), they continue with the Mishkan, the portable “tent temple” described in Exodus and which they carried with them during their forty years of wandering in the wilderness. The Mishkan stayed in various locations for a number of years—the most famous of them being Shiloh., but, with the reign of King David and the establishment of Jerusalem as his capital, the Ark and Mishkan were moved to Jerusalem where David’s son Solomon eventually built the Temple—sometime in the 900’s BCE. 

From here on out, this was the place of God’s holiness and the fulfillment of the mitzvah we read in this week’s Torah portion: “After you traverse the Jordan and dwell in the land which the Lord your God gives you to inherit, and when God gives you rest from all your enemies round about, so that you dwell in safety; then there shall be a place which the Lord your God shall choose to cause the Holy Name to dwell; there shall you bring all that I command you: your burnt offerings, and your sacrifices, your tithes, and the offering of your hand, and all your choice vows which you vow to the Lord: and you shall rejoice before the Lord your God, you, your sons and your daughters, your male and female servants, and the Levite who is within your gate…” (Deuteronomy 12.10-12) 

Jerusalem has remained our religious capital ever since. When the Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, the people of Judah yearned to return (see Psalms 137 and 126) and then rebuilt the Temple when the Persians allowed them to reestablish Judah and Jerusalem. Then, when the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in 70 CE, the yearning reignited AND the resulting post-Temple prayer worship continued to focus on Jerusalem. In constant mentions and even in physical attitude—directing our prayers to the Temple Mount, Jerusalem, and the Holy Temple—“the place where the Lord chose to make the Divine Name dwell”—have been the closest place to heaven on earth, the place which offers the best access to God. 

For centuries, Jews would make pilgrimage to the remnants of the ancient Temple, getting as close as they could be by praying at the Western Wall, the remnants of the retailing wall that surrounded the Temple Mount and made a mountain into a plaza for the Holy Temple. Then, after the 1967 Six Day War, when Israel captured the Old City, the Western Wall/Kotel Hama’ariv became a place of celebration and a place where more and more Jews could come close to the ancient holiness. 

It was by a quirk of bureaucratic fate that the Western Wall came under the control of the Ministry of the Interior—which controls synagogues—and not the Ministry of Antiquities. Classified as a synagogue instead of an archeological site, the area became the province of the Orthodox rabbinate—and thus the many conflicts began: men’s and women’s sections, no organized services or Torah readings on the women’s side, no non-Orthodox religious services, hassles about archeological excavations at the site, etc. 

Back in 1996, I was part of a Reform Rabbi’s Mission to Israel, one where, among other things, we met with Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to get him to give Reform Judaism more funding and respect. We also had a worship service in the Kotel Plaza—the large and mixed plaza just outside of the segregated men’s and women’s sections. We were “at” the Kotel, just a few dozen meters farther. We were some forty Reform Rabbis, men and women, and we began to pray. There were some ultra-Orthodox protesters who tried screaming and falling to the ground to get the attention of some Israeli news cameras. We were told that ours was the first “mixed” service at the Kotel. The protesters were unable to break up the service because the government has also provided several armed soldiers who guarded us as we prayed. 

I remember one of the colleagues, a young female rabbi, expressing her comfort at the fact that we were being guarded and could continue our prayers. My reaction was different. I felt very distracted and very unconnected, and I wondered why this ancient wall was so important. It is not as though we Jews have not achieved an incredible spiritual tradition while living and praying in other places. Were we to think that our prayers, some thirty meters from the Kotel, were somehow holier than the prayers uttered by Jews in Babylonia or Cairo or Warsaw or in Mayence? Were we to think that prayers in this place were somehow closer to the omnipresent God Whose dominion is in the whole universe?  

There is nonetheless something special about the Kotel, and I visit it and pray every time I’m in Jerusalem. I yearn for the special closeness to God that Tradition ascribes to the holy precinct, but I also realize that the notion of God only being present in one place is not as true as some of our ancient ancestors believed. As Judah Halevi prayerfully wrote: 

“O Lord, where shall I find Thee, hid is Thy lofty place?
And where shall I not find Thee, Whose glory fills all space?
ho formed the world, abideth within man’s soul alway;
Refuge to them that seek Thee, ransom for them that stray. 

O, how can mortals praise Thee, when angels strive in vain?
O build for Thee a dwelling, Whom worlds cannot contain?
Longing to draw near Thee, with all my heart I pray,
Then going forth to seek Thee, Thou meetest me on the way. 

I find thee in the marvels of Thy creative might,
In visions in Thy Temple, in dreams that bless the night.
Who saith he hath not seen Thee? The heavens refute his word.
Their hosts declare Thy glory, though never voice be heard.”                                        

Bendigamos al Altisimo

August 23rd: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
 This is the week where we get our curious Jewish custom of saying a blessing after our meals. Many cultures give thanks before eating—and we do too, but our Tradition has taken Deuteronomy 8.10 and constructed a mitzvah to give thanks after we eat. “When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which has been given to you.”

In addition to the simple notion of giving thanks for an experience both nutritional and enjoyable, the mitzvah should be seen in the context of many blessings. “The Lord your God is bringing you into a good land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper. When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which has been given to you.” (Deuteronomy 8.7-10) 

Jewish Tradition has acted upon this mitzvah in many ways, with Birkat Hamazon / the Grace After Meals taking a number of different forms. Among them is a Sephardic version in Ladino known by its first word, Bendigamos.  

Bendigamos al Altisimo al senor que nos crio,
Demosle agradecimiento, por los bienes que nos dio.
Alabado sea su Santo Nombre, porque siempre nos apiado.
Load al Senor que es bueno, que para siempre su merced.

(Let us bless the Most High, the Lord who created us,
Let us give him thanks, for the good things he has given us.
Praised be his Holy Name, for he has always taken pity on us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.) 

Bendigamos al Altisimo, por su Ley primeramente,
Que liga a nuestra raza, con el cielo continuamente,
Alabado sea su Santo Nombre, porque siempre nos apiado.
Load al Senor que es bueno, que para siempre su merced.

(Let us bless the Most High, first, for his Law,
Which connects our race/home, with heaven, continuously.
Praised be his Holy Name, for he has always taken pity on us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.) 

Bendigamos al Altisimo, por el pan segundamente,
Y todos los manjares, que comimos juntamente.
Pues comimos y bebimos alegremente, su merced nunca nos falto,
Load al Senor que ese bueno, que para siempre su merced.

 (Let us bless the Most High, second, for the bread
And also for these foods which we have eaten together.
For we have eaten and drunk happily, His mercy has never failed us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.) 

Bendita sea la casa esta, el hogar de su presencia,
Donde guardamos su fiesta, conalegira y permanencia.
Alabado sea su Santo Nombre, porque siempre nos apiado.
Load al Senor que es bueno, que para siempre su merced.

(Blessed be this house/tabernacle, the home of His presence,
Where we keep his feast, with happiness and steadfastness.
Praised be his Holy Name, for he has always taken pity on us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.)

Hodu l’Adonai ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo.
Hodu l’Adonai ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo.

(Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.)

While most of us think of praying in both Hebrew and English, others in our Tradition have used their daily languages along with Hebrew—linking both past and present in their spiritual offerings. From Aramaic and Greek in the ancient days, to English, French, German, and Italian of today—and Yiddish, Ladino, Judeo-Farsi, and Judeo-Arabic, Jewish prayer has been communicated in many languages and with those languages’ particular energies.   

When we thank God, it is also important to be thankful for the whole process in which we humans are able to participate. Though we say—at the beginning of a meal—that God “motzi lechem min ha’aretz / brings forth bread from the earth,” the fact is that many people take part in the miracle of nutrition and aesthetic delight that bread represents. We are all part of the Shefa, the flow of blessings that comes from God through us.  

It is in this spirit that our congregation gives thanks to those who have been channels of Divine Blessing in our midst. Each year, we formalize our thanks and appreciation in the presentation of Brit Shalom’s Helping Hands Award. This Friday, at our Shabbat evening service, we shall be awarding this posthumously to Barry Ruback , our past president and friend. Barry led a rich and productive life, and in what turned out to be his final years gifted our congregation with energy, wisdom, and vision. Much of our current congregational prosperity and vitality is a direct result of Barry’s ideas and work. So, please join us as we give the Helping Hands Award to Jasmin and Miriam who will be accepting it on behalf of Barry—for his participation in bringing the blessings of heaven to this holy part of the earth.

Searching for Clarity and Understanding

July 12th: Chukat
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E.  Ostrich

This is the week that Moses loses it. He and Aaron lose their sister Miriam (Numbers 20.1ff). and then he loses his temper, composure, and future in the Promised Land. The Israelites are typically obnoxious—criticizing him for a water shortage, but God is typically responsive with a miraculous plan to provide all the water they need. Moses is instructed to go to a rock and speak to it, “Order the rock to yield its water,” but Moses’ composure and patience are at their end. “Moses and Aaron assembled the congregation in front of the rock, and he said to them: ‘Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?’ And Moses raised his hand and struck the rock twice with his rod.” What may seem like an understandable and unusual outburst is too much for the Lord Who has higher standards. “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation unto the land that I have given them.” 

Sometimes, the pressures of the world can be too much, and we can lose our bearings. Such a time is now for Jews around the world. The unrelenting pressure of misinformation and hostility is taking a toll on most of us. We do not want to “lose it” as did Moses, but we need the relief of clarity and truth. Clarity will not solve all of Israel’s or Jewry’s problems, but it can help us remember than we are neither immoral nor crazy. The Israeli-Arab conflict needs to be discussed with understanding and compassion and fairness, but too often this is not the case.  

So we comb the internet and news sources, taking each anti-Israel punch and nonetheless searching for something not hateful, not anti-Semitic, not a repetition of Hamas propaganda—something that clearly discusses the conflict in which our Zionist dream is continually mired. When we find such an essay or interview or news report, we bookmark it and distribute it to our friends and relatives—and former friends. Such pieces are like life rafts in a sea of infuriating and overwhelming bad thinking. 

It is in such a spirit that a friend sent me this piece from the Wall Street Journal. It is by Elliot Kaufman, a staff writer and letters editor. Written from Jerusalem, it covers a lot of ground, but it is full of compassion and wisdom and good thinking. This essay helped me with my moral composure and equanimity. I hope it can be helpful to you.  

“We pray that one day there will be peace,” says Nina Tokayer, half of the Israeli musical duo Yonina, after a candle is extinguished to bring the Sabbath to a close. “Sometimes that means eliminating our enemies, who hate peace and want to destroy us. For some reason, a lot of people around the world don’t understand that.” 

Israelis don’t understand what the world doesn’t understand about Oct. 7. Hamas is the Palestinian majority party, and Oct. 7 was its apotheosis. It will try it again if Israel quits Gaza too early, and it will do worse if Israel surrenders the West Bank. Yet the world demands both, leaving Israelis to conclude that the world has little problem subjecting them to more massacres. Israelis feel as if a mandatory form of amnesia is being imposed on them: Thou shalt not remember what actual Palestinian nationalism looks like. 

The struggle for memory has strategic significance. Micah Goodman, a leading intellectual of the Israeli center, says the first lesson of Oct. 7 is: “When we leave territory, we’re not protected from that territory.” This has become a national consensus. 

“We had Oct. 7 before—in 1929,” Mr. Goodman says. Then, Arab mobs massacred more than 100 Jews across Hebron, Safed, Jerusalem and Jaffa and left more than 300 wounded. “Jews were attacked in the streets, in their homes, with all the terrible atrocities that we saw on Oct. 7. This was before the nakba of 1948, before the occupation of 1967.” 

I thought of the struggle for memory on a visit to an Israeli military base, home to an elite combat unit whose members’ full identities are kept secret. “The world doesn’t understand the pain,” says Maxim, a young soldier, “and I don’t think it cares.” He allows that people may have forgotten Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack. Roi, his comrade, doesn’t buy it: “They know what happened, but they don’t give a s—. Or they support it and call it ‘resistance.’” Asaf, a 21-year-old fighter, says, “The Arabs win because they are patient. We can defeat Hamas, but if we leave, they’ll rebuild it all and in 10 years they will attack again.” In his view, as one soldier, “the only way we win is if we take the land.” 

He shouldn’t say that. What could be more repulsive to foreign ears than an Israeli reoccupation of Gaza? Much less repulsive to the world is Asaf’s other scenario: Hamas keeps Gaza and plots the next Oct. 7. 

In the border kibbutz of Kfar Aza, Chen Kotler works to prevent Oct. 7 from being forgotten. She tells of terrorists on her roof and in her sister’s house. “Along this pavement, eight people were murdered,” she says at one spot. Hamas still holds hostage five of her neighbors: Gali and Ziv Berman, Emily Damari, Doron Steinbrecher and Keith Siegel, a 65-year-old U.S. citizen. Buildings have been wrecked, and the community will have to fight to survive. 

But aren’t more people dying in Gaza? The media is happy to obscure the relevant distinctions. Activists promoted the “genocide” lie even before the war. Eylon Levy, until recently Israel’s government spokesman, explains, “The slanders of Israel today are preparing the response to the next Oct. 7: ‘The Jews had it coming.’” 

Perhaps Israel can’t satisfy the Western gaze. A sign on one destroyed home in Kfar Aza reads: “Aviad Edri was brutally murdered in this house.” But the West wants to see the body left out on the ground. Israelis won’t—and shouldn’t—cooperate. Some of Ms. Kotler’s surviving neighbors even oppose the tours and don’t allow photos. “This will soon be history,” she says. “The tractors will come to repair. So, you’ll have to carry it for your whole life.” 

The world is unwilling to bear the weight for long. While President Biden made clear after Oct. 7 that Hamas must not remain in power, by February he wasn’t so sure. He called Israel’s counterattack “over the top.” At a Holocaust remembrance event in May, he urged the world to “never forget” Oct. 7 while withholding arms from Israel to prevent an attack on Hamas’s stronghold. 

Thomas Friedman now writes what is implicit in Biden policy: It’s OK to leave Hamas in power. Maybe there will be a power-sharing agreement. Maybe the people of Gaza will restrain Hamas. Or maybe the West has learned nothing from Oct. 7. 

There’s a story the West tells itself: After the massacre, Israel had the world’s sympathy and support. But Israel went too far, and the world turned against it. Right-thinking Westerners like this story because right-thinking Westerners are its stars. They are moved by the plight of Kfar Aza and the Nova festivalgoers to denounce Hamas, but not so much that, like those vengeful Israelis, they lose their impartiality and humanitarian instinct. 

The truth is darker. Much, perhaps most, of the world didn’t condemn Oct. 7 or repudiate Hamas. Qatar and Egypt, the mediators, both blamed Israel on Oct. 7. On Oct. 8, China called on Israel to “immediately end the hostilities.” Russia still hosts Hamas delegations. None of Hamas’s patrons have abandoned it or been seriously pressured to do so. The big human-rights groups equivocated on Oct. 7 about “civilians on both sides.” Ever since, they have pretended the war began on Oct. 8, representing the Israeli effort as pure malevolence. The campus left cheered the attack. The United Nations General Assembly still hasn’t condemned it.  

U.S. support for Israel has been essential, but it has strings attached. “If the United States experienced what Israel is experiencing, our response would be swift, decisive and overwhelming,” Mr. Biden said on Oct. 10. But at every stage of the war, he has worked to slow and scale down Israel’s military response. U.S. generals advised Israel not to invade Gaza, senior Israeli officials say. The Americans insisted that raids from the perimeter would defeat Hamas. 

By January the Biden administration was pressing hard for a Palestinian state, which it described as the only real solution, just as it had thought on Oct. 6. Never mind that polls show two-thirds of Palestinians support the Oct. 7 attack. 

Over hummus in Tel Aviv, the right-wing intellectual Gadi Taub puts it provocatively: “Biden’s plan to end the war is for Netanyahu to fall and Sinwar to stay.” The U.S. president has spent months pushing a deal to end the war, and his deputies insist Israeli troops leave Gaza afterward. Since no one else but Israelis will fight and die to keep Hamas down, Hamas rule would quickly be restored. 

“Oct. 7 killed not only the dream of peace,” says Mr. Levy, the former Israeli spokesman. “It killed the dreamers” of the border kibbutzim. But Mr. Biden and his team, the none-too-quiet Americans, are still dreaming. They call it a peace process, but an Israeli withdrawal that returns Gaza to Hamas is the first step to the next massacre, the next war. 

Eran Massas, an Israeli lieutenant colonel in the reserves, says, “Hamas are not people, they are animals.” In response, the liberal Western instinct is to worry about dehumanization. When Mr. Massas tells of how he rescued civilians on Oct. 7, and how he remains haunted by one woman he found, her green clothing left beside her butchered corpse, the same Western instinct is to look away—anywhere but his eyes.

Korach: Should the Lunatics Run the Asylum?

July 5th: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

“The lunatics have taken over the asylum.”
With all due respects to the mentally ill and those who care for them, I find the above expression fascinating. According to Wikipedia, it originated in a 1919 remark by Richard A. Rowland about the founding of United Artists—perhaps as an allusion to the 1845 Edgar Allan Poe short story, The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether. 

Whatever its origin, it has been used in a variety of contexts and generally expresses the view that those in charge have no idea what they are doing—that those who should be managed have somehow pushed out those in rightful authority and established themselves as managers. 

In some ways, this is a highly ironic statement—inasmuch as most people in charge will, upon sober reflection, realize they too have no idea what they are doing. We may have training, experience, and insights, but we are all “works in progress” and often find that we must “fly by the seat of our pants.” While phrases like “fake it till you make it” are unsettling, the fact is that most of us recalibrate, reevaluate, and rethink our habitual patterns on a regular basis. Reality has a way of changing in unexpected ways, and we are often left to our best guesses. 

That being said, there are some people whose training, experience, and wisdom give us more confidence in their abilities to be in charge. We would rather put our lives—or HVAC systems or transmissions or government—in their hands. They are the ones we prefer to trust. 

Thus do we arrive at the essential questions of Parshat Korach. Who should be our leader, and who/Who gets to decide? Whether or not Moses is the best leader possible or always makes the right call is at a certain level irrelevant. He is doing a pretty good job, and God seems generally pleased with him.  Whatever problems there may be (and what leader does not encounter difficulties?), are generally beyond his control. The people’s craving for the foods of Egypt, for instance, or their fear of advancing into the Promised Land seem to be out of Moses’ control. So, when Korach challenges Moses and offers himself as a replacement—“You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?!” (Number 16.3), is it a serious attempt at democracy and improvement, or is it a duplicitous power-grab? Does the system need changing? Should the Israelites get to decide for themselves? Should the “lunatics” be in charge? 

The problem with reading Korach’s story is that we believe in democracy. Despite the relative ignorance with which many voters go to the polls and the less than stellar results many elections elect, we believe in the people’s right to self-government. In fact, when we are offered various theocratic options, most of us recoil. We may believe in God and seek God’s Presence in our lives, but we want to make social and governmental decisions ourselves. 

There is another reason Korach may sound reasonable. Sometimes, the “lunatics”—that is, the people being led, managed, treated, or taught—have valuable insights that those in charge should hear. Health care professionals are taught to listen carefully to what their patients have to say. Teachers are urged to pay attention to the way their students react and process information. Management systems such as W. Edwards Deming’s Total Quality Management insist that those on all levels of the hierarchy be incorporated into decision-making. And, of course, democracies have frequent elections—opportunities for the governed to communicate to those who govern. 

So, when someone demands more democracy, our tendency is to favor their thinking. The problem, however, is that the unscrupulous can manipulate our feelings of fairness to gain authority and then do some very undemocratic things. History is full of such catastrophes.  

And then, there is God. As I mentioned above, most of us resist the idea of theocracy, but not necessarily because of Who is at the top (God!). We worry because those who claim to speak for God may or may not be godly: they may or may not be doing God’s Will on earth. How many times, in Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and Jewish history, have we seen those who purport to speak for God pursue profound ungodliness? As wonderful as God’s Presence can be—enlightening, inspiring, and guiding us, it can also be an intoxicant that makes people think that their own thoughts are God’s. As Rabbi Lawrence Kushner counsels, we need to separate our egos from the voice of God. Or, as he imagines the Deity reminding us, “I’m God, and you’re not.” Let us beware Yetzer HaRa / the Evil Inclination taking over. Let us remember that it is God’s influence that should enter our thinking—rather than foisting our selfishness or evil or ignorance onto God. 

There are so many levels to the Korach story. There is the question of democracy: who gets to decide on leadership? There is the question of sincerity and truth: is Korach to be trusted, and is Moses behaving in a trustworthy manner? There is the question of earthly authority: who decides how God’s instructions are to be interpreted and followed? And how do we derive guidance from ancient, time-bound, and culture-bound words? We seek God’s influence and inspiration, but it takes some serious wisdom and understanding. 

According to the Rabbis, a take-over by Korach would be disastrous. Dominated by ego and selfishness, his communication of God’s Will would be slanted to his own power and self-aggrandizement. Moses, on the other hand, is “a very humble man, moreso than any other man on earth.” (Numbers 12.3) He is a clear channel for God’s Will, one unimpeded by human ego. Perhaps this is why God comes down so strongly for Moses and against Korach. “The earth opened its mouth and swallowed up…all Korach’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, with all that belonged to them; the earth closed over them and they vanished from the congregation.” (Numbers 16.31-33) God seems pretty clear on this—which leaves the reader searching for flaws in Korach’s case. God sees through him. Can we learn to see through the rhetoric of those who seek to lead us? 

Perhaps a lesson we can take from this disturbing story is that the lunatics are probably not best suited to run the asylum. That being said, they may not be completely without wisdom, and those in authority should consider what the patients, students, employees, and citizens have to say. Wisdom can come from many places, and humility and open-mindedness are hallmarks of good leadership.