Divining the Divine

May 15th: Bamidbar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though we like to think of our Judaism as a religion of practical holiness, the fact is that we have some inconsistencies—some components and traditions that are self-contradictory and illogical. We could just dismiss them with Ralph Waldo Emerson’s observation that “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,” or Oscar Wilde’s quip that “consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative,” both suggesting our (or certainly God’s) higher thinking and purpose. Or we could follow the advice of Ben Bag Bag and Ben He He in Pirke Avot (5.22-23): “Turn it over and over again,” and “According to the labor is the reward.” If there is wisdom to be found in the Torah of Creation, then we need to pay close attention—even to the inconsistencies. 

The most famous self-contradiction in Torah is Abraham’s quandary in Genesis 22. A good and pious man who follows God’s commandments, the Patriarch is ordered to sacrifice Isaac—a demand that is both illogical and unfathomably evil. What is Abraham to do? Tradition offers various answers—praising Abraham, criticizing Abraham, or trying to figure out a sensibility where such things make sense. We have been sharpening our minds on this one for a long time.  

We also have an inconsistency in this week’s Torah portion when God orders Moses to take a Census—the census that gives the Book of Numbers its name. In Exodus 30.11, God warns Moses that counting people can bring about a plague—which is exactly what happens when King David orders a census (Second Samuel 24 and First Chronicles 21). Censuses court disaster, so it does not make sense for God to order one in Numbers 1. Is this one somehow okay because God says it is, or does the half-shekel per person donation to the Tabernacle somehow protect us? The logic is beyond us, but that may be the point. This matter may be in God’s realm and logic, and not in ours.                                                                                 

Another thing in Judaism that does not make sense is our Yom Kippur greeting, “Tzom Kal, Have an easy fast.” While it seems like a kind wish for our friends, is not suffering the whole point of the Yom Kippur fast? “Va’anitem naf’sho’techem/you shall afflict your souls” (Leviticus 23.27) is the Torah’s instruction—because suffering is a technique of atonement. We need to suffer so that we can atone for our many sins. More suffering means more atonement. The more affliction of the soul, the more pure and more forgiven do we emerge after Neilah. It would sound strange to wish others pain and suffering on Yom Kippur, but why would we wish our friends and relatives less forgiveness from God?   

Next are Yahrzeits. Why do we observe yahrzeits on days we do not remember? Most think of the English dates on which our loved ones passed away and thus need a yearly system in which cemeteries and congregations remind us of the English dates of the Hebrew dates of our loved ones’ Yahrzeits. Why? 

The same goes for our holy days. Why do we have to be informed about the dates of holy days which are the same every year? Though we comment about Chanukah or Rosh Hashanah being “late” or “early,” the fact is that they are always on time. Every single Chanukah starts on Kislev 25, and every single Rosh Hashanah comes on Tishri 1. Why do we insist on following a religious calendar that requires “translation” to the calendar we actually use? (Quick: what is the current Hebrew month and day?) 

An answer to these questions may lie in a different kind of thinking. As both the inheritors and the purveyors of Israel’s Covenant with God, we Jews revel in our connections to the historical Jewish experience and thus find meaning in traditional and old-fashioned things. It may be illogical to blow a ram’s horn instead of a trumpet, or to read from a handwritten scroll instead of a nicely printed book, or to read Scripture and prayers in a language most Jews do not understand, but our goal is beyond logic and expeditiousness. Our goal is spiritual elevation and holy connection, a religious context in which a different kind of logic is at play. In Judaism’s realm, tradition qua tradition has value, and we speak in a spiritual language of ancient words and mystical terms—techniques that bring us back into our holy and timeless dynamic.  

Years ago, a Christian pastor asked me why we insist on having worship services at times when most Jews are involved in other activities? Why not choose a day of the week—like Sunday mornings—which modern America sets aside for religious worship? 

He was not the first person to ask the question. In fact, two “movements” of modern Jews tried something similar. Pittsburgh’s Temple Rodef Shalom used to have its largest and best-attended service on Sunday mornings. The place would be packed as Rabbi Solomon Freehof spoke on the intellectual and philosophical issues of the day. The services were remarkably popular, but they were not considered Sabbath services. The liturgy was for weekday mornings, and there was no pretense about this service taking the place of actual Sabbath worship.  

That was not the case for several other Reform Temples that tried—and ultimately abandoned—Sunday Sabbath Services. The endeavor was based on the obvious logic that modern Americans have other things to do on Friday nights and Saturday mornings and that we should adapt to our new surroundings. Even though most Jews attend non-religious activities on Shabbat, it seems important for us to keep the Traditional timing on the books, and the force of Tradition moved these congregations to return Shabbat to Saturday. (By the way, this movement is the subject of a book by Penn State Professor Tobias Brinkmann: Sundays at Sinai.)  

One more inconsistency will greet us in a few weeks. In Chukat (Numbers 19), God commands that a red heifer be sacrificed and completely burned—and that its ashes be saved for use in purification rituals. The problem is that sacrificial ashes are always considered unclean—and that something unclean cannot ever be used to make something or someone clear or pure. The ashes are permanently impure and should render anyone who touches them tameh/impure. The logic of using them for purification makes no sense at all—unless God’s logic supersedes ours.  

The salient point in all religious ritual is piety. Though we may try to understand and divine Divine purposes, we should remember that logic may not be the point. The point of a mitzvah is sacred connection. Our logic about connecting to God may be helpful, but sometimes we find ourselves in a different sensibility—a sacred context in which Tradition and the spiritual can bring us into the Presence of God. It is a good place to be.

Reading the Ancients: Instructions or Metaphors?

May 8th: Behar and Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the challenges of religion is understanding the intentions and meanings of verses from sacred scripture. Is a passage a fact or a brag? Is it instructions or an aspiration? Or is it one ancient person’s opinion that can or should be seen alongside other opinions that differ? Modern religionists revere their sacred scriptures, but they are nonetheless challenged by the various possibilities for reading and understanding the ancient words.  

A good candidate for these questions is the oft-quoted passage from Isaiah (11.6-9) about the lion and the lamb lying down together.
“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, the leopard lie down with the kid;
The calf, the beast of prey, and fatling together, with a little boy to lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together;
And the lion, like the ox, shall eat straw.
A babe shall play over a viper’s hole, and an infant pass his hand over an adder’s den.
In all My sacred mount, nothing evil or vile shall be done;
For the land will be filled with devotion to the Lord, as water covers the sea.”
It is a beautiful passage, but is it a promise, or a hope, or a utopian metaphor? Basking in the glow of tranquility is lovely, but as my late colleague, Rabbi Israel Vana, once quipped, “This is all fine as long as the lion, wolf, and leopard are happy to remain vegetarians…” 

There are other similar passages—like how we humans are “created in the Image of God” (Genesis 1.26) or how we shall “beat our swords into plowshares and our spears into pruning hooks” (Micah 4) or how we shall “sit under our fig trees and not being afraid” (ibid.). Are we looking at metaphorical hopes or at job assignments?  

It is with these questions in mind that I approach the rules for the Sabbatical and Jubilee Years (found in this week’s Torah portion, Leviticus 25). Does the Torah describe what the ancients really did, or do we have a social architect’s ideal of a holy and self-correcting society? 

The Sabbatical year involves calling off all debts and allowing fields to lie fallow. The image in the Torah is of people tranquilly watching nature provide for them—as they go out daily to their fields and bring back just enough for the day. The notion of taking a breather is nice, but I wonder about other agrarian and mercantile activities that might have required attention. For example, cows, goats, and sheep still need to be tended and fed. Moreover, if the modern-day observance of the Shemitah/Sabbatical Year by the ultra-Orthodox in Israel is any indication, the ancients might have had a number of minimizing nuances. For example, foods not allowed to be grown by Jewish farmers could be purchased from non-Jewish farmers or brought in from non-Jewish districts. We already know modifications to the debt rules. Though the Torah warns against holding back loans as the Sabbatical Year approaches, apparently many people ignored the warnings and were less generous to their needy neighbors as the cancellation date neared. To remediate the situation, the great Hillel “interpreted” the Torah rule so that each loan was given its own individual seven-year time frame. This Prosbul adjustment allowed assistance both to flow and be paid back. My point is that, given the complexities of human life and the continuing needs and ambitions of even pious people, I wonder how literally the ancients observed the Shemitah—and I wonder if we should read the passages in less-than-literal terms.  

As for the Jubilee year’s proclamation that land should revert to its ancestral owners, many wonder if this were ever the case. Though the Torah commands that real estate purchases be treated more like lease arrangements—that one would only purchase the use of the land for the years remaining in the forty-nine-year cycle, many land purchases involve improvements like houses, fields cleared of stones, etc. Does the Biblical return take these kinds of projects into account? There is also the question of how land could be “owned” by family members many generations removed from the original Israelite settlers. Some families could have grown into hundreds, and other families could have no survivors. Though noble and charitable, some of the passages sound more like utopian waxing than practical plans and practices.  

If we take the view that these passages are more idyllic visions than literal practices, does this affect us religiously? Can we still read, revere, and take these messages to heart? The answer is Metaphor! These verses can be viewed as we do all metaphor and hyperbole—emotional and spiritual expressions to be taken seriously but not literally. 

When the Torah calls for all debts to be cancelled after seven years, it reminds us to be concerned for the debt burdens of those around us and to work on the problems of perpetual and overwhelming debt. The problems are tricky on many levels, but we are challenged to be serious about fairness, responsibility, and kindness. Practical grace should be our goal.  

When the Torah speaks of letting fields lie fallow for a year, it echoes the calls of agronomists and other ecologically minded people who approach agriculture mindfully and with a view for long-term productivity and economic vitality. The problems are very tricky, but our ancient metaphors remind us that we have a part to play in tending to God’s Creation.  

As for the Jubilee Year’s return to the ancestral homestead, this plunges us into the many issues of land ownership—including zoning, the effects of ownership decisions on neighbors, sentimental as opposed to legal senses of ownership, and the societal effects of land use—challenges our own community faces every year. The needs/wants of owners are often not the needs/wants of “the community,” and questions about who should control land and who is going to foot the bill are perennial concerns. While the Jubilee Year reversion of ownership may not be able to deal with the complexities of land ownership and use, the passages remind us to expand our vision and think of how we can reconcile personal rights and communal needs with perspective and fairness. There is also the fact that, when we let God enter our thinking (and remember that God owns all property!), we can be guided to better and holier decisions.  

And, as for the Isaiah passage, perhaps what we have is a call for humanitarianism—where the divisions of ethnicity, social class, nationality, and religion stop pitting us against one another. Rather than wolves and lambs and asps and little children, perhaps this is a metaphor and a prayer about different kinds of people learning to live with mutual respect and cooperation.

Rabbinic "Priesthood" and Holiness

May 1st: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the Torah’s most discussed passages comes in Exodus 19. Just before God proclaims the Ten Commandments to Israel, we are told: “You shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” The thought that we Jews are God’s “Chosen People” both inspires and challenges, and Torah and Tradition represent our efforts to conceptualize and fulfill our holy purpose.  

During Biblical days, a large part of our purpose involved worshipping God with sacrifices—a subject Leviticus addresses extensively. There are a variety of sacrifices for different purposes and occasions, and each one has its own particular obligations and procedures. Whether at the Mishkan (portable “Tent Temple”) or later the Temple in Jerusalem, the hallmark of Biblical Judaism was the Kohanim/ Priests officiating at sacrificial worship services. Tragically, this all came to an end when the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Judaism faced an existential challenge: How could we, without sacrifices, continue our relationship with the Lord?  

The answer turned out to be a centuries-long re-formation of Judaism, one in which the leadership moved us from the Bible’s Sacrifice-Oriented Religion to what became known as Rabbinic Judaism. A major civilizational accomplishment, it involved study, creativity, experience, and frequent recrafting —a process evident in the many layers and opinions of the Talmud and other Rabbinic writings. Rabbinic Judaism was and is a holy work-in-progress. 

We do not know when Rabbinic Judaism got its start. Some think that its seeds were sown during the years of the Babylonian Exile, but historian Ellis Rivkin sees the movement arising around 200 BCE and as a Jewish response to Hellenism. The “problem” with Hellenism was that it swept over the entire Greek Empire like a tidal wave—culturally, politically, economically, and religiously. Local customs and religions were subjugated into a syncretistic culture—one that often violated Jewish laws and sensibilities. Some Jewish leaders felt like they had no choice but to go along with Hellenistic ways, but others—scholars identified as Scribes—took measures to withdraw from Hellenistic culture and refocus on the Jewish relationship with God. They thought of themselves as separatists—in Hebrew Perushim, in Greek Pharisaios, and in English Pharisees, and they took the Kingdom of Priests verse from Exodus 19 as both inspiration and technique. What would it be like, they wondered, if all Jews functioned as a Kingdom of Priests and aspired to a kind of non-Temple “priesthood?” Their answer was to craft a religious lifestyle in which regular Jews could attain a sense of holiness and Avodah—religious service to God.  

The Pharisees spoke of their priest-like approach to religiosity as something God ordained, calling their process Torah She’b’al Peh/ Oral Torah and claiming that their progressive creativity was intended by God on Mount Sinai. Not all Jews agreed, with their main opponents, the Sadducees, believing that only the Five Books of Moses were revealed by God and that Judaism’s primary mission is to worship God in the Temple. These two schools of thought contended for generations, but, when the Temple and Priesthood were destroyed by the Romans, the only approach left standing was that of the Pharisees. Their focus on personal and communal holiness became the form of Judaism that survived and moved forward. The Pharisees called their leaders Rabbis, and their approach became known as Rabbinic Judaism. By the way, when Tradition says The Rabbis, it refers to the Pharisaic leaders circa 200 BCE-200 CE.  

The Rabbinic process involved gleaning the Torah for Priestly rules that could be adapted to individual’s lives, and a few examples can be found in this week’s Torah portion.
(1)   Leviticus 21 gives us the rules for how a Kohayn/Priest is to deal with the death of a close relative: “They shall not shave smooth any part of their heads or cut the side-growth of their beards.” (v.5) The Rabbis took this priestly rule and applied it to regular Israelites—and for all the time (not just during mourning). Thus, Tradition calls on Jewish men not to shave the sides of their heads or beards, and we have the religious custom of Payos, holy sidelocks, and untrimmed beards.  
(2)   Leviticus 22.4 prohibits Priests who are temporarily Tum’ah/Ritually Unclean from eating sacrificial meals: “If any priest, while in a state of uncleanness, partakes of any sacred donation that the Israelite people consecrate to the Lord, that person shall be cut off from before Me. I am the Lord.” Among the causes of Tum’ah are seminal emissions—a practice the Rabbis took and transposed it to the Torah Service. Even though Torah Scrolls were/are not subject to and of the sacrificial cult’s rules or priestly purity, Tradition prohibits anyone who has recently experienced a seminal emission from handling, blessing, or reading the Torah. 

Expanding our search beyond this week’s Torah portion, here are two more examples of Priestly rules being applied to non-priestly religious life.
(3)   Leviticus 2.13 insists on seasoning the sacrificial grain offerings with salt. So, though sacrifices ceased long ago, the Rabbis “observe” this ancient mitzvah by transforming our Shabbat dinner tables into sacrificial altars. The two sacrifices on Shabbat—the regular daily and the Musaf/Extra, are represented by two loaves of Challah at each Sabbath meal. And, that Challah is dipped in salt before it is eaten. Sabbath observers are thus symbolically elevated to priestly service.
(4)   There is also the thought that the original rules of Kashrut—the animals allowed to be eaten and the rules for slaughtering them—were intended only for the priests and only for sacrificial rituals. Applying these rules to all Israelites and requiring ritual slaughter for all meat could be another example of the Rabbis bringing a sense of priestly holiness to everyday life—inspiring and involving all Jews in holy Avodah, serving the Lord.  

The Rabbis’ efforts recorded in the Talmud reflect an effort to separate from Hellenism and intensify their connection to God, but I often sense something else at play. In addition to establishing the rules and approaches for their group’s religiosity, I think they were also trying to persuade average Jews to join their intensively Jewish way of life. It was a world where both Jewishness and popular culture beckoned, and the Rabbis wanted to draw Jews deeper into Jewishness. Perhaps our ancestors faced a similar situations to ours. When one feels a tug-of-war between the appeals of secular culture and religious sensibilities, how can one find a way to appreciate and participate in both?

Where is God? Maybe Right Here

April 24th: Acharay Mot and Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When I was a boy, my Mom would occasionally run to the grocery store before dinner—calling out as she went through the door, “Don’t eat any cookies!”  

The Apostle Paul (of Christianity) had a lot to say about the problems with rules and laws. By reminding you of what not to do, they introduce temptations and often lead to sin. As a child, I had not yet studied Antinomianism, but I think I understood something of it. Before my Mother gave her command, I might not have been thinking about cookies at all. However, her instructions brought my eternal hunger front and center. 

My brother and I were then faced with another ancient and even Biblical situation. When my Mother was in the car or at the grocery store, was she also still at home? By that I mean, was her influence strong enough to dissuade our ravenous hunger? Could she have been both at-home and not-at-home at the same time? 

Both of these philosophical issues come to the fore in our Torah portion. Known as the Holiness Code, Chapter 19 of Leviticus begins with God’s invocation of holiness, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” and continues with a list of laws and rules.
Keep the Sabbath, honor your parents, worship only God and be respectful about it.
Share your bounty with the poor, do not steal or deal falsely or tell lies.
Do not swear falsely by God’s Name. Pay your employees.
Do not curse the deaf or trip the blind.
Be righteous in judgment—showing fairness to both poor and rich.
Do not be a gossip; do not hold grudges. Love your neighbor as yourself.
In practical terms, these mitzvot tell us how to be holy—providing a working definition of Kedushah/Holiness. 

Though Holiness is a word we all know, most of us have difficulty defining it without using equally difficult-to-define terms—words like Sacred or Sanctity. Kodesh/Holy can mean special, but more than just the usual specialness. The earliest Hebrew usages involve marriage ceremonies—where the groom declares the bride kedushin, separated from all other women in the world. Kedushin is still the Hebrew term for marriage. Some liken Kodesh to things set aside for religious celebration—like special Shabbos Clothes for Jews and Sunday-Go-to-Meeting Clothes for early American Christians. These outfits are special not just because they are fancy but also because they are set aside (separate) for religious purposes.  

Of course, clothes are not the only things set aside for religious purposes. In Exodus 19, we find that we are set aside—we, God’s Chosen People: “You shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” The exact meaning of this honor is unclear. Does it mean that we are better than everyone else? Or that we are the only ones willing to take on God’s covenant? Or that we are chosen for a task—and not as a sign of special approval? In any event, this double assignment from God seems to involve holy/priestly duties. Jewish Literature is full of mitzvot and their attendant behaviors, but the overarching goal of Kedushah/Holiness remains ambiguous.  

Rabbi Marcia Prager of Philadelphia explores this ambiguity in her wonderful book, The Path of Blessing, and explores the nuances of separateness and differentness. If God is Kadosh—Holy or separate or different, and God is the ultimate, then God’s specialness or separateness would be more special than any other in the cosmos. Since every other thing is either present or not present, Rabbi Prager suggests that God’s ultimate specialness and separation is that God could be both here and not here, both present and not present at the same time.  

Theology tells us that God is omnipresent—present everywhere all the time, but there are certainly times of evil or abandonment when God seems to be shut out or not present. In such times, God’s absence calls out for remedy, and the challenge is to invoke God—to somehow get God manifested. This is our job, explains Rabbi Prager: we can bring God into godless moments. We can bring forth God in times and places where the Divine seems absent.  

We are all aware of the terrible stories—often from the Holocaust but from far too many other times—when evil and cruelty triumph, and pain and suffering prevail. Horrible and godless acts have too often devoured humanity, but we have also heard stories where, even in the darkest of moments, a human steps forward and does something kind, good, or godly. These acts may be small, but metaphysically they bring light into the darkness—and manifest God in a godless place. (Sometimes, these acts are not small, and great blessings can be brought to the world.) 

Rabbi Prager sees this elusive quality of Kedushah as God’s ultimate separateness. God is present everywhere, but until we bring godliness to bear, it is as though God is absent. God is Holy, but we need to be Holy and bring God’s Presence into the world. 

This gets us back to Paul who is often interpreted as being against the Law—against the path of Torah. As with many historical figures, there are a lot of conflicting statements and interpretations, and Christianity debates these issues perennially. However, even though the Law—meaning the rules of behavior that the Torah and every other religious tradition insist are mandated by God—can remind us of temptations and off-the-path behaviors, the fact is that we need guidance. We need advice and specific instructions so that we can know how to live good lives. Even if we reduce all the mitzvot to Leviticus 19.18, “Ýou shall love your neighbor as yourself,” we still have a lot to contemplate about the specifics this mitzvah entails.  

Back to our initial childhood quandary: When my Mother went to the grocery store, was her presence still at home? Perhaps an answer comes from Martin Buber’s Ten Rungs, in an exchange between the Rabbi of Sadagora and his Hasidim: “You can learn from everything,” the rabbi of Sadagora once said to his hasidim. “Everything can teach us something, and not only everything God has created. What man has made has also something to teach us.” “What can we learn from a train?” one hasid asked dubiously, “That because of one second one can miss everything.” “And from the telegraph?” “That every word is counted and charged.” “And the telephone?” “That what we say here is heard there.”

The Physical Side of Spirituality

April 17th: Tazria-Metzorah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Most modern Jews find Leviticus difficult. The detailed instructions about animal sacrifices—a form of worship impossible for some 1900 years—do not strike most of us as inspiring. And when we read this week about the rules of leprosy, mold infestations in houses, and various bodily emissions—including those during women’s monthly cycles, many of us wonder how such passages connect us to God. Why is this ancient pseudo-science considered religious?                       

The “remoteness” of these passages has led many commentators to allegorize them or take a few steps back for a different perspective. How does one find meaning and inspiration in such non-inspirational texts? One possibility is to consider how the ancients did not compartmentalize their lives as we do. Since God created everything, they saw everything in the purview of religion, and thus they did not separate religion from science, or real estate law from etiquette, or torts from animal husbandry, or moral philosophy from personal hygiene. In their minds, all parts of life can be lived in relationship with God.   

A perfect example is Asher Yatzar, the “bathroom” prayer which thanks God that “our bodily openings remain open, and our bodily chambers remain closed. Otherwise, we would not be able to stand before God and utter praises.” This Torah of Hygiene continues in the Halachic literature, and contributors include the great Hillel. Among his many teachings are: (1) Bathe and wash your hair (and beard) frequently, caring for the bodily vessel God provides for your soul, and (2) Be careful in the privy lest bits of urine or feces get splashed on your clothing. While the religiosity of such passages may surprise us, they speak to the view that every aspect of life is an emanation of the Divine and can therefore be approached with both grace and gratefulness.  

That being said, there are other problems with these passages, among them the assignment of medical duties to religious functionaries. Why, for instance, do Tazria and Metzorah (our double Torah portion) send the Kohanim/Priests out to inspect for leprosy or irremovable mold? Why would the Torah ascribe expertise in scientific or physical things to ritual officials?   

Though the Torah does seem to set things up this way, Tradition also reveals a counter-current in which ritual leaders consult actual experts. A prime example is in Exodus when Moses and Aaron go to artisans like Betzalel for the design and construction of the Mishkan. Other examples come in the Talmud where scholarly Rabbis ask for advice from “mere” women, servants, or common people—individuals who are less knowledgeable in Halachah, but who understand the practicalities the Rabbis are trying to imbue with religion. In one famous example, Hillel tells the Rabbis to stop talking and look outside at the common people. The problem is how to carry slaughtering knives to the Temple when Passover falls on Shabbat. While worshippers usually carry their knives, carrying on Shabbat is forbidden. So the Rabbis discuss and discuss without resolution how to get the knives to the Temple. When, however, they look outside, they see the common people putting the knives in the lambs’ wool and letting the lambs do their own carrying. The non-scholars had already solved the problem.    

One can also see a theme throughout Halachic Literature of Rabbis deferring to experts in medical science. In Talmudic days, medical science believed that eating fish and meat in the same meal is unhealthy—and so the Talmud prohibits it. When, several generations later, the science had changed, the Halachah needed to change, too. However, lest the new rules show disrespect to the pious elders who had observed the old Halachah, the authorities stipulated that fish and meat eaten in the same meal should be served as separate courses and on separate plates. Gefilte Fish as an appetizer on one plate; then the brisket later and on a different plate! 

My point is that our religion has never been unaware of genuine expertise in things practical and scientific, so we may not want to take too literally the Torah’s entrusting of scientific judgment to the Priests. The Kohanim might have been the ones to pronounce someone leprous or not, but I suspect that that they consulted or brought along experts who actually knew.

The Jewish spiritual process involves being aware of and participating in the historic Jewish experience, but it does not insist that everything in the Torah is accurate or even good. One can be completely and appreciatively Jewish without agreeing with everything. What we should do, however, is to try to understand how, on every page of Tradition, our people have grappled with the challenges of life and tried to bring the spiritual to the temporal. In many ways, this struggle is at the core of our Jewish mission—a mission suggested by our name Israel. When our ancestor Jacob "wrestled with both God and humans and prevailed,” the pattern was set. We wrestle socially (and sometimes physically) as we try to fix the world. We wrestle emotionally as we try to improve ourselves. We even wrestle theologically as we try to understand and influence God. We wrestle with the challenges of life as we bring the holiness of heaven to earth.  

An insight to this dynamic can come in a closer look at the B’tzelem Elohim/In the Image of God verse in Genesis 1. When God says, “Let us make humankind in our image, after our likeness,” someone else seems to be addressed—someone included by the words “us” and “we.” Some commentators suggest that God is speaking to the angelic court and using the Royal We. Others cite a Midrash about God speaking to the Torah—using it as a blueprint for creating ideal humans living ideal lives. Our Christian friends like to imagine God-the-Father speaking to the other two members of the Holy Trinity, but, in the context of the story itself, God is speaking to the animals. Notice the sequence: “God made wild beasts of every kind and cattle of every kind, and all kinds of creeping things of the earth. And God saw that this was good. And God said, “Let us make humankind in our image, after our likeness.”  (Genesis 1.25-26) 

If God is indeed speaking to the newly-created animals and saying,“Let us make humankind in our image,” then the creature God proposes to them would be something that combines the animal with the godly—the physical with the spiritual. And is this not exactly what we are? Living in animal bodies with physical needs and in a physical world, we also have the capacity to be holy—to bring some of God’s goodness, nobility, compassion, and wisdom to the world. Indeed, is it not the human challenge to live fully both of our essential qualities: taking care of our physical selves and imbuing life with godliness?   

The Torah’s ancient “science” may not be what we know of as science, and ancient social mores may not be what our sensibilities demand, but through every single chapter we can see our people wrestling with reality and trying to do the right thing—trying to bring godliness into their lives and into the world.

Kashrut and the Reforming of Judaism

April 10th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A common mistake is referring to Reform Judaism as “Reformed Judaism.” We do not see our approach as a fixed reformation of traditional Judaism, but as a mindful and pious continuation of Judaism’s development. As Leonard Fein put it in a 1972 book title, “Reform is a Verb.”  

A case in point is the way that Reform has “gotten more traditional” over the last several decades. From around 1900 to 1980, most Reform congregations followed an approach known as Classical Reform. Men did not wear yarmulkes, Hebrew was kept to a minimum, and music was provided by an organ and choir. This style was motivated by a number of factors, but high on the list was the desire of Jews in the late 19th and early 20th Centuries to appear “normal” and “American” in the eyes of their non-Jewish neighbors. Though proudly and piously Jewish, Classical Reform Jews reveled in their ability to be both Jewish and American. 

This style of Judaism was in marked distinction to the more traditional and ethnically-oriented religion of Orthodox and Conservative Jews—many of whom felt that they were more Jewish than their Reform friends and relatives. Some of these emotions are still present today.  

As for Reform’s swing back to Tradition, there are a number of factors. First was a renewed sense of Jewish Peoplehood that came with the rise of Zionism, the horrors of European anti-Semitism, and the flowering of Israel’s Jewish multiculturalism. Second was the growing comfort of third and fourth generation American Jews who were secure enough in their Americanness to reclaim their ethnic heritage and older religious forms. Third were the many Conservative Jews who moved to Reform Temples but still clung to some traditional customs.  

This growing sense of Jewish Peoplehood can be found in the decision by the staunchly Reform Hebrew Union College to turn its archeological substation in Jerusalem into a required part of Rabbinical studies. Beginning in the 1970s, all Rabbinical students were required to spend the first of their five-year program in Israel. Immersed in the Hebrew language and Israel’s religious and cultural milieu, many came back “more traditional” than they had been before they left.  

When these students returned—to their families, summer camps, and congregations, they brought back this “return to tradition,” and some of their changes were less welcome than others. For example, when one student rabbi wanted to wear a yarmulke to lead services in a tiny synagogue, a prominent family threatened to quit. In another congregation, the student rabbi‘s beard inspired an angry letter to the seminary. And more than one hostess, pious and active members of their small congregations, bemoaned the fact that the student rabbis would no longer eat their prized pork roasts. Even though Reform is philosophically designed to continue reforming, some “traditions” were jarring to what many Jews knew as their Judaism.  

I mention all of this because our Torah portion provides one of the “battlegrounds” for these changes. Leviticus 11 gives us the early laws of Kashrut: “which creatures you may eat…and which shall not be eaten.” Mammals must have split hooves and chew the cud. Fish must have both fins and scales. There are no characteristics set for birds, but there is a list of those that “you shall abominate.” And, though most insects “shall be an abomination to you,” certain locusts “that have, above their feet, jointed legs to leap with on the ground” are permitted. 

While Kashrut has been a time-established standard in Jewish life since Talmudic times, many Jews who came to America abandoned it. As early as the mid-19th Century, foods such as shrimp, crab, and oysters—and even bacon and ham—were normal parts of the meals eaten by American Jews. In fact, when accosted by more traditional Jews who kept Kosher, the general attitude was that these “old” laws were no longer obligatory—that we had been freed from outmoded and unnecessary parts of Judaism. Many proud, active, and pious Jews felt that God had released us from the captivity of medieval and superstitious practices. 

This meant that the Rabbinical students exploring newly found traditions found themselves in an interesting dynamic. While many felt that traditions like keeping Kosher enhanced their feelings of connection to their ancestors, others realized that the reforms of Reform were also part of their history. In one memorable reflection, one student observed that, for the five generations of her family who had lived in Louisiana and Mississippi, taking part in the local culture and enjoying shrimp, crabs, and bacon was their/her Jewish tradition. Indeed many Jews thanked God for the blessings of freedom and acceptance.

The 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, a founding document of Reform Judaism, approaches “Tradition” in two of its planks:
(3)   We recognize in the Mosaic legislation a system of training the Jewish people for its mission during its national life in Palestine, and today we accept as binding only its moral laws, and maintain only such ceremonies as elevate and sanctify our lives, but reject all such as are not adapted to the views and habits of modern civilization.
(4)   We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation. 

This is the rationale both for Reform’s rejection of many traditional elements AND for its re-embrace of religious practices some now find “elevating and sanctifying.”   

While the Pittsburgh Platform provides a philosophical statement about changes in Jewish observance, the fact is that individual Jews have been making such choices for some two hundred years. When we find that a traditional religious practice gives us spiritual elevation, we choose to incorporate it into our lives. When we find that an observance is not meaningful, we choose to live our Jewish lives without it. This means that, in practical terms, each of us defines our own Jewishness. While Jews who identify as Conservative or Orthodox also make these kinds of decisions, Reform Judaism is conscious about the process and considers our religious autonomy a blessing and a gift. We study Jewish Tradition and learn which elements “elevate and sanctify our lives,” and these are the Jewish observances we choose.

Seeing God's Face?

April 3rd: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The special Torah portion for the Shabbat during Passover is from Exodus 33-34 and speaks to the question of God’s visibility. Can we ever see God? This is Moses’ hope when he asks the Lord, “If I have truly gained Your favor, pray let me know Your ways…and let me behold Your Presence.” (Exodus 33.13-18). The Hebrew word translated as Presence is Kevodecha—which literally means Your Magnificence. However, God understands the request as Moses wanting to see God’s face—for, in half-turning down the request, God says, “You cannot see Panai/My Face because a human cannot see Me and remain alive.” (Exodus 33.20) 

That is the half-refusal. God’s half-agreement is: “I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim before you the name Lord—and the grace that I grant and the compassion that I show.” (Exodus 33.19) We do not know if Moses is disappointed, but I think that God’s offer is much better than simply seeing God’s Face. 

Why? First, there is the tradition that God’s “Face” is far too intense for human perception. In a famous story in the Talmud, we are told about four Rabbis—experts in Torah and apparently experimenting with mystical techniques—who somehow ascend to Pardes/The Orchard or Garden (apparently a euphemism for Heaven): “Ben Azzai looks at God’s Presence and dies. Ben Azzai looks at God’s Presence and loses his mind. Elisha ben Abuya looks at God’s Presence and becomes a heretic. Only one, Rabbi Akiva, survives by entering in peace and leaving in peace.” (Haggigah 14.b) Some knowledge and some images are just too much for the human mind—and the experience Moses craves may not be as edifying as he anticipates.

Second, there is the problem of appearances. Seeing something or someone does not mean that one automatically gains understanding. Too often, we only see things on the surface, and we can easily be fooled (or fool ourselves). As Rabbi Judah HaNasi counsels, “Do not look at the bottle but at that what it contains. A new bottle could be full of old wine, and an old bottle could not have new wine.” (Pirke Avot 4.20) Proverbs like this would not be repeated so often if the problem were not endemic to human experience. If Moses want to “know God’s ways,” then merely seeing God might not provide the information or inspiration he seeks.

Third is the problem of memory. When witnesses witness something, there are all sorts of possibilities for what they remember. Different angles, assumptions, and interpretations can make it difficult for judges, attorneys, and jurors to adjudicate their testimony. This also happens in conversation among relatives and friends. How many different memories can there be from a single event? So, though Moses’ curiosity about God is understandable, what would he remember—and how would he interpret/spin these memories? Again, seeing God might not provide the long-term information Moses wants.  

Fourth is the problem of idolatry. When seeing something so magnificent and overwhelming, Moses would inevitably have to focus on a small and limited part—and inevitably miss something important. Whatever he takes from the encounter would be an “idol,” a human representation of God conceptualized by Moses, a mere human. Notice the Prophet’s belittling of the idolatry process (from the Haftarah two weeks ago):
“The makers of idols all work to no purpose…The craftsman in wood measures with a line and marks out a shape with a stylus; he forms it with scraping tools, marking it out with a compass. He gives it the form of a person—human beauty, to dwell in a shrine.  

For his use he cuts down cedars; he chooses plane trees and oaks. He sets aside trees of the forest; or plants firs, and the rain makes them grow. All this serves a mortal for fuel: he takes some to warm himself, and he builds a fire and bakes bread. He also makes a god of it and worships it, fashions an idol and bows down to it!  

Part of it he burns in a fire: on that part he roasts meat, he eats the roast and is sated; he also warms himself and cries, ‘Ah, I am warm! I can feel the heat!’ Of the rest he makes a god—his own carving! He bows down to it, worships it; he prays to it and cries, ‘Save me, for you are my god!’” (Isaiah 43.9-17)  

Idolatry is the absurd attempt to reduce something infinite and ineffable (God!) to what we can create—artistically, intellectually, and theologically. Should Moses try to create from his perceptions of the proposed encounter, he would inevitably shortchange God—and his “construction” would be both inaccurate and an affront to the Divine.  

Fortunately, however, God makes a counter-offer, “I will make all My goodness pass before you,” providing Moses and all of his students a life-long offer of Divine manifestation to see and study. Moses and his students will be able to “know God’s way” by watching God’s manifestations in the world.  

This counter-offer also has a mysterious anthropomorphism:
“Station yourself on the rock, and as My Presence passes by, I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen.” (Exodus 33.21-23)

God’s hand? God’s face? God’s back?! The best way that I can understand this passage is to compare it to the wake of a ship or boat. After it passes, the environment is affected—sometimes for quite a while after the vessel is out of sight.  

Among the many lessons Moses learns is that seeing God is not the point. The point of a holy life is learning of God’s ways by listening to God and by observing God’s back—the aftermath and effects of godliness in the world.

Is Religion Worth the Trouble?

March 27th: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Tzav continues the Levitical instructions for the many different sacrifices offered to the Lord. While all the Israelites are commanded to bring animals, flour, oil, and wine, it is the Kohanim/Priests who officiate and need to know exactly how to do each ritual correctly. Much of Leviticus seems to be their technical manual.

 As such, Leviticus talks about the What’s and How’s of sacrificial worship, but, other than the fact that God commands them, there is little about the Why’s of worship. It is not until later in the Bible that Prophets and Psalmists discuss the psychology or motivations of worship—and our Haftarah this week gives us an excellent example.  

The Prophet Malachi (3.4-24) is concerned about some Israelites who are not following God’s commands, and he imagines a kind of courtroom confrontation in which God and the people exchange complaints and accusations. God’s contention is that the people cheat on their tithes. While God faithfully “opens the floodgates of the sky for you to pour down blessings upon you,” the people shortchange the offerings they are supposed to bring. This is both an affront against God and an economic assault on the Kohanim who depend on their share of the offerings for sustenance.  

The people’s complaint is that they do not see God’s moral stewardship. “It is useless to serve God. What have we gained by keeping God’s charge and walking in abject awe of the Lord of Hosts?” (verse 14) They continue with an argument later called Theodicy: “We see the arrogant happy: indeed they have done evil and endured; they have dared God and escaped.” Why should we serve God if God does not rule the world justly? 

The Biblical understanding of God’s Justice is that obedience to God’s commandments brings reward, disobedience brings punishment, and both reward and punishment come during our lifetimes. Malachi’s complainers believe that they have been promised justice, but they do not see it happening. They see the arrogant and evil doing fine (not being punished). And though not stated, they presumably see good people suffering and not getting the rewards they deserve. If God is not doing what has been promised, then bringing sacrifices is a waste of effort. 

Malachi’s answer is that God’s Justice will soon be seen—that God is preparing an “awesome, fearful day of the Lord.” Unfortunately, no schedule is given, and we are left wondering how soon this day will come. Will it be in our lifetimes or in the distant Messianic future? “Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord!”  

The Book of Job attempts to tackle this issue, but its message is sort of a non-answer. Though Job is a completely righteous man, he suffers grievously and for no apparent reason. Despite all this, he keeps his faith in God, and the lesson for readers is that God’s ways are beyond our understanding. We cannot see the dynamics of the Divine, so we should just trust in God. 

This answer was good enough for many believers, but others continued to be troubled by the seeming inconsistency in Divine Justice. An answer came from the Perushim/Pharisees—scribes and teachers who were later called Rabbis. Wrestling with this Theodicy and with cryptic references like Malachi’s about a future day when God’s Justice will be seen, the Rabbis intuited an answer. If God is just, they reasoned, then the incomplete justice we witness in this world must be in only one part of the story—and the second part of the story must be when God makes everything right. The Rabbis intuited that this time will come after we die, and thus did they teach about Olam HaBa/The World to Come where the scales of moral justice will be righted. As Rabbi Jacob explains, “This world is like an anteroom before the World-to-Come. Prepare yourself in the anteroom so that you may enter the banquet hall.” (Pirke Avot 4.16)  

This notion of an eternal reward has comforted and inspired generations of Jews—as well as Christians and Muslims who got the belief from us. God is just, but the timeframe for that justice extends beyond this mortal life. 

Many people find this answer helpful, but many do not. They have doubts about God or about God’s record in the world—or about the ways that religions have managed themselves. They note differing religious opinions and are bothered by the lack of scientific proof. Thus are there those among us who speak the words of Malachi’s worship-reluctant complainers:  “It is useless to serve God. What have we gained by keeping God’s charge and walking in abject awe of the Lord of Hosts?” 

A modern approach to this problem can be found in Milton Steinberg’s historical novel, As a Driven Leaf. Set in Talmudic times, the main character (“Elisha ben Abuya”) struggles to ascertain ultimate truth mathematically. He turns away from Judaism, embraces Greek philosophy, and ultimately fails to find the certainty he demands, Though set in the Second Century, Steinberg’s story deftly parallels the challenges modern Jews have faced as we are caught between modern science and traditional wisdom. “What have we gained?” many ask, by following our traditional religion?  

Among the insights I draw from Rabbi Steinberg is that this kind of transactional question may not be the best way to approach religion or life. For many religionists, it is not a matter of choosing a God Who can be “proven” or Who serves us better. Rather, religion is about trying to figure out the cosmos around us. Despite what we know or do not know, much of our searching involves intuition. As philosopher William James explains, Religion is the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—to the“more”(an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence). We sense a Presence, and we yearn to understand it, to approach it, and to live in a conscious relationship with it. The exact nature of the Presence is ineffable—impossible to describe, but it is nonetheless remarkably appealing and innately good. Religion is the product of this intuitive process, and Judaism is one religious way to reach out for holiness.  

Religion is thus less a transactional relationship and more a holy seeking. We are beckoned to approach the Infinite and receive the influence of the Infinitely Good. What we “gain” is the experience of “walking in the awe and inspiration of God.”

Trying to Make Sense of Leviticus

March 20th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Greeks titled this book of the Torah Leviticus because much of it tells the Levitical Priests how to officiate at sacrificial worship. The Greek custom was to use titles that summarize a book. Thus did they choose Genesis for the book dealing with the origins of the world and of the Hebrew People, and Exodus for the book that records our miraculous departure from slavery in Egypt. They chose Numbers because the book begins with a census—though, after a few chapters, it tells stories from the forty years in the wilderness. And they chose Deuteronomy (second telling) because Moses’ farewell lectures summarize Israelite history.  

The Hebrew tradition is different, using the first significant word in the first sentence as the title:
(1) Genesis begins with the words “B’raysheet/At First, God created the heavens and the earth…” and is known as B’raysheet/At First.
(2) Exodus begins with “Eleh sh’mot/These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt…” and is thus known as Sh’mot/Names.
(3) We’ll get to Leviticus in a moment.
(4) Numbers begins with “Va’y’daber Adonai el Moshe b’mid’bar Sinai/And the Lord spoke to Moses in the Wilderness of Sinai…” and is known as B’mid’bar/In Desert.
(5) Deuteronomy begins with “Eleh had’varim asher diber Moshe el-kol Yisrael/These are the words that Moses said to all Israel…” and is thus called D’varim/Words. 

The Book of Leviticus begins with “Va’yik’ra el-Moshe va’y’daber Adonai elav/The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him…” and is thus knows as Vayik’ra/He called. It is perhaps the least auspicious title in the Five Books of Moses, but it can help to explain something very difficult for moderns. What’s with the sacrifices?! Why did ancient peoples believe that God wanted them to kill and cook a bunch of animals—and then eat them in a sacred banquet? 

The answer begins with two ancient stories, one from Babylonia and the other from the Torah. In both stories, a great Flood destroys almost all life on earth, but one man builds a large boat and rides out the flood with his family and some animals. When the waters subside, the humans come out and sacrifice some of the animals. In the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, Utnapishtim sacrifices some animals, and the gods hover around the cooking meat like flies—presumably getting sustenance from the smoke and fat. In the Torah’s story, Noah sacrifices some animals, and “the Lord smelled the pleasing odor” (Genesis 8.21). The Babylonians thought that their gods got nutrition from the cooking meat. The Hebrews thought that, since God enjoyed the aromas of the cooking meat, God would come around to smell it—and, with God present, they could speak to God with praises and prayers.  

This sacrificial approach to worship was the Jewish way from the Patriarchs to the First Century CE. However, when the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, we were faced with a crisis. The Romans would not allow the Temple to be rebuilt, and the Bible’s rules prohibited relocating it anywhere else. How could we Jews continue to worship God?  

Fortunately, there was already a tradition of local non-Temple worship. In places called b’tay k’nesset or synagogues, Jews in far-flung villages and cities could prayerfully support from afar the sacrificial services in the Jerusalem Temple. The Rabbis never gave up the hope of eventually rebuilding the Temple and reinstituting sacrificial worship, but they did decide that these synagogues could function as temporary substitutions. Relying on a numbers of Biblical passages, they realized that God does not need the fire, blood, or meat—that what God really wants is our attention and piety.  

For example, in King Solomon’s prayer as he dedicates the Temple in Jerusalem (I Kings 8.44-53), he emphasizes the importance of prayer no matter where it is offered. In Jeremiah 29.12, Micah 6.6-8, Hosea 6.6 and 14.2-3, Amos 5.21-25, and Daniel 6.11, the Prophets speak of how prayer is what God really wants. And the message is reiterated in the Psalms (32.5-6, 33.1-5, 51.16-19, and 69.31-37). What God wants is our reverence, our obedience, and our attention. This could be communicated in the local synagogues.  

So, the Rabbis constructed a prayer worship service, and they made it a kind of conversation between Heaven and Earth. In each service, passages from the Bible—Psalms, the Shema and Ve’ahavta, and the Torah reading—represent God calling to us. Then we call back to God with our prayers—speaking of our admiration, our hopes, our disappointments and embarrassments, and our requests for Divine help. Torah is when God talks to us; prayer is when we talk to God. 

To make sure that we approach the Divine with godly attitudes and aspirations, the Rabbis peppered the prayers (our words to God) with Biblical quotations. We hope that by shaping our prayers with holiness, our prayers will be acceptable: “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” (Psalm 19.15) 

Thus does the Hebrew title of Leviticus—Vayikra/And God Called—reflect the ideal dynamic of worship. God calls, and we answer. Worship is where we encounter the Divine and develop and conduct our relationship with the Eternal Holy One.

In the ancient days, God called out to Moses and instructed the ancients Levitical rules. We then responded with gifts of livestock, grain, oil, and wine. Now we hear the call of the Lord in different ways—in Torah, in Tradition, and in the spiritual dynamics of Am Yisrael/Jewish Peoplehood, but we respond nonetheless. Our answers to God are with prayers, kavannah, morality, and Jewish Peoplehood.  

In our relationship with the Divine, we seek God’s Presence, yearning to draw the holy influence into our lives. As Isaiah prays (2.5): “O House of Jacob! Come, let us walk by the light of the Lord!”

Balancing Holiness

March 13th: Vayakhel-Pikuday and HaChodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our weekly portion(s) and a seasonal portion present us with an interesting dovetail.  

Parshat Vayakhel begins with one of several versions of the Sabbath commandment:
“On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death. You shall kindle no fire through your settlements on the sabbath day.” (Exodus 35.1)
It is pretty standard except for two differences:
(1)   The intensity of the punishment for breaking the sabbath. Sometimes, no punishment is mentioned. Other times, it is being cut off from the people. Here it is death.
(2)   The specific focus on “kindling fire.” The Mishna eventually identifies thirty-nine categories of work (M’lachah) prohibited on Shabbat, but this iteration focuses on one in particular: kindling fire. Other Biblical statements focus on other kinds of work—like plowing or reaping—or are more concerned with who/what gets the day off.  

Hold this Shabbat passage in your mind for a moment while we take a look at the extra pre-Passover portion from Exodus 12. It is called HaChodesh/This Month because it starts with, “This month shall be for you the beginning of months…of the year.” The month is Nisan, and Moses is given the instructions for the original Passover. The Israelites are to choose a lamb on the tenth day of the month and then slaughter it on the eve of the fourteenth day at sundown. The lamb’s blood is to be used to paint the doorposts of their houses, and the meat is to be roasted and eaten along with matzah and maror.  

The procedure is pretty straightforward, but God or Moses anticipates an interruption. What if a household is too small to eat a whole lamb? Note how the thought process is broken:
“On the tenth day of this month, each of them shall take a lamb to a family, a lamb to a household. But if the household is too small for a lamb, let him share it with a neighbor who dwells nearby, in proportion to the number of persons: you shall contribute for the lamb according to what each household will eat…”
Here they are, preparing for the biggest and most holy night of their lives, and all of a sudden, we are dealing with the size of portions and divvying up lambs among households!  

On the one hand, we can chuckle at our ability to lose focus of the big picture—the holy big picture—and allow ourselves to get mired in details. On the one hand, we can take pride in the way that our Judaism always combines the practical with the spiritual. And, on the third hand, we can notice how even the holiest of mitzvot comes up against the realities of the lives of those performing the mitzvot. As significant as the slaughter of the Passover lamb is, determining the right amount of blood and meat and not wasting any food are also important considerations. The practice of religion often involves balancing different priorities.

Now back to the Shabbat commandment—and an ancient argument. Though kindling fire is considered one of the thirty-nine prohibited forms of M’lachah/Work on Shabbat, a fire-less Shabbat is problematic on several levels. If it is cold outside, Shabbat can be a chilly and unpleasant experience. The same goes for eating cold food; it is less pleasant and celebratory. And there is the matter of light. Without candles, Shabbat observers have no recourse but to go straight to bed. This may seem to us overly strict, but it was the approach of the ancient Sadducees—and a later movement called the Karaites. They read the Torah literally, and no fire means no fire. The unpleasantness was just considered the cost of following God’s orders.  

Another group, however, disagreed. They believed that, in addition to not working on the sabbath, the sabbath should be enjoyed: Oneg Shabbat. As Isaiah explains (58.13), enjoying the sabbath honors God. Shivering in the dark and eating cold food is hardly the Oneg Shabbat God seems to have in mind. In other words, we Jews were faced with two conflicting religious principles: not working on Shabbat and enjoying Shabbat.  

This other group was originally known as Scribes, later as Pharisees (Pietists and Separatists), and still later as Rabbis, and they found their resolution in an even closer reading of the text. The Exodus 35.1 passage does not ban fire, but only the kindling of fire. So, if fire could be kindled before Shabbat and allowed to burn into Shabbat, then no prohibited work would be performed. Furnaces could be packed with fuel and lit before Shabbat. Food could be put in long-lasting ovens before Shabbat and allowed to stay warm. And candles kindled before Shabbat could burn on into the evening and give celebrating families illumination. Thus could the holiness of Shabbat be enhanced with heat and warm food and light—all kindled before Shabbat.  

While this seemed the perfect fix to the Rabbis, the Sadducees and later the Karaites objected strongly. They did not agree with the Rabbinic “enhancement” of the Torah—in which an Oral Torah (Torah She’b’al Peh) was used to interpret the Written Five Books of Moses, and they were fierce opponents. Eventually the Rabbis gained the ascendency, and they decreed that, not only is it allowed to let pre-kindled fires burn into Shabbat, but also it is required. And they created a new ritual to express this principle: they lit candles before sundown and let them burn into the sabbath. They even decreed that God has ordained such a practice and crafted a blessing which refers to the mitzvah (commandment from God) of lighting Shabbat candles. Though just ornamental fires, these candles symbolize the triumph of Oneg Shabbat over holy asceticism. 

So, every time someone says, “Asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu l’had’lik ner shel Shabbat/Who sanctified us with Your Commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath lights,” we are joining in a human adaptation of God’s commands in the Torah. When the holy mitzvah of Shabbat met reality, a resolution became necessary, and the Rabbis used a balancing religious principle to craft one of our institutions of holiness. They realized that God has given Torah to us (Deuteronomy 30.12 and Baba Metziah 59b)—and that we are empowered and encouraged to make it work in our earthly lives.  

P.S. A discussion for another time is the way the mitzvah of Lighting of Shabbat Candles has morphed into a different kind of spiritual observance—one less tied to labor and sundown and more reflective of our desires to bring God into our lives.

"In a Place Where There are No Human Beings..."

March 6th: Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we asked questions about the effectiveness of “speaking out” against oppression and wondered what other strategies may be more helpful. We also considered the ways that status and connections can affect such speaking out. We had two references. One is Purim in which a well-connected Mordecai and an even better-connected Queen Esther use their positions to help their people. The second is the well-known poem by Pastor Martin Niemoller: 
“First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist…”
The implicit message of the poem is that, had he “spoken out,” Pastor Niemoller could have stopped the Nazis, but I wonder about this. Whereas Mordecai and Esther had the “juice” to get things done, were people like Martin Niemoller in a position to stop the Nazi juggernaut? Could protests have stopped Hitler, or was the problem that the Germans with status, connections, and power thought that Hitler would save them? Could “speaking out” have stopped the evil, or was the storm inevitable? Could Pastor Niemoller have done anything effective? 

I am not devaluing the democratic process or public protests. One of the responsibilities and privileges of citizenship is to share our insights and opinions with those in power. However, there are times when political and social trends are beyond our control—when, no matter what we think, say, or do, injustice will rise or oppression will continue. We dread such circumstances, but they have too often been the human experience. For all sorts of oppressed people and throughout millennia, the question was what could be done in the midst of bad times. When oppression or injustice reigns, how do we respond?  

There is a kind of lesson in this week’s Torah portion, one taught by Aaron as he attempts and fails to stop the Golden Calf apostasy. Though a simple reading suggests that Aaron is a willing co-conspirator, the Midrash finds a number of clues that suggest a hidden anti-idolatry agenda. As you may remember, just before Moses ascends Mount Sinai, he leaves Aaron and a dignitary named Hur in charge. When Moses stays longer than expected, the people’s response is panic and apostasy, and, according to the Midrash, they besiege Hur, demanding that he help them build the idol. He refuses, but “…the people were out of control…and were a menace to any who might oppose them.” (Exodus 32.25) The mob murders Hur, and Aaron realizes that, if he refuses and is also murdered, there will be no one to officiate at the atonement rituals that will certainly be necessary. So, even though Aaron is against the idolatry, he pretends to take charge of the Calf’s crafting and tries several strategies to stop the communal sin:
(1)   He tells the people to donate their own jewelry—thinking they will not.
(2)   He throws their jewelry into the fire.
(3)   He works very slowly, hoping to delay things until Moses returns.
(4)   When the Calf is set up, he delays the festival until the next day.
(5)   He declares that the festival will be for the Lord—and not for the Calf. 

Though Moses yells angrily at Aaron, God is not angry with him at all, and God puts Aaron and his sons in charge of the Mishkan and sacred worship forever. God seems to understand that Aaron does his best in an impossible situation.

Though we can retrospectively imagine how Hitler and the Nazis could have been stopped, there was no way for many Germans to stop the gigantic wave of hate and destruction. For many, the more relevant question was what could be done in the midst of the nightmare—and there are hundreds of stories of heroism, self-sacrifice, and cleverness that show the human spirit standing tall, even when the forces of darkness dominate.

Among these stories is that of Rabbi Leo Baeck. A brilliant scholar and intellectual, the growing oppression of the Nazis led him to transition to the role of civic and charitable leadership. Whereas many Rabbis sought refuge outside of Germany, Rabbi Baeck stayed behind to help the community bear up under horrible pressure. Baeck could not change the Nazis, but he could help those who were suffering—promoting compassion, charity, dignity, faith, and courage.  

He excelled as a communal leader for many years, but, in January of 1943, he was deported to Theresienstadt. When the Gestapo came to take him, he asked them to wait for a few minutes while he paid some utility bills. He knew where he was going but did not want to depart without fulfilling his obligations. That he could show such composure and principle in such a moment is amazing, but more amazing to me is that the Gestapo let him. They allowed him to sit undisturbed at his desk and write those checks and then post them. 

What kind of presence must he have had? Rather than being roused from his bed and dragged off, his arrest was decorous and conducted with dignity. What kind of stature did this Rabbi present? What kind of reputation did he have that he was treated with such respect—even though he was being deported to imprisonment and possible execution? Here was a man with enormous stature, and yet his protestations about and to the Nazis could not stop the Shoah. Ultimately, his contributions were in helping his people face the unimaginable. 

In Theresienstadt, Rabbi Baeck continued his communal and spiritual leadership up. But as the War was ending and the Allies approached, the Nazis started executing “important detainees.” Baeck was on that list, but, there was an administrative mistake, and another man named Leo Baeck was taken in his place. After the War, Rabbi Baeck continued his moral and intellectual leadership, achieving an almost prophetic stature among Liberal Jews all over the world.  

Sometimes, we can affect or participate in the great waves that sweep over our lives. Democracy, civic engagement, and “petition(ing) the Government for a redress of grievances” have their places and may be strategically effective. But there are other times when “the moral arc of the universe” fails to wield enough influence, and we need to hunker down. The lessons from Aaron the High Priest and Dr. Leo Baeck teach us about this different level of influence and effectiveness. Perhaps it is on a smaller scale, but we do what we can do. As Hillel advises, “In a place where there are no human beings, strive all the harder to be a human being.”  (Avot 2.5)  

Speaking Out? Or Making a Difference?

February 27th: Tetzaveh and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to our weekly Torah portion, we have an additional portion that anticipates Purim. In Deuteronomy 25.17-19, we are reminded that our antipathy with Haman goes way back:
“Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all you enemies around you, in the land the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”  
According to genealogical passages in Genesis and Esther, the evil Haman is a descendant of Amalek, and thus are we instructed to “blot out his name” whenever it is read in Megillat Ester.  

Purim is a curious holiday because it is more sociological than religious. God does not speak in the Book of Esther—nor do any miracles nor even command the annual commemoration. The only “role” God plays is that Mordecai believes in God and piously refuses to bow down to any human. So, though God is our Creator and Redeemer—and perhaps pulls a few invisible strings, Purim is a festival of human qualities: faith, courage, self-defense—and political power. The prominence and connections of Esther and Mordecai put them in position to help our people.   

This makes me think about the various crises in which we humans find ourselves and our various options for effective response. When we see something unjust, we understandably have an emotional reaction, but merely shreying gevalt or protesting may not be the best strategy for stopping oppression. Public protests have their place, but simply flailing one’s arms may be more self-indulgent than helpful. Serious problems require strategic thinking. 

Many of us are inspired by the words of Lutheran Pastor Martin Niemoller in a poem he wrote after the Second World War.
“First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left to speak out for me.” 

This poem is often used to inspire social justice protests, but for Martin Niemoller it was a statement of regret. He did not “speak out” against Hitler because he liked Hitler. An avowed anti-Semite, Niemoller voted for the Nazis in 1924, 1928, and 1933. It was only after several years of Nazi tyranny that he changed his mind, speaking out and helping found an anti-Nazi church. He “spoke out” and got sent to Dachau—and only narrowly escaped execution. After the War, he wrote the poem as a reflection of his remorse and repentance. 

But one may well ask, had he been of a different mind in the 1920s or early 1930s, what could he have “spoken out?” And to whom? Did Pastor Niemoller have the status, power, or connections to speak out effectively and make a difference, or is his poetic imperative to “speak out” more a matter of personal moral clarity? As important as self-expression is, there are times when it does little practical good.  

This reminds me of Aristotle’s definition of Rhetoric. An early observer and teacher of communication—and known as The Father of Rhetoric, Aristotle’s defines rhetoric as:
 “finding in any situation the available means of persuasion.”
Note how his emphasis is on the persuasive aspect of expression. Speaking out a message is only half the job; the other half is speaking so that listeners understand and are persuaded to constructive action. 

(This, by the way, is similar to the challenge of Kavannah, concentration in prayer. Merely speaking the words or making the gestures is not enough. Real Kavannah means mustering the sincerity, intensity, and prayerfulness necessary to engage the Divine.) 

When we communicate, many of us rely on “being right” or “having Science or History behind us,” but sometimes such insistences fall on deaf ears. Why is this? Is the message being communicated in a listenable manner? Are there cultural issues shadowing or impeding the reception? Or could we be “coming on too strong,” our stridency and repetition being perceived as nagging or harassment—or condescension? Could too insistent communications evoke a defensive posture—a siege mentality that actually shuts off both dialog and clear thinking? In other words, if our messages about social and policy goals are not getting through, what are we doing wrong—and are there perhaps other communication or political strategies that would serve us better?  

My point is not to devalue “speaking out” but to remind us of the possibility of other useful strategies. For example,  there are some people whose letters-to-the-editor or op-eds carry more weight than others—who by virtue of their status, connections, and reputations are more persuasive. It may seem undemocratic, but the fact is that connections and reputations matter. As we learn in the Book of Esther, reaching out to the Esther’s and Mordecai’s and even King Ahashuerus’ out there may prove more effective in advancing Tikkun Olam. “Finding the available means of persuasion” means developing relationships with those in power—and working with them, respecting them, listening to them, and cooperating with them. Not only are such relationships strategic, but they are also neighborly. Remember, our goal is not self-expression or political domination but persuading our neighbors and fellow citizens to improve our society.

God Dwelling Among Us

February 20th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

As our Torah portion opens, God asks Moses and the Children of Israel to build a Mishkan (a place of holy habitation): “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8) This is the Tabernacle, the Tent Temple that the Israelites use for worship for some 300-400 years until King Solomon builds the Temple in Jerusalem. One figures that the tent itself must have been abandoned in the transition, but the other ritual implements and furniture—the altar, basins, tongs, flayers, incense altar, etc.—would still be of use in the new space. Among these permanent holy things is, of course, the Ark of the Covenant.  

According to the instructions in Exodus 25, the Ark of the Covenant is to have a “cover of pure gold, two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide.” On top of and attached to the cover are to be two “cherubim of gold—make of hammered work…one cherub at one end and the other cherub at the other end…the cherubim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall face each other, with their faces looking downward to the cover.” (Exodus 25.17-20) One of the purposes of these Cheruvim is to provide God a place to “sit” when abiding with the Israelites: “There I will meet with you, and I will impart to you—from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Pact—all that I will command you concerning the Israelite people.” 

These cherubim/Cheruvim are one of the many varieties of M’lachim/Angels described in the Bible. Not at all like the chubby and cute little cherubim of Roman mythology and Baroque Art, these Cheruvim are fierce creatures with two wings who provide God with various services—among them guarding the entrance to the Garden of Eden, Other M’lachim/angels in the Bible include the fiery Seraphim in Isaiah 6 who each have six wings and who chant, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts; the fullness of the earth is God’s glory!” Ezekiel describes visions with angels who are (or ride) a fiery chariot, or who are burning wheels of fire, or who are Chayot Hakodesh/Holy Beasts. We do not get descriptions of the angels using the ladder in Jacob’s dream, or the angel with whom he wrestles, or the sword-bearing angel blocking Balaam’s way, or the Angel of the Lord who slays the Egyptian first-born or who blows the water of the Red Sea, but the point is that these M’lachim are present from time to time in our ancient stories. (In later Jewish literature, these angels  and their powers, limitations, and assignments are discussed in great detail.) 

And they are still around. We sing to them every Shabbat in Shalom Alaychem, greeting the angels who accompany us on the Sabbath and asking them to bless us. We sing about them on Shabbat morning in El Adon. Composed by the Yordey Merkavah mystics of the Eighth Century, this curious hymn accepts its time’s belief in astrology but emphasizes that it is God (El Adon) who puts the stars in their positions and uses them to direct human affairs. Part of the hymn describes the happiness of the celestial angels as they go about doing God’s work—apparently a hint to us that we should also approach our holy work with enthusiasm. The last line of the hymn mentions three kinds of angelic beings—Seraphim, Ofanim, and Chayot Hakodesh—who along with the sun, moon, and stars all join in praising their/our Creator. 

This notion of M’lachim/Angels doing God’s work was part of an ancient mentality that imagined God as a Monarch sitting in one place and thus needing agents to go out and do His will. However, once we began to think of God as omnipresent, angels became theologically unnecessary. A God who is everywhere at the same time can do everything personally—everywhere and all at the same time. Nonetheless, the belief in and images of angels persist. Perhaps it is a by-product of an invisible universal God who is far too immense to imagine. Or perhaps we use the word angel as an expression for our awareness of God’s Presence in a particular moment—like the way we refer to a wave or a current as an entity unto itself even though it is really just part of the ocean.  

In any event, we need to get back to the Cheruvim and the Ark of the Covenant; there may be a discrepancy. As attested by the Torah and Dr. Henry “Indiana” Jones, Jr., the Ark is small enough to be carried, and the Cheruvim on top are thus fairly small. It is an ornate and movable box, four-five feet long and two-three feet wide, and the Cheruvim fit on top. However, when King Solomon builds and outfits the Temple (II Chronicles 3), the Cheruvim are much, much larger: “Solomon made two sculptured cherubim in the Holy of Holies, and they were overlaid with gold. The outspread wings of the cherubim were 20 cubits across…” In other words, these were giant Cheruvim—with combined wings about thirty feet long. What gives? How could II Chronicles and Dr. Jones disagree? 😊 There are two possible answers. 

The first is that Solomon seems to craft some new items for the Temple—among them a pair of Cheruvim that are more befitting a magnificent and permanent home for God. Keeping the original Ark, Solomon places it under the new giant Cheruvim in the Temple’s Holy of Holies.  

The second is that these “smaller vs. bigger Cheruvim” accounts may be one more clue in a theory about the wilderness Mishkan being more legendary than historical. Think about how unlikely it would have been for a bunch of escaped slaves to fashion an elaborate “tent temple.” All is possible with God, but the account is so improbable that some scholars think that the Exodus Mishkan and elaborate Ark are anachronisms—stories created by later generations who frequented Solomon’s Temple and could not imagine their ancestors worshipping in anything less grand. Perhaps they enhanced the original story of a small and modest Tent of Meeting into the grand shrine described in Exodus. Among our clues is this passage about a small tent that one man can pitch: “Now Moses would take the Tent and pitch it outside the camp, at some distance from the camp. It was called the Tent of Meeting, and whoever sought God would go out to the Tent of Meeting…And when Moses entered the Tent, the pillar of cloud would descend and stand at the entrance of the Tent, while God spoke with Moses.” (Exodus 33.7-9) 

There are multiple threads in our Tradition, and not all of them agree with each other. However, what we have in every story is a record of our people’s aspirations to understand and live in relationship with the Divine. Whether stories of God acting through M’lachim or of our ancient and impoverished ancestors constructing an elaborate Tent Temple,  our Tradition is one of human beings trying to be holy. In worship, in sacred literature, and in godly deeds, our ancient and continuing goal is to construct, both physically and metaphorically, a sanctuary that invites God to dwell among us.

Hillel vs. Shammai: The Debate (?) Continues

February 13th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Every two years, I share with the Minyanaires (our program for 6th and 7th Graders and their Parents) a passage from the Talmud in which the Mitzvot are summarized and reduced from 613 to one. It begins with Rabbi Simlai:
“613 commandments were given to Moses, 365 Thou shalt nots, corresponding to the days in the solar year, and 248 Thou shalts, corresponding to the number of parts of the human body.” (Talmud Makkot 23b-24a)
Other than his breakdown of do’s and don’t’s, Rabbi Simlai is referring to the old legend that, if one were to count all the commandments in the Torah, one would come up with 613. It is a difficult number to verify, and the various listings of the mitzvot do not always agree with each other. Among the problems is the multiple iterations of some commandments. If the commandment about not “boiling a kid in its mother’s milk” is given three times, is that one mitzvah or three? If both versions of the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5) tell us not to murder, is that one mitzvah or two? And how do we count the mitzvot in Commandment #10?
“You shall not covet your neighbor’s house: you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male or female servant, or his ox or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s.” 

Another question involves the applicability of these 613 to any particular individual. Many are only addressed to men. Many are only addressed to women. Many are addressed only to people living in the Land of Israel, and many are addressed only to the Kohanim (Priests) or worshippers bringing sacrifices to the Temple. Most commandments are just for Jews, but the seven Noachide Laws are incumbent on all humans.  

In other words, while there are hundreds of mitzvot—and thousands once the Rabbis of the Talmud apply them to the complexities of human life, the number 613 seems more legendary and inspirational. Rather than counting the list, what we should realize is that living a holy life involves lots and lots of details. The details may seem overwhelming but think about how actually performing a mitzvah can involve a number of factors. If we want to observe Commandment #4 from the Ten Commandments: “Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy,” we need to reconcile two conflicting sub-mitzvot. One says that we should not work, but the other says that we should enjoy Shabbat/Oneg Shabbat. Is heating coffee or soup to enjoy the Sabbath included in the category of work? What about going out to a restaurant or going to the beach? Are these not enjoying a day off? There is also the question of driving a car to synagogue—figuring that one can have a holier Shabbat at synagogue? Discussions like this have been going on for over two millennia because people who take the holiness of Shabbat seriously need to figure out exactly what they should and should not do.  

In last week’s Torah portion (Yitro), God speaks the Ten Commandments to all the Israelites at Mount Sinai. This week’s portion (Mishpatim) tells about an extended private session in which God reveals to Moses an additional fifty-three mitzvot. Less exalted than the big Ten, they are nonetheless very important—especially if you’re the guy who is getting gored by a neighbor’s ox, or if you are visiting the roof of a neighbor and it does or does not have a railing, or if you are the woman who tries to intervene in a fight between your husband and another man—and you get injured. When it comes to living the complexity of human life, there are lots of situations and factors, and thus these additional fifty-three mitzvot and the other 550 mitzvot in our legendary list are important. It is not just enough to say, “Be nice and fair.” How to be nice and fair requires lots of thought and specifics. 

There are times, however, when all those details can seem overwhelming—when we “get lost in the weeds.” For such times, our Tradition also offers more general statements—Tanach quotations about the broad brushstrokes of living holy lives. This is where the Rabbi Simlai passage comes in, beginning with the legendary 613 and then speaking more generally.  

Thus does the Talmud quote King David’s listing of eleven core values: “Lord, who shall abide in Your house? Who may dwell in Your holy mountain? Those who are upright; who do justly; Who speak the truth within their hearts. Who do not slander others, or wrong them, or bring shame upon them. Who scorn the base, but honor those who revere the Lord. Who give their word, and, come what may, do not retract. Who do not exploit others, who never take bribes. Those who live in this way shall never be shaken.” (Psalm 15) 

Also included is Isaiah’s notion of an ideal person in Chapter 33, “One who walks righteously and speaks uprightly; who that despises the gain of oppressions, who shakes away from bribes, who will not listen to plans of spilling blood, and who does not look kindly on evil”—and his even briefer advice in Chapter 56: “Keep justice, and do righteousness.” 

Among the most famous and inspiring summarizations is from Micah (6:8):
“It has been told thee, O human, what is good and what the Lord requires of you:
Only to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.” 

Amos, too, has a motto (5.4): “For thus says the Lord unto the House of Israel: Seek you Me, and live.” And there is Habakkuk’s (2.4): “But the righteous shall live by faith.”  

Perhaps the most famous summarization is from the ancient sage Hillel. The story (Shabbat 31a) begins with his colleague Shammai insisting on all the details.
“Once a heathen came before Shammai and said to him, “I will be converted if you teach me the entire Torah, all of it, while I stand on one foot.” Shammai instantly drove him away with the builder’s measure he had in his hand.  

The same man came before Hillel. “I will be converted if you teach me all the Torah while I stand on one foot.” Hillel converted him. He said to him: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah. All the rest is commentary. Now, go and study.”  

Hillel’s thinking is certainly profound, but why does the story include Shammai? Is he just a foil for Hillel, or does he represent something deeper? While generalizations are poetic, memorable, and inspiring, they are not substitutes for the details of living a godly life. Shammai is in this story to remind us eternally that the details also matter. And, as it turns out, his friend Hillel never disagreed: “Now go and study!” 

Being God's Chosen People: A Blessing or a Burden?

February 6/7: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Why does God give the Torah to Israel? Why choose the Israelites for a special covenantal relationship? “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagle’s wings and brought you to Me. Now then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.3-6)
Being God’s Chosen People is a singular honor, but it also turns out to be a heavy responsibility,  and the two themes live in a kind of holy tension in Jewish thought. In one Midrash, there even seem to be “dueling” endings—one focusing on the honor and the other focusing on the challenges that come from being “God’s people.”  

The Midrash begins with God’s desire to share Torah and holiness with humans. God begins with the greatest of the seventy nations of the ancient world and offers them the Torah. Instead of accepting the honor, that nation’s leaders ask for examples of the mitzvot. When God details the Ten Commandments, they turn down God’s offer. “But we love murdering, stealing, idolatry, and committing adultery; we cannot accept this law.” God then goes to another of the great nations, but the story is the same. They ask for examples and, when presented with God’s commandments, they say No to the Divine. God continues to try, offering the Torah to sixty-nine of the seventy nations, but no one will accept the Torah. Finally, God’s last resort is Israel—a puny and undistinguished nation, one mired in slavery for generations and whose hope has been lost. “When Moses spoke to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” (Exodus 6.9) Nonetheless, God offers the mitzvot to Israel. 

At this point, the story has two different endings. 

Ending #1 picks up on a figure of speech in Exodus 24.7: “Na’aseh v’nish’ma: We will do and we will hear!” The original usage seems to be as a hendiadys reflecting enthusiastic approval, but one ancient Rabbi takes the phrase literally. Noting that the Israelites say “Na’aseh/We will do,” before they say “V’nish’ma/We will hear,” the Darshan (Midrashist) perceives the Israelites’ intense piety and trust in the Lord. Rather than asking for examples or imposing conditions, they accept the Torah immediately, agreeing to God’s covenant before even knowing its contents. Our holy ancestors are exemplars of faith.  

Ending #2 picks up on a different figure of speech, one in Exodus 19 (v.17): “Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain.”  The Hebrew for “at the foot of mountain” is “b’tach’tit hahar,” words which literally mean, “under the mountain.” The intended meaning is that the Israelites were standing next to Mount Sinai and experienced the optical illusion that makes a tall object seem like it is looming overhead. However, one enterprising Darshan seized upon this idiom and crafted a very different approach to the story. After going from one nation to another and finding no one to accept the Torah, God turns to the last choice and resolves not to be turned down again. Holding Mount Sinai over the heads of the Israelites—so they are “tach’tit hahar/under the mountain,” God makes them an offer they cannot refuse: “If you accept My Torah, you shall be a ‘kingdom of priests and a holy people.’ If not, I’ll drop the mountain on you, and this shall be your grave.” Rather than accepting the covenant out of piety, we are forced into it. 

Why would someone craft such a tale? Why would a Sage claim that our holy covenant was made under duress—and suggest that our ancestors were victims instead of pious volunteers?  

It is helpful to remember that Midrash is art—a creative literary way of expressing thoughts and feelings. This means that Midrash is not history or fact, but instead an artistic and emotional comment about Biblical or religious concerns. While the first Midrashic author wants to bolster our pride and sense of purpose, the second Midrashic author seems concerned about the many burdens of being God’s Chosen People. While it is certainly a great honor, the mitzvot are numerous and challenging—and they prevent us from participating in things our non-Jewish neighbors get to enjoy. There is also the persistence of anti-Semitism, a plague that has threatened and victimized us for millennia. Our pride in our Jewishness is strong, but sometimes we need to give voice to our efforts and struggles—to vent emotionally the fact that our lot has not been easy. To me, this second Midrashic ending is an artistic form of catharsis and commiseration—of  “singing the blues” about the burden of being God’s people. We may be proud, but we also need to acknowledge to ourselves that our chosen-ness is quite a burden.  

Burden is an interesting way to characterize our chosen-ness, but that is exactly the way the Rabbis speak of it in the Talmud: Ol Malchut Hashamayim/The Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. The mitzvot are compared to the weight of an ox’s yoke and the load that the beast pulls. We are proud to be God’s “oxen,” but the work is very hard. Hillel uses this term in his instructions for conversion. The ger first immerses in a mikvah and then “accepts the Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven” to become Jewish. The term is also found in the prayerbook’s Al Ken N’kaveh, the third paragraph of the Alaynu that looks forward to a perfect world (and precedes Bayom Hahu):  
Al ken n’kaveh l’cha Adonai Elohaynu, lir’ot m’herah b’tif’eret Uzecha…Vikab’lu chulam et ol mal’chutecha…”
We therefore hope in You, O Lord our God, soon to behold glory of Your might…when every one will accept the yoke of Your Kingdom…”

We usually look for theology in our sacred literature, but being Jewish also involves the whole range of human emotions. I see both Midrashic endings as emotional responses to the lived realities of our chosen-ness. One crows about our ancestors’ great piety to bolster our own spirits, and the other sings the blues about how hard we must work for God. God is present in every aspect of life—in the spiritual, the intellectual, the emotional, and the physical, and our Tradition’s theological truths reflect every aspect of our relationship with God. We are holy and honored—and emotionally involved in keeping our sacred covenant.

Where is God's Presence?

January 30th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

“The length of time that the Israelites lived in Egypt was four hundred and thirty years; at the end of the four hundred and thirtieth year, to the very day, all the ranks of the Lord departed from the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12.40-41).
This passage from last week’s Torah portion seems to mark the end of our very tragic experience with the Egyptians, but it is not. Though we leave Egypt proper, the Egyptians come chasing after us, and God’s miraculous rescue of the Israelites at the Red Sea is the stuff of legends—and songs of victory:
“I will sing to the Lord, Who has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver have been hurled into the sea.
The Lord is my strength and might, and has become my deliverance.
This is my God Whom I will enshrine, The God of my family, and I will exalt!” (Exodus 15.1-2) 

There are lots of theological teachings that come of out of the Exodus story, but Psalm 114 provides us a very curious perspective. When we chant this Psalm during Hallel or at the Passover Seder, I usually focus on the humorous taunting of the water and hills:
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.
The sea saw it and fled; the River Jordan turned backwards.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.
What’s the matter, sea, that you flee away, you Jordan that you flow backwards;
You mountains who skip like rams, you hills like young sheep?
Tremble, O Earth, at the Presence of the Lord, at the Presence of the God of Jacob!
Who turns the rock into a pool of water, flint into a fountain of waters!” (Psalm 114)
The enormity of God’s miracles impresses everyone—even the topography!  

However, a closer look at the first two verses yields a slightly different message—one about God’s location:
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.”
After manifesting miracles in and around Egypt, God now seems to be present in and among our people. Not in a specific place, but in the midst of the Israelite People, Am Yisrael. 

Many stories in the Scripture focus on the places God is present and available. Jonah thinks that God is only in the Land of Israel—and that taking a ship from Israel to Spain will get him away from God’s Presence. The exiles in Babylonia wonder if God can still hear their voices so far away from Jerusalem’s Temple.
“By the waters of Babylon, there we sat, sat and wept, when we thought of Zion.
There on the poplars we hung up our lyres,
For our captors asked us there for songs, our tormentors, for amusement:
‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion.’
How can we sing a song of the Lord on alien soil?!
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither.
Let my tongue stick to my palate.
If I cease to think of you, if I do not keep Jerusalem in memory even at my happiest hour.”  (Psalm 137) 

Judah Halevi continues this thinking in his classic poem of yearning (c.1141).
“My heart is in the east, and I in the uttermost west—
How can I find savour in food? How shall it be sweet to me?
How shall I render my vows and my bonds, while yet
Zion lieth beneath the fetter of Edom, and I in Arab chains?
A light thing would it seem to me to leave all the good things of Spain—
Seeing how precious in mine eyes to behold the dust of the desolate sanctuary.”
(Translation from the Hebrew by Nina Salaman, 1924)  

As Hatikvah summarizes it, the preciousness of our Land and of the spiritual and national possibilities there are defining themes of our Judaism:
As long as the Jewish spirit is yearning deep in the heart,
With eyes turned toward the East, looking toward Zion,
Then our hope—the 2000 year-old hope—will not be lost:
To be a free people in the Land of Zion and Jerusalem.”  

And yet. And yet, there has been a flourishing of the Jewish spirit in many places. Israel is wonderful and worth supporting. We should prize what is possible in a Jewish country, but some of the greatest cultural and spiritual accomplishments of our people have taken place in the Galut, the Diaspora. The Babylonian Talmud, the Halachic and philosophical work of Maimonides (in Spain and Egypt), the Commentaries of Rashi (in France and Germany), and the Halachic works of Sages in Babylonia, Morocco, Turkey, and Iraq, as well as Poland and Russia and Germany are all examples of where the people of “Judah became the place of God’s holiness,” and the People of “Israel the place of God’s power.” We could go on and on with the spiritual insights of Eastern European Hassidism, the philosophical clarity of Baruch Spinoza (Holland) and Moses Mendelsohn (Germany), and the cultural greatness of Jews throughout the Galut. In fact, Rabbi Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, the dean of American Jewish historians, would often talk about the ways that Jewish civilizations are judged and then conclude that the two greatest Jewish civilizations were both in the Diaspora:  (1) The Golden Age of Spain/Al-Andalus (8th-15th Centuries), and (2) Modern America’s Jewish Civilization.  

The point is not to de-emphasize the Land of Israel but to remind us that, wherever we are, the Presence of God is with us—a Presence that makes possible both holiness and power.
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.”  (Psalm 114)

If We are "Part of God," Then What About Miracles?

January 23rd: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we considered the panentheistic understanding of God. If we are “part of God,” then the whole dynamic of prayer and supplication has a very different complexion. Instead of standing before an Authority, begging and cajoling about things we need, our spiritual practices are instead exercises in actualizing or enhancing the energy of God in our lives and in the world.  

Also affected would be the miracle stories in the Bible—particularly this week’s story about the Ten Plagues. The Torah describes a miraculous God swooping in to correct a great injustice, punishing the Egyptians and making very clear that slavery and oppression are wrong:
“I will multiply My signs and marvels in the land of Egypt…laying My hand upon Egypt and delivering My ranks…And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch out My hand over Egypt and bring out the Israelites from their midst.” (Exodus 7.3-5)  

God speaks of communicating this moral message to Egypt, but the Psalmist sees God’s message having a wider audience:
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.
The sea saw it and fled; the River Jordan turned backwards.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.
What’s the matter, sea, that you flee away, you Jordan that you flow backwards;
You mountains who skip like rams, you hills like lambs?
Tremble, O Earth, at the Presence of the Lord, at the Presence of the God of Jacob!
Who turns the rock into a pool of water, flint into a fountain of waters!” (Psalm 114)
Pharaoh will know. The Egyptians will know. And everyone in the world—including the topography—will “know that the Lord is God!” 

A panentheistic approach looks at the story in terms of the inevitable implosion of an oppressive regime—of the moral energy in the universe (God) working against injustice and oppression and inspiring people to seek their own liberation. Less dramatic than the traditional theistic understanding, this view is perhaps more realistic and practical. In brings to mind the teachings of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, the sage of Reconstructionist Judaism. He thought that modern science has rendered the idea of a supernatural God unbelievable and taught instead that God is the power or process in which humans attain self-fulfillment or improvement. This notion of a Divine process also calls to mind the statement of the abolitionist Reverend Theodore Parker (popularized by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.): “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” One can argue about whether Reverend Parker or Dr. King were thinking about panentheism, but this notion of “the arc or the moral universe” certainly speaks about the Divine with less supernatural flavor than usual.  

In any event, we find ourselves in the middle of an ancient religious debate. Does faith in God mean waiting for God to solve our problems miraculously, or should we try to solve them ourselves? The answer may be obvious to us: of course, we should solve our own problems! However, we are several centuries into the philosophical dominance of humanism—both secular humanism and religious humanism, and we should remember that common wisdom has not always preached such self-reliance. For centuries, many pious Christians and Jews believed that faith in God means waiting for miracles—that the pious should pray and wait for God. If one suffers in the meantime, then that is God’s will, and one should suffer in pious acceptance. Many thus considered self-help to be an attempt at thwarting God, and this thinking continues well into the modern period. For example, Chaim Potok’s The Chosen dramatizes the opposition of some Orthodox Jews to the establishment of Israel. As the Chassidic Rav Saunders puts it, Jews should wait for the Messiah to come and take care of things. Pre-empting God’s plans is, to him and the many Orthodox Jews his character represents, disrespectful and anti-religious.  

However, even in that world of piety and faith, there has also been a strong balancing ethic that speaks of human agency and responsibility. A prime and ancient example is the Midrash about Nachshon “helping” the miracle of the Splitting of the Red Sea. This story—totally fabricated by an ancient Rabbi—represents a desire to balance Judaism’s strong belief in miracles with a reminder that we have a role to play in our own redemption. There is also an air of practical wisdom. The kind of miracles described in the Bible are so extremely rare that it is as though they never happen. So, while the faithful may wait and pray for God’s miraculous intervention, it is helpful in the meantime to work on solving one’s own problems. Rather than equating faith with helpless waiting, the Midrash about Nachshon speaks about the human possibility of helping in God’s work. Or, as the old adage counsels, “Pray to God, and row for shore!” 

Another setting for this debate is Chanukah. Some interpretations focus on God’s miracles—both the military victory and the miracle of the oil, while other interpretations highlight the activist and militaristic Maccabees who win the war with guerilla tactics, raw courage, and great sacrifice. Which lesson shall we teach? Since Chanukah is a post-Biblical holiday—without sacred texts to ground the discussion, it is more malleable, and different teachers in different times find themselves emphasizing one message over the other.  

Purim, on the other hand, is a Biblical festival, but the Book of Esther is shockingly free of miracles. God is not a “character” in the story, nor does God do or say anything. The only “religious” element is that Mordecai is loyal to the One God. When it comes to saving the Jews, it is not God but the Jews themselves—Mordecai, Esther, and the Jews throughout Shushan and the provinces—who fight against the thugs and mobs. Interestingly, this lack of Divine participation almost prevented the Book of Esther from inclusion in the Biblical canon. It was only accepted, according to Tradition, because of its popularity. Perhaps the people loved the story because it resonated with their experiences as an oft-threatened minority. One could argue that this makes Purim a “non-religious” holiday, but our tenacious belief in Judaism and our realization that sometimes we must take care of ourselves are in their own ways extremely religious. It is only through our faith and action that we can keep alive our sacred relationship with the Lord. 

By the way, this argument about human agency and Divine miracles is not just a Jewish concern. It has been addressed in many venues over the centuries—including ancient works by Sophocles, Euripides, Ovid, and Aesop. So, when Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard taught that,“God helps those who help themselves,” he was echoing an ancient and continuing discussion.  

"Inclusion in God?"

January 16th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we contemplated the subtle line between “us” and “them,” and compared the relative acceptance of various groups. This week, I would like to expand the conversation and speak of our “inclusion in God.” 

We begin with Moses’ encounter with God in Exodus 6, a communication that may come as a surprise to Bible readers. Though the Genesis narratives tell about “The Lord (YHVH)” speaking to the Patriarchs, God explains that they knew a different Divine Name: “I am the Lord (YHVH). I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai (God Almighty or God of the Mountains), but I did not make Myself known to them by My name YHVH.”  

What is this new Divine Name? As God explains at the Burning Bush (in last week’s portion), the Divine Name is “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh.” Or rather, that is what God answers when Moses asks how he should identify the God Who sends him. This answer, “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh” is a bit cryptic because it means “I am that I am,” “I will be what I will be,” or simply “I am.” Is it a name, or simply a description of God’s Presence? In any event, the Torah presents us with a spelling or perhaps an acronym of this Name—one known as the Tetragrammaton: Yod-Hay-Vav-Hay. Out of respect, we do not pronounce this name, instead saying Adonai, a special form of Adoni/Sir. The usual English translation is The Lord, but some modern translators regard The Lord as a gendered term, so they prefer The Eternal. 

In any event, we are introduced to the notion that the One God may be known by more than one name. The main three in the Torah are (1) YHVH, purposely substituted with Adonai/The Lord,
(2) Elohim/God, and sometimes (3) YHVH Elohim/The Lord God.  

The many names could be a measure of the different kinds of relationships people have with the Divine. Think of the different ways people address you based on age or family or professional position. Or they could reflect different aspects or characteristics of the Divine. 

Some commentators believe that the word God/Elohim is used in relation to God’s relationship with everyone and everything—not just the Jews. Thus does God create the world: “When God began to create the heavens and the earth…” (Genesis 1.1) The Lord, on the other hand,  is used in terms of God’s particular relationships with us. “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the land of Egypt. I am the Lord, your God.” (Numbers 15.41) 

Another explanation is more mystical. It suggests that YHVH/Adonai/The Lord refers to the Infinity of God. The other term—God/Elohim/Elohaynu/Our God—refers to our limited (and thus incomplete) knowledge of and understanding of the Infinite. Though our finite minds can never approach understanding anything infinite, we can nonetheless know something of It and learn to live in relationship with It. So, though there is a lot more about God than we can ever know, Torah teaches us enough about God for our sacred relationship. To remind us that there is more to the Divine, the Kabbalists often refer to God as Ayn Sof/Without End/The Infinite.  

This interplay of the knowable and infinite dimensions of God can be seen in our most famous affirmation of faith, The Shema (Deuteronomy 6.4):
Shema Yis’ra’el, Adonai Elohaynu Adonai Echad.
Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.
Pay attention, you Jewish People, what we know as God (Elohaynu) is indeed part of the Infinity (YHVH/Ayn Sof), and though there are many different manifestations and understandings of the Infinite Presence’s infinity, it is all a cosmic Unity. All exists within The One. 

If we speak of God as Infinite—as having no limits and inhabiting everything, then we get to the question of where we are. Are we separate from God, or are we part of God? This is a tricky question and one that has generated lots and lots of debate. Though the dominant view in Judaism has been that God exists outside of the universe—and occasionally steps in for miracles, some mystics hold a view called Pantheism or Panentheism which speaks of everything being a part of God. This would mean that we are part of God. We exist within God and “participate in God.”  

In such a Panentheistic understanding, our prayers would not be pleas to a Supreme Being Who is separated from the universe, but rather ways for us to participate in the receiving and direction of God’s spiritual energy. Similarly, our good or bad deeds would not be matters of obedience or disobedience but rather energy flows within God that enhance or stifle God’s healing and creative energies. 

The panentheistic stream of Jewish thought has never been the majority view, but one can find hints of it in Biblical, Talmudic, and Midrashic passages. And, one can find much more full discussions in Lurianic Kabbalah and in some of the Hassidic Masters.  

The problem with a panentheistic understanding of God is that we may feel too important and too much in control—lording our abilities and authority over others. Of course, others are also “part of God,” and a strong dose of humility is thus deeply appropriate. Each of us is like an individual drop in the infinite ocean of existence.  

The advantage of a panentheistic understanding of God is that we can feel closer to our Creator—and able to participate in God’s Shefa, the Flow of Divine Energy. As Rabbi Shefa Gold and Cantor Jack Kessler express it in a creative Birkat Hamazon (the Blessing after a Meal), “You are the Source of Life for all that is, and Your blessings flow through me.” Though we often speak of “letting God in” and giving ourselves over to God’s Will, panentheism informs us that we are already close to God—that we are in God and part of God and have the innate ability to be godly.  

If God is Existence—“Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh/I will be what I will be,” then we can be a part of the Divine unfolding. Ours is a blessed possibility—a holy opportunity.

"Us" and "Them"

January 9th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion holds perhaps the most frightening words in Jewish history:
“A new king arose over Egypt who knew not Joseph.” (Exodus 1.8)
In an act of conscious “forgetfulness,” the Egyptian leadership denies our constructive involvement in Egyptian society—pushing the Hebrews from “us” to “them.” It is a precursor to oppression and enslavement, and, unfortunately, it has not been the only time we have been “othered” and persecuted.   

The line between “us” and “them” is subtle, but it can make all the difference in the world.  

For American nurses in World War I, acceptance by the military was conditional and mixed. Women were not allowed in the Army, and, despite significant training, nurses were often denied the designation of medical professionals. Nonetheless, many patriotic women organized in the Red Cross and traveled to Europe, braving the dangers of the war. They also faced continuing discrimination by the Army, administrative disrespect that far too often made their life-saving work more difficult. Nonetheless, they treated many soldiers, saved many soldiers, and returned to America “inferior” still. They considered themselves part of “us” even though the official “we” did not treat them with respect or fairness.  

The situation for Blacks was even more troublesome. Take the case of Dorie Miller, a black man from Waco, Texas, who served in the US Navy during World War II. On the battleship USS West Virginia, he was a mess attendant because Blacks were not considered good enough to be sailors. Nonetheless, when his ship was attacked at Pearl Harbor, he left the galley, took the place of a fallen sailor at an anti-aircraft gun, and—despite not being trained in gunnery—shot down several Japanese planes. He also carried several wounded sailors and officers to safety. Awarded the Navy Cross, his nomination for the Medal of Honor was rejected by Navy Secretary Frank Knox—who opposed Black sailors serving in any combat role. Who knows what kind of racial discrimination this hero would have faced when he returned home after the war, but he never made it back. Serving again in the galley—as a Cook Petty Officer, Third Class, he was lost when his ship, the escort carrier Liscome Bay, was sunk during the Battle of Makin in 1943. He was a patriot and a hero, but, for too many Americans, he was not one of “us.” 

The same can be said of many groups who contributed to the war effort—among them the “Code-Talking” Navahos and the Nisei (children of Japanese immigrants) who served with distinction and valor. When it came to defending the United States, they felt that they were part of “us,” but too many others did not agree. For a poignant portrayal of this twisted dynamic, take a look at the 1955 film Bad Day at Black Rock. Who is included in “us,” and what does it take to be accepted?” 

Such stories of our lack of inclusion and respect are a stain on our collective soul, but all is not bleak. Improvement is possible.   

Often, the beginnings of inclusion and equality involve a focus on rights. “They” should be included and granted rights. However, a beautiful change occurs when, rather than thinking about “letting them in,” we begin to recognize the gifts that “they” bring to “us”—when “we” are enhanced by the particular contributions of each of our members. This has certainly happened in the inclusion of women in the Rabbinate. Though the initial discussion was in regard to equality, the fact is that the women have brought in sensibilities and approaches that have improved the Rabbinate and Judaism. The same can be said of Gerim/Converts. While much of the Gerut process involves admitting “them” to Judaism, there have been palpable contributions that the thousands of converts have brought to Judaism over the last fifty years. The seriousness with which they approach Judaism has inspired many, and the expectations of spirituality they bring have added to the spiritual development of our entire movement. When People of Color, or LGBT+ individuals, or disabled people, or any other marginalized groups join formerly closed polities, it is not only a question of “letting them in,” but also of appreciating the gifts they bring. Our belief in equality should not blind us to the cultural and psychological gifts that newcomers offer.  

The hope, of course, is that “they” become part of “us,” but they are not objects to be accepted. They are new members who add to our communal blessings.  

This has been the story of so many inclusions. Formerly different or unincluded people join organizations or societies and share. Back in the early 1900s, there were discussions about whether the ideal is a “melting pot”—in which everyone becomes part of a new American identity—or a stew or salad—where everyone retains independence while being part of something bigger, but both options involve inclusion and appreciation. The opposite is true when divisive forces seek to slice into our polities and cast out friends, neighbors, and colleagues. “A new king arose over Egypt who knew not Joseph.” 

Let us beware such hateful forgetfulness, and let us beware drawing lines that do not have to be drawn. Though our ethnic and religious identities help to form us, we are more than the groups which sent us forth. Community inevitably involves the incorporation of many unique individuals, and our focus should be on the humanity each one manifests in the group. 

Let me conclude with two quotations about acceptance and appreciation. First, there is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s dream “that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” They are not “they.” They are “us.” 

And second is President George Washington’s affirmation of the promise of America. Writing to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island, he was both expansive and inclusive: “For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support….May the father of all mercies scatter light and not darkness in our paths, and make us all in our several vocations useful here, and in his own due time and way everlastingly happy.”
We are not “them.” We are “us.” 

Changeability and Hope

December 12th and 19th: Vayeshev and Mikketz
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We humans are remarkably changeable. Whether it is a matter of open-mindedness or gullibility, we are susceptible to persuasion and often change our opinions. Examples in popular culture are both amusing and telling. In the 1934 film, It Happened One Night, Clark Gable takes off his shirt, revealing his bare chest—a surprise that turned out to be a cultural event. The union suit he was not wearing was almost rendered extinct, and the men’s underwear industry changed forever. Then there was President John F. Kennedy who braved a cold inauguration day bare-headed—and inadvertently decimated the men’s hat industry.  

Sometimes our changeability involves more serious matters. In 1972, Gay and Lesbian Jews in Los Angeles organized the first “Gay Synagogue,” Beth Chayim Chadashim, and many leading Reform Rabbis did not approve. Explaining their reasoning in Halachic (Jewish Law) terms, they declared both homosexuality and a “gay synagogue” impermissible in Judaism. This formidable opposition did not stop Beth Chayim Chadashim or the organizers of other Gay-friendly congregations around the country, and less than twenty years later, the Reform Movement had completely changed its opinion. Openly Gay and Lesbian Jews were welcome at congregations, as students at the Hebrew Union College, and as members of the Central Conference of American Rabbis. One of the first “out” in 1990 was newly ordained Rabbi Denise Eger, who later became the President of the CCAR. Opinions held in the 1970s had changed radically.  

A Biblical example of such changes in perception comes in the tumultuous life of Joseph (Genesis 37-50). Adored by his father but hated by his brothers, he is favored, then enslaved, then appreciated and trusted, then sexually desired (by his master’s wife) and then cast out when he refuses her advances. He is imprisoned, appreciated, and then forgotten. Finally, he is whisked from the dungeon to prominence and power in Egypt—with his formerly hostile brothers appreciating his largesse in saving them from famine. Joseph believes that it is all part of God’s plan—saying to his brothers in Genesis 50, “Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good,” but, from an emotional and a public relations point of view, Wow!  

A lesson from Joseph’s saga is that reputations and situations are not permanent. Circumstances  and institutions may seem fixed, but surprises happen. Whether good or bad, “Gam zeh ya’avor./ This too shall pass.” The mighty may topple; the lowly may be raised high. And we should not forget about God’s influence in the world. This was the point of abolitionist Reverend Theodore Parker (1810-1860) who, in a statement later popularized by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., affirmed: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”  

The problem, of course, is that this “arc” can sometimes be more like a rollercoaster ride. While we may be shocked at the recent rise of anti-Semitism, the fact is that the relative absence of anti-Jewish hatred in the last fifty years is a patchy and somewhat ahistorical phenomenon. Our Jewish story is an “up and down” tale of acceptance and rejection, permanence and exile, peace and conflict. The disparities in Jewish experience are multitudinous but consider these two from the Twentieth Century. In 1915, the Jewish community of Atlanta was terrorized and “othered” when a member of the community, Leo Frank, was falsely accused of murder and lynched, but, a mere year later, Louis D. Brandeis, a Jewish son of immigrants, was nominated and confirmed as a Justice on the U.S. Supreme Court. In the 1940s, the United States fought a world war to defeat Nazi hate, but returning Jewish G.I.s faced housing and job discrimination. (For a riveting look at this post-war irony, find a copy of Gentleman’s Agreement, the 1947 bestseller by Laura Z. Hobson, or its Oscar-winning film adaptation in which director Elia Kazan and actor Gregory Peck “bring home the fight against anti-Semitism.”) 

The disparities of America’s attitudes toward us continue—as does the anti-Semitic twisting of logic and history. Consider this painfully ironic observation by Charles Asher Small, a Jewish and Canadian scholar of anti-Semitism: “Think about this. In less than two generations the Jewish people have gone from not-white and worthy of extermination…to white colonizers worthy of extermination.” 

We could regard such hateful thinking as a cue for utter futility: humanity is hopeless. Why must we constantly “make our case” for acceptance and respect? It is absurd and remarkably frustrating, but perhaps this is just the way of the world. Victories at some points along the way do not obviate the need for continually taking care of ourselves—and continually proving that we are good neighbors and constructive citizens. Indeed, a possible lesson from our “up and down ride” is that “what goes down can also go up.” People are changeable and malleable, and perhaps a response better than despair is to redouble our efforts to convince everyone that we Jews are good—and that equality and respect for Jews and everyone else is a good move for humanity.  

Among those who advocate for this persuasive approach is Einat Wilf. A former Israeli diplomat and Member of Knesset, Dr. Wilf was a peacenik for most of her life, but after spending many years working on the peace process, she had a change of heart and mind. Among her insights:

(1) The “Palestinian Refugee” identity was created in the 1960s and foisted upon Arabs from all over the Middle East who had formerly been subjects of the Ottoman Empire. In any other conflict and migration situation, these people would have been re-homed in another part of the former empire, but “Palestinianism” was created and supported by agents of hate and dissatisfaction. However, what was created can be recrafted. The “permanent refugee” identity can be redefined to something more positive, something more peaceful and constructive.  

(2) The Arab and Muslim nations doing the best are the ones who have abandoned their foolish quest to destroy Israel and focused on making their own countries better—economically, socially, politically. If this fact can be communicated to more and more Arabs, then the anti-Jewish and UNWRA notion of a permanent and hostile refugee population can be replaced with what Dr. Wilf calls “Arab Zionism.” Arabs can build a good society if they focus their energies and resources on constructive goals.  

Israel is here to stay, Dr. Wilf reminds us, and Israel has time to influence its neighbors for good. Israel and World Jewry have the opportunity to remind and persuade the world that destruction is not only futile but also a waste of energy and resources. Constructive and hopeful Arabs can build a better Arab country, and, like the Jewish Zionists, they can save themselves.