"Beware by Whom You are Called Sane"

September 18th: Shabbat Shuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah D’var Torah:

This past summer, in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, we visited a museum dedicated to the art of Walter Inglis Anderson. Mr. Anderson lived in the first half of the last century, and he achieved an international reputation for his paintings and murals. His family had an artistic bent, running a wheel-thrown pottery factory that was highly regarded. But Walter also wandered a different kind of path and became known as an eccentric genius. Basing his work on an intense observation of and interaction with nature, he wove Native American cosmology and his own mystical visions into art that is both strange and captivating.  

Much of his inspiration came during camping trips to one of Mississippi’s uninhabited barrier islands. He would sail across miles of the Gulf and then use his tiny boat as a lean-to, spending days and weeks observing nature and spiritually interacting with it. On more than one occasion, he rode his bicycle to New Orleans—through a hurricane—just to experience that aspect of nature. When he returned to Ocean Springs, he would drink to excess and then paint nature-based mystical murals. They are reminiscent of modern primitive or folk art—like that of a Grandma Moses or a Maud Lewis, but there is a much deeper level, one which speaks of a spiritual connection to the cosmos. Though an eccentric and generally an embarrassment to his family, his artistic vision has come to be cherished. Through his particular craziness, one can gain a glimpse into profundity. 

And so, with that introduction, let me share with you his motto—a quotation that challenges visitors as they enter his museum: “Beware by whom you are called sane.”  

Like a Johnny Appleseed or Elijah the Prophet or Joan of Arc or the Prophet who wrote on Paul Simon’s subway walls, Anderson was not what we would call “sane.” Shedding pretty much every pretense of respectability or conformity, he trod an unconventional path, seeking and expressing truths that a more conventional life might have missed. The irony is that those of us who choose to remain normal can observe the meanderings of such prophetic types and find instruction in their perspectives.  

“Beware by whom you are called sane.” When it comes to our sanity or conventionality or respectability, we all look to various arbiters for guidance: social mores, class standards, professional expectations. It is not like we live our lives trembling under the gaze of those around us, but each of us has a strong urge to be accepted and respected. Living in society generally involves following the patterns of our peer groups, and we each develop adaptive skills, adhering to or orbiting near social norms. Uniqueness is okay, but not too much. 

This dynamic is very much on display tonight as we Jews return to synagogue and re-enter Judaism’s ambiance. Here, there is a chorus of Jewish voices hoping to influence us. Though we are Jewish all year, there is something about Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur that re-energizes our Jewish sensibilities. In the presence of Jewish family and friends—including our departed loved ones who are happy to see us here, the Jewish voices in our heads call to us and remind us of the mores and attitudes of our Tradition. These calls resonate with the spark of God deep in our souls, and this time and this place invite us to cultivate a more energetic Jewishness. 

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner addresses this special sense of presence in his essay Wool Pants. As a child in Detroit in the 1950s, he was forced to wear wool pants to Temple—wool pants that felt like hundreds of little needles poking his legs. Fidgeting was inevitable, but his parents and grandparents insisted on polite and decorous behavior. After all, they explained, “every Jew in Michigan was there,” and he had to look good. 

At the time, the future Rabbi Kushner did not appreciate the need to display his respectability and significance in the Temple sanctuary. However, he came to understand how there was a holiness in this social ritual. Showing up at this tribal gathering and looking good reminded him and everyone else of the attitudes and behaviors that comprise our holiness—of the ways that God and Judaism try to guide us. Entering the synagogue, he writes, “is a way of appearing before God who we suspect is not beneath looking through the eyes of the congregation. Being seen by the congregation is like being seen by God. All those souls, together in that sanctuary, make something religious happen.” [Wool Pants, in Invisible Lines of Connection, Jewish Lights Publishing, 1996]

There are many eyes and voices that advise us—subtly guiding our thinking and behavior and mentoring us on how to attain respectability and maintain it. We need not hearken obediently to every voice, but influences are all around, and, as we listen to their cacophony, some voices drown out others. 

The problem, from a Jewish point of view, is that, as we negotiate the complexities of life and our many environments, Judaism’s good advice may be muffled, and we have a hard time hearing it. On Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, however, our Jewish voices get back the podium, and they remind us that they need to be heard too. The Jewish voices of Tradition and family have something valuable to say, and though we have the right to discount or edit their messages, we come to synagogue to listen. 

I was surprised to hear, a few years ago, Rabbi Sue Levi Elwell use the word counter-cultural to describe Judaism’s voice. I have always thought of Judaism as something traditional and ancient, and so counter-cultural seemed strange. However, after thinking about it for a while, I began to see her point.   

In a culture moving at breakneck speed, values are malleable and subject to marketing and technological whims. People are numbers, ideas are created by and manipulated by algorithms, and whatever is good or exciting today may well be gone by tomorrow. When Walter Anderson said, “Beware by whom you are called sane,” he probably did not anticipate the fleeting nature of social judgment, but here we are. Who is determining whether we are sane or not? Upon what basis are they deciding? And is their judgment any more than a passing breeze? Perhaps when evaluating ourselves and our choices, a little more discretion would be helpful. Perhaps some wisdom would be appropriate. And perhaps a message grounded in experience and holiness might help us find clarity and purpose. As the prayer puts it, may God, “endow our fleeting days with abiding value.”  

We are all in our own ways modern and mainstream and part of the world, but sometimes the world is in need of moral or spiritual assistance—of a lesson from Torah. Though our Tradition speaks with a chorus of voices, our historical experience of listening to God and of putting God’s values into practice has something to say. Even when the world does not favor Jews, even when messages of morality and godliness need to go against prevailing currents, Judaism offers vital and precious reminders: Kindness is preferable. Wisdom is accessible. Justice is possible. Holiness is always within reach.  

The world can sometimes forget its better self, and it can take some counter-cultural reminders to get us back on track. “Beware by whom you are called sane” because those who attempt to influence and lead society may or may not be using good criteria—may or may not be incorporating into their judgments the moral thunder of Mount Sinai, the thunder that can still reverberate in the moral realm. Judaism is here to remind everyone that humankind has been gifted with wisdom from Heaven—that we mere flesh and blood have sacred potential. Sometimes, Tikkun Olam/ Repairing the World requires a jarring cry that challenges ignorance, moral inertia, and spiritual fatigue. God and godliness is always a possibility. 

Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur can be compared to visits home. Leaving our regular lives and returning to our ancestral and portable homeland, we remind ourselves of sacred traditions—of the memories and sensibilities that comprise our sacred and continuing history. We return to the love and wisdom of Tradition, and we re-engage our relationship with God. 

Though Walter Anderson is not someone I want to emulate, his unique perspective and refusal to be cowed into submission by the prevailing wisdom can be instructive. The voices which declare us sane or not may or may not be well-grounded. May or may not be speaking factually or justly or honestly. Challenging these declarers of “sanity” and respectability may be a necessity for salvation. Walter Anderson and other prophetic types may occupy precarious positions on the precipice, but their different perspectives can allow them and us to see and understand things that escape us in daily life. Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur offer us a change of perspective—one that can clarify and inspire and remind us of possibilities the world outside may not see. When we look at the world through Jewish eyes—through the eyes of Torah, what God needs us to see is visible.

An Exercise in Inconvenience

September 11th: Rosh Hashanah (and 9/11)
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH      
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

It was an honor to be invited to speak at a memorial service on Friday September 11th. Commemorating the 25th anniversary of the terrible attacks on our country is important, but, wow, the timing is really bad. The service will be on the morning of Erev Rosh Hashanah, and I have a million things to do. I shall, of course, make the time and participate in the service, but it will be really inconvenient. Inconvenient. Then again, is not inconvenience precisely the point?  

Almost no one who woke up that day in New York or Washington (or Boston) imagined that the morning would be anything other than normal. And yet, when tragedy struck, firefighters, police, and rescue workers dropped everything and rushed to help. Civilians too responded when they could: helping evacuees, providing food and drinks for rescue workers, giving blood, and, as time went on, even joining the military and first response teams. It was all terribly inconvenient, but they interrupted their lives and rose to the challenges. There is something noble in the human spirit—a spark of the Divine within—that responds when others are in need. It is a blessing to be appreciated and one to be nurtured.  

Speaking of inconvenience, the attacks came at a particularly inopportune time for Rabbis. That year, Rosh Hashanah was just six days later, and Rabbis across the country thought that they had their High Holy Day sermons ready to go. But whatever seemed important and pressing on September 10th was rendered much less so in the face of our national trauma. Sermon composition certainly pales in the face of the deep crises so many families faced, but, in our little Rabbinic world, that Saturday night was very busy as Rabbis all over the country rewrote their sermons and tried to help our people wrestle with the shocking evil and profound sadness.  

Another problem I remember is that there were not enough clergy to attend to all the funerals and shiva minyans. That big accounting firm on the top floors of one of the towers (Cantor and Fitzgerald) employed lots of Jews, and many, many Jews worked in other offices in the World Trade Center. There were also hundreds of Jews among the police and firefighters. This all meant that our usual “tragedy infrastructure” was stretched beyond its capacity, and there was a call for Rabbis and Cantors from all over the Eastern Seaboard to come to the stricken areas, officiate at services, and comfort the grieving families. It was an already busy time of the Jewish year, but despite the terrible inconvenience, our community rallied together. We mourned our dead, comforted our mourners, and were present for our non-Jewish friends and neighbors who were also in the agony of their grief. In the midst of heartbreak, compassion was abundant. In times of crisis or emergency, we respond and we cope—and we depend on God to help us bridge the gaps that suddenly appear. 

There are two Torah lessons I would draw from these memories. 

(1)   In his book When Bad Things Happen to Good People, Rabbi Harold Kushner writes about times when he simply did not have the strength to continue. Mentally, emotionally, and physically, he was unable to cope with the sadness of his son’s illness and death. With no strength or resilience left, he would drift off into despair. Later, when he somehow made it through the night, he realized that his own strength had not sustained him—that it was God. God was with him, helping him along an impossible path and providing the resilience that he himself could not muster. Perhaps this is what the Psalmist had in mind when he wrote: “In my distress I called on the Lord; and the Lord answered me and brought me relief.” (Psalm 118.5)  I believe that the courage and resilience we saw on September 11, 2001, and in its aftermath was God helping us through a terrible, terrible crisis. 

(2)   Among the lessons in Akedat Yitzchak, our Rosh Hashanah Torah Portion, is that things can change very quickly. We depend on the ground beneath our feet being firm, but sometimes it is not. Isaac had no idea that a little trip with Dad would end up so existentially dramatic. Abraham, waking up just a few days earlier, had no idea of the ominous words that would come to him from the Lord—or the surprise reprieve that would be spoken by the Angel up on Mount Moriah. And Sarah? Sarah had no idea of the drama going on in her husband’s spirit—or of what he was planning to do with their beloved son. When all upon which we rely is shaky, Tradition urges us to look for foundations that are more eternal and solid. “When the Lord is at my side, I have no fear. What can humans do to me?” (Psalm 118.6)  

One of the frustrating (and infuriating) ironies of faith is that it does not prevent suffering. Despite our faith, we suffer. And yet, when our time for sadness comes, our hope is that someone will drop everything and come to our aid—with assistance, emotional support, and love. There are many questions about God and where God may be when bad things happen to good people, but the one thing we know is that people can be God’s angels—spreading love and comfort and helping us bear the unbearable.  

A final thought about inconvenience. The modern Catholic thinker, Fr. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, puts things in perspective when he famously observes: “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a human experience.” When duty or compassion call, helping is not inconvenient; it is our holy purpose. 

The 9/11 Memorial Service will be at Centre County Memorial Park (Benner Pike) at 10:00 AM on Friday September 11th. Sponsored by Haky/Georgiana Centre County Funeral Home, it will feature prayers and memorial thoughts by religious and political leaders. The public is invited.

"Lo Bashamayim Hi / It is Not in the Heavens:" The Human Element in God's Words

September 4th: Nitzavim and Vayelech
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In recent weeks—and in two sermons during our upcoming High Holy Days, I address the human element in Jewish Tradition. Though there is the ethos that our Judaism was revealed from Heaven on Mount Sinai, the evidence is overwhelming that whatever happened at Mount Sinai has been enhanced, augmented, crafted, and edited by generations of Jews who have worked with the Tradition they received.  

Though some Jewish voices speak of an unbroken chain of tradition—that the words pronounced by Orthodox authorities are the exact words spoken by God on Mount Sinai (Torah miSinai), I think there are better ways to understand the Massorah: the chain of Jewish Tradition.  

(1)   One explanation focuses on the word Mitzvah. Though often translated as Good Deed, the Hebrew means Commandment. These commandments, issued by a Commander (God!), tell various commandees what to do. The imagery invokes a military-style chain of command, but things might not be as direct as one imagines. In the military, a General or Admiral issues orders, but they are general orders—orders that depend on a chain of interpretation and application. For instance, if a General were to command troops to invade a country, there are a lot of lower commanders who decide how the county is to be invaded: the various targets, troop deployments, weapons used, scheduling. While all the orders ultimately find their authority in the General’s rank and command, the actual details of the military action depend on the ways that the General’s or Admiral’s officers decide to follow the general orders. 

So, though we Jews can trace Torah back to a revelatory encounter at Mount Sinai, the many generations of editing and interpretation—and application in a variety of cultural milieux—have resulted in a Traditional Judaism with a wide expanse of different standards and practices. All one must do is read the Torah or Talmud to see the many opinions and versions within Traditional Judaism. There is no unanimity—nor was there ever any unanimity. Ours is a continuing chorus of different voices working on a holy relationship with God. 

(2)   Another explanation, coined and described in the 19th Century, speaks of Progressive Revelation, the notion that God continually “speaks” to humans in various times, places, and formats. Whereas the traditional Torah miSinai view holds that Revelation stopped around 2500 years ago (when the Bible was completed), Progressive Revelation holds that the encounter with the Divine is not one limited to one time or place or group. Though the ancient narratives speak of God talking in words to various prophets, many believe that Divine communication is not necessarily in words. A close reading of Exodus 19 (the introduction to the Ten Commandments) bolsters this view: “Now Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire…as Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” How does one understand thunder. Clearly the people who heard it needed to interpret it into words and cultural and religious institutions. And, when times and circumstances changed, the thunderous and still-resonating thunder of holiness, justice, and mercy called again for the human element to apply godliness to our cultural and religious realities. The notion of Progressive Revelation calls on us to revere our tradition and make the changes necessary to move us closer to God’s ideals. 

And, lest one think that such thinking is modern and not well-founded in Tradition, here are two Talmudic stories that show that the Rabbis knew exactly what they were doing. 

In Baba Metzia 59a-b, the Rabbis are discussing a matter of Kashrut—whether a particular kind of oven can be kashered. The details are less important than the dynamic of the argument. After the case is argued and the Rabbis vote, one Sage, Rabbi Eliezer, refuses to go along with the majority vote. Believing he is right, he invokes a series of miracles to prove that he is right. A tree jumps from one place to another; a stream reverses its course; and a wall begins to crumble at his word. To each miracle, however, the majority replies that such miracles are not acceptable arguments in a Rabbinic court. Finally, he invokes a Bat Kol, a voice from heaven, and a voice from heaven confirms that Rabbi Eliezer is always correct in his Halachic judgments. To this, one of the majority, Rabbi Yehoshua quotes Deuteronomy 30.12: “It is not in the heavens,” proclaiming that even heavenly voices have no power to overturn the decisions of a Bet Din (a Rabbinic court). Is God bothered by this seeming usurpation of authority? Not at all. As the Midrash continues, God watches the proceedings, approves of Rabbi Yehoshua’s prooftext, and chuckles, “My children have bested Me. My children have bested Me.” 

Another Rabbinic admission of their Progressive Revelation comes in a Midrash about Moses descending from heaven and wandering the earth. In Talmud Menachot 29b, we read about a visit he makes to the academy of the great Rabbi Akiva (who lived some 1400 years after Moses’ death). Sitting anonymously in the back of the classroom, Moses is completely lost. Finally, he asks Rabbi Akiva where all of these teachings originate, and Rabbi Akiva answers, “This is the Torah that God gave to Moses on Mount Sinai. All that we teach is what God spoke to Moses.” One can just imagine Moses scratching his head as he meanders back to heaven. Whatever he learned from God has been “interpreted” many times and ways. 

There are some who see such analysis as an assault on Judaism. In fact, the Biblical Scholarship of the 19th Century known as Higher Criticism was sometimes called by the Orthodox Higher Anti-Semitism. To those who view the Bible as a monolith of immutable truth, anything that speaks of human participation impugns the whole command structure. However, those of us who embrace modern scholarship of the Bible and Talmud understand that such insights enhance our appreciation of and role in the continuation of Judaism’s efforts. Ours is a living religious tradition, and we are responsible for the continuing progress of Judaism as it seeks to help Jews live in a conscious relationship with the Eternal One. Each revelation and insight of modern scholarship can help us be better stewards of Torah. 

Approaching God in Our Many Ways

August 28th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This week’s portion has a timeless element. “When we come into the Land…” refers to the ancient Israelites entrance into the Promised Land, but have we not entered many lands—and situations—in our people’s long history? We enter, pay attention, and then bring our “portable homeland” of Judaism into its new environment.  

As in the Torah, a first step is remembering our origins: “My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down to Egypt with meager numbers… and the Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand and an outstretched arm and awesome power…and brought us to this place…a land flowing with milk and honey.” We are bidden to look for the blessings in our new location and to give thanks to God. “Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.1-10) 

Of course, times and places have changed, and today even in the Land of Israel, our thanks to God are expressed in ways other than offering sacrifices. After the Temple was destroyed, our Sages were faced with finding an alternative to the sacrifices of the Temple, and they eventually developed a service with prayers. Putting together this prayer service turned out to be a multi-century process, and perhaps the most important part of the process was the composition of the prayer that takes the place of the sacrifice itself. It is a rather long prayer—a series of blessings known as Tefillah: The Prayer or Amidah: the Standing Prayer. 

Today (after some 1900 years of liturgical development), we have two main versions of this Amidah. The Sabbath (and Holy Day) version has seven blessings, and the weekday version of has nineteen blessings (though it is called Shemoneh Esreh, Hebrew for eighteen!). 

Why the differences? Some explain that the middle thirteen blessings are supplications, and that it is improper to ask God for things on Shabbat. These supplications should wait for a weekday when “work” is permitted, and thus the middle thirteen blessings are removed on Shabbat and replaced with a single blessing that thanks God for Shabbat.  

Though this is a frequent explanation, it has never made sense to me. If one looks through the traditional Shabbat and Holy Day services, there are lots of requests and petitions. From the Mi Sheberach prayer for those called up for Aliyot and the Mi Sheberach prayer for those who are ill, to the Sim Shalom prayer’s request that God visit us with the Divine Presence, to numerous requests that God open our hearts to Torah (Ahavah Rabba, Beh Ana Rachetz, etc.), we ask God for all kinds of things on Shabbat. It continues in the traditional Birkat Hamazon where we ask God for sustenance, protection, holiness, and peace. All three types of prayer—Praise, Thanks, and Supplication—are part of traditional Shabbat worship, and so the notion that we should not ask God for things on Shabbat is not supported by the prayer texts themselves.  

Why, then, are the Amidah prayers different? The short answer is that we do not know. Though the Rabbis in the Talmud discuss some things about the worship service, they do not give us many details or examples of the services they prayed. And, whatever they prayed in Talmudic days, the earliest actual prayer books we have are from several centuries after the Talmud. In the early days, it seems that praying was improvisational—with the prayer leader improvising on set themes and then the congregation answering “Amen” to join their intentions with the words spoken. When some of these improvised prayers were eventually recorded, there were many regional variations of the themes the Rabbis had set. Prayer book editors, it seems, had to choose from among the creative efforts available and wrestle them into a kind of standardized liturgy. Standardization, however, was apparently an elusive goal, and one can still see quite a bit of worship diversity among the many traditional prayer books available.  

A quick example comes from the history of Hassidism. When Hassidism began in the 16th Century, one of the controversies with the Rabbinic Authorities was their use of a different liturgy. Whereas the “standard” was the Ashkenazic Siddur, the early Hassidim used Nusach Sefarad, a different composition and compilation of prayers. This was not Sephardic, the term used for the Jews of the Mediterranean Basin and their practice, but Sefarad, an Ashkenazic but different prayer book that the Baal Shem Tov and his disciples preferred. While we all pray to the same God, even among the most pious of Jews, prayers and practices present diversity. 

As for the differences between the weekday and Sabbath Amidah, a number of theories offer possible explanations. The one that makes the most sense to me is that our current composition is the result of efforts to standardize the prayer service.  Some Jews prayed an Amidah with eighteen blessings—calling it Shemoneh Esreh (eighteen), while other Jews prayed an Amidah with nineteen blessings. Still others prayed an Amidah with seven blessings. In an attempt to coordinate and unify Jewish worship, there was perhaps a compromise in which the nineteen blessing Amidah became standard for daily prayer—while the name Shemoneh Esreh (eighteen) was assigned to preserve that tradition. Then, the seven-blessing Amidah was assigned to Shabbat. Thus were all three traditions honored and incorporated.   

A similar motivation and technique may also have been behind some other liturgical oddities. Why, for instance, are there different middle verses for Mi Chamocha in evening and morning services? And why does the Ahavah/Divine Love prayer that precedes Shema have different versions in the evening (Ahavat Olam) and in the morning (Ahavah Rabbah)? The themes are the same, but the texts are different. Perhaps the different prayer texts developed in different places but at some point were coordinated in a moment of liturgical standardization and compromise.   

Though these are just theories—proposed from clues in a rather scanty record, they fit into the well-known patterns of Jewish life. There have been times of great creativity and diversity, and there have been times of consolidation and standardization. Ours is a living and ever-evolving religious civilization, one in which Jews root ourselves in the past, strive to live consciously with God in the present, and prepare to encounter God in new and enhanced ways in the future. As we read in Adon Olam:
“V’hu hayah, v’hu hoveh, v’hu yih’yeh b’tif’arah.
God was, God is, and God will always be glorious.”

Preparing for Rosh Hashanah

August 21st: Ki Tezei
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s portion gives a variety of rules—some of them harsh—and then often accommodations or exceptions. When real-life situations are difficult or complex, Halachah often shows flexibility—and this has been the case throughout our history: in the Bible, the Talmud, and subsequent Rabbinic literature. 

What happens is that Halachah may encounter internal challenges—goals or principles that come in conflict with each other. Justice is important, but so is compassion. Following the rules is important, but sometimes the rules do not seem to be adequately understanding of life’s complexities. The challenge throughout our history has been to weigh our priorities and decide which takes precedence. A case in point faces us now as we prepare for our High Holy Days and a Rosh Hashanah that falls on Shabbat. If Shabbat prohibitions interfere with any of Rosh Hashanah’s rituals, which should prevail? Does the importance of Rosh Hashanah docheh/override the prohibition of “work” on Shabbat, or does the pre-eminence of Shabbat docheh Rosh Hashanah?  

As it turns out, there are two main conflicts: (1) the blowing of the Shofar, and (2) the recitation of Avinu Malkaynu. Tradition sees both posing conflicts with Shabbat prohibitions and should therefore be deferred until Rosh Hashanah’s Second Day (Sunday). Of course, this advice assumes that all Jews will be present for worship on the Second Day.

(1)   Avinu Malkaynu is seen as a series of supplications, and the concern is that they constitute legal requests to God, a form of legal “work” not allowed on Shabbat. Thus is Avinu Malkaynu omitted in traditional First Day services and only recited on Rosh Hashanah’s Second Day (Sunday).   

(2)   The reasoning on the Shofar is less direct because there is no prohibition against blowing or sounding the Shofar on Shabbat. Neither is considered “work.” However, the concern is that the Shofar blower may forget to bring his instrument to the synagogue before Shabbat and then need to carry it on Shabbat. Since carrying is one of the thirty-nine categories of work prohibited on Shabbat, Tradition defers the Shofar service from Rosh Hashanah’s First Day (Shabbat) to its Second (Sunday).  

We can argue about both judgments, but more important is the assumption about everyone attending the Second Day Service. In Tradition’s mind, deferring these rituals to the Second Day does not prohibit them. However, in our modern world, most Jews do not attend Second Day Services, and this means that omitting Shofar and Avinu Malkaynu on Shabbat means prohibiting these mitzvot completely. 

Now to the arguments themselves. Though it is often taught that one should not ask God for things on Shabbat, the fact is that the traditional Shabbat service is full of requests. The same can be said for the traditional service for Rosh Hashanah Shabbat. Even without Avinu Malkaynu, many, many prayers involve supplication. Why would Avinu Malkaynu be singled out (for omission)? Perhaps it is because the prayer’s imagery calls to mind a courtroom in which we appear before God and plead for our lives—something close enough to a legal proceeding that medieval authorities considered it a Safek (doubtful case) and decided to err on the side of caution. While the Safek was strong enough in a world where everyone worshipped on the Second Day, I do not believe that it is strong enough in our very different world. For us, deferring Avinu Malkaynu on the First Day effectively means omitting it entirely, and thus I believe that we need to recalibrate the weight of the Safek and make a different decision.  

As for the Shofar, let us remember that the problem is not about sounding the Shofar but about potentially carrying it to synagogue. And, since carrying is not a prohibitions most Jews observe, the concern becomes irrelevant. While our Orthodox relatives and friends observe strict rules about not carrying—or only doing so within an Eruv, the vast majority of Reform, Reconstructionist, and Conservative Jews have a different kind of Shabbat observance. Most of us drive to synagogue and carry keys, wallets, purses, tallitot (tallesim), and all the accoutrement of modern life. Therefore, if the traditional prohibition of carrying on Shabbat is not an issue for us, why would we let it interfere with something as important as sounding and listening to the Shofar? We need to hear the Shofar on Rosh Hashanah, and thus it stands to reason that it should be sounded and heard even when Rosh Hashanah coincides with Shabbat.  

Rosh Hashanah is our time to appear before the One of the Universe, to repent, and to draw closer to holiness. Both sounding the Shofar and reciting Avinu Malkaynu are important rites in our spiritual process, and, given Tradition’s decisions and the new and different world in which we live, some recalculation seems appropriate. When we strive for holiness—for piety and Teshuvah, we need the access to the Eternal One that both of these rituals assist. They need to be included whichever day Rosh Hashanah comes.

Reading Between the Lines of Deuteronomy

July 31st: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Sometimes, history is boring. All those details and ins and outs of every single event can be overwhelming, and our minds simply refuse to engage any more. This is why simple explanations are so popular. Rather than get into the nitty-gritty on every historical question, a generalization or platitude is much easier to grab—and our poor brains can stop straining. 

Sometimes, however, history can be illuminating and help us understand what was really happening back then—and how Biblical “precedents” quoted today may be a bit overdrawn. 

A case in point comes in this week’s Torah portion. While the Book of Deuteronomy presents itself as a series of farewell lectures by Moses (circa 1200 BCE), most modern Bible scholars date it much later—around 620 BCE. Rather than being Moses’ words, it reflects what later authors thought Moses could/should have said. Many of Deuteronomy’s “ancient” warnings and instructions seem remarkably prescient about problems experienced during the last generations of the Davidic dynasty—well after Moses’ time. 

In particular are the disturbing calls for the Israelites to utterly destroy all of the inhabitants. “You shall destroy all the peoples that the Lord your God delivers to you, showing them no pity. And you shall not worship their gods, for that would be a snare to you.” (7.16) Given this and other similar passages, one would assume that a massive invasion wiped out all the Canaanites and secured the Land for Israel. However, the archeological record shows no such invasion or destruction. Moreover, as the Bible describes post-Conquest history, we read a lot about the Israelites living in close proximity to various non-Jewish groups—and having the kinds of interactions one would expect: commerce, social mores, ethnic sensibilities, and different and sometimes competing religions. Israel lived in the same towns and regions as the various Canaanite groups—groups which obviously were not destroyed in a dramatic invasion.  

Much evidence points to a much slower migration into Canaan—from both Mesopotamia and Egypt, and it can be compared to other historical migrations. One example is when the Christians reconquered the Iberian Peninsula and expelled all the Muslims and Jews. Rather than an all-at-once expulsion, the Reconquista took a few centuries, and the exodus of Muslims was gradual and over that same timespan. As for the Jews’ “Expulsion from Spain,” the 1492 date was actually the end of a 100 year out-migration—with some Jews leaving and others converting to Christianity so that they could stay.  

Another similarly gradual example of migration was that of African Americans departing the South and moving up North. Starting with the escape of slaves on the Underground Railroad, the migration continued after Emancipation and for another hundred years. A significant wave of this migration came after the 1927 Flood when the levee broke, and thousands of Mississippi Delta sharecroppers lost everything and took barges up the River. My father recalled what he saw in the 1940s—how, when he traveled between New Orleans and Memphis or Chicago, there were always lots of Blacks taking the train North, and very few taking the train South. It was a gradual migration that changed the demographics of both the South and many Northern cities. 

Archeological evidence and Biblical passages suggest that the “Conquest of Canaan” might have been a similar kind of process—and some scholars even suggest that not all the Hebrews/Israelites went to Egypt in the first place. Some went and experienced what we read in Exodus. Many others stayed in the Land of Canaan—where Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob lived! Others still continued to move back and forth along the ancient trade and cultural route between the Fertile Crescent and the Nile. In other words, the Bible’s account may be more summarizing and dramatic than the actual migration and settlement patterns of our ancient ancestors.  

This does not mean that the inspirational and moral aspects of Deuteronomy falter. The notion of God taking care of us and instructing us in piety and morality still stand. One example is found in Deuteronomy 8.10, a passage that anchors the mitzvah of giving thanks for our food: “When you eat and are satisfied, you shall praise the Lord your God for the good land which has been given to you.” Since the praising instruction comes after the eating and feeling satisfied phrases, the Rabbis crafted the traditional Jewish custom of saying a Grace after meals, Birkat Hamazon. 

Getting back to the many-centuries-later composition of Deuteronomy, perhaps some of the conquest “instructions” are ways of seeding the religious reforms of King Josiah (circa 620 BCE) back in Moses’ day. Or they could represent “singing the blues” about the continuing challenges of living among neighbors with different religions, mores, legal traditions, etc. “Too bad we didn’t just get rid of them all,” but of course we did not. There are always those who imagine a simpler world, but God gives us variety in creation, variety in humanity, and variety and diversity in the ways we form groups and learn to live together. 

To me, Deuteronomy is like all the other books of the Bible, reflecting the many different Jewish voices that have expressed themselves in our long and complex history. Every comment is not a marching order. It was not then, and it is not now. We read and we reflect, and we join with the ancients in trying to ascertain the best ways we can approach God and live reverently.

"God is With Us; We Shall Not Be Moved"

July 24th: Va’et’chanan and Tisha B’Av
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This week, we experience the highs and the lows of Judaism. The highs come in two of the Torah’s most stirring passages: the Ten Commandments and the Shema (Deuteronomy 5.6-18 and 6.4-9). In this week’s Torah portion, they greet us and inspire us once again.  

The lows come in the observance known as Tisha B’Av, the saddest day in our Jewish year (this year observed on Thursday July 23rd). Among the terrible things that happened on this day are the destruction of the First Temple in 586 BCE, the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, and the final expulsion from Spain in 1492. It is a day for mourning the people killed and exiled in these tragic calamities.   

We can also see the highs and lows of Jewish knowledge and observance. While everyone knows the Shema and the Ten Commandments, Tisha B’Av gets much less attention. The Ninth of Av is one of those things that may be on the calendar but is generally ignored.  

The reasons for this lack of attention are interesting and tell us much about modern Jewish thinking. Why is the mourning day of Tisha B’Av so unobserved?  

(1)   Most modern Jews do not feel mournful about the destruction of the Temple. Though the Torah talks a lot about the sacrificial system, Judaism has moved on. Even back in the Bible, some of our Prophets and Psalmists made the point that the sacrifices are not the real point of worship: God does not need the blood or meat or fire. What God wants is piety and morality. According to Rabbi Moses Maimonides, the only reason God instructed us to kill, cook, and eat animals in religious ritual is that our ancestors were already acquainted with this kind of worship. That is how their pagan neighbors worshipped their gods. So, the Lord prescribed a familiar form of worship—with the difference being that our sacrificial worship was to the One God. There is no doubt that the Destruction of Jerusalem and the Temple was a terrible human tragedy, but the ritual problem was quite fixable. Instead of animal sacrifices, we use prayers and Torah study to connect with our God, and many believe that our prayer services are much better than the ancient Temple’s system. In other words, a day mourning our inability to worship with animal sacrifices simply does not resonate with most modern Jews.  

(2)   There are more recent and relevant things to mourn. We are a people well steeped in adversity and oppression, and, though the destruction of the two Temples (2500 and 1900 years ago) and the Expulsion from Spain (over 500 years ago) are remarkably tragic, there are more recent tragedies to mourn. In particular, our current sense of national grief centers around the Holocaust—and modern days of mourning have been developed: Kristallnacht, International Holocaust Remembrance Day, and Yom Hashoa.  

(3)   The timing of Tisha B’Av is awkward. School is off for the Summer, and people are traveling or doing Summer things. For many Jewish children, Tisha B’Av is only known through programming at Jewish Summer Camp. In a traditional mindset, mourning the Holocaust would have been included in the list of calamities remembered on Tisha B’Av, so I wonder if our nine-month school calendar might have been one of the reasons why new days of mourning were developed for this relatively modern tragedy. Tisha B’Av has in some ways, been replaced by the Holocaust memorial observances. 

All this being said, there are other interpretations of Tisha B’Av that can make it resonate more deeply with modern sensibilities. 

(1)   The Destruction of the Temple can be a metaphor for the imperfection of the world. The world’s problems are obvious and expansive, and the Cosmos is desperately in need of Tikkun Olam/Repair. Tisha B’Av can be observed as the Universe calling on us to redouble our efforts to make things better. This is often the tack taken at Jewish Summer Camps: mourn the tragedies of the past, study the needs of today, and resolve to work for social justice.  

(2)   Tisha B’Av can be a time to mourn for the imperfections in our own personal lives. We all experience sadness—sadnesses and calamities of one form or another, and, though our suffering is not necessarily tied to a particular day on the calendar, there can be value in setting aside some time to mourn. While reading Book of Lamentations about ancient Jerusalem, we can also reflect and mourn the destroyed Jerusalems in our own lives and relationships. Mourning does not solve our problems, but it does give us an opportunity to acknowledge the real sadness with which we cope. It can also give us an opportunity to join with others in our Tradition as we together “sing the blues.” Catharsis is not a solution, but the commonality of our universal experiences can often bring psychic companionship and comfort.

An old legend says that Tisha B’Av will be the birthday of the Messiah, and, in our metaphorical take on this ancient observance, we can pray for the Messianic blessings of compassion, resolve, and hope—hope to endure and hope for future happiness. God is with us. We shall not be moved.
“A Song of Ascents
Out of the depth I call You, O Lord.
O Lord, listen to my cry; let Your ears be attentive to my plea for mercy.
If you keep account of sins, O Lord, who could survive?
Yours is the power to forgive, so that You may be held in awe.
I look to the Lord. I look to the Lord! I await Your attention.
I am more eager for the Lord than watchmen for the morning,
Yea, than watchmen for the morning.
Wait for the Lord, O Israel, for with the Lord there is steadfast love
And great power to redeem.
God is the One Who will redeem Israel for all their iniquities”.  (Psalm 130)

Perhaps Some Unexpected Biblical Passages

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

Everyone reads the Bible with a lens—seeing some things clearly and seeing other things less so. Those of us who are not very militaristic often tend to skip over the rah-rah military stuff: it rankles our sensibilities. A perfect example is Psalm 137. The first two stanzas mourn our exile in Babylonia and yearn for Jerusalem.
“By the waters of Babylon, there we sat,
Sat and wept, as 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 the roof of my mouth,
If I cease to think of you,
If I do not keep Jerusalem in mind even at my happiest hour.”
These are the stanzas that are often quoted—and included in wall hangings and jewelry.  

However, the third stanza lets loose our anger at the Babylonians.
“Remember, O Lord, against the Edomites the day of Jerusalem’s fall:
How they cried, ‘Strip her, strip her to her very foundations!’
Fair Babylon, you predator, a blessing on him
Who repays you in kind what you have inflicted on us;
A blessing on him who seizes your babies and dashes them against the rocks!”
This sounds awfully hostile. Awfully violent. And yet we who sit in our comfortable homes may never have been traumatized by the multitude of horrors that the Psalmist beheld when Jerusalem fell—and many, many, many were slaughtered. The phrase The Destruction of the First Temple and Jerusalem in 586 BCE is simple, but it summarizes horror upon horror that the writer and readers of this Psalm knew.  

So, when the first few chapters of Deuteronomy (our Torah portion this week) recount our conquests over the Amorites, led by King Sihon King of Heshbon and King Og of Bashan, the victory story should be read with the clear understanding that losing these wars would not have gone well for the ancient Israelites. It was a very hostile area—and Deuteronomy’s second chapter recounts a series of conquests in which the “ownership” of territories changed hands often. Of course, the Torah’s view is that the real owner of all land is God. God grants land to various groups and then “ungrants” it when they misbehave. People are allowed to dwell on God’s land conditionally. 

Meanwhile, beneath the theology of God defeating Og and Sihon and other enemies is the reality that Israelite men had to gird their loins, take up their swords, spears, and shields, and fight desperately in life-or-death conflicts. The cost of freedom and following God’s commandments was often paid with strife and blood and terrible sacrifice. We who have been spared the horrors of killing or being killed should not ignore this reality. 

And so I come to a modern text, one that pairs with these opening chapters of Deuteronomy. Called It is the Soldier, the poem was written by Charles M. Province, an army veteran and military historian.
It is the Soldier ©Copyright by Charles M. Province
It is the Soldier, not the minister
Who has given us freedom of religion.
It is The Soldier, not the reporter,
Who has given us Freedom of the press.
It is The Soldier, not the poet,
Who has given us Freedom of speech.
It is The Soldier, not the campus organizer,
Who has given us Freedom to demonstrate.
It is The Soldier, not the lawyer,
Who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the Soldier, not the politician,
Who has given us the right to vote. 

It is The Soldier who salutes the flag,
Who serves beneath the flag and
Whose coffin is draped by the flag
Who allows the protester to burn the flag. 

Next week, we have The Ten Commandments (Deuteronomy 5.6-18) and The Shema and Ve’ahavta (Deuteronomy 6.4-9), which means that the militarism of chapters 1-3 makes the profundity and holiness possible. 

We pray for peace, but we need to be ready for conflict. As the Psalmist (29.13) prayerfully describes the process:
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten. Adonai yivarech et amo va’shalom.
May the Lord give strength to our people; May the Lord bless our people with peace.”

Working on Our "More Perfect Union"

July 10th: Matot-Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we reflected on the evolving and developing nature of both Judaism and the United States. Principles laid down in founding documents were not immediately made manifest, and the work of putting them into practice has been ongoing for a long time. Both are living traditions, and one of the blessings for both has been our ability to adapt and improve.  

The story of the Daughters of Zelophehad provides an excellent and ancient example. Initially presented in last week’s portion, the case brought by Mahlah, Tirzah, Hoglah, Milcah, and No’ah asks that they be allowed to inherit their father’s allotment in the Promised Land. “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son? Give us a holding amng our father’s kinsmen.” (Numbers 27.4) Their case is presented in Numbers 27 (last week’s portion), and God answers them in Numbers 36 (this week’s portion). The women are allowed to inherit, and we learn that God’s justice involves developing and improving the Torah.  

A similar dynamic is present in America’s development. Not all of our noble principles—our attempts “to form a more perfect union”—were fulfilled at first, and our national history provides many example of development and improvement. An example came from the dialogue between the Hebrew Congregation of Newport and President George Washington. Stating their congratulations and their anxiety to the President, the Jews of Newport (and all of America) received his assurance that America would be good to its Jews. 

But we were not the only religious group concerned about religious freedom. In 1801, the Baptist congregation in Danbury, Connecticut feared being taxed by the dominant Anglican/Episcopal Church. They wrote to Thomas Jefferson, the then new President, inquiring about their religious freedom. Though we may think of Baptists as a dominant religious group, back then, in New England, they were a minority and often considered pariahs. Though they had religious freedom, they experienced it “as favors granted, and not as inalienable rights.” Contending that “the legitimate power of civil government extends no further than to punish the man who works ill to his neighbor,” they were concerned that the Anglican majority would punish them soley “on account of religious opinions.” President Jefferson wrote back to the church leadership on January 1, 1802, and added an important interpretation of the First Amendment. As in all developing systems, things in these United States could have gone in many different directions. Here is what Jefferson considered the right path. 

Messrs. Nehemiah Dodge, Ephraim Robbins, and Stephen S. Nelson
A Committee of the Danbury Baptist Association, in the State of Connecticut.

Gentlemen,–The affectionate sentiment of esteem and approbation which you are so good as to express towards me, on behalf of the Danbury Baptist Association, give me the highest satisfaction. My duties dictate a faithful and zealous pursuit of the interests of my constituents, and in proportion as they are persuaded of my fidelity to those duties, the discharge of them becomes more and more pleasing. 

Believing with you that religion is a matter which lies solely between man and his God, that he owes account to none other for his faith or his worship, that the legislative powers of government reach actions only, and not opinions, I contemplate with sovereign reverence that act of the whole American people which declared that their legislature would “make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof,” thus building a wall of separation between Church and State. Adhering to this expression of the supreme will of the nation in behalf of the rights of conscience, I shall see with sincere satisfaction the progress of those sentiments which tend to restore to man all his natural rights, convinced he has no natural right in opposition to his social duties. 

I reciprocate your kind prayers for the protection and blessing of the common Father and Creator of man, and tender you for yourselves and your religious association, assurances of my high respect and esteem.

Th Jefferson

Notice how Mr. Jefferson quotes the two clauses in the First Amendment that deal with religion: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof…” He saw these two limitations—the Establishment Clause and the Free Exercise Clause—as demanding a strict separation between Church and State. The nature of this “wall of separation” has been a matter of lively debate. If one religion wishes to “bring America to its knees before God,” is limiting them an unreasonable prohibition of religious expression, or is it a protection for others who have different religious views?  On the other hand, is it possible to have civil and national values that, while finding inspiration in religious teaching, do not represent “an establishment of religion?”  

In this continuing discussion, Thomas Jefferson’s view is like that of the great Rabbis on matters of Halachah. He has the bona fides to opine on this important subject, and his opinion is front and center. However, his opinion is just that: a learned and authoritative teaching that may or may not prevail as we work on our “more perfect union.” 

Afterthought:
The importance of religious freedom to the ratifiers of the Constitution is evidenced by its prominence in the Bill of Rights. Not only are the two religious guarantees in the very first Amendment; they are also listed as the first in the Amendment’s six concerns:
First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution:
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Working on Our Goals

July 3rd: Pinchas
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though we date our covenant with God—and its many mitzvot—back to the Revelation at Mount Sinai, our holy relationship took a while to be fully revealed and even longer to be put into practice. In fact, this “putting the covenant into practice” process continues to this day. Our Judaism is a living religion and has been adjusted and adapted and re-envisioned frequently through the ages. We may know about the Talmud’s reformulation of Biblical Judaism—and the subsequent commentaries and responsa, but an initial change came in the Torah itself. In this week’s portion (Numbers 27), Moses is faced with a question of fairness. An Israelite named Zelophehad dies in the wilderness and leaves no sons to inherit his portion of the Promised Land. At which point his five daughters approach Moses and ask for fairness—for a chance to inherit even though the law does not allow women to inherit. Moses asks God, and, in Numbers 36, God adjusts the law. The five—Mahlah, No’ah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah—inherit their father’s allotment, and we learn that God is amendable to religious and legal improvements. 

Though the basic principles of justice, compassion, and holiness are established, applying them to life’s many and complex situations requires frequent adjustments and enhancements.  

Our United States is remarkably similar. Though we date our independence to July 4, 1776, the fact is that the story of our independence and democracy was just getting started. We had to fight for our independence, figure out how to govern ourselves, refigure out how to govern ourselves, and from time to time make necessary changes. Among the changes was the adoption of the Constitution and Bill of Rights and the inauguration of our first president in 1789.  

There were six Jewish congregations in the United States when George Washington began his/the presidency, and, when Washington visited Newport, Rhode Island, the local congregation was part of the ceremonies. Addressing the new president, Moses Mendes Sexias, the congregation’s warden, addressed the new president and publicly read the following letter:
Sir:
Permit the children of the stock of Abraham to approach you with the most cordial affection and esteem for your person and merits — and to join with our fellow citizens in welcoming you to NewPort. With pleasure we reflect on those days — those days of difficulty, and danger, when the God of Israel, who delivered David from the peril of the sword, — shielded Your head in the day of battle: — and we rejoice to think, that the same Spirit, who rested in the Bosom of the greatly beloved Daniel enabling him to preside over the Provinces of the Babylonish Empire, rests and ever will rest, upon you, enabling you to discharge the arduous duties of Chief Magistrate in these States. 

Deprived as we heretofore have been of the invaluable rights of free Citizens, we now with a deep sense of gratitude to the Almighty disposer of all events behold a Government, erected by the Majesty of the People — a Government, which to bigotry gives no sanction, to persecution no assistance — but generously affording to all Liberty of conscience, and immunities of Citizenship: — deeming every one, of whatever Nation, tongue, or language equal parts of the great governmental Machine: — This so ample and extensive Federal Union whose basis is Philanthropy, Mutual confidence and Public Virtue, we cannot but acknowledge to be the work of the Great God, who ruleth in the Armies of Heaven, and among the Inhabitants of the Earth, doing whatever seemeth him good. 

For all these Blessings of civil and religious liberty which we enjoy under an equal and benign administration, we desire to send up our thanks to the Ancient of Days, the great preserver of Men — beseeching him, that the Angel who conducted our forefathers through the wilderness into the promised Land, may graciously conduct you through all the difficulties and dangers of this mortal life: — And, when, like Joshua full of days and full of honour, you are gathered to your Fathers, may you be admitted into the Heavenly Paradise to partake of the water of life, and the tree of immortality. 

One can sense in this congratulatory letter a combination of hope and anxiety. How would this new democracy—and its presidency—develop? How kind would America be to the Jews? While we have much to offer, some of the kings under whom we have lived have been better for the Jews than others. 

Apparently, General Washington was quite impressed with Mr. Sexias’ words, and he quoted many of them back to the congregation—in a letter they treasure to this day:
Gentlemen:
While I received with much satisfaction your address replete with expressions of esteem, I rejoice in the opportunity of assuring you that I shall always retain grateful remembrance of the cordial welcome I experienced on my visit to Newport from all classes of citizens. The reflection on the days of difficulty and danger which are past is rendered the more sweet from a consciousness that they are succeeded by days of uncommon prosperity and security.

If we have wisdom to make the best use of the advantages with which we are now favored, we cannot fail, under the just administration of a good government, to become a great and happy people. The citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for having given to mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy—a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship. 

It is now no more that toleration is spoken of as if it were the indulgence of one class of people that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights, 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. 

It would be inconsistent with the frankness of my character not to avow that I am pleased with your favorable opinion of my administration and fervent wishes for my felicity. May the children of the stock of Abraham who dwell in this land continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other inhabitants—while everyone shall sit in safety under his own vine and fig tree and there shall be none to make him afraid. May the father of all mercies scatter light, and not darkness, upon our paths, and make us all in our several vocations useful here, and in His own due time and way everlastingly happy.
— G. Washington

Can Someone be an Atheist and Still Believe in God? Part II

June 12th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When Moses sends out twelve spies to scout the Promised Land, he and God expect good reports. After all, the Land “is flowing with milk and honey.” However, the spies’ reports are mixed: Joshua and Caleb are all excited, but the other ten spies are pessimistic. Their negativity is contagious, and when they tell the people that God’s mission is impossible, the people complain and beg God to call off the whole plan. God expects faith from the people, and, when it is not forthcoming, we find ourselves wandering in the wilderness. Perhaps the next generation will have enough gumption—and enough trust in the Lord.  

While the Biblical message about faith in God is straightforward and simple, we should not let that simplicity distract us from the real challenges of faith. What does it take to believe? What are we to believe? What do we do if the stories and instructions we are told are not believable? 

While some people believe the religious traditions they are taught, others doubt what they have learned about God and God’s expectations. Most people think in terms of Theistic Absolutism, the definition which sees God as an all-powerful, all-knowing, and all-good Entity—a God Who is present everywhere and conscious, taking an interest in human and earthly affairs and occasionally breaking into the natural order to perform miracles. Some people believe that this definition of God is accurate, but others do not. Some “non-believers” declare themselves Atheists or Agnostics, but others feel that a more accurate definition of God can be found.  

Among these searchers for a better understanding of God are some significant philosophical and religious thinkers. One was the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle. He believed that God focuses only on goodness and perfection—and does not actively participate in the world. God’s perfection, however, exerts a kind of moral magnetism: goodness and wisdom so compelling that they attract us and influence us to more intelligent and noble ways of living. Aristotle was not Jewish, but one of his most significant disciples (centuries later) was the great Rabbi Moses Maimonides—a Halachic scholar and philosopher who dominates Jewish thinking.   

Maimonides’ Aristotelianism was tricky because the organized Jewish community insisted on traditional belief and language. The only way he could manage this delicate position was by couching his less traditional understanding of God in a kind of secret code—maintaining Tradition but understanding the cosmos as did Aristotle. A few centuries later, another Jewish philosopher, Baruch “Benedict” Spinoza, did not feel the need to subscribe to traditional Jewish language. When he determined that God is not so much a person as the essence or fabric of existence, the Amsterdam Jewish community excommunicated him. He was only re-embraced Jewishly by the Haskalah, the Jewish Enlightenment, more than a century later.  

Many Kabbalists and Hassidic Masters also understood God in other-than-Theistic ways—though they phrased their thinking in traditional-sounding or mystical language. To them, God is far more than the traditional imagery of Avinu and Malkaynu (Father and King). They taught that God and the Universe are the same—that God is everything in the universe (including us!). Often called Pantheists or Panentheists, these Jewish mystics read a verse in the Torah in which God agrees: “Know therefore this day and keep it in mind that the Lord alone is God in heaven above and on earth below; Ayn Od/there is nothing else.” (Deuteronomy 4.39) 

The modern philosopher, Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, believed that God is supranatural (rather than supernatural)—that God is the power or natural process in which humans attain self-fulfillment or improvement. Other moderns imagine God as the human conscience—finding a proof-text in the Biblical story of Elijah’s “still, small voice.”  (I Kings 19.11) 

And then there is the Limited God concept—an insight of Lurianic Kabbalah that was also derived by modern philosopher Charles Hartshorn. This view sees God as omnibenevolent but not omnipotent—that God is very, very powerful, but not completely powerful over everything in the universe. In that small uncontrolled realm, imperfection and even evil happen. Rabbi Isaac Luria spoke metaphorically of God being injured and taught that the mitzvot are ways for us to help God heal—a process known as Tikkun Olam. Many find this approach helpful because it acknowledges the obvious imperfections in the world and also challenges us to help God fix the world (Tikkun Olam). Many of us know about the Limited God concept from Rabbi Harold Kushner who, in his book, When Bad Things Happen to Good People, describes how this understanding of God helped him cope with his son’s tragic illness.  

Why are there so many theories about God? William James provides a helpful explanation. He defines Religion as the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—to the “more,” an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence. Those who are religious feel this Presence and seek to approach, understand, and live in a conscious relationship with it. This is the basis of all religions—and it explains the process in which religions originate, evolve and improve. 

Some people are uncomfortable with such a non-empirical thought process—or they doubt the veracity of religious authorities. They often dismiss the religious process and call themselves Atheists or Agnostics. Others may feel the Presence, but they do not feel comfortable with the religious responses humans have crafted—or with the human management of religion. They find that organized religion gets in the way of their experience with the Presence, and they often describe themselves as “spiritual but not religious.” I think I understand their point but wonder if better or improved religious possibilities would help them—would help them relate consciously to the Presence. As theologian Paul Tillich observed, Religion is just the symbolic language of the spirituality we feel. When one wants to speak, language can be very helpful.

The imagery and metaphors of religion can be wonderful and breath-taking—and help us to an apperception of the Divine, but they can also distract us from the truths and beauty at the heart of existence. We can become so focused on the metaphors that we fail to see beyond them—fail to use them as conduits to God. Let us remember that Religion is not God—that it is a tool to help us in our searching for God. Religion is important, but it is not the goal. As the Baal Shem Tov taught: “When wood burns, it is the smoke alone that rises upward, leaving the ashes below. So it is with prayer. The sincere intention alone ascends to heaven.”  

Can Someone be an Atheist and Still Believe in God? Part I

June 5th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion tells us about the “cloud” of God’s Presence that covered the Mishkan and led our people through the wilderness. How wonderful would it be to know and see that God is with us?! But alas, this kind of miracle is not part of our modern lives. Is there a way for us to feel God’s Presence? Is there a way for us to know God?  

As a starting text, let us consider this prayer from the Rosh Hashanah morning service:
“Today is the birthday of the world! On this day, all the world’s creatures stand before You in judgment, some as children, some as servants. If You look upon us as children, then pity us as a parent pities beloved children. If You look upon us as servants, then we hope for Your graciousness when You judge us, revered and holy God.” 

Though the main theme is repentance and forgiveness, I am drawn to the two metaphors and their conditional phrasing: If You look upon us as children…If You look upon us as servants…” Metaphors are generally used to make something hard-to-explain explainable—and, if one metaphor works in its own limited way, then perhaps other metaphors can work in their own limited ways. Our prayer books are full of metaphors:
“We are Your people, You are our Ruler. We are Your children, You are our Parent.
We are Your possession, You are our Portion. We are Your flock, You are our Shepherd.
We are Your vineyard, You are our Keeper. We are Your beloved, You are our Friend.” 

Each speaks of a different aspect of our relationship with God—and thus does each also recast the nature and role of God. But given that God is greater than all of our metaphors, it would be a shame to rely too confidently on any of these descriptions and limit God with a limited view. The reality of God—the totality of God—is far beyond us. We are approaching and attempting to describe something ineffable.  

Ineffable means indescribable—something beyond our ability to understand and verbalize, and it is an important word to remember in thinking about God. It is a lot like the word Infinite, another word applied to God. Both mean that God is beyond our ability to understand and define. I believe that we can know something of God, but whatever we know is inevitably and woefully miniscule when compared to the infinite expansiveness of the Eternal One.  

Yet, when you ask people to define the word “God,” nine out of ten will come up with a very specific definition—one that is not in any way expansive or aware of infinity. Most will describe something along the lines of a “big guy in the sky,” and thus do we have a theological impediment. When this is someone’s understanding of God, and that person decides that such an entity “does not exist,” then the person often declares him/herself to be an Atheist or an Agnostic. And yet, ironically, such an Atheist or Agnostic can describe in great detail the God in which he/she does not believe.  

Though the generally-understood definition of an Atheist is someone who does not believe in God—with an Agnostic being someone who is not sure, the philosophical definition is a bit more specific. The term A-Theist means that someone does not believe in Theistic Absolutism, a specific definition of God. Theistic Absolutism says that God is an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, and omnibenevolent entity Who is conscious and Who takes an interest in human and earthly affairs, occasionally breaking into the natural order to perform miracles—the purpose of which is to reward good/obedience and to punish evil/disobedience. This is the God whom A-theists do not believe exists, but is this definition of God the only one possible?  

Over the centuries, a number of philosophers and religious thinkers have sort of agreed with the Atheists—agreeing that Theistic Absolutism does not make sense. However, rather than rejecting God, they sought ways to understand the phenomenon of God more accurately. Is there perhaps another way to explain or understand the Great Presence many of us sense? This is the point of William James, a 19th Century philosopher and psychologist, who defines Religion as the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Great Presence, a presence he called “The More.”  

My belief is that those who are religious feel this Presence and seek to approach it, to understand it, and to live in a conscious relationship with it. To me, all the religious responses—the stories, laws, rites, and customs of all religions (including Judaism!)—spring from this desire to draw close to the Presence and incorporate its utter appeal into our thinking and our lives.  

Next week, we shall look at some of these different understandings of God—and how they offer better and more believable ways to describe the Presence many of us sense.  

In the meantime, here is a tentative answer to our opening question: If one does not think that Theistic Absolutism accurately describes God, but that perhaps there may be better ways to describe this Presence we feel, then such a person could be both an A-theist and believe in God.

The possibilities are both interesting and inspiring.

Seeking Holiness Within Judaism's Polydoxy

May 29th/30th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, I wrote about Dr. Alvin Reines, late of the Hebrew Union College, and his belief that Judaism should be understood as a Polydoxy, a religious community with a wide variety of thinking and practice. Though born into Jewishness, each Jew defines what that means for him/herself.  

(One might think that Gerim/Converts may approach this differently since they were not born Jewish but rather opted in and voluntarily accepted Ol Malchut Hashamayim/The Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. However, the fact is that Gerim/Converts sign on for a Judaism that is already typified by a wide range of Jewish beliefs and Jewish practices. What they sign up for is our Polydoxy.)  

The question Dr. Reines asks is: How can we conduct our religion, showing both awareness of and respect for our members’ individual opinions? The answer is to open up our language, and this can be done in three ways.  

An initial way is to search for liturgical material that is equivocal—that equally voices the different religious perspectives of the Jews in our congregations. An example is found in the following prayer about the meaning of life and death:
The light of life is a finite flame. Like the candles of the Sabbath, life is kindled, it burns, it glows, it gives off beauty and rays of warmth. But soon it fades; its substance is consumed, and it is no more. In light, we see and can be seen. The moments of flame dance, and our lives are full. But, as night follows day, shadows follow the flames and blur our view. We fail to see and can no longer be seen. Yet we do not despair, for our fate is more than memory. With our lives, we give life. We are links in the eternal chain of darkness and death, of light and life. (A Book of Common Service, Institute for Creative Judaism, Cincinnati, 1976, pp.7–8; used in our Siddur B’rit Shalom, page 148.)
There are many different understandings of and beliefs about death, so this piece speaks in a metaphor that can support a variety of different theological beliefs. It is a prayer to which everyone can say Amen. 

A second way of opening up our language is by being conscious and transparent about metaphor and poetry—making sure that everyone knows that some traditional language is not necessarily to be taken literally. This means that phrases about God “bringing on the evening twilight and rolling away the light for the darkness” do not literally declare that twilight comes when God draws the curtains of the sky. Such passages are poetry and speak of the natural order of things in non-scientific, non-literal terms. The message is the wonder—and not an analysis of the physics. My impression is that the ancients understood that much of their language was poetic and metaphorical, and thus reading their words too literally is a misreading. 

A third way to open up our language is to seek more expansive terms for concepts that are mysterious and not amenable to simple definition. The prime example is how we speak of and think about God. Much of religion’s language about God is anthropomorphic—speaking of the Deity as though “He” is a big and powerful person. Though traditional phrases like “Avinu Malkaynu/Our Father , Our King” or “Melech Ha’olam/King of the World” speak to certain positive aspects of our relationship with the Divine, they do not come close to expressing the Infinity of God—and therefore limit God (or at least our understanding of God). More expansive terms can speak more to the definitional fact that God is greater than our ability to define. Thus are more expansive terms for God not only more accurate, but they are also more helpful in approaching something so awesome and ineffable. Though we may not know the totality of God, we can nonetheless approach God and live in relationship with the Divine.   

Another problem with anthropomorphic images for God is that they can bring to mind less-than-ideal humans. Not every relationship with a Father or King or human authority has been positive, and if we think of God as having the same bad habits as some humans—authoritarianism, anger, cruelty, vindictiveness, jealousy, etc., it should not be surprising that some people shy away from and reject such a “God.” It sounds strange to say, but the negative traits and evil actions of bad people can sully the reputation of God. Theology knows that God is above and beyond such human imperfections, but anthropomorphic terms (taken too literally and seriously) can reduce God to human imperfection and put off rather than inspire religiosity.  

Though Tradition has often used anthropomorphisms, there has also been a sense that we can do better. As far back as the Talmud, one can find terms that broaden our perception of the Divine. A prime example is the Talmudic term Hamakom/The Place, a conception of the Divine which speaks of God as the “Place of Existence.” Another example—which Dr. Reines enthusiastically inherited—came from both Medieval Philosophers and the Kabbalists who spoke of God as Sibat Hahavayah/The Ground of Being. Rather than debate the strengths and weaknesses of terms and prayers that limit God with human failings, it is possible to speak in broader and broader terms—and to allow our understanding of God to get closer to God’s actual infinity. Another expansive example comes from Jewish Feminist thinking. Rather than images that connote authority and paternalism, a term like Ma’ayan Hab’ri’ah/Wellspring of Creation speaks of God as the life-force or presence that creates and energizes all life. This is an understanding of God manifest in the wonders and miracles that surround us.

At the end of Numbers 6, we have the famous Priestly Benediction:
“May the Lord bless you and protect you.
May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you.
May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace.” (Numbers 6.24-26) 

The blessings themselves are beautiful, but they are enhanced by the following verse that speaks of their purpose: “Thus they (the priests) shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them.” The blessings are more than just good wishes and hopes; they are connective. As the holy words are spoken, they “samu et Sh’mi al-B’nai Yisrael/put My Name on the Children of Israel.” They associate us with the wonders of God—with the Infinite power and understanding and kindness and wisdom that we can access when we open our eyes and minds to the Eternal One.

Celebrating Mount Sinai and God's Thunder

May 22nd: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Ten Commandments is one of our most momentous messages from God—and, as we celebrate Shavuot and the Revelation at Sinai, let us remember the scene:
“Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” (Exodus 19.18-19)
Our ancestors knew that they needed to pay attention. And then:
“God spoke all these words, saying:
(1)   I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage.
(2)   Do not have any other gods besides Me nor make idols and worship them....
(3)   Do not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain...
(4)   Guard and observe the Sabbath Day...
(5)   Honor your father and your mother...
(6)   Do not murder.
(7)   Do not commit adultery.
(8)   Do not steal.
(9)   Do not bear false witness.
(10) Do not covet...” 

This is the way I learned the Ten Commandments, but some scholars question the way they are numbered. How, they ask, is #1 a commandment, since “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage” does not command anything? To make it so, some editors combine it with the “do not have any other gods” clause that follows. Thus Commandment #1 would read: “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage; you shall have no other gods besides Me.”  

But must the Decalogue’s opening statement be a commandment? The only reason we feel the need is because someone, many centuries after the Revelation at Mount Sinai, decided to name the passage The Ten Commandments, a title completely absent in the Torah. The original Torah text  itself assigns neither a title nor numeration to the passage; God just had some important things to say. At some later date, Jewish Tradition agreed that God’s message has ten elements, but the term used was simply Eser Hadibrot / The Ten Utterances or Declarations. The word commandment did not come into play until much, much later. So, if #1 does not need to be a commandment, then we have no problem with the first statement/declaration simply being an introduction or prologue in which God reminds the Israelites of Who is speaking and of the relationship that they have shared: “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage.” 

On the other hand, is there not something commanding about this prologue? Does it not establish an authority and justification upon which all the other declarations are based? One could even say that its command is that we believe in and accept the authority of God—this “Lord…Who brought us out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage.”  

While God’s message was certainly important and authoritative, it might not have been as definitive as we imagine. Notice the way the communication is described: “As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” In other words, the Divine message was non-verbal and ethereal—a fact that must have led to many different interpretations by the people listening. 

Though there is a tendency in Jewish Tradition to speak about “authentic Jewish beliefs or practices,” the fact is that our religious endeavor has evidenced a wide variety of thinking and practices all along. The Torah reflects multiple sources and opinions, and the Talmud features a continuing dialectic with wide-ranging discussions and different approaches. Every generation of Jews has been spiced with individuality and interpretation. We all hear the Voice of the One God, but we each respond in our own holiness.

Dr. Alvin Reines, late Professor of Philosophy at the Hebrew Union College, used to muse on this continuing dialogue and note the two disparate themes. Some maintain that Judaism has what he called a Birth Dogma, a set of beliefs we are supposed to hold just by virtue of being born Jewish. Others, however, note that Jewish Tradition is not and has never been unanimous—that there is a wide variety of true and faithful responses to God’s Voice. Some Jews agree with each other and accept the authority of their leadership, but there are other Jewish groups and other Jewish leaders with different approaches and opinions. When one considers the whole Jewish people, one sees many interpretations as well as different ways of configuring Jewish identity and practice. Though some like to speak on behalf of God and tell other people what to do, others remember that God “speaks in thunder.” 

This means, Dr. Reines taught, that our Judaism is a Polydoxy, a religious community with a variety of different understandings of Judaism—and that we need to be honest and forthright about our many Jewish possibilities. In particular, we need to be wary of making blanket statements about belief, the nature of God, and Jewish observance. There are and have always been a multiplicity of opinions in our sacred community, and he suggested opening our prayer language and study language to make our religion more inviting and embracing.

There is a lot more to be said about Dr. Reines and Polydoxy—and I shall continue with his lessons next week. In the meantime, consider a term he borrowed from medieval Jewish philosophy and mysticism, one that can expand our understanding of God. Rather than limiting God with the image of a big and powerful person, Dr. Reines preferred the term Sibat Hahavayah/The Ground of Being. When we expand our theological reach, we actually enhance and increase God’s reach—we who live and are blessed within Sibat Hahavayah.   

Why did God speak in thunder? Perhaps so that each Israelite could hear the words in his/her own ways and apply them as his/her experience demands. Everyone at Mount Sinai was precious to God. And, according to the Midrash, the congregation included every future Jew as well. We were all there, and we were all filled with God’s Voice and Light and Torah. We all heard the Lord’s thunder and have been contemplating ever since how we can manifest holiness in our own and unique ways.

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.