Jacob's Karma

November 20th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

If I were to have written this essay 200 years ago, I would not have used the word Karma to describe Jacob’s experience with his Uncle Laban. Karma was not part of “Western Knowledge” at the time, but things have changed. We shall get to that later, but first, why is Jacob’s story karmic? Our ancestor, the Patriarch Jacob, is a sly and crafty fellow. He lives by his wits and is a master of the finagle:
(1)   He is born grabbing onto his brother’s heel—and is thus named Ya’akov/Heel Grabber.
(2)   He convinces his brother to trade his birthright for a bowlful of lentil stew.
(3)   He “steals” his brother’s blessing from their blind father.
(4)   He even tries to finagle God. In the famous dream where he sees a ladder from heaven to earth, God promises Jacob a special fate, but Jacob’s reply is conditional.
God promises: “I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and he God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants. Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land…’
To which Jacob makes the following counteroffer: “If God remains with me, if He protects me on this journey that I am making, and if He gives me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and if I return safe to my father’s home, then the Lord shall be my God...” (Genesis 28.12-22)
Jacob is nobody’s fool. He knows all the angles.  

And yet, when he seeks refuge with his family in Mesopotamia, his Uncle Laban turns out to be even more adept at fast-talking and assertiveness. According to one Midrash, the only reason Laban welcomes Jacob is that he suspects his nephew has jewels and money—and that, when he “embraces” him, he is really frisking him for valuables. Then Laban finagles Jacob into fourteen years of labor and an unwanted wife (a bigger tragedy for Leah!). Laban is clearly a piece of work, but tricking and manipulating Jacob seems like poetic justice. Is this not exactly what Jacob has been doing his entire life? What goes around comes around. Karma. 

We can use the word Karma today because Westerners now know about this ancient Hindu/Buddhist concept. For many centuries, however, the prevailing attitude was that the European Christian civilization was the only true and qualitative culture. Over time, Western Culture has gradually opened up its awareness and acceptance of the cultural and religious values of non-Christian and non-Western thinking. And thus we now know about Karma. 

As the purview has expanded, many similarities have appeared: similar insights about human life, similar moral standards, and similar civic and spiritual practices. Some suspect that “we” borrowed or stole ideas and practices from “them,” and scenarios are imagined in which the Rabbis or early Christian leaders spent time with Hindus or Zoroastrians or Buddhists. Are the similarities between Judeo-Christian religion and Eastern religions the results of cross-fertilization, or is there perhaps universal wisdom that at arises in diverse places? 

Though the Rabbis usually focus on the importance of God revealing the Torah, there is also some discussion about a wisdom that does not need the Torah—that is contained in Creation itself. According to some Rabbis, this Torah of Reality is something wise and perceptive people can learn simply by observing the world. Thus do some Rabbis maintain that Abraham—who lives several centuries before the Torah is given at Sinai—nonetheless knows about keeping Kosher. It is part of the wisdom imbedded in Creation, and Abraham pays attention.  

Another way to phrase this idea is that there is a ubiquitousness of human experience that leads to a ubiquitousness of moral wisdom—and to the similarities between religions and cultures around the world. Wise and perceptive people—from all sorts of cultures and religions—pay attention to the world and to life and independently arrive at certain universal truths. (In the Bahai religion, this is actually a religious tenet: God sends prophets to every culture, voicing universal and eternal principles in language and rituals that “speak” to each group and time.)  

While the particular Hindu/Buddhist concept of Karma arose in India, the idea of actions having consequences is present in all cultures/religions—and is phrased in their particular cultural idioms. In the Hebrew Scriptures, King Solomon counsels (Proverbs 12/8): “He who sows injustice shall reap misfortune” And the Prophet Hosea declares (10.12-13): “Sow righteousness for yourselves, and reap the fruits of goodness…But you have plowed wickedness, and so have reaped iniquity…” The advice is repeated by Paul in the New Testament (Galatians 6.7), “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”  

There is also Jesus’ observation in Matthew 25.52: “He who lives by the sword will die by the sword.” With just a slight change, this one can describe Jacob’s problems with his Uncle Laban: He who lives by the finagle gets finagled by the finagle.

The universality of human experience and wisdom is a blessing. We all experience similar phenomena and then express Divine Wisdom in our own ways. Earlier I used what turns out to be a fairly modern expression: What goes around comes around. Here is a little article about the phrase—its precedents and universality. “The earliest known printed use appeared in a 1974 article by Donald Freed, though the expression was likely circulating in African American English before that date. Its rapid adoption into mainstream English suggests it filled a genuine linguistic gap: the need for a concise, secular expression of the idea that actions have consequences that eventually return to affect the actor. The concept the proverb expresses is ancient. Hindu and Buddhist philosophy formalised it as 'karma'—the law that actions produce consequences that shape future experience. The Christian tradition expresses it through 'you reap what you sow' (Galatians 6:7). Chinese philosophy articulates it through the concept of 'bao' (retribution or reward). The ancient Greek concept of 'nemesis'—divine retribution for hubris—captures a similar idea. 'What goes around comes around' is the American English synthesis of these global traditions.”

[Source: Charles Clay Doyle et al., The Dictionary of Modern Proverbs, Yale University Press, 2012; Jennifer Speake (ed.), Oxford Dictionary of Proverbs, 2015 (6th edition)]

The Twins…and Israel

November 13th: Toldot 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Toldot tells the story of the birth of Esau and Jacob, the long-awaited and twin sons of Rebekah and Isaac. While some twins function as a team throughout their childhoods and often into adult life, these Biblical twins are at odds even before they are born:
“The children struggled in her (Rebekah’s) womb, and she said, ‘If so, why do I exist?’ She went to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her: ‘Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.’” (Genesis 25.22-23)  

Three small points:
(1)   This might be the moment when Rebekah learns she is carrying twins. (Remember, there were no sonograms back then.)   
(2)   What does it mean when it says, “She went to inquire of the Lord?” Is she simply praying deeply—and being answered with a vision that she, as a Matriarch, can receive? Or is there an ancient place of Divine access—like the Greek Oracle of Delphi? If one were to think in terms of the Yeshiva and holy precincts of Moriah/Salem/Jerusalem described in last week’s Torah commentary, then perhaps this is where she goes “to inquire of the Lord.”)
(3)   When Rebekah says. “Im ken, lama zeh anochi/If so, why do I exist?”, what does she mean? Though the Jewish Publication Society translates the Hebrew, the editors admit in a footnote that they do not really know what this ancient idiom means. I wonder if it is like the modern, “I could just die” which is more a figurative exasperation than an actual comment about death. In ancient times as in modern, we often express our frustration or angst in very dramatic terms.

Now, the twins, Esau and Jacob. There is a tendency among many to link twins together and treat them as a unit rather than as two separate individuals who just happen to have been born to the same parents on the same day. Though often quite similar in appearance, abilities, and circumstance, twins are not a unit any more than any other two humans who may (or may not) work together. In the case of Esau and Jacob, however, the differences are most striking:
“The first one emerged red, like a hairy mantle all over; so they named him Esau. Then his brother emerged, holding on to the heel of Esau, so they named him Jacob…Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors; but Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp…” (Genesis 25.25-27) 

While the Torah describes some differences, the Midrash really goes to town on the brothers, elaborating each one’s personality dramatically. Esau is concocted into a wild man—impulsive, violent, impious, and even bloodthirsty. One senses a post hoc ergo propter hoc attempt by the Rabbis to justify Jacob’s usurpation of the Patriarchate. Inasmuch as Esau is completely unsuited for religious leadership, what choice does Jacob have? To complete the picture and justify the stolen blessing, the Midrash concocts Jacob nto a pious and righteous man—and a studier of sacred texts. The Rabbis seize on the phrase, “he stayed in camp,” and notes that the word Yoshev/sit or stay means that he spends his time sitting in a Yeshiva—a place where pious students sit and study Torah. Another “clue” about his scholarship comes from seven missing years in the story of Jacob’s visit up to Padan Aram and Uncle Laban’s home. The Torah says that he is gone for twenty-one years, but his time with Uncle Laban (and Rachel and Leah!) is only fourteen years. What happens during these seven missing years? The “obvious” answer is that he spends them at the Yeshiva of his still-living and teaching ancestors, Shem and Eber. 

It is taught that each word of Torah can be interpreted on four different levels (some say on seventy!). Among these levels is the mystical, and, when mystics start looking at stories, all kinds of hidden possibilities emerge.  

Enter the modern mystic, Rabbi Rami Shapiro, who looks at the story of Esau and Jacob along the lines of the modern men’s movement of the 1980s. Inspired by Robert Bly, the concern was that modern men are caught between two paradigms: the warrior/wild man and the sophisticated and self-controlled civilized man. Men inhabit bodies (and psyches) built for chasing wild animals across the savanna and fighting wars—bodies built for surviving on fierce and aggressive manliness. However, modern society demands self-control and sedate sophistication—a dichotomy of expectations that creates problems for many men. Bly and the Men’s Movement offered various therapeutic techniques and experiences to help men balance these two disparate selves and resolve the internal conflict.  

In Rabbi Shapiro’s mystical understanding, Jacob and Esau can be seen not as twins but as a single man struggling with these two disparate proclivities. One part is Esau, wild and hairy and powerful, while the other part is Jacob, sedate and wise and pious. Throughout its life, Esau/Jacob struggles internally and suffers. However, on that dramatic night of wrestling with the Divine (Genesis 32.25-33), he resolves his fight within and emerges not as Jacob, not as Esau, but as Israel the Patriarch. Both powerful and wise, both assertive and pious, both able to deal with the physical world and to live profoundly in the spiritual world, Israel is able to get on with life.  

Remembering the caveat that actual twins are two individual human beings, we can nonetheless contemplate Rabbi Shapiro’s mystical interpretation and the insight it offers each of us. Whether male or female, we are all offered a variety of competing paradigms and role models—possibilities that struggle within us. Each ideal gives advice, and each advocates for how we should live our lives. Are these paradigms and expectations good? Do they fit our personalities and circumstances—and our souls? No matter the expectations set on our shoulders—by society, by family, or by our own imaginings, we are faced with a series of decisions. Like our ancestor Esau/Jacob, we are immersed in an internal wrestling match. Our task is to balance our aspirations and realities and eventually emerge as Israel. It is a real struggle, but it offers us the chance to live our lives with purpose, with equanimity, and with self-acceptance.

Explaining the Akedah to Isaac's Mom...

November 6th: Chaye Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The seeming convergence of Akedat Yitzchak/The Binding of Isaac (Genesis 22.1-19) and the Death of Sarah (Genesis 23) raises some interesting questions. Are the two events related? Or are there many years between them—with nothing important enough for the Torah record during the intervening years? 

Almost as soon as we finish the Akedah story (Genesis 22), we move on to Chaye Sarah—which means “The Life of Sarah,” but is actually her death announcement:  “Sarah’s lifetime—the span of Sarah’s life—came to one hundred and twenty-seven years. Sarah died in Kiriath-arba—now Hebron—in the Land of Canaan; and Abraham proceeded to mourn for Sarah and to bewail her.” (Genesis 23.1-2) 

Does the sequence or interval matter? If the Akedah happens, many years pass, and Sarah eventually dies, then we can maintain the seeming assumption of the story that Isaac is a child when his father almost sacrifices him. Old enough to walk, carry wood, and hike up the mountain, but a child. If, on the other hand, Sarah dies during or immediately after Abraham’s and Isaac’s trip to Mount Moriah, Isaac would be much older. Look at the numbers. The Torah says that Sarah is 91 when she gives birth to Isaac, and she is 127 years old when she dies. This means that, if she dies at the time of the Akedah, then Isaac not a child but a full-grown man of 36 years old. Rather than being the victim of his Dad’s religious zealotry, this would make Isaac a willing participant.  

So, in addition to thinking about Abraham’s difficult choice—whether or not God has to right to ask such a sacrifice, whether or not Abraham should obey, the various ways that parents “sacrifice” their children, an adult Isaac scenario expands our discussion to consider Martyrdom. There are discussions about this in Jewish Tradition—and tragic cases where it has been chosen. So, if Akedah Yitzchak is about a father and an adult son, then we need to add to our weekly Torah studies the Talmudic and Rabbinic discussions about Kiddush HaShem, Giving Up One’s Life for the Sanctification of God’s Name. 

Back to Sarah’s role in the story. Does she know of Abraham’s intentions for this excursion, or does he keep it from her? Does she ever find out—i.e., could the shock at finding out afterwards contribute to her death? Or could she, as one Midrash suggests, have a prophetic vision during the Akedah (Matriarchs are prophets, too!), and when she sees Abraham holding the slaughtering knife at Isaac’s throat, she drops dead. Whether Isaac is a child or a grown-up, her shock and grief would be the same. 

If Sarah does not know, one Midrash asks how Abraham manages to get Isaac out of the house. Some may imagine that Sarah goes along with obeying God’s terrible instructions, but it seems more probably that she would never, not in any circumstances, allow her pious husband to make this particular sacrifice. In which case, Abraham would need to figure out a way to take Isaac away without arousing Sarah’s suspicions. Enter the Midrash with this suggestion: Abraham tells Sarah that he is taking Isaac for Torah study. Torah study! And, since every Jewish mother understands the importance of Torah study, Sarah enthusiastically sends them off.

Was there Torah Study back then--several centuries before the Torah is given at Mount Sinai? , As improbable as it seems, there is a series of Midrash speculations about pre-Sinai Torah Study—and at an ancient Yeshiva! The Rabbis could not imagine pious and wise Jews who did not study Torah, and so they taught that, even before the Torah Scroll itself is revealed, there is study of Divine wisdom and Torah in the broadest sense: Divine Wisdom that is imbedded in Creation and accessible to wise and perceptive observers. A center for this study is imagined to be at Mount Moriah—a place also called Salem and later called Jerusalem and the Temple Mount.  

The Midrash imagines an ancient Yeshiva where, among others, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob study “Torah.” This Yeshiva legend is crafted from a number of Biblical clues. We begin with the amazingly long lifespans of Noah’s son Shem and of Noah’s great-grandsons, Eber. If you add up all the lifespans in the “begot’s” section of Genesis 11, both Shem and Eber are still alive in the lifetimes of the Patriarchs—Abraham, Isaac, and even Jacob. Another clue comes in Genesis 14 when Abraham encounters a mysterious figure, “King Melchizedek Salem” who is “a priest of God Most High (El Elyon).” Abraham worships with him and gives a tithe to Melchizedek’s shrine (or institution). The Midrash “explains” that this very holy individual is none other than Shem, Noah’s son, and that he and Eber teach “Torah” in that location. Again, think of the Rabbinic mindset: If one is to be a pious and learned Jew, then he needs to study Torah. And if this is true for even the Patriarchs, then it is true for everyone else as well. In other words, if Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob had to go to Hebrew School, then you do too! 

Another hint for this family of Midrashim is a detail from the end of the Akedah story. After the Angel of the Lord stops Abraham, and after Abraham sacrifices the ram instead of Isaac, and after the Angel blesses Abraham, we read: “Abraham then returned to his servants, and they departed together for Beer-sheba; and Abraham stayed at Beer-sheba.” (Genesis 22.19) Where is Isaac? One could assume that he is assumed to be accompanying his Father—or he could “realize” that he remains at the Mount Moriah Yeshiva to learn Torah and qualify himself to be a Patriarch.

The story and the Midrashim go round and round, and there are dozens of angles our Tradition has taken in trying to understand this ancient and troubling text. It is one of our most fertile Torah stories. 

There is always more to learn, but let us close this session with an insight about education: When we seek to educate our children, we often end up learning something for ourselves. Teachers reflect on this all the time, and parents often delight in the wisdom they get from rediscovering the world through their children’s eyes. Sometimes, this relearning is even more profound than when we learn things the first time. When Abraham takes Isaac up to Mount Moriah for “education,” what do he and Isaac learn? When God sends Abraham and Isaac up to the mountain, what does God learn? And as we ponder the lessons they all learned, what kind of wisdom can we gather?

Trying to Understand God's Ways

October 30th: Vayayra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Abraham’s “argument” with God over Sodom and Gomorrah is one of the most significant stories in the entire Biblical canon. How can Abraham dare to challenge the Creator of the Universe? Why does God allow it? And what does this story tell us about our understanding of God and God’s Ways? 

First, Abraham’s gall. While it may seem that Abraham has a lot of chutzpah confronting God, that is not exactly the scene the Torah describes. The story begins with a kind of soliloquy—with God “turning to the audience (the reader)” and sharing a private thought:
“Now God had said, ‘Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him? For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of God by doing what is just and right, in order that God may bring about for Abraham what has been promised him.’ Then God said, “The outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin so grave…” (Genesis 18.17-20)
God’s reason for the conversation is clearly stated: Abraham is assigned by God to be a moral instructor and thus needs to understand God’s ways so that he can explain them to others. This then is not an argument but a lesson. God puts the scenario in front of Abraham and asks him what he thinks. Abraham’s challenge is a series of questions about the logic and morality of God’s theoretical plan, and their conversation is an exploration of Divine Justice.  

Second, God’s patience. As I read the story, God is not so much indulging Abraham as instructing him—and modeling a good teacher who answers questions and helps a student understand. Also, God never actually says that the innocent in Sodom and Gomorrah are to be destroyed.
“The outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin so grave? I will go down to see whether they have acted altogether according to the outcry that has reached Me; if not, I will take note.” (Genesis 18.20-21)
Though Abraham takes the scenario seriously, he seems to be working to understand the parameters of God’s justice—and God is quite responsive to Abraham’s points. And please note: while God does eventually destroy the cities, God evacuates the few good people there.  

Third, God’s justice. Though we have many questions about God’s justice and fairness, the story establishes our expectations.
“Abraham came forward and said, ‘Will You sweep away the innocent along with the guilty? What if there should be fifty innocent within the city; will You then wipe out the place and not forgive it for the sake of the innocent fifty who are in it? Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth do justly?’” (Genesis 18. 23-25)
Abraham expects God to do justly, and, given that God goes along with Abraham’s point, God seems to agree.  

This notion of God’s justice is further explained/detailed in Deuteronomy where human “goodness” is equated with obedience to God’s mitzvot (commandments). If we obey God’s mitzvot, we will be rewarded. If we disobey, we will be punished. Not only is this standard stated in terms of personal reward and punishment, but it is also commanded in the communal sense. If some Israelites sin, they may bring punishment down upon all Israel. Thus does there develop a sense of camaraderie and group enforcement. 

So, to review: In Genesis, Abraham states the expectation that God will only do Justice, and God seems to agree. Then in Deuteronomy, both God and Moses state it again. Thus does it become our expectation too. So when we realize through experience that this is not the case—that terrible things happen to innocent people all the time, we feel a profound sense of disappointment and betrayal. The Biblical promise seems not to be true, and we humans are stuck in perhaps the greatest theological conflict and outrage with which religion must wrestle.  

In some ways, the entire history of theology, philosophy, and religious thought arise from this challenge, and the Book of Job begins the formal wrestling.  The struggle continues with the Pharisaic invention/intuition of an Afterlife with reward and punishment—and its adaptation by Christianity and Islam. This idea of the scales of justice being balanced in the Afterlife has been and continues to be a powerful and ameliorative belief.

Some thinkers however took a different tack, wondering if our understanding of (and expectations of) God are inaccurate. Perhaps the Biblical descriptions of a very powerful “person” is less true than many think. Mainmonides’ Aristotelian understanding of God places God above the human fray—with our only interaction being our attraction to the perfection of the Deity. Spinoza’s understanding of God is that the Divine is the fabric of existence—rather than an active participant in the drama of Creation. Rabbi Isaac Luria’s Kabbalistic vision sees God as extremely powerful but not all powerful—as an injured and limited Divine that waits for Tikkun Olam, the helpful and holy efforts of humans in effecting Divine healing and increasing Divine influence. And Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan’s supranatural view understands God as a force in humans that induces humans to self-improvement and constructive engagement with the world.  

As we struggle for both understanding and relationship, it can be helpful to remember that the Infinity of God allows for many possibilities and many levels of human understanding.  

Perhaps this insight from psychologist and philosopher William James (19th-20th Centuries), can give us perspective. Religion is the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—to the “more” (an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence). We sense the Presence. We aspire to understand it. And all religions arose from this human attempt to understand the infinite (i.e., the un-understandable). There are many traditions about God, and each seeks through tradition and intuition to understand and to live in a conscious relationship with the Presence. We have our Tradition and history of religious thinking and practice, but sometimes, it appears, God is greater than our concepts—greater than our definitions. That is why we can look at the ancient stories and find poignancy and wisdom, but sometimes we need to expand our thinking and consider more about God than we or our ancestors know.

How Will Our Words Be Heard?

October 23rd: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the most curious (and frustrating) things about communication is how different people hear the same message differently. Examples abound, and we can even find one in our Torah portion:
“The Lord said to Abram, ‘Lech lecha: Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’” (Genesis 12.1)
The phrase, Lech lecha, is usually understood as a doubling of the word Lech/Go to increase its intensity: “Go, go!” or “Go, get going!” God’s message is emphatic. However, Lecha (the second word) can also be read as “to yourself.” (It is the combination of the preposition to and the second-person personal pronoun you.) As such, God’s imperative could be understood as “Go to yourself,” or go on a journey within—a spiritual journey. As it turns out, Abram hears and responds to both messages, moving both geographically and religiously.  

While the multivalent meanings in God’s instruction to Abram gives us profundity, sometimes double messages can be confusing. One of my daughters once came home from fourth grade, quite agitated by her teacher’s stern message. The teacher had “yelled” at the class and told them that they were not doing enough homework. This troubled my very diligent child because she was already studying more than was assigned. Must she increase her study time? As we came to find out, though the message was delivered to the whole class, it was only meant for some students who were not doing their homework. One can only hope that they heard it.  

People in coastal areas are often subject to a similar kind of multi-valent messaging. When a hurricane approaches, some weather reporters (non-State College based!) pull out their most dramatic personae and scream dire warnings at entire regions. They may think that they are speaking to the people who live on low ground or waterfront property—who urgently need to batten down the hatches or evacuate, but many of those people are not listening. Since most of these dire predictions do not come true, many coastal dwellers stopped listening long ago. They ignore the warnings and stay home. Meanwhile, many people who are already prepared and not in danger of imminent destruction hear the frenzied histrionics and get very anxious. Some even leave their homes and get caught on the highway trying to evacuate. (In 2004, one couple evacuated from Pensacola (Hurricane Ivan) and were killed in a  hurricane-related flashflood in North Carolina.) If one were to analyze this communication strategy, the question might be asked: Are the melodramatic performances helpful—or just showmanship, or counterproductive? If the goal is to warn people about danger, perhaps some adjustments would be wise.   

Similar miscommunications often take place in the war-of-words around Climate Change. Some people listen, and others do not. So, in order to get the non-listeners’ attention, many activists and reporters intensify their warnings and make their predictions direr and direr—and insert them into more and more quasi-related news reports. This creates great anxiety among those who listen—who “believe” in Global Warming, but it seems to create a negative reaction among those who find the histrionics annoying and who thus reject many ameliorating strategies. When the message is not connecting with the intended audience, should not different rhetorical strategies be employed?  

The same question can be asked of the “1619” advocates—those who quote the 1619 Project and insist that slavery is a permanent and irrevocable rot at the center of everything American. For some, this is an urgent matter, and they work very hard trying to convince others that our entire governmental and societal systems need to be completely revamped. When others disagree—agreeing that Slavery was a terrible thing but doubting that all of our modern ills are its consequences, many 1619 advocates increase the stridency and fury of their campaigning. I wonder about this communication strategy. Is it furthering their cause, or is it annoying allies in the Civil Rights work that still needs to be done?

Different people hear messages differently, and a successful communicator works with this reality if he/she wants to communicate effectively. 

This is not a new problem, and I conclude with an example from Pirke Avot. When Simon the Righteous said:
“Al sh’loshah d’varim: On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness” (Pirke Avot 1.2),
he was speaking to an audience of scholars and students—listeners already devoted to Torah learning and prayer. His concern, I suspect, was their commitment to the third leg. With all their praying and studying, were they also paying attention to neighborliness and social justice? So, he used the first two priorities as a set-up for his real message—his “moral punchline”—that true holiness also involves Deeds of Lovingkindness. When you sit on a three-legged stool, you need all three legs.   

Fast forward 2000 years to the Labor Zionist Movement. When the Chalutzim and Kibbutzniks who built up modern Israel heard this proverb, they heard a different message—translating Avodah/Worship as work. In the original context, it does mean work, but it refers to the holy work performed by the Priests in the Temple’s Sacrificial Service. That is why most translations render Avodah as worship. However, the Chalutzim believed that building up the Land of Israel was also holy—was their Avodah/Holy Work. Same proverb; different understanding.  

In our times, we may need yet another message from this classic proverb. Many modern Jews see their Judaism as primarily a matter of good deeds and social justice. We may even sing Reb Simon’s advice with enthusiasm, but many only hear the part about Deeds of Lovingkindness. Good deeds are clearly crucial to a life of holiness, but I suspect that Reb Simon would urge us to pay attention also to the first two components. For the world to stand, we need all three: Deeds of Lovingkindness AND Torah AND Worship. There are many levels in this ancient wisdom, and we need to consider how the ancient words will be received.

Perhaps we can get some perspective from the Torah’s description of God’s “Voice” at Mount Sinai. In Exodus 19, we read. “Moses spoke, and God answered him in thunder…” The wisdom of heaven comes to us in many ways and in many different words. Let us listen carefully, and let us be careful with what we say.

On Compassion

October 16th: Noach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Midrash is one of Judaism’s great art forms, and many of our most precious insights come from the masterful use of Biblical stories. Of course, as with any art form, there may be many and differing interpretations. A case in point comes in a lesson from a mediaeval Midrashist who notices that, though Noah and Abraham are both righteous, God does not start Judaism with Noah. Instead, God waits ten generations for Abram. Why? His answer, found in the Zohar, identifies the salient difference as compassion. (Zohar Chadash: Noah 112-126) When God tells Noah about the coming Flood, Noah does not express concern for those who will drown. However, when God talks to Abraham about Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham argues and urges God to have compassion upon the innocent. According to this Zohar, Abraham’s compassion makes him more suitable as a religious leader, and thus he gets to start Judaism.  

The Midrashist makes his point, but other religious texts are not so singularly focused. Notice how Hosea (2.21-22) holds compassion up but as one of several values to be treasured and practiced:
“Va’eras’tich li l’olam: I betroth thee unto me forever. I betroth thee unto me in righteousness and in justice, in lovingkindness and in compassion. I betroth thee unto me in faithfulness, and you shall know the Lord.”
(This passage is well known to those who practice the mitzvah of Tefillin and recite it while wrapping the leather strap around his/her finger.)  

Though wise and profound, I think that the Zohar may be stretching the Torah stories a bit.   (1)   The Torah itself says nothing about Noah lacking concern for his fellow creatures. God’s instructions to him are direct and do not invite a question-and-answer session.
(2)   In the conversation with Abraham, it is not Abraham who brings up morality but God. God wants to have a morality discussion and says so: “Now God had said, ‘Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him? For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of God by doing what is just and right, in order that God may bring about for Abraham what has been promised him.’ Then God said, “The outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin so grave…” (Genesis 18.17-20) God wants to discuss morality with Abraham so that Abraham can explain God’s ways to other people.
(3)   Abraham’s argument with God is not about compassion; it is about God’s sense of justice: “Shall the judge of all the world not do justly?” (Genesis 18.23-25) Abraham may be very compassionate, but that is not what he argues before the Lord.
(4)   The Sodom and Gomorrah conversation is not when God decides to start Judaism with Abraham. That decision dates from some twenty-five years before, when Abraham is a mere seventy-five years old. (See Genesis 12)  

None of these is meant to argue with the importance of compassion. Compassion is one of God’s essential qualities, and it is very, very important for people. However, lest we focus only on compassion—as the Zohar’s Midrashist implies, let us remember than Jewish wisdom urges us to balance our many divine attributes and aspirations—keeping them all in mind and having them play concerted roles in addressing our challenges.  

the In case of compassion, for instance, there can be too much of a good thing. Untethered compassion can deplete our sense of righteousness—and eventually doom many to uncompassionate treatment by those without a moral compass. On the other hand, untethered justice is also a problem, overlooking important and mitigating circumstances—and treating people with undue harshness. Thus does the Kabbalah teach us that both holy attributes are to be worked together and in the right combination. This means that our feelings of empathy for others need to be combined/balanced with wisdom and practicality. What are the factors causing the suffering? How can they be addressed? And, of the various solutions proffered, what are the realistic possibilities of them being adopted and effectively bringing relief and improvement? Compassion is wonderful, but it is so much nicer to go beyond “feeling sorry” for someone and alleviating their suffering.  

I often sense a suspicion that Zionists (supporters of Israel) lack compassion for the Arabs who suffer (in the war with Hamas and Iran’s other proxies). I cannot speak for all supporters of Israel, but I strongly suspect that very few are without compassion. What they may not be doing is expressing that compassion verbally. When they do, it is amazing how quickly conversations calm down. Once everyone in a discussion agrees and grieves that there are Arab civilians who suffer, many conversations can then proceed with respect and analysis: What are the means or strategies to lessen the suffering of innocents? How can Israel defend itself while also exercising compassion? And what, in the long term, is the best course for helping everyone live normal and peaceful lives? 

Though cries like “Free Palestine” or “From the River to the Sea,” sound like calls for freedom and happiness, the fact is that Hamas and the other agents of Salafist and Iranian Islamicism have no intention of granting what we would call “freedom and happiness” to those whom they rule. Their goal is a society dominated by their understanding of Islam. Women in such societies have extremely limited agency—and face violence for attempting to choose a non-sanctioned path. LGBT+ individuals face assault or execution. “Infidel” religions—like Judaism, Christianity, Bahai, Buddhism, Yazidism, and even mainstream Islam—are persecuted or worse. Free speech and the right to assemble are not acceptable. With en masse punishments for villages that do not overwhelmingly support Hamas, voting is anything but free. And there is the Iranian/Hamas/ Hezbollah strategy of “sacrificing” innocents. Is a leadership that uses civilians as human shields really working in those civilians’ best interests? In other words, if one really has compassion for the Arab civilians of Gaza and the West Bank, then supporting policies that allow Hamas to stay in power (or gain power) is not compassionate at all.  

Analysis can be a real pain in the neck, but it is necessary to turn our compassion into something that actually helps. While some Torah lessons are simple and direct, what usually emerges from Torah study is the necessity of thorough thinking and then the marshalling of a combination of Divine values. The moral challenges of life require all the wisdom, compassion, and strength we can muster.

Tzimtzum

October 9th: Beresheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur Morning Sermon. 

One of Jewish Mysticism’s most curious teachings involves something called  . צִמְצוּםThe Hebrew word for contraction or voluntary shrinking, Tzimtzum is used to explain how a God who once filled the entire cosmos made room for Creation.  

Before Creation, God was all there was, as we sing: אֲדוֹן עוֹלָם אֲשֶׁר מָלַךְ, בְּטֶֽרֶם כָּל יְצִיר נִבְרָא...
“The Lord of All ruled before anything had been created…”
וְאַחֲרֵי כִּכְלוֹת הַכֹּל, לְבַדּוֹ יִמְלוֹךְ נוֹרָא.
and after all has ceased to be, still will God gloriously rule.”  

As Rabbi Isaac Luria imagined it, pre-Creation God was perfect and complete, but there was nonetheless a yen, a lacking, a desire. God wondered how godliness would do on its own: how a creation other than the Creator could function and develop and hopefully manifest goodness. So, in order to make room for this “other-than-God-ness”—one which would hopefully learn to manifest godliness, the Infinite God voluntarily contracted and left a spot in the universe for what we know as Creation.  

Were it not for God’s voluntary Tzimtzum, there would be no room for Creation—for us. And were it not for God’s voluntary giving up of control over some things in the Universe, we would have no agency. It is only through God’s contraction and “permission” that we are allowed autonomy, and therein lies the rub.  

Our freedom to make choices means that we are free to make both good choices and bad choices. God is thus left waiting and hoping. Sometimes God is proud of Creation’s decisions. Other times, God wishes we would do better. 

Making good choices is the business of religion and ethics and even government—the goal being to expedite the flowing of God’s values, fairness, and kindness into our deeds and our lives. Sometimes, we focus on laws and commandments. If we follow the rules, then we are doing what we are supposed to do. Sometimes, we focus more on attitude and motivations, cultivating a sense of goodness and nobility that can burst forth when given the opportunity. Sometimes, we focus on Tradition, figuring that our ancestors were closer to God than we are, and that they knew better. Sometimes, we focus on what is new—realizing that some of the problems of the world are because of laws and decisions of the past. We then blaze forward with what seems wise in this moment.  

Within every approach, however, there is the tension between Yetzer Tov (our innate urge to be altruistic and kind) and Yetzer HaRa (our urge to seize whatever we can). It is a conflict that rages within as we try to choose good more often than selfishness. And, even if we make good choices ourselves, we still have to deal with the damage that others’ bad choices bring. There are many channels for godliness to flow into the world, and there are many places the channels can be blocked. 

Rabbi Marcia Prager, a modern mystic, offers an interesting observation on this dynamic and sees it as a part of God’s קְדֻשָׁה / Holiness. When the Torah says that God is קָדוֹשׁ /Holy, it means that God is separate and different from everything else. And, since everything else is either present in a given time and place or not, God’s difference is that God is both present and not-present in every place and at every moment. As I understand this mysticism, it means that God is potentially present at every moment—but that it is up to us to allow godliness to flow into our lives and through our deeds. When we allow God’s Influence into the world, God is present. But, when we deny access to God’s Influence, it is as though God is not there at all.  

When we activate God’s Presence, allowing it to manifest in our lives, there is joy in heaven. But, when we do not, there is a cosmic sigh of disappointment. That is why we have holy days like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, days that remind us to tap into the Mind of God and the Goodness of God and to bring God into the world once again. It is our holy work.  

In the Torah portion, we read: קְדשִׁ֣ים תִּֽהְי֑וּ כִּ֣י קָד֔וֹשׁ אֲנִ֖י ה' אֱלֹֽקיכֶֽם:
“You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.”
It is a daunting thought—that we should be like God, but that seems to be the Divine Plan: we are to follow God’s actions and attitudes. So, if God practices Tzimtzum, shrinking to make room for others, how might that be for us? How could we do some personal contracting, and how might that be good?  

One form of personal Tzimtzum involves emptying ourselves of excess ego—and making room for God’s values. We often think of prayer as a conversation with God—thanks, appreciation, or requests, but the modern thinker, Rabbi Rami Shapiro, speaks of  עֲבוֹדָה / Worship as “self-emptying prayer and meditation,” of opening ourselves to God’s influence. Rather than just expressing ourselves, prayer can also be a way of shrinking a bit of ourselves to make room for godliness. Perhaps this is what the Baal Shem Tov had in mind when he observed, “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.” And perhaps this was the thought of the Kotzker, Reb Menachem Mendel Morgensztern, when he agreed. “Where is God? Wherever we let Him in.”  

A second reason for personal Tzimtzum involves its effect on others. Before Creation, God was perfectly capable of doing everything perfectly, but the Tzimtzum allowed us to be. Could it not be similar for us—though obviously in a less cosmic way? Think of how holding ourselves in check can allow someone else to shine. Whether we are parents, teachers, administrators, supervisors, or coaches, sometimes the most helpful thing we can do is to step back and allow others take responsibility and action. Let them find the necessary resources to mobilize. Let them muster the confidence do something significant. 

Admittedly, this can be difficult. We must judge whether someone is ready or requires supervision. There is also the question of others not performing up to our standards. Remember that old warning: “If you want something done right, do it yourself.” It can be worth heeding—if we are talking about fulfilling our responsibilities, but, if our responsibility is training someone else, then “doing it ourselves” may not be as helpful as we wish. What if being too insistent and too prescriptive prevents other people from developing their abilities and bringing out their good ideas? In other words, what if the demand for perfection becomes an excuse for egotism? There are clearly times when we need to maintain control, but there are other times when the best thing we teachers and bosses can do is to stand aside and let others give it a try. Over-functioning is not helpful, and thus some Tzimtzum/shrinking in leadership may be a good practice.  

A third application of personal Tzimtzum is in politics. Though we may disagree vehemently with some friends, neighbors, and relatives, most of them are not “total idiots.” Most are intelligent and experienced people who, for a variety of reasons, see issues differently. As fervently as we know that we have the truth, some Tzimtzum—holding ourselves back—can allow us to listen and think, and perhaps even increase our knowledge and sensitivities. As we all grapple to understand the complexities of the world, we are inevitably limited in how much we know. Yes, limited—and therefore ready for a little humility. It seems to me that humility is a kind of Tzimtzum, a way for us to emulate God. Shrinking our certainty—and acknowledging that we are not the world experts on everything—allows us to listen and to be “better citizens” in our families and community. It can actually improve our awareness and thinking and help us come up with better and more expansive solutions. 

The words of Leviticus, קְדשִׁ֣ים תִּֽהְי֑וּ כִּ֣י קָד֔וֹשׁ אֲנִ֖י ה' אֱלֹֽקיכֶֽם:
“You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy,” call on us to emulate God. There are the specifics like feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, comforting the stricken, bringing justice and peace to the world, but there is more. Think about how all of these mitzvot are part of God’s Tzimtzum. Though God is אֲדוֹן עוֹלָם, the Lord of All the World, God has entrusted us with many of the most holy tasks, offering us opportunities to be: יָדֶיךָ בָּעוֹלָם לְהָבִיא בְּרָכוֹת־הַשָּׁמַֽיִם לְכָל־הָאָרֶץ,
“God’s Hands in the world, bringing the blessings of Heaven to all the earth.”  

Let us involve ourselves in this holy work, filling in the moral vacuum with our godliness, and joining God in Tzimtzum as we gift others with the blessings of thought, agency, and fulfillment. May we strive to be קְדשִׁ֣ים / Holy, just as the Lord our God is holy. 

Thinking, Appreciation, Patriotism, and Zionism

October 2nd: Simchat Torah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Sermon for Kol Nidre Eve:  

On Rosh Hashanah, I spoke about the importance of thinking for ourselves. Tonight I want to talk to you about how our thinking can get off track, and how, to use the old expression, we can get so focused on trees that we fail to see the beauty of the forest.  

Do not get me wrong: if one wants to understand the forest, knowing about the trees is important. Each individual tree is a dynamic unto itself and integral part of the forest’s ecosystem. But the details and processes of each individual tree can so occupy our minds that we fail to pay attention to the wonder and beauty of the grander vista. It is not a matter of devaluing either angle but of being aware of our mental abilities. When we go down a rabbit hole, we inevitably limit our view above ground.   

For example, when we experience Kol  Nidre, we could think about the legalities of the formula, its precedents and interpretations. We could think about the persecutions connected to its composition and use. We could focus our minds on the tune and compare it to other Kol Nidre’s we have heard. All are part of the depth of this tradition, but they are choices that can move us away from the spiritual. More than the words or music, Kol Nidre can be a moment of transcendence when we stand before the Holy and feel both awe and potential. As we contemplate our lives, regret our missteps, and hope for understanding and atonement, Kol Nidre can be one of the holiest moments of the Jewish year, or we can put our mental energy into other-than-spiritual paths. It is an interesting choice. 

The Shema also has many levels of experience. When we read, “Ve’ahavta: You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might,” we could get involved in the grammar and translations of the words. We could wonder about the practical details. “All our hearts, all our souls, all our might?” What about the other things in life? Does God expect us to do nothing but religion? We could spend a lot of time on this question —and, don’t worry, there are passages in the Talmud and Jewish philosophy where it is explored thoroughly, but what about the spiritual message? We can read these Torah words literally, or we can read them as poetry—as spiritual words inviting us into a relationship with the Divine. All of these thoughts are part of the depth of this ancient text, but we each make a choice—and that determines whether we say the holy words prayerfully or analyze them intellectually.  

The problem with the human mind is that there are infinite places to pay attention and limitations on how much our heads can hold. Even if we are smart, our mental abilities are not infinite. So, whether we choose consciously or unconsciously, the things that occupy our minds determine what we think. We need details and analysis enough so that we know what is before us, but we also need the ability to step back from the details and thoughtfully appreciate what we see. We need both analysis and appreciation—and in balance. 

Sometimes and in regard to certain modern political matters, this kind of balance is hard to find. Tonight, I would like to think about two of them:
(1)   Patriotism, our love of these United States, and
(2)   Zionism, our love of Israel.
My concern is that a lack of balance in our thinking can twist our understanding and skew our appreciation. How do we engage both analysis of the less-than-perfect and appreciation of legitimately good things? How do we separate between evaluation and joy? 

First Zionism. We all know the arguments that swirl around Israel—both without and within, but why must every compliment or endorsement of Israel be preceded by caveats and admissions of imperfection? Why cannot we full-throatedly and with great and holy glee celebrate the fact that we Jews have a national homeland that is ruled by Jews and defended by Jews—a homeland that allows Jews to be and that has achieved miracles. Miracles in agriculture. Miracles in technology. Miracles in economic viability. Miracles in forming a society that includes Jews from the ארבע כנפות הארץ “four corners of the earth.” And, let us not forget, miracles in strategic survival. Israel is a wonderful and successful reality—a true and celebratable blessing, and we should thank God for Israel and all of its accomplishments and successes. What we do not need is to dampen every Am Yisrael Chai moment with “honest” caveating and rob ourselves of joy, thankfulness, and deserved accolades. The blessings are real, and we should allow ourselves full exuberance, full joy. 

I wonder sometimes if we have that old Jewish fear of feeling “too good.” For fear that we might invoke a demon, we never say that the baby is cute. K’ayin hara... puh, puh puh! Bad things can and do happen, but we also need to remember that God gifts us with joyous things so that we can be joyous. As the Psalmist reminds us (Psalm 118.24): זֶה־הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה ה' נָגִילָה וְנִשְׂמְחָה בוֹ:
“This is a day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be happy in it.” 

Perhaps our hesitance comes from a kind of well-learned pessimism—that the glass that some celebrate as half-full is also half-empty. It is. But looking only at the empty part of the glass can rob us of the joy of having a glass that is half-full. I see it as a matter of appreciation—of understanding the blessings amid whatever statistics we count. My prayer is that we can look at that glass half-filled and allow ourselves some joy as we drink what God has provided for us. There are times to pay attention to the half-empty part—times like Yom Kippur when we are commanded to pay attention to our inadequacies and imperfections, to look carefully and do some תְּשׁוּבָה/ repentance. But habitual negativity is not helpful, nor therapeutic, nor holy. When negativity becomes an end unto itself, it is as though we are refusing the joy that God offers us, and I can imagine God repeating the verse but making it a plea:
“Please rejoice and be happy in this day, because I have made it for you.” 

We are all intelligent enough to see that some of Israel’s glasses are half-empty, but let us not be so distracted that we miss out on the fact that Israel is also a dream-come-true—a haven for our beleaguered people and a holy opportunity for Jews to put our faith’s ideals into practice. Israel is a blessing and a joy! There is greatness in Israel’s existence and in its health, and there is greatness in Israel’s potential. We should give thanks with all our hearts for Israel and its many, many blessings. As the Psalmist (23) said, despite the challenges and sadnesses of life,  כּוֹסִי רְוָיָה  “My cup runneth over with God’s blessings!”
 

Many of us suffer from a similar hesitation in regard to our Patriotism—our love of the United States. It really hit me this past year in two disparate events. In one, I attended a baseball game at Wrigley Field and sang The Star Spangled Banner with full voice and full pride. It was a glorious moment to join with the other fans and sing out to our country. But then, as our 250th Anniversary drew near, I noticed how so many columnists and speakers seemed unable to express happiness. Rather than lifting up the cup of celebration, many felt compelled to preface every single compliment or positive comment with a mea culpa about the sins we have committed, the imperfections we continue, and the work we still have to do. Much of what they say is true, but their negativity was beside the point. Could we not have had just a little joy and revel in the achievements and aspirations that are worth celebrating?! Goodness! It was the Fourth of July and not Yom Kippur! 

It does not help when some try to politicize and weaponize our patriotism—or, for that matter, our Zionism. I often find myself reticent about getting too happy for fear that my loyalty will be misused for political posturing. But, is it not a shame to cede control of Patriotism—or Zionism—to one side or the other? We should be able to sing God Bless America or pledge allegiance to the flag with full hearts, reveling in the greatness and the blessings. The same thing goes for singing Hatikvah. Saving our reservations and concerns for another occasion, we have a right to celebrate and let ourselves feel joy and pride 

Getting back to that baby we are scared to say is cute. Though we may fear for the future, the baby is still cute. Though we may worry, the baby is absolutely adorable. And more importantly, despite dirty diapers or a refusal to go to sleep at night, we love that baby with all our hearts. Our precious baby is wonderful and beloved and full of blessed potential. Whether Israel or the United States, our baby is beautiful and worth celebrating. זֶה־הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה ה' נָגִילָה וְנִשְׂמְחָה בוֹ:
“This is a day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be happy in it.”  

One more thing about this precious baby who may be less than perfect: is this not the way God looks at us? There is judgment but also love—both true judgment and deep and abiding love. There are certainly moments of Divine disappointment, and we dedicate Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur to introspection and serious self-evaluation. We need to improve ourselves, but that does not take away from the/אַהֲבַת עוֹלָם Eternal Love that God has for us. God loves us, revels in us, hopes for us. Think about why God ordained only one day of Yom Kippur, and not 365. We repent today. We repent when we need to repent. We have a responsibility to be better, but, we should not let our imperfections disqualify us from celebrating the wonder of life, the joys of our lives, and the many other gifts that God gives us. 

A concluding thought: Some people regard the notion of American Exceptionalism as a matter of anger and debate. Are we really as great as we say we are? Are we really great at all? And yet, we are great. We are exceptional. We Americans are part of one of the most important governmental and societal experiments in human history, and collectively and historically we have wrought greatness. We have established a working republic. We have extended liberty far beyond the parameters of the Founding Fathers. And we have inspired other nations and millions of hopeful immigrants. We should be proud of our exceptional nation—the exceptional principles which we try to put into practice, the exceptional achievements we have been able to bring to the world, and the exceptional potential which we hope and pray is our future. There are certainly days to evaluate and repent—days like today, but there are also days to celebrate the celebratable. When those days come, we should claim the joy and pride that we fittingly deserve.

טוֹב לְהֹדוֹת לַה'

“It is good to give thanks to the Lord.” (Psalm 92.1)

כִּי שִׂמַּחְתַּנִי ה' בְּפָעֳלֶךָ בְּמַעֲשֵׂי יָדֶיךָ אֲרַנֵּן:

It is good to find happiness in what God and God’s agents have wrought.

הַטּוֹב שִׁמְךָ וּלְךָ נָאֶה לְהוֹדוֹת.

It is good and appropriate to give credit for work well done.

זֶה־הַיּוֹם עָשָׂה ה' נָגִילָה וְנִשְׂמְחָה בוֹ:

It is good to rejoice in the blessings that God has given us.

Fully. Completely. Heartfully.

Mitzvot and Thinking for Ourselves

September 25th: Erev Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning D’var Torah: Mitzvot and Thinking for Ourselves:

There was a time, back in the 1700s and 1800s, when the words Jew and Jewish were considered derogatory—insults, and we Jews chose not to use them. The names used for various groups—be they religious, racial, cultural, or gender groups—carry implications, and it is reasonable that members want to be identified with respect. In our case, we opted to use the terms Hebrew and Israelite, and these preferences are reflected in diaries, letters, and Jewish institutions. Thus the Rabbinical School founded in 1875 was The Hebrew Union College, and the charitable Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society was founded in 1881. A few decades later, however, things had changed. So, for 20th Century organizations like The Jewish Theological Seminary and The American Jewish Committee and Congress, we used the words Jew and Jewish positively and proudly. 

It is so interesting how terms come into and out of popularity.
I find it a fascinating aspect of human social thinking. 

Another example within Judaism is the term Misnagdim. When Hassidism began in the 1700s, the Rabbinic authorities considered the early Rebbes rebels and trouble-makers. In turn, the Hassidim referred derogatively to the established Rabbis, calling them Misnagdim, Opposers who obstinately blocked holiness. It was insulting but only for a while. Soon, the Misnagdim turned the insult into a badge of pride. They did indeed oppose the non-traditionalism of the Hassidim, and they turned a slur into a label of steadfast faith.  

A similar thing happened with the term Orthodox, a word originally used as an insult to the Rabbinic authorities who opposed the Reformers of the 1800s. After a while, many  Orthodox decided that the term fit their belief that Judaism has an ortho-dox, a single Jewish belief  that all Jews should follow. They too turned an insult into a point of pride.   

The funny thing however is that the term Orthodox has never been accurate. Judaism has never had a single, monolithic stance on anything. The Talmud shows us in hundreds of cases, and the diversity of opinion continues in modern times. In 1858 in New York, for example, a fledgling Orthodox group wanted to buy an old Christian church and convert it into a synagogue. They solicited opinions from two of Europe’s most respected poskim (Halachic authorities). Both cited the Talmud but came to completely different conclusions, one permitting the conversion and the other forbidding it.
[Rabbi Joseph Saul Nathanson of Lvov, and Rabbi Jacob Ettlinger of Altona, in present-day Germany. See “Turning a Church into a Synagogue: Jewish Law Meets Communal Politics on New York’s Lower East Side,” by Oran Zweiter, The American Jewish Archives Journal, Volume lxxi . 2019 . number 1.]

Another example came several decades later when the Kashrut of a new and popular drink was called into question. Jews loved Coca Cola, but one of the ingredients, glycerin, was a by-product of non-kosher meat processing. One prominent Orthodox Rabbi quoted the Talmudic principle that chemical processes can transform the essential nature of things, and he ruled that what was once non-kosher meat had been chemically transformed into just a chemical: no longer meat and thus no longer non-kosher. Other Orthodox Rabbis disagreed and insisted that non-Kosher meat could never be rendered Kosher, no matter what the processing. Fortunately, the controversy faded when, in 1935, Coca Cola changed their ingredients and started using vegetable glycerin. 

The term Orthodox may suggest a single Jewish approach—one that is Torah miSinai, given by God to Moses on Mount Sinai, but the fact is that there are many different “Orthodox” groups and many different “Orthodox” poskim. It turns out to be a hard “brand” to control. 

By the way, this term Torah miSinai can be understood in a less literal way. As taught by the Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist movements, Torah miSinai is more a spiritual sensibility. Our ancestors experienced God’s Presence at Mount Sinai, but that experience has been interpreted, enhanced, and edited by many generations of Jews who worked with the Tradition they received. Sinai is better understood as a mystical tradition—and not as a set of immutable and permanent orders.   

Of course, Orthodoxy disagrees, and to bolster their argument, some Rabbis point to the Tzitzit paragraph of the Shema and warn us against thinking for ourselves. Why are to to wear the  Tzitzit/ Fringes, look at them, and remember God’s mitzvot?
וְלֹא תָתוּרוּ אַחֲרֵי לְבַבְכֶם וְאַחֲרֵי עֵינֵיכֶם אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּם זֹנִים אַחֲרֵיהֶם:
“So that you go not about after your own heart and your own eyes
after which you have gone wantonly astray.” (Numbers 15.37-41)
Worried that our hearts and our eyes could lead us astray, many Orthodox teachers urge us to accept the mitzvot quickly and without condition. To them, the only Jewish decision is to obey. 

This interpretation got rather personal back when I was a student in Jerusalem. I was visiting an Orthodox Yeshivah, and one of the Yeshivah Buchers was trying to convert me—to get me to leave Reform Judaism and join his Yeshivah. He told me that my Reform Judaism is not real Judaism, but that his, what he called “Torah True Judaism,” is the real thing. His Judaism, he argued, is Torah miSinai: Torah as revealed to us at Mount Sinai. Everything his Rabbi says is from God. 

I listened to him and thought seriously about the claims of his Yeshivah world. He seemed to have the weight of Jewish Tradition behind him, but, as he admitted, sometimes the Torah miSinai dogma was hard to believe. That is why, he found it necessary to fortify his belief—forcefully, and he showed me how. He hit his head into his fist and repeated, “Torah miSinai, Torah miSinai, Torah miSinai...” For him, Jewish Faith requires submission and acceptance.  

As I was watching him forcing his belief, a deep truth came to me. Though he claimed that “Torah True Judaism” insists that I suspend my judgment for the sake of Jewishness, one thing I know for certain is that God gave me a mind for thinking—a mind for seeking both wisdom and piety. The student’s position was beguiling, but I knew in my soul that I could not be part of a faith that demands the sacrifice of my mind. 

So I returned to my Rabbinical School, and as my studies in Bible and Talmud progressed, I learned that my visceral insight was actually very traditional. Judaism has always been a religion in which Jews think, discuss, and use the minds God gave us. Our quest for wisdom and spirituality is communal, and, as they teach at the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, Judaism has always been a chorus: a chorus of Jewish voices.  

Some of these Jewish voices do stress obedience to God’s Will and warn against breaking free of the herd, but Tradition itself shows diversity and spiritual creativity. We even have sacred stories to celebrate and encourage this chorus approach to Jewish thinking. One of the most famous is about an ongoing difference of opinion between Bet Hillel, the House of Hillel, and Bet Shammai, the House of Shammai. The founders of these groups, Hillel and Shammai, were friends and colleagues, but they often found themselves on opposite sides of Halachic discussions. In this Talmudic story, a machlochet (argument) has been under discussion for three years, and it is clear that no decision will ever be made. Finally, a Bat Kol, heavenly voice, interrupts the Rabbis and says: “Elu v’elu Divray Elohim Chayim: Both opinions are the words of the living God, but this Halachah needs to be in accordance with the opinion of Bet Hillel.” [Babylonian Talmud, Eruvin 13b]  A working decision has to be made, but even God understands that both sides are valid: that there may be more than one correct answer.   

This same Divine expansiveness can be seen in the Torah itself, where there are differing versions of both stories and mitzvot. And in a few cases, we even have God adjusting the Halachah, changing it to make it more fair or practical. When one looks at the entirety of Jewish history, it is plain that there has never been unanimity—and thus terms like Torah True or Orthodox Judaism are more hyperbole and wishful thinking than historically accurate. If we read the mitzvah of Tzitzit as the Torah trying to quash individual religious thinking, then we are treating Jewish Tradition in a very peculiar and narrow manner.   

What then is the Torah’s warning in the mitzvah of Tzitzit? How are we to understand the concern about “going about after our own hearts and our own eyes?” Look at the next clause:
אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּם זֹנִים אַחֲרֵיהֶם:
“after which you have gone wantonly astray.”

There are times when certain impulses come upon us and drive our behavior. When we act solely on these impulses—doing without thinking, we can inadvertently cause real damage. However, when we pause and think about our urges—and consider their long-term effects, then that moment of strategic and moral thinking can divert us from really regrettable things.    

There are, of course, those times when we really need to let go and vent our frustrations at the strictures of life, but the Tzitzit remind us that some ways of blowing off steam are less likely to result in physical, emotional, or moral problems. The Tzitzit ask us to take a moment and think about what we are doing—and perhaps choose consequences that are less problematic. 

Thinking for ourselves is a precarious endeavor. We could make mistakes, but we could also bring good into the world.  God knows this because God created us, creating in each of us a unique and precious version of humanity. What God wants is to find out how each one of us understands and navigates the world. This means that our task is to bring our thinking, our insights, and our unique holiness to both our blessings and our challenges. God may be taking a chance on us, but this is why we are needed in the grand scheme of Creation. We are needed to pay attention and bring forth our unique godliness. This is what God needs, and this is why the work we have to do is holy.

"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.”