Too Many Details!?

February 21st: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes we look at all the laws of Judaism and find them overwhelming and off-putting. Why does religion have to be so complicated? Why cannot we just be good people and think about God from time to time? Why must there be 613 commandments? Are not ten enough? 

Yes, the Torah does give us 613 commandments—603 more than the Ten Commandments we read last week. Just in this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24), we have fifty-three of the additional laws, and it can all be a bit daunting.  

And yet, we are not stupid people—incapable of dealing with complexity. Intelligent and sophisticated, we deal with a myriad of details on a regular basis and on all sorts of subjects. We deal with all the details because we know that they can make a big difference. I am reminded of an episode of the old sit-com Northern Exposure in which the main character makes dinner for some friends. Not wanting to trouble himself with clarifying the butter for a recipe or getting fresh mushrooms—and figuring that his Alaskan frontier guests will not know the difference, he melts the butter and uses canned mushrooms. Hah! “This is good,” one guest comments after tasting the dish, “But it would be better if the butter had been clarified.” “Oh,” asks another, “Are these canned mushrooms?”

We who are sophisticated enough to understand things like music, dance, cuisine, and fashion are certainly aware of the importance of details—how regular rice does not work in sushi, or how an off-tempo musician can really destroy a performance, or how certain clothing combinations “work” and others do not. My point is that we who deal with an amazing degree of complexity and subtlety must surely realize that leading a moral life requires a detailed consideration of exactly what that contains.  

So, for instance, while most of us assent to the principle of the Fifth Commandment: “Honor your father and your mother,” there could be some ameliorating factors. What about those whose parents who do not deserve honoring—who abuse or abandon their children? Or, what about the different between “honoring” and agreeing or obeying? Must one agree with or obey one’s parents in every instance? Do children have the right to their own opinions and a degree of their own autonomy? And, if this is true for children, how much the more so is it true for grown-ups –who may even know more about some subjects than their parents? My point is that we can take a simple principle and quickly see that it is not so simple. Further consideration of the context and implications are important if we are to take the mitzvah seriously. 

Perhaps the problem with sections like Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24) is that, while the Ten Commandments have a simplicity and elegance, the further list of commandments seems long and random. They are not memorize-able and easily understandable like the famous Ten. Going from the major principles declared from the heights of Mount Sinai to all the Israelite people, Mishpatim’s fifty-three mitzvot send our minds in all sorts of directions and on all sorts of subjects: marital rights and practices, animal husbandry, construction and farm practices, employment practices, and even some religious rituals.  

It might be better to think of Mishpatim as a reference book that contains advice to be consulted if and when it is relevant. If, for example, I am not digging a pit, then I do not have to worry about memorizing the mitzvah in Exodus 21.33: “When a man opens a pit, or digs a pit and does not cover it, and an ox or donkey falls into it, the one responsible for the pit must make restitution; he shall pay the price to the owner, but shall keep the dead animal.” I just need to have a general knowledge that this subject is covered—and I can consult it later if pit-digging is something I plan to do. Or, similarly, if I am not in the habit of seeing wandering livestock, I do not need to worry about the mitzvah in Exodus 23.4: “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back to him.” I just need to know where the rules are should I find myself in that position.  

If and when we find ourselves in these situations, the fact is that the standards and laws make a lot of sense. If my wandering ox falls into someone else’s open pit, it seems only fair that the pit owner owes me something. And it seems only fair that, once he/she has paid for my now dead ox, he/she should get to keep the carcass. The same logic applies if someone lets his/her livestock loose to graze on my land. As Exodus 21.4 holds, “he must make restitution for the impairment of that field or vineyard.” In such situations, just saying that we will be “nice” or “fair” may not be enough. We need to address the details and make sure that the social fabric is maintained with real fairness and neighborliness. 

Though the ancient discussions—in Talmud and other legal works—seem to continue infinitely, the fact is that there is always more to consider. There are always new situations that may or may not parallel the ancient scenarios and principles. Are swimming pools and construction sites, for instance, analogous to the ancient open pit, and are there safeguards that responsible pool owners or construction companies should put in place to protect against a wandering ox or donkey or child?! Or, if my brakes fail, and my car damages someone else’s property, is this not similar to the wandering flock that grazes in someone else’s vineyard? 

The myriads of laws that follow the famous Ten may seem obscure or overly detailed, but the fact is that true fairness and true responsibility have many facets. In a religion in which God wants us to be nice to each other, we need to think about exactly what that means. 

A final quasi-relevant story. We recently marked the thirty-ninth anniversary of the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. There is much to be said about the tragedy. Among other things, one of the deceased astronauts was Jewish, Judith Resnik. She was the fourth woman, the second American woman, and the first Jewish woman to fly in space—logging 145 hours in orbit on previous flights. The space shuttle was perhaps the most complex and highly sophisticated machine in the history of the world, and yet its undoing was the result of a “minor” detail: the O-rings that sealed the fuel tanks were designed for warmer temperatures. That morning, it was chilly in Florida, and the rubbery O-rings contracted just a little bit. Those few degrees ruined everything. Sometimes, sweating the details makes all the difference in the world.

How Close is Too Close to God?

February 14th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the most iconic and misleading images of a Jew is Michelangelo’s Moses. Sculpted for the tomb of Pope Julius II in Rome, it shows Moses seated and holding the Ten Commandments on his lap. It is perhaps the greatest sculpture ever done, but the horns on Moses’ head make the masterpiece problematic.  

The horns are based on a mistranslation of Exodus 34 which describes Moses’ appearance after the revelations on Mount Sinai. (There were several. First is the one we read this week, when Moses is up on the mountain as God proclaims the Ten Commandments to all the people. Second is the one described when the laws of Mishpatim and the instructions for building the Mishkan /Tabernacle are given—and when God gives Moses the first set of the Ten Commandments. Third is when Moses reascends the mountain to carve the second set of the Ten Commandments and hopefully “see God’s Face.”) When he descends from God’s presence—with the second set of stone tablets, he is changed.
“As Moses came down from the mountain bearing the two tablets of the covenant, Moses was not aware that “ki karan or panav b’dab’ro ito / that the skin of his face was radiant since he had spoken with God.” (Exodus 34.29)

The Hebrew word karan means beams as in beams of light. However, karan or keren can also mean horn—as in the horn of an animal or a cornucopia, a horn filled with plenty. (In modern Hebrew, this keren/cornucopia image is used for various charitable funds—like Keren Kayemet, The Jewish National Fund which in in charge of reforestation in Israel as well as agricultural development, and Keren Hayesod, The United Israel Appeal which funds and augments cultural, educational, and charitable efforts in Israel. Lots of our UJA money goes to this Keren Hayesod.) 

The Vulgate (the Latin translation of the Bible used by the Roman Catholic Church) renders karan as horns. Whether this was due to a mistake or to anti-Semitism is a matter of historical debate. However, in a Christianity working very hard to distinguish itself from Judaism and to vilify the Jews (and get the Romans to hate the Jews instead of the Christians), turning the most famous Jew into a horned creature seems a little convenient. Countless generations of Jews have been suspected and examined for their horns—and vilified as non-human demons. We do not know how Michelangelo felt about this, but he was clearly at the mercy of the Catholic Church and was forced to reflect their views in other works. A glaring example is his amazing sculpture of David in which the very Jewish boy is uncircumcised. An otherwise amazing work, the detail reflects a de-Judaizing tendency in mediaeval Christianity. The Brit Milah, the Covenant of Circumcision (also known as the Covenant of Our Father Abraham) is a Jewish sacrament long and continually practiced from the days of the Patriarchs—and specifically mentioned as a Hebrew custom in the Biblical books from David’s time.  

In any event, the real issue is the radiance that Moses picks up on the mountain and apparently keeps for the rest of his life. Being in close proximity to God has its lasting effects. 

Though Moses asks God for a closer relationship—and gets the radiance as a result of the encounter, the rest of the Israelites population is of divided opinions on the matter. In Exodus 19—the story of the Revelation of the Ten Commandments, some of the Israelites are attracted to the proximity of the Lord, and others more frightened.
“Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” (Exodus 19.18-19)
Apparently, many Israelites begin to rush to the mountain—a development which concerns God, and so Moses is sent running down the mountain to warn them off.
“Go down, warn the people not to break through to the Lord to gaze, lest many of them perish.” (Exodus 19.21)  

After God pronounces the Ten Commandments, the people seem suitably overwhelmed.
“All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance. ‘You speak to us,’ they said to Moses, ‘and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die’…so the people remained at a distance, while Moses approached the thick cloud where God was.” (Exodus 19.15-18)  

There is a curious ambivalence among most people in re proximity to God and the holy. Most of us are attracted to the holy to some degree, but there is also the fear of too much religion. For many of us, a lot of time and thought go into figuring out for ourselves the right dosage of religion and tradition. We want enough because religion and God are important, but we do not want too much because there are other things in life which are important and perhaps fun. It is not even an irreligious thought: God gives us the world to tend and enjoy, and it seems inappropriate to spend all of our time praying. Or, as God says to Moses, “You have stayed long enough on this mountain.” (Deuteronomy 1.6) There is a time to pray and study, and there is a time to work and play. 

This ambivalence between holiness and practicality—and the attraction to and fear of God—is reflected in a mysterious tale from the Talmud:
“The Sages taught: Four entered the pardes (Divine Orchard), and they are as follows: Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, Acher (Elisha ben Abuya), and Rabbi Akiva…Ben Azzai glimpsed at the Divine Presence and died. Ben Zoma glimpsed at the Divine Image and lost his mind. Acher beheld the Divine Image and lost his faith—became a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva came out safely.” (Chagigah 14b) 

How did Akiva emerge unscathed—and with secret wisdom revealed only to him? One answer is that “he entered in peace, and he departed in peace.” He approached the Divine with equanimity and humility, treading the road with both the spiritual and the practical in mind. Another explanation: “he entered, and he departed”—meaning that he dosed himself and did not try to drink it all in at once. He absorbed the amount of holiness he could handle and knew when it was too much. He dosed himself and was able to live a

The Art, Process, and Charm of Midrash

February 7th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The story of the Splitting of the Red Sea (Exodus 14-15) gives us a good opportunity to review the process, wisdom, and charm of Midrash. The term midrash comes from the Hebrew root D-R-SH which involves searching. Midrash is a kind of Rabbinic Literature which searches Biblical texts for meaning. Some examples of Midrash can be found in the Mishnah and Gemara—and are usually called Aggadah / stories. Other Midrashic stories are collected in works from the later Rabbinic Period: the Mechilta of Rabbi Ishmael, Midrash Rabba, Midrash Tanhuma, and Pesichta d’Rav Kahanna. Often, stories—or variants of stories are found in more than one source. For example, the story about Nachshon walking into the Red Sea to “jump-start” the miracle is found in both the Babylonian Talmud (Sotah 37a) and Midrash Rabba on B’midbar (13.7). 

The classic form for a Midrash has three parts. First is a koshi, a difficulty in the text. It could be a contradiction with another verse in the Bible, or something that does not make sense, or something that begs for more explanation. Second is an explanation that resolves the contradiction or provides the detail. Third is the moral of the story. A Midrash always has a moral or spiritual lesson. 

So, for example, in the Midrash about Nachshon, the koshi is in the phrase, “They went into the sea on dry land” (Exodus 14.22). It seems pretty obvious that what was the sea becomes dry land after God does the miracle—that the Israelites walk through a path in what was formerly water. However, one ancient reader thought more literally. To him, “the sea” meant water, and he realized that it is impossible to walk in water and on dry ground at the same time. This is the koshi the story attempts to fix.  

The answer—with Nachshon leading the people into the water until they are up to their noses—is an attempt to resolve the problem by making the phrase sequential. They go into the sea AND THEN it becomes dry land. It is a totally made-up story—a fanciful creation crafted by an ancient thinker. While the Torah does mention a Nachshon son of Aminadab, a leader in the Tribe of Levi and the brother-in-law of Aaron the Priest, the Torah does not say much about him. But, as an important leader, he is a potentially appropriate candidate/victim for this made-up story that “resolves” the koshi AND TEACHES A MORAL LESSON. 

In studying Midrash, it is important not to take the stories as history—to realize that they are not “in” the Torah. Additions that provide complementary “details,” their real purpose is as vehicles for moral lessons. In this case, the lesson involves the debate between belief in God’s miracles and solving our problems ourselves. Throughout Jewish history, there has been a tension between the two. On the one hand, we are taught that God can intervene, and that God sometimes does intervene and miraculously fix earthly problems. On the other hand, sometimes God does not intervene—and wisdom teaches us to find our own solutions. The Rabbis—the pious scholars who created Midrash—believed in miracles, but they were realistic in realizing that we humans can and need to solve many of our own problems. This Midrashic story presents a slight alteration to the most famous Biblical miracle and uses it to remind us that humans have a role to play in God’s solutions.  

A similar lesson comes in a modern Midrash by Rabbi Marc Gelman. His koshi is the dolphin skins that the Israelites are asked to contribute to the Mishkan/Tabernacle project in Exodus 25. Among the gold and silver and yarns and dyes and precious stones needed for the Mishkan, one of the building materials requested is orot techashim—translated as dolphin skins. Actually, translators have been a bit stumped by the word techashim. The King James translators rendered it badger skins, and the 1916 Jewish Publication Society translation rendered it sealskins. It was not until the 1962 Jewish Publication Society translation where, based on more and better knowledge of ancient Hebrew, techashim is translated as dolphins. Sometimes, it is hard to decipher ancient nomenclature—especially for flora and fauna that may have changed significantly over the centuries. In any event, since the 1960s, the standard Jewish translation has been the orot/skins of techashim/dolphins—which leaves us with a koshi. Why would the Israelites—escaped slaves wandering in the Sinai desert—have skins of sea creatures like dolphins? Logically and historically, there must have been ancient commerce that provided all sorts of things, and some Hebrews could have purchased them in Egypt and brought them along. However, the koshi opens up the possibility of a Midrashic tale and a moral. Enter the modern Midrashic mind of Rabbi Marc Gelman who offers this possibility:   

When the Israelites were walking through the Red Sea, “with the waters forming walls for them on both their right and their left” (Exodus 14.22), it was not only a miracle for the people. It was also a miracle and something completely unexpected for the fish. They did not know what to do, and many were just swimming out into the air, falling on the dry ground, and gasping for air. Fortunately, the dolphins were both intelligent and helpful, and they started patrolling the water side of the walls, warning the fish away from the air and death. Many fish were saved by these brave and kind dolphins. Then, when the Egyptians started pursuing the Israelites into the sea, the dolphins realized that the Israelites were in danger, so they started flicking their tails and splashing some of the water down onto the dry ground. This made it muddy and harder for the Egyptians to chase down the Israelites. “They moved forward with difficulty.” (Exodus 14.25) The dolphins were so busy protecting the fish and stopping the Egyptians that, when “the waters returned to their normal state” and “covered the chariots and the horsemen—Pharaoh’s entire army that followed the Israelites into the sea” (Exodus 14.27-28), many of the dolphins fell onto the upturned spears of the Egyptians and died.  

So, when “Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the shores of the sea” (Exodus 14.30), they also saw the dead dolphins and realized the brave sacrifices of these wonderful sea creatures. They decided then and there that they would honor the dolphins and use their skins for the holiest of the Israelites’ tents, the Mishkan in which the Shechinah, the Presence of God, would dwell.  

Made up? Certainly. Invented by a creative storyteller in the 1980’s? Yes. It is a fictional story but one that helps bring the Torah to a higher level and that teaches us the value of bravery and sacrifice and honoring those whose efforts bring blessings to the world.  

Midrash is an ancient and continuing Jewish Tradition as we search our sacred texts for meaning and for lessons that are continually blossoming forth.

Patience, Part III

January 31st: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When we speak of faith and patience, there are many perspectives. One is the patience of a Joseph who hopes for and is eventually gifted with redemption. After enduring the betrayal of his brothers, enslavement, the betrayal of his employer, and the betrayal of his fellow prisoner (the cupbearer who somehow forgets him for two years!), Joseph is lifted high and given great status and power. Perhaps those years of suffering are formative—that he has learned that his talents are not his but God’s: that he is a mere vessel for God’s blessings, and that ego is a distraction from God’s work. In any event, Joseph’s patience “pays off.” 

Another kind of patience in transgenerational. Though the blessings may not come in one’s lifetime, there is the hope that endurance, sacrifice, and faith will yield results for one’s family or group. I remember a family discussion years ago in which my two great-aunts and grandfather were talking about their father, Lazar Stein. His was not an easy life. He immigrated from Kovna in Lithuania and never quite “made it” in America. He peddled and moved from town to town, back and forth between the Ohio River Valley and the Mississippi Delta. A resourceful and resilient man, he endured much and struggled his whole life. While the “American Dream” was always in his sights, it was always just beyond his reach. But, as my aunts reflected to my grandfather, “Wouldn’t Papa be proud? He has seven great-grandsons in college!” The blessings that I have received could only have been possible with the struggles of my great-grandfather. Our family’s blessings are the fulfillment of his hopes. 

Another more dramatic example comes from the days of the Chalutzim/Pioneers in Israel. One of the early Zionist leaders was Yosef Trumpeldor, a man who had fought in the Tzar’s army before moving to Eretz Yisrael and defending the pioneering settlements near today’s Kiriat Shemona. In one battle with marauders, he was fatally injured, and as he lay dying, he uttered these words: “Tov lamut b’ad artzaynu. / It is good to die for our country.”  

(Apparently, Trumpeldor was quoting the Roman poet Horace who, in the Odes, 111.2.13, writes a line known by and quoted by warriors for centuries: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. / It is sweet and proper to die for one’s own country.” Trumpeldor’s word artzaynu/our country spoke to his deeply held belief in Zionism—that Eretz Yisrael is his patria/homeland.) There can be satisfaction in the hope that one’s actions will bring blessings to the future—and in patiently trusting that the blessings will come. 

A third kind of patience comes when we realize that we are not in control—that things are going to play out at their pace regardless of what we do or say. Who would have imagined the last several months in Syria—that the utterly failed “Arab Spring” revolution would somehow, all-of-a-sudden succeed? Who would have imagined, back in the 1980’s, that the Iron Curtain would come crashing down? I think of this unknowability particularly in regard to the continuing conflict between Israel and her Arab neighbors. Though many of us may know a lot about the matzav (situation) and hear from all kinds of experts, I suspect that we are all in the dark about what is really going on—and what will happen from month to month and year to year. Though we have our opinions, at a certain level, the only realistic approach is patience—and faith. 

A fourth kind of patience is eternal—though it may be uncomfortable to discuss. When we die—when whatever we have done in this life is complete, and we “shuffle off this mortal coil,” hope can continue. Our Tradition tells us that God will be with us forever.
From Gevurot: Um’kayem emunato li’shaynay afar.
God keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust.
From El Maleh Rachamim: Ba’al Harachamim yitz’ror bitz’ror hachayim.
The God of compassion binds up the souls of the departed in the bond of eternal life.
From the Torah Blessings and Gevurot:Note’ a b’tochaynu chayeh olam.
God implants within us eternal life.
Though we try not to die, and endeavor in all sorts of ways to survive and continue, there is the sensibility in our faith that God implants within us immortal life, that we continue, and more importantly that God continues. Psalm 90 reminds us of the eternality of eternity—that’s God’s perspective is for the very long term: “For in Your sight, a thousand years are like yesterday when it has passed, like a watch in the night.” (Psalm 90.4) The Psalmist reminds us that God’s view—as well as God’s purposeful will in the universe—is on a much larger scale than we can imagine. Though what happens to us is important, there are greater agenda’s afoot, and a fitting response for us is to patiently trust in God and in God’s long-range and ultimate goals. As we counsel ourselves in Adon Olam, “Adonai li, v’lo ira / When God is with me, there is no fear.” Trusting in God—really trusting in God—can render our worries less worrisome.  

And finally, there is a kind of patience that comes with a change in perspective. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a Jesuit, a mystic and a scientist, offers the following: “We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a physical experience.” I find this sensibility both alluring and counter-intuitive. Yes, I believe that God has imbued within us eternal life—Note’a b’tochenu chayeh olam. And, as such, this physical life which is so central to us is inevitably limited and finite. It will end one day, and we will continue in another form. The details and concerns of our daily lives are therefore of limited value. However, we should not discount their importance. What we do matters. We were put on this earth for a purpose, and achieving holiness through the details of our lives is clearly a God-assigned task. And yet, we can get so wrapped up in the trivialities of life that we forget our higher and more eternal reality. We can be too focused on the tiny details of personal preference or pleasure, and at those moments, it is helpful to remember Teilhard’s words. There is a higher purpose for our lives, and patience can help us slow down and focus—and become not the grabbers of everything on earth but the blessings we were created to be.

Patience, Part II

January 24th: Va’ayra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

To quote myself, “The thing about cliffhangers is that they inspire a kind of creative anxiety.” The creativity part can be entertaining. The anxiety part can be plaguing, but it can also help us to bridge the gap between literary voyeurism and deeper empathy. Just as we do not know what will happen, so do the people involved in the story not know the ending. 

While we know—even at the beginning of Exodus—that the terrible enslavement of the Israelites in Egypt will end, the actual Israelites do not know. For some four hundred years, they suffer and do not know what will happen next.  

If we were Israelites lucky enough to live during Joseph’s days or in their immediate aftermath, things would be rosy. The Egyptians are happy to have us, and we have a refuge from the famine and other difficulties of our homeland in Canaan. This happiness, however, is only as long as the first paragraph of Exodus.  

In the second paragraph, a “new king” arises over Egypt, one “who did not know Joseph…” Everything changes—and for the worse. “He said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them…so they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11) 

If our ancestors were scholars of Torah, they might consider a relevant prophecy. In Genesis 15, in a dream, God tells Abram his people’s future: “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years; but I will execute judgments on the nation they shall serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.” (Genesis 15.13-14) This is sort of good news—except for that four-hundred-year part. 

And there is a problem with the number. Though God seems to say that the four hundred years will begin when the Israelites are enslaved, the usual Biblical chronology puts the Exodus as four hundred years after Abram’s dream. (This is one of many problems with the Biblical chronology—a problem exacerbated by the absence of any outside/non-Biblical corroborating references). In any event, the Israelites themselves have no idea what will happen to them and for how long this oppression will last. While we can look with joy at the eventual Exodus and redemption, our ancestors for most of those four hundred years face terrible conditions. “The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression.” (Deuteronomy 26.6-7) 

I have entitled this series of essays Patience, but I hesitate to be too sanguine about what our ancestors endured. Theirs was a difficult and tragic life, and, though we all experience difficulties and tragedies, I do not know how they could hold up and maintain any sense of hope—any sense of humanity. 

The Midrash offers us three possible ameliorative insights. The first comes from Leviticus Rabba and speculates that the Israelites’ survival as Israelites was dependent on four practices. First, they kept their Jewish names. Second, they kept speaking the Hebrew language. Third, they did not gossip (participating in lashon hara / the “evil tongue).” And fourth, they were not sexually promiscuous (like the Egyptians). While one wonders how the Rabbis of the 5th-7th Centuries CE (some 1700 years after the Exodus) could know such things, their point makes sense. In order for Jews to survive persecution and a world that is not particularly friendly, we need to maintain our both our Jewish faith and our Jewish moral values. Though the Midrash speaks about the time as slaves in Egypt, the Rabbis’ advice is something every generation of Jews should consider as we face our own share of challenges. 

The second insight comes in a discussion of theodicy—how God could let the Israelites suffer for so long. The Torah says in numerous places that God was aware of our suffering—hearing “our plea” and seeing “our plight, our misery, and our oppression.” Why did the redemption have to wait? One answer parallels questions about our long wait for the Messiah. If God is aware and good and powerful, what is the delay? The answer? God waits for the Israelites to redeem themselves—to break free of the Egyptians. As long as there is a chance, God holds back. However, when the Israelites’ spirit is finally broken—when “they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage” (Exodus 6.9), then God decides that only a miraculous rescue will work. As we learn in the Midrash about Nachshon “jump-starting” the splitting of the Red Sea, God empowers us and wants us to pursue our own redemption. 

A third insight speaks more about God’s comforting Presence. In the aftermath of the Revelation at Mount Sinai, Exodus 24 offers a curious passage about Moses and the elders “seeing God.” “They saw the God of Israel, standing on what looked like a pavement of sapphire, pure and clear like the very sky.” (Exodus 24.10) Other than the obvious question of such anthropomorphism, the Midrash focuses on the pavement and teaches that the sapphire pavement is what God builds while in slavery to the Egyptians. When the Israelites are suffering, God is right there with them, sharing their burdens, accompanying them, feeling their pain because it is God’s pain, too. 

We all experience suffering in our own ways. Some is clearly less severe than others, and some is less visible/knowable than others. However, we are bidden to remember that God is with us. In whatever befalls our people, our families, ourselves, God is with us—and God is continually reminding us of our holy potential. Even in the midst of difficulty, we can maintain our Judaism and our morality, we can work for our own liberation and redemption, and we can feel the supportive and loving Presence of our God.
Baruch Atah Adonai, Shom’renu, Go’alenu, v’Tzur Yish’enu.
Blessed is the Lord, Who protects us, Who helps us when we are in difficulty,
and Who is our eternal and everlasting hope.

Patience, Part I

January 4th: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we introduced our children to the original Star Wars Trilogy (Episodes IV, V, and VI), we confronted the problem of impatience. We started watching the films one night during vacation and finished the second one at midnight. When we suggested that we go to sleep and then watch the third episode the next day, there was great agitation. The Empire Strikes Back ends on a triple cliff-hanger—Han Solo is frozen in carbonite and being delivered to Jabba the Hutt; Luke Skywalker’s right hand has been cut off, and he is barely hanging on to the bottom of a floating city; and Darth Vader has just uttered the famous reveal, “Luke, I am your father,” (a line the famous and late James Earl Jones refused to declaim at his 2005 appearance at Penn State’s Eisenhower Auditorium), and no one wanted to wait. At this point, Joni and I resorted to the traditional but under-appreciated technique of parental reminiscence: Back in the old days, we had to wait two and a half years between The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. We old-timers were of a hardier breed, a patient breed… Our now-fanatical Star Wars fans were not persuaded. 

From the ridiculous to the sublime: Patience
The thing about cliffhangers is that they inspire a kind of creative anxiety. The mystery of what will happen stimulates our imaginations, and we come up with all kinds of possibilities. We craft predictions and agitate over them—sometimes even arguing about which resolutions are more or less likely. Ultimately, however, we do not know. Our knowledge is limited, and any “conclusions” we reach are inevitably a function of our impatience. We want to know what we cannot know, and in lieu of facts (what the storyteller has in mind), we impatiently fix upon our own opinion. 

We know that we are impatient creatures, but we may not be aware of its full dimension. For John F. Haught, human impatience has a theological problem. We are finite beings—very smart but ultimately unable to comprehend or definitionally capture infinity. We want to understand God, but, given that God is infinite and that our minds are finite, this is an impossibility. As the Bible tries to express it (the Lord speaking to Moses in Exodus 33.20), “You cannot see My Face, for man may not see Me and live.” Nonetheless, we seek a knowledge of the Divine and sometimes get carried away with our intuitions and impatiently come to conclusions on things we cannot know. This leads Professor Haught (a Roman Catholic theologian at Georgetown University) to make the following observation: “Idolatry is a form of impatience.”  

We usually think of idolatry as praying to statues of gods, and, in Biblical terms, as showing disloyalty to the One True God. In other words, the opposite of idolatry would be loyalty or virtue. However, Haught focuses on the limitations that idolatry inflicts on God—on the limitations that stone or metal or definition imposes on the continuing growth and development of God. Quoting the mystical sensibilities of Albert Einstein and Pierre Teilhard de Chardin (both of whom he has biographized), Professor Haught looks to the ever-unfolding universe. Things are not static. Nothing is fixed—nor amenable to finality. To Haught, “the opposite of idolatry is not virtue; the opposite of idolatry is hope.”

Whatever the current situation—or whatever we might predict, it is presumptuous to impose our impatience and relative ignorance on a cosmos that is inevitably and continually unfolding and opening itself up to the future. 

Though not the usual interpretation, Professor Haught’s thinking offers a profound insight into the four Torah portions of the Joseph Saga which we read this time of year: Parshiot Vayeshev, Mikketz, Vayigash, and Vayechi (Genesis 37-50). The story of Joseph is constantly surprising—constantly unpredictable. At every step along the way, we think we know what is happening, but our conclusions are always incorrect—always impatiently based on limited and current knowledge.  

When Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery in Egypt, we could conclude that the story of Joseph is over. Jacob certainly thinks so. Seeing the bloody Coat of Many Colors, he knows that his beloved Joseph is dead, and he mourns for him every single day. Joseph himself could conclude that his life is over—several times. Enslaved, imprisoned in Egypt for years, abandoned by his family, and betrayed by his employer and his employer’s wife, Joseph is even forgotten by Pharaoh’s cupbearer. But then, everything changes. Who could imagine that Joseph is still alive? And who could imagine his remarkable rise to power in Egypt? The fixed reality of every single person turns out not to be so fixed. Nothing is set in stone. 

Only at the end (Genesis 50.20) do we find out that a plan has been afoot—that God has been at work. As Joseph explains to his brothers: “Although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” With the benefit of patience and observation, Joseph sees what neither he nor anyone might have seen along the way. In all of the human and climate machinations, God has a plan. With time, the fuller picture has emerged. 

The lessons then can be twofold. First, let us consider God’s presence and purposes in our lives. Who knows how God could be using us for holy purposes—how the challenges of our lives could be channels and opportunities for godliness.  

Second, let us consider the wisdom that patience can bring. Though we are all tempted, impatience can bring all sorts of problems. Conclusions drawn too quickly, determinations made prematurely, and plans made without patience are often foolhardy. Let us not be distracted by the idols our impatience crafts; let us give the universe time to provide more information. If we can just hold on and patiently wait to see how things develop, we can understand better and respond better. 

There are clearly times for urgency and action, but there are also times when hurried responses are too hurried to be wise. Haught—and Teilhard and Einstein—seem to be reminding us that we can make idols of our impatient and hurried thinking and that these idols do not serve us well. Let us pray for strength and patience and understanding.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo vashalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people so that the Lord can bless our people with peace.” (Psalm 29.11)

Why is Chanukah So "Late" This Year?

December 27th: Ki Tetze and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The “lateness” or “earliness” of Chanukah and other Jewish holy days is the result of the relationship between the solar year with its 365 days and the lunar year with its twelve 28-day lunar cycles (months).  

Human culture often seeks to regularize and systematize everything, and so we invented calendars. It took a number of centuries before astronomers could figure out the schedule of the heavenly bodies, but eventually they understood the length of time the earth takes to orbit the sun and the length of time the moon takes to orbit the earth. (The moon was easier—and, since no one thought that the earth orbited the moon, less controversial.) Since many of the Biblical holy days are agriculturally and seasonally based, there is a need to observe them “b’itam,” in their correct times.  

Many Biblical scholars speculate that the ancient Hebrew pilgrimage festivals of Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot began as agricultural observances and were only later associated with historical events. Pesach was the celebration of the birthing season of lambs and goats—with the word pasach referring to the jumping up and down of newborn kids learning to walk. That the Exodus occurred at the same time of year made the combination unbeatable. Shavuot celebrated the Winter Wheat harvest, and the historical event of Matan Torah was glommed onto it as a kind of “harvest of the Exodus:” Israel receiving the Ten Commandments brought the Exodus to its fruition. Sukkot celebrated the Fall Harvest, and the addition of historical connections with the Exodus and with the Wisdom of Solomon followed very naturally: Though “man does not live by bread alone” (Deuteronomy 8.3), bread is nonetheless very important, and Sukkot reminds us of the many gifts of God: freedom, memory, wisdom, and abundance. 

The problem with the lunar calendar—with its 336 days (twelve twenty-eight-day cycles)—is that it does not converge with the solar cycle of 365 days. Using a lunar year would have our holy days move around—and arrive a little earlier each year. This is what happens in Islam where its most well-known month, Ramadan, moves around the year—sometimes in Winter, sometimes in Summer. (One can imagine how much more spiritually and physically challenging a Summer Ramadan is with all of its extra hours of daylight fasting.) 

We do not know how the solar and lunar years were managed in Biblical times, but during the Geonic Period in Babylonia (600 CE—1000 CE), Jewish authorities decided on a new Hebrew calendar that adds an extra lunar month (a leap month) seven times every nineteen years. With these leap years (years with thirteen months instead of twelve), the solar and lunar calendars are roughly coordinated, and we can maintain our agriculturally based holy day system. The only “cost” over the last 1200 years of our 4000-year history is that we have to deal with the slight shifts that a leap year brings to our Jewish schedules. The extra month (Adar II) moves everything around. While Rosh Hashanah is always in the Fall, it “moves” between September or October. While Chanukah is always in the early Winter, it “moves” between November and December. Whereas the Hebrew dates are consistent (Rosh Hashanah is always on Tishri 1; Chanukah always begins on Kislev 25), their convergence with the Western/solar year is not exact—and we speak of our holidays being “early” or “late.”  

Around the same time as the Geonim in Babylonia, several generations of scholarly families in Tiberias in the Land of Israel were at work standardizing the TANACH (Hebrew Bible) and standardizing its use in Jewish worship. First, they took variant manuscripts and determined a standard text—what we now call the Masoretic Text. (These scholars were known as the Masorites, the Traditionalists.) Secondly, they developed a series of notations—little dots and dashes—to remind readers of the traditional vocalizations of Hebrew words. Third, the Masorites added a system of musical notations to remind chanters of the traditional tunes for each word. Whereas assistants had formerly employed hand signals to remind the chanters of the little tunes, these “trope” signs helped the chanters when they practiced from annotated practice texts. And fourth, the Masorites divided up the Biblical Books into chapters and verses—giving us our current organizational structure for the Bible. 

Around this time, there was also an effort to define and standardize the portions of the Bible to be read during weekly services. We do not know exactly who was involved, but by the time we get to the Rambam, Moses Maimonides (1138-1204), a pattern had emerged. The Torah was divided into fifty-four portions so that Jews could read the whole Torah, week by week, through the year. (Interestingly enough, the Masorites’ chapters and verses do not match up with the weekly parshiot/Torah portions. Some weekly portions begin with verse one of a Torah chapter, and some begin in the middle of the chapter. Not everything is regularized and managed in Tradition; sometimes the chorus of voices and traditions abides.) 

In case you are wondering why we need fifty-four parshiot per year when there are only fifty-two weeks, remember the leap years when the extra month brings four extra weeks. With various Jewish holy days occurring on weekends—and having their own special Torah portions, we never need fifty-eight parshiot, but some years we need all fifty-four. And, for the non-Leap Years, some parshiot are combined. Among the most famous combinations is Acharay Mot and Kedoshim in April or May. This is particularly useful for Bar/Bat Mitzvah students for whom Acharay Mot (Leviticus 16-18) is much more difficult to expound than Kedoshim’s Leviticus 19 with its “You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy,” and “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” If their service is a few weeks earlier, it is a toss-up of whether Tazria and Metzorah are read together or separately. Leprosy, mildew, bodily emissions, and sexual immorality are all difficult subjects for early adolescents to discuss on the bimah… 

In any event and in conclusion, whether early or late, Christmas-adjacent or not, Chanukah is a special time for us Jews. May you all enjoy your celebration and find inspiration in the story of the Maccabees and God’s miracles!

In the Places We Sojourn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We Children of ISRAEL

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

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

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

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

Faith and Healing, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith and Healing, Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Helicopter Parenting Biblical Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trying Not to Get It Wrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Awareness and Teshuvah (and Willie Nelson Songs)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it is in every morning service:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judaism's Chorus of Voices

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merachefet / Hovering and Difficult Decisions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dimensions of Responsibility

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Heritage of Wisdom and Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writing in the Book of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing or Sitting (?) Before the Lord

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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