The Practicalities of a Relationship with God

April 8th: Tazria and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When people come to Judaism for gerut (conversion), they often remark how practical Judaism is, and how this practical approach to religion is very appealing. I have always felt that the practicality reflects our understanding that the Divine and humans are partners in the ongoing process of creation. Thus, in the midst of the great profundity and inspiration of our Tradition, we often find little adjustments and accommodations.

Here are some examples. In this week’s special reading to usher in the month of Nisan (Hachodesh: Exodus 12), God instructs Moses on the procedures for the very first Passover. “Speak to the whole community of Israel and say that on the tenth of this month each of them shall take a lamb to a family, a lamb to a household. But, if the household is too small for a lamb, share one with a neighbor who dwells nearby, in proportion to the number of persons; you shall contribute for the lamb according to what each household will eat.” The big message is about painting the doorposts with the blood of the lamb and eating the roasted meat with bitter herbs and unleavened bread, but, then again, someone has to deal with the practical details of planning dinner and not wasting food.

Another example is in the weekly Torah portion, Tazria (Leviticus 12), where we read the instructions for purification after the birth of a child. “On the completion of her period of purification, for either son or daughter, the woman shall bring to the priest, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, a lamb in its first year for a burnt offering, and a pigeon or a turtledove for a sin offering…If, however, her means do not suffice for a sheep, she shall take two turtledoves or two pigeons, one for a burnt offering and the other for a sin offering. The priest shall make expiation on her behalf, and she shall be clean.”

 A similar kind of accommodation was included three weeks ago, in Parshat Vayikra (Leviticus 5.15): “When a person commits a trespass, being unwittingly remiss about any of the Lord’s sacred things, he shall bring as his penalty to the Lord a ram without blemish from the flock, convertible into payment in silver by the sanctuary weight, as a guilt offering.” The procedure calls for a guilt offering, but, if the penitent does not have a ram or lives far away, the Torah provides a reasonable accommodation. The main purpose of the sacrifice is the relationship with God, and, in the interest of nurturing the relationship, practical considerations are included.

In Reform Judaism—and Conservative and Reconstructionist Judaism, we pride ourselves on working such accommodations into our religious practice. However, even the Orthodox are aware that the vicissitudes of life and the vagaries of human experience call for some adjustment to the strictures of Halachah. Here are a few examples.

In Traditional Halachah, divorce is a prerogative for the husband only. A wife can only be divorced; she cannot divorce her husband. What, then, happens if a woman is mistreated by her husband? The Halachah allows that she can approach the Bet Din (Rabbinical Court) and ask the court to intervene and persuade the husband to grant the divorce. How the court persuades him can get interesting. Medieval authorities suggest sending a few large fellows over to discuss the situation with him—hinting that the discussion may get physical. Some courts have even imprisoned the husband, keeping him incarcerated until he grants the divorce. The prerogative remains with the husband, but the Bet Din can bring a lot of pressure on him to do what they consider right.

Another example is in the discretion afforded to rabbis in interpreting situations and even physical evidence. If a housewife runs to the rabbi with an egg that might possibly have a blood spot in it, rabbis have been known to weigh the housewife’s wealth (i.e., ability to get another egg) in determining the nature of the discoloration.

A third example comes from the Hassidic Tradition and a story about how the Baal Shem Tov taught Reb Yechiel Michel of Zlotchov the craft of being a rebbe. Reb Yechiel Michel once reported to the Baal Shem Tov about how he held his students to a strict sense of accountability. When one asked for a tikkun (spiritual remedy) for breaking the Sabbath, he had imposed a severe regimen of penitence on him. The Baal Shem Tov’s response was to send Reb Yechiel Michel on a journey many hours away with an errand that had to be performed on Friday afternoon. In addition, the Baal Shem Tov, instructed, Reb Yechiel Michel had to return before Shabbat. Reb Yechiel Michel eagerly performed the errand, but his return trip proved too long, and he arrived in his village well after sundown—after Shabbat had started! He was horribly embarrassed and totally remorseful, and he begged the Baal Shem Tov for his own tikkun. The Baal Shem Tov asked him if he were truly repentant, and, of course, he said that he was. “Fine,” said the Baal Shem Tov. “That’s enough.” “That’s enough?! But what about my student who had to do all that repentance? Does not a great sin require great penitence?” “The real work of penitence,” explained the Baal Shem Tov, “Is in the heart. Focus on the hearts of your students when prescribing penitence—and not on the volume of the punishment you impose.”

Throughout the Tradition, from Biblical times to modern, there is an awareness in Judaism that the religion is to be practiced by people—people with individual needs and situations—and that God understands our humanity. Within and throughout it all, our religion is essentially a way to relate to the Divine. As serious as God is about propriety and justice, we are also taught that God is infinitely understanding and compassionate and interested in how we humans can manifest holiness in our own and particular ways.

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TUI: Thinking Under the Influence

April 1st: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the midst of the excitement and inspiration of the newly consecrated Mishkan (Tabernacle), a great tragedy occurs. “Now Aaron’s two sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the Lord alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord.” (Leviticus 10.1-2).

Though some mystics see the fate of Nadab and Abihu as a kind of a mystical union with the Divine, the general response of the Tradition is that they do something very wrong and are punished. What is their sin, and how do we avoid it? The only information the text gives us is that they offered esh zarah, alien fire or strange fire, a term whose vagueness has given commentators free rein in finding lessons.

Some suggest that the two new priests tried something creative—that is, something other than what God had prescribed. Others suggest that they entered the holy place with too much ego—that they were focused on their status as priests rather than on the holy offices they were filling. Others suggest frivolity and use this as an object lesson for the importance of concentration and seriousness. And then there is the one identified by Rashi some 1000 years ago. He noticed that the paragraph immediately following the incident warns about the problems of inebriation: “And the Lord spoke to Aaron, saying, ‘Drink no wine or other intoxicant, you or your sons, when you enter the Tent of Meeting, that you may not die. This is a law for all time throughout the ages, for you must distinguish between the sacred and the profane, and between the impure and the pure, and you must teach the Israelites all the laws which the Lord has imparted to them through Moses.’”

The lesson about the dangers of wine and strong drink is pretty obvious and, unfortunately, one that still needs to be learned by many. However, I want to focus on the second half of the passage—the one about the important of distinguishing between sacred and profane and between impure and pure. The problem is not just being drunk; the problem is that being drunk impairs our judgment, and the Torah reminds us that judgment needs to be precise and accurate.

This should not be a big surprise, but there is a tendency in our current social environment to emphasize drama and excitement over accuracy and truth. We find ourselves in an atmosphere of competitive hyperbole that treats serious issues as entertainment and militates against the sober consideration of facts.

I understand the rhetorical value of exaggeration, but I am a million percent sure that hyperbole only works properly when people understand the actual facts that are being exaggerated. When this is the case, the emotional energy can be noted, but, when this is not the case, the deliberative process is impaired, and the solutions to real problems are harder to find.

I would like to suggest a number of issues that are falling prey to this unsober drama, and I would ask you to consider whether the drama helps or obscures the real issues. I would also ask you to think about how the emotional energy may enrage one side to fury and the other side to dismissal—how realistic solutions are rendered harder to find.

(1)   Was the “Ground Zero Mosque” really at the site of the former World Trade Center? Was the mosque new construction or just a remodeling of a section of a long-standing Islamic community center?

(2)   Does any serious thinker believe that Black Lives do not Matter? Is there really a campaign by police to kill black people? On the other hand, is it possible that some police conduct may be misconduct?

(3)   Are undocumented aliens a drain on our economy? Do any of them work in industries that are important to us?

(4)   Is the presence of a transgender person in a public restroom a danger?

(5)   When the Supreme Court recently heard the dispute over who has to fill out an exception form—the employer who objects to artificial contraception on religious grounds OR the employee of such an employer, was the “health care of women” really threatened?

(6)   What is carpet bombing, and how will carpet bombing the Middle East help matters?

(7)   Did the political spinning of the attack on the U.S. Consulate in Benghazi cause the deaths of the four American diplomatic personnel?

Each of these subjects deserves serious discussion, but serious discussion can get left behind when the entertainment value of a good story becomes more important that facts. Lying is not good for the public discussion. Truthiness is not truth. Hyperbole is only honest if the audience understands what it is. Otherwise, our civic and political life is just as impaired as the drunken King Ahasuerus, and the story of Megillat Ester shows us what can happen when public policy is combined with continually inebriated thinking.

Managing Ancestral Memory: Is Amalek Attacking?

March 18th: Vayikra and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Ancestral memory is a curious quantity. We Jews certainly have it, and we invoke it in a variety of ways—in our prayers, in our cuisine and music, in our use of languages like Yiddish, and even in our mannerisms. Much of what we call Jewish Identity involves our sense of what our people have thought and experienced over the centuries.

We are not the only group to have ancestral memory, but we are certainly adept at it, and our Torah gives us a number of prompts to keep this process going. An example is this week’s special reading for the Shabbat preceding Purim. Called Zachor, Hebrew for remember, it reminds us of an ancient and permanent conflict: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” (Deuteronomy 25.17-19)

Started back in the days of the Exodus, this mistrust and hostility between the Israelites and the Amalekites became a tradition—one which we remember religiously. In fact, some Rabbis saw every enemy we Jews have ever faced as being a descendent of Amalek. He is, in a sense, our perennial foe; against him and his children, we should be ever vigilant. QED: Haman, the villainous villain of Megillat Ester, who is understood to be from Amalek’s line. But, whether we take the genealogy provided by the Rabbis literally or not, it has been the Jewish experience that there have been and are a continuing line of people trying to hurt us or oppress us or worse.

One could call this kind of fear paranoia, but, then again, the dangers and challenges we have faced have been real. Sometimes, the conflicts have been just differences of opinion or rival claims to property or hegemony, but far too often, the attacks have been murderous in intent, and our very existence has been threatened.

The distinction between these kinds of opponents is very important. When we face opposition and our ancestral memory kicks in, we should pause to think. Are our opponents anti-Semites (or “self-hating Jews”), or do they just have different opinions? We need to be vigilant for danger, but, when the challenge is not Amalek, over-reacting is neither fair nor helpful.

Bowen Family Systems Theory talks about this multigenerational transmission of anxiety and sees it as an important factor in every family and group. Sometimes, it can manifest as a valuable survival tool, while, other times, it brings about unnecessary and counterproductive behavior. It’s like the old comedy question: Am I paranoid, or are they really out to get me?

When we work at managing our ancestral memory—distinguishing between legitimate wariness and instinctual paranoia, we have some thinking to do and some choices to make. How, for example, should Jews respond to the current BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions) movement against Israel? Some in the BDS movement are concerned about Israel’s policies in re the West Bank and the Arab population and would like Israeli policy to change. Others, however, are opposed to the very existence of a Jewish State and consider it colonialist and racist and undemocratic. They want Israel to be disassembled, dismantled, and destroyed. Given such a wide divergence of motivation, Jewish responses to BDS supporters need to be perceptive and nuanced. Some BDS people may be Amalek, but many others are not, and mistaking this distinction is neither fair nor helpful to Israel’s cause.

Another example comes from Jewish responses to Pope John Paul II’s visit to Miami in 1987.  One item on the Pontiff’s itinerary was a meeting with American Jewish leaders—most of whom jumped at the opportunity to have a public and substantive encounter with the Roman Catholic Church. They saw it as an important opportunity for improving interfaith relations. One small Jewish group, however, officially and loudly boycotted the meeting, citing objections to Catholic anti-Semitism over the years (centuries). They refused to meet with the Pontiff.

I have always wondered at that response. It did get the small group a lot of publicity, but it seemed to me self-indulgent and a needless display of hostility. There is no doubt that the Roman Catholic Church has been an enemy of the Jews over and over again, but, after 1000 years of really horrible behavior, the Church seems to be involved in sincere repentance. Is this the time to refuse to meet with them? Or, is this the time to work with them on improving their attitude? Was the Church Amalek? Is the Church still Amalek? And, even if that is the case, is it possible for Amalek to repent? There is nothing wrong with remembering the evil wrought by Catholic leaders. There is nothing wrong with helping them to remember their own misguided behavior—sort of like reminding an alcoholic that his/her drinking led to ruin. But, our belief in the possibility of repentance—and the efforts of the Church in recasting its views of Judaism—suggest to many of our leaders a relabeling of the Church from Amalek to Potentially Good Neighbor.

I believe in ancestral memory. I honor it and use it and see it as an essential part of our religious modus vivendi. However, it is only one of the lenses through which we need to see the world. Against Amalek we should be forever vigilant. However, not every challenge is an existential threat. Survival—as well as fairness, righteousness, and progress—require clear thinking and an ability to figure out who is Amalek and who is not.

Scenes from the Infrastructure of Religion

March 11th: Pekude
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Scenes from the Infrastructure of Religion
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following story is told of the late Rabbi David Wolfe-Blank:  

Reb David was ordained as a Chabad rabbi and specialized in working with young Jews who had strayed into Buddhism and Hinduism. He was able to convince many to return to Judaism. One day, he got a call from a mother who was desperate for her son to become Jewish again, and Reb David set out for the Zen monastery where the young man lived. As it turned out, the former Jew was no neophyte in Buddhism. He had been practicing it for a long time, and he was now the head of the monastery! The two spiritual teachers spoke of many things, but finally it got down to idolatry. How, Reb David protested, could a Jew practice the idolatry of bowing down before statues of the Buddha and praying to them? The Zen teacher explained that statues were not idols, and he proceeded to pick up a Buddha statue and toss it out the window. He then asked Reb David why Jews make the Torah an idol and bow to it. This question really challenged Reb David, and he began to doubt his own faith. He ended up leaving Lubavitch and entering Zen Buddhism.

A few years later, he happened to see a procession of Jews carrying their Sefer Torah from the synagogue to the Sofer, the Scribe who would fix the scroll and make sure all the letters were intact and distinct. They held their Sefer Torah with great affection and respect and with great feeling handed it over to the Sofer who received it and promised to take good care of their holy possession. The former Reb David noted this and thought about the idolatry they did not realize they were practicing. After the congregants left and returned to their daily routines, Reb David looked in through the window of the Sofer and saw something quite surprising. Though the Scribe had reverentially received the Sefer Torah from the congregants, he now unceremoniously plopped it onto a table filled with other scrolls waiting to be repaired. Reb David realized the difference between respect and idolatry—that our Torahs are not idols, and he returned to Judaism. He became a disciple of Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi in Jewish Renewal and a great and beloved teacher.

I was reminded of this story when I was visiting Safed, the city in northern Israel known for its mystical tradition. In the studio of photographer Yaacov Kaszenmacher, I saw a piece with a whole bunch of Torahs stacked on top of each other. I had to ask what it was, and here is what he told me. He was walking around in Safed one day and chanced into a synagogue while they were cleaning the Aron Hakodesh (the Holy Ark). They took all the Torah Scrolls out so they could go to work with cleaning supplies. They needed a place to put the scrolls, and a table seemed a good and safe spot. As holy as the Torah and the Ark are, they are physical items that need cleaning and maintenance. The spiritual value is paramount, but the physicality and practicality is necessary in order for the spiritual to be presented. (You can see this photograph in my office.)

In any spiritual endeavor, a lot of behind-the-scenes activity is necessary to keep things operating. In the case of our synagogue, there is much to do, and our whole religious enterprise depends on the officers and volunteers and employees who devote themselves to making sure that this holy place is open and ready for (holy) business.

I know all this from the Jewish perspective, but several years ago, I got a glimpse of the workings of another religion’s infrastructure. I was attending a funeral at an Episcopal Church, and it was extremely crowded—standing room only! In fact, the crowd had spilled out of the sanctuary into vestibules and storage rooms. I found myself in a group huddled in a side room with a bunch of cabinets. At one point in the service, they ran out of wafers and wine for communion, and they had to hurry through the crowd into this little storage room to get more Eucharistic materials. So, in addition to mourning for the deceased and trying to feel the holiness of the Christian service, I also found out that they kept their communion wafers in Rubbermaid plastic containers and that they used Gallo wine in half gallon bottles. In order for the spiritual to take place, practical matters needed attention.

Our Torah portion this week gives us a glimpse of the ancient religious infrastructure. While the portion concludes with the Presence of God coming down and filling the Mishkan, the bulk of the portion tells about crafting the tent, its furniture and utensils, and the uniforms for Aaron and his sons. The final chapter has Moses personally assembling the Tabernacle, “placing its sockets, setting up its planks, inserting its bars, and erecting its posts…spreading the tent over the Tabernacle, placing the covering of the tent on top of it.” He puts the Ten Commandments (both sets) into the Ark of the Covenant and sets up the Menorah and the table with the showbread. It’s all got to be done—physically, and the stretching and straining and lifting and maybe even jamming his finger or scraping his arm are all necessary for the holiness to take place later. Indeed, this physical labor is holy itself because it is part of the holy process.

These k’lay kodesh (holy vessels/utensils/tools) Moses assembles and arranges have a dual quality—being both holy and practical. At some level, their ceremonial role has to be temporarily suspended as the physical functioning is addressed. Sacred silver needs polishing. The Menorah needs to be cleaned out and filled with oil. Aaron’s vestments need to be brushed and inspected. And yet, there is also an ambiance of holiness when doing this physical labor.

When we work with our k’lay kodesh—doing the things necessary to provide and maintain our synagogue, we can share in the holiness of Moses and the Levites who made the Mishkan ready for God’s entrance.

Aspirations and Realities

March 4th: Vayakhel and Shekalim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There’s a sense of déjà vu in this week’s Torah portion—or more accurately, a sense of repetition. All those instructions for the Mishkan that God gave Moses up on Mount Sinai—the materials needed and the plans for the tent, its furniture, and holy utensils—are now being given by Moses to the people. In Exodus 35, we read: “Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them…This is what the Lord commanded: take from among you gifts to the Lord; everyone whose heart is so moved shall bring these gifts for the Lord: gold, silver, copper, blue, purple and crimson yarns, fine linen, etc.”

 While it is repetitive to us, it is not for the Israelites. This is the first they are hearing of the plans for the Mishkan, and the appeal is successful. The people bring the materials because their hearts are moved: they want to make God welcome in their midst. The special reading Shekalim (Exodus 30.11-16) makes the same point: motivations in our hearts can only become real when we back them up with constructive behavior—in this case, the shekels needed to keep the worship system operating.

With the necessary resources in hand, the next job is constructing and crafting the Mishkan. For this, God inspires and Moses appoints the artisans led by Bezalel and Oholiab. In both cases—Moses relating God’s instructions to the people and the artisans working God’s plans into reality—we are looking at a chain of transmission. Does Moses repeat God’s words exactly, or does he express them in his own words—with emendations, explanations, or adjustments? The same could be asked of the craftspeople. Do they do exactly as Moses and God instruct, or is there some adjustment—practical or aesthetic—that the actual crafting requires?

 Most of us find it hard to follow instructions. Sometimes, it is our hard heads: we don’t like being told what to do. Often, however, it is a matter of having to adjust the theoretical instructions to the realities of the project at hand. To follow the military model, the general gives general orders and trusts the people down the chain of command to make the specific decisions that will make the general order a reality. Ultimately, I have been told, it is the sergeants who make or break any mission.

One of the biggest challenges in large organizations is for decisions in the upper echelons to be communicated effectively throughout. This challenge also operates in reverse: sometimes the realities of the workers are not properly understood up the ladder, and instructions and policies may not be as good as they need to be. This was the point of W. Edwards Deming and his Total Quality Management: people at all levels of the organization have knowledge of how the operation works, and their opinions and insights need to be factored into decisions.

My point is that not everything desired at every level can reach fruition. Not every dream or plan gets fulfilled. The chain of transmission results in changes, and the difference between drawing board and execution inevitably causes some level of disconnect.

 Some commentators suggest that this is behind one of the first koshi’s (difficulties) in the Torah. Notice how Genesis 1 and Genesis 2 each tell a different version of the Creation. Modern scholars point to two separate and disagreeing sources, but some literalists speak of Genesis 1 (the Six Days of Creation) as God’s theoretical construction of the universe—the Divine drawing board—and Genesis 2 (the Garden of Eden) as being the actual execution of the plan. The differences are results of the move from design to construction.

One can see a similar dynamic in Genesis 3, with the story of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Though the Garden was designed as a place of permanent habitation, the humans could not follow the instructions (which, given our nature, may have been impossible), and God had to resort to Plan B. Not every intention goes according to plan.

I find this important to remember during the current political season. Politicians say all kinds of things during campaigns, but the reality of governing is often a mitigating factor. Many people expected President Obama to get rid of the Patriot Act’s security measures that some considered “a tyrannical assault on civil liberties pushed down our throats by the evil George Bush.” However, once in office and responsible for the security of our nation, President Obama oversaw not only a re-approval of the Patriot Act but a significant enhancement of it. Was the President a liar, or did his perceptions or perspective change? Was it the generally inevitable disconnect between plans/aspirations and practicality, or was it a nefarious betrayal? The same questions could be asked about the President’s current efforts to close the detention center at the Guantanamo Bay naval base. Was he lying when he said he would close it? Are the Republicans just playing politics? Or, is the problem just really hard to solve—really and truly hard?  I remember reading remarks by both President Lyndon Johnson and Justice Lewis Powell about how their opinions on many issues changed once they assumed the mantle of power. Speaking for themselves and their peers was significantly different from acting on behalf of the whole country.

What about the promises being bandied about by the current Presidential candidates? Can Bernie Sanders’ utopian vision find any kind of expression beyond the rhetorical? Can the Republicans really push back the clock on Roe versus Wade and abortion rights? (A hint would be to look at Ronald Reagan’s record. Fervently anti-abortion and armed with two terms and lots of congressional support, he did nothing to stop abortion rights.) Will any of the other promises—both outlandish and reasonable—see fulfillment? Should they be filed under the label Hyperbole or perhaps the label Aspirational, and thus relieve us of any real hope or real concern? Will the craziness of the current campaign be matched by craziness in the Oval Office, or will the realities of governing mediate and bring the candidates back to earth?

Many Jewish commentators (and the Masonic Order) speak of the construction of the Mishkan and Solomon’s Temple as being an allegory for the construction of God’s Kingdom on earth. Jewish mystics speak in terms of making the earthly Jerusalem as perfect as the heavenly Jerusalem. There are dreams, and there are realities. May we keep our dreams realistic and work toward the godly here on earth.