Personal Autonomy and the Community

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Life is full of compromises—both in our families and in our communities and in our own individual thinking. So often, we are presented with two or three equal goods or necessities and must somehow adjudicate their values and come up with a way to proceed. According to Tradition, it is the same for God. On the one hand, we are taught, God has a sense of absolute justice and desperately wants for justice to prevail absolutely. On the other hand, God loves us profoundly and realizes that we are not perfect. If God were to insist absolutely on justice, God’s precious creation could not continue. So, we are taught: For what does the Holy One pray? That מדת רחמים the Divine sense of Compassion will always be stronger than מדת דין  the Divine Sense of Justice.1 That’s what God is praying today.

A Biblical example of compromises comes in the story of the Daughters of Zelophechad in Book of Numbers. In Chapter 27, we learn that Zelophechad was an Israelite man who died in the wilderness before the portions of the Promised Land were assigned. Since women did not inherit land, his five daughters faced landlessness and approached Moses to see if an exception could be made. Could they inherit their father’s anticipated allotment in order for his memory be preserved in Israel? Moses approached God, and God agreed with the women. The five daughters of Zelophechad would be allowed to inherit the land intended for their father. This was in Chapter 27.

However, by the time we get to Chapter 36, the leaders of their tribe, Manasseh, realize a potential problem. Since land generally is inherited by sons, and since a son’s tribal identity comes from his father, if one or more of the daughters married someone from another tribe, their portion of land would eventually become part of that other tribe’s territory. They were not just being greedy or picky. The whole sense of tribal identity and community would be threatened. So, Moses consulted God again and came up with a compromise. The daughters, Machlah, Tirtzah, Hoglah, Milkah, and No’ah, could still inherit their father’s land, but they had to marry someone from their own tribe, and that is just what the five daughters did. 

What we do not know is whether this was okay or a problem for any or all of the women. It is possible that marrying men from the tribe was perfectly fine—that this is what they would have preferred anyway. But, it is also possible that one or more of the women would have had to cede some of her personal autonomy for the sake of the community. 

I think most of us agree that freedom and individual liberty are of utmost importance. Personal autonomy is one of the greatest gifts of the modern age, and it is something we defend furiously. None of us like being told what to do, and one can often detect this principle at the heart of many political arguments. It is why some people do not like socialized medicine. It is why Americans are grievously offended at the European practice of evaluating children at young ages and then pushing them in various non-academic directions. It is why many of us feel perfectly comfortable exceeding the speed limits on highways. We do not like anyone telling us what to do. And yet, sometimes we find ourselves in situations where sacrificing personal autonomy is necessary—necessary for greater goals or even for our own long-term happiness. 

When these demands confront us, how do we respond? Do we acquiesce and voluntarily make sacrifices for the sake of the greater good, or do we stand on our autonomy? Sometimes, of course, we are forced to cede our autonomy—by governments or bosses or family pressure. But often, the only force involved is from our own moral sensibilities. Do we please ourselves, or do we do some things for the sake of the group?

There are also various gradations in these kinds of situations. It is one thing to pay an extra $5.00 over the internet price so you can patronize a local merchant and keep that local business in town, but it is another thing entirely to say that you cannot marry someone from another tribe. Moreover, in each given circumstance, there are complexities to consider as we value the various goods we seek. Throughout our lives, we find ourselves striving for balance—sometimes working for ourselves and other times sacrificing something of ourselves for a greater good. It is like Hillel counseled so long ago:

אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. 
“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” 
We need to take care of ourselves. On the other hand,
וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. 
“But if I am only for myself, what am I?”  
Something of our value as human beings depends on how much we devote ourselves to others, to communal concerns.
And, of course, the Yom Kippur kicker:
וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתָי:
“And if not now, when?”
If an improvement needs to be made, perhaps the time is now.

Each individual decision has its own specifics, and each of us has our own situations to manage. Nonetheless, we can be guided by certain principles from our Tradition, and I would like to share three of them with you this evening.

First: There is value in the process of inclusion—in gathering everyone into the fabric of belonging. A text for this principle will come in the afternoon’s Torah reading, from Deuteronomy 29. When we stand before God to comprise our covenant community, everyone is included: 

אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם רָאשֵׁיכֶם 
שִׁבְטֵיכֶם זִקְנֵיכֶם וְשֹׁטְרֵיכֶם כֹּל אִישׁ יִשְׂרָאֵל: טַפְּכֶם נְשֵׁיכֶם 
וְגֵרְךָ אֲשֶׁר בְּקֶרֶב מַחֲנֶיךָ מֵחֹטֵב עֵצֶיךָ עַד שֹׁאֵב מֵימֶיךָ: 
“You stand this day all of you before the Lord your God; the captains of your tribes, your elders, your officers, all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and the strangers in your camp, from the hewers of wood to the drawers of water.”
Moreover, even the absent are included in the communal pact: 
כִּי אֶת־אֲשֶׁר יֶשְׁנוֹ פֹּה עִמָּנוּ עֹמֵד הַיּוֹם לִפְנֵי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹהֵינוּ 
וְאֵת אֲשֶׁר אֵינֶנּוּ פֹּה עִמָּנוּ הַיּוֹם:
“It is not with you alone that I make this covenant and this
oath—but with those who stand here with us this day before the Lord our God, and also with those who are not here with us this day.”
This sense of affiliation—of being part of a sacred community—
is precious, in and of itself. It is a blessing worth experiencing, and it is a blessing worthy extending to others.

Second: Some effort is required to keep the community together. Hillel speaks of this in a simple but profound piece of advice:    

            אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר.
“Do not separate yourself from the community.” 

As a member of a family or a community, there are times when we are needed. Whether it is our time or attention or prosperity or good will, we are urged to join ourselves to the goals of the group and to enhance both ourselves and the group. 

It can be demanding, like when the Talmud counsels,

שֶׁכָל יִשְׂרָאֵל עָבֵרִים זֶה בַזֶּה.
“All Israel is responsible one for the other.”

We can regard this kind of responsibility as an onerous invasion of our personal space OR we can see it as an opportunity for significance—for doing something meaningful in our lives. 

The payoff of group participation can be described in an old saying of the early Zionist philosophers:   לִבְנוֹת וּלְהִבָּנוֹת  By building the Land, the builder himself/herself will be built into a better human being. Being part of a good and holy group is good for us. That’s why we should endeavor to find such a group and to join ourselves to its purpose.

Third: Our Jewish notion of a sacred covenantal community is not just philosophical. The principles are developed and expressed in concrete actions. Some examples:

We should practice respect for the elderly, as we read in Leviticus (19.32):

מִפְּנֵי שֵׂיבָה תָּקוּם וְהָדַרְתָּ פְּנֵי זָקֵן וְיָרֵאתָ מֵּאֱלֹהֶיךָ אֲנִי יְהוָֹה:
“Rise before the aged, honor the elderly, 
and revere  your God.  I am the Lord.”

We should insist upon justice and righteousness. In Deuteronomy (16.20), we read:

 צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף.
“Justice justice shall you pursue.”

This is not talking about some justice some of the time. We should live lives of justice all the time.

We should pursue peace and an atmosphere of neighborliness, 
as Hillel said:

הֱוֵי מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַהֲרֹן, אוֹהֵב שָׁלוֹם וְרוֹדֵף שָׁלוֹם, 
אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת וּמְקָרְבָן לַתּוֹרָה:
“Be of the disciples of Aaron, 
loving peace and pursuing peace, 
loving all people and bringing them close to Torah.”

This weaving and caring for the social fabric is so important that the Sages spoke of it in eternal terms: 
“These are the things, the fruits of which a person enjoys in this world, while the principal endures for the World-to-Come: to honor father and mother; to perform acts of love and kindness; to attend the house of study daily; to welcome the stranger; to visit the sick; to rejoice with bride and groom; to accompany the deceased to their rest; to pray with sincerity; to make peace between one another. " 

This is the holy life. This is a way we can find meaning in our lives. This is the way our sacred community can work.

We do not know if the limitation of potential marriage partners was a problem for the daughters of Zelophechad. In that ancient world—that ancient tribal social scene, it could have been a problem, or it could have been no imposition at all. So it is with us in our negotiations with autonomy and communal responsibility. Sometimes, it’s easy to be supportive of the community; our autonomy is barely ruffled. Sometimes, however, it may be a problem, and it is in those situations where we must seriously weigh inconvenience or difficulty or even sacrifice against the real value of supporting and participating in a community. There is value in pleasing ourselves. There is value in helping others. 
 

אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. 
וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתָי:
“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?  
But if I am only for myself, what am I?  
And if not now, when?”

A Fair Burden of Caring

Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the ways the ancient Sages described our role and responsibility as Jews is with the phrase, עוֹל מַלְכוּת הַשָּׁמַיִים the "Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. " Part of being Jewish is shouldering the burden of God’s work in the world. It is both a great honor and a formidable challenge—and sometimes we do better than others. One of the most important settings for our holy work lies in our families and our communities. We are called upon to help and care for others—to share life with them in love and in compassion. This is part of our divine service—carrying the Yoke of Heaven.

We know that carrying God’s Presence in the World is important, but how much of that holy burden should each of us undertake to bear? If we’re carrying enough, then we can feel good about a job done well. If we are not carrying enough, then we need to feel some guilt and then embark on teshuvah. As Rabbi Tarphon taught, some 1900 years ago (Avot 2.16):

לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמוֹר, 
“You are not required to do all of the work, 
וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה.
but neither are you permitted to ignore it.”

My question for today is then: How much of the burden should we carry? How much is enough, how much is too little, and how much is too much?

Some of us may be carrying too little, and we need to be reminded that God needs our help in tikkun olam. Perhaps we need a kind of personal trainer for morality, calling us out, inspiring us, and getting us more involved in the holy work for which we were created. 

There are other people, however, who may hear this message of moral insistence and take on guilt they do not deserve—taking on guilt they do not deserve. It is, I suspect, a particularly Jewish problem, and, at this season of our guilt, many of us may be particularly vulnerable. 

Though we may start with honest self-evaluation, sometimes our noble aspirations can get out of control, and we can misinterpret our limitations as a kind of moral deficiency. The fact is that acknowledging the limits of our abilities—physically, financially, and emotionally—is part of the discipline of self-management and personal responsibility. But those of us with good hearts can get trapped in a quest for infinite compassion and inevitable and irresolvable guilt. We may joke about perpetual guilt being good for the soul, but I do not think that this is what God wants.

Caring is good. Empathy is good. Helping is good. But, we can go too far. We can let our altruism run wild, and, compounded by our natural propensity for guilt, we can push ourselves to take on stress and anxiety and responsibility that are not ours.

Part of this comes from our media culture which turns reporting the news into a kind of empathy fest where reporters try to plunge themselves—and us(!)—into the depths of the emotional distress of the people in the stories. This leaves us with an interesting question of appropriate intensity. If someone experiences a catastrophic event, how much attention from us is appropriate or respectful? Is it important to know about the event—and in what detail? Is it important to know the emotional effects of the event—on victims, survivors, and witnesses? Do we need to feel their loss as though it were our own? Or, is it morally acceptable to maintain some distance?

I believe that I cannot carry the grief of every sadness in the world. It is just not something I can do. And, yet, I often get the message that turning off the story or not delving into the intricate and tragic details indicates a moral failing on my part. It is as though my sin is not caring enough.

How much of other people’s pain or anxiety is it reasonable for a human—a good human like me or you—to carry? Given that we have responsibility for our own mental health and the responsibilities of our own lives, how much extra can we carry? Moreover, how helpful is it to those other people when we voluntarily take on their pain and anxiety? Does it actually help them? If my life falls apart when people far away from me experience grief or tragedy, does my heartbrokenness do them any good? 

It is not a matter of dismissing the real pain that real people feel. Nor is it a matter of minimizing the very real help that we can offer to others. The issue here is the pull of infinite caring and infinite responsibility which I feel acutely, how I can feel okay about stepping back and not taking on the sadness of their lives.

I am talking about a kind of moral balance and how we can be relieved from anxiety and guilt that are not ours to carry. Lest I focus too much on limits, however, let us remember the ways we can be helpful and how we can grow spiritually when we join in supporting others. Here is a poem from the late and exceedingly compassionate Rabbi Alexander Schindler: 

Our lives are a wildnerness,
uncharted and unpredictable—
untimely deaths, unexpected blows,
unsuitable matches, unfulfilled dreams.

And yet, by gathering our heartaches
into a house of worship,
we find something transformative happening—
our sorrows become windows of compassion.
Paths through the wilderness,
hewed and marked by past generations,
give us our bearings.
Patterns of meaning and significance emerge.
We are moved from self-pity to love.
Our individual heartbeats merge with the pulse
of all humankind.
Suddenly we no longer tremble
like an uprooted reed.

Human care and companionship is good and necessary and holy—both when we help others and when others help us. And yet, does this mean that there should be no limit to caring—-that “the more we care, the better it is?”

Reb Nachman of Breslov told a story about a giant heart—the Heart of the World—that feels every single person’s every pain. This heart has total empathy and is a metaphor for the infinity of God’s love. It is wonderful to contemplate the infinity of God’s love—the Divine Embrace that holds us and soothes us at every moment, that dries every tear, and reminds us that we are precious. It is wonderful, but this immeasurable love is God’s, and we are not God. We aspire toward the godly, and we may have some success, but we are limited creatures. There is a limit to what we can bear, and there is a limit to what is actually helpful to those in pain.  

Many of us carry burdens of anxiety and guilt that are nobly assumed but inappropriate. I am here to make the point—a point from Jewish tradition—that limiting our emotional involvement in other people’s grief and challenges is okay. It is part of responsible self-management and self-preservation.

We can find guidance for this balance in the traditional laws of mourning. Halachah prescribes various mourning customs for various people in a set of concentric circles of proximity to the deceased. Only the immediate relatives—parents, siblings, spouse, children—cut the k’ri’a ribbon, say Kaddish, and sit shiva. Others may accompany them or attend them, but grandchildren, cousins, and friends are not included in these customs and rituals. 

Sometimes, secondary family members are frustrated about not being able to do these things to express their grief. I remember, in particular, a good friend who really wanted to say Kaddish for his grandfather, but it was not allowed in their Orthodox world. My friend was looking at Kaddish from a Reform perspective in which rituals are forms of expression, whereas the Orthodox concern is for the proper and commanded forms of behavior. This is not to say that grief is not expressed in the Orthodox forms. Grief takes place within and alongside the prescribed behaviors, but Halachah is designed to tell each person—based on his proximity to the deceased—what he/she is supposed to do and not supposed to do. 

Part of the Halachic motivation is to guide us with limits. When someone close to us dies, there is inevitably a feeling that we haven’t done enough, or are not doing enough. No matter what we do—or what we did, that feeling of deep emptiness does not go away. In the face of this bottomless emotional pit, Halachah comforts us by telling us exactly how much is enough: respectful and enough. Once we’ve done what Halachah prescribes, we can feel a kind of satisfaction that we have at least given our loved one the proper respect. We’re still sad, but we are not left wondering what more propriety and love and respect require. According to the Rabbis, this is why the Children of Israel mourned for Moses for thirty days and then moved on with their lives. If the great Moses was properly mourned in thirty days, then that should be good enough for us. We’re still sad, and we never forget our loved ones, but we are given the comfort of a limit for our formal mourning rituals

The Halachic exclusion of some people from the formal mourning is really a kind of release so that they can help the primary mourners. They obviously feel sad, but they are freed to be supportive and to keep the world turning. Think about what would happen if everyone in a family or community would be totally consumed in mourning at every death. Life would grind to a halt, and it would actually make it harder for the primary relations to do their mourning. The Halachic prescriptions tell us what is appropriate and respectful and give us guidance both in mourning and in knowing when it’s okay to attend to the other needs of life.

When it comes to bearing the weight of the pain of the world, I do not have a magic formula or a quantitative measurement, but I know that it does no one any good if I plunge myself into the despair and grief of people far away from me. I can care, but too much empathy and identification with their suffering increases my burden to the point where I am unable to deal with the anxiety and difficulties of my own life—and of my own people.

I also know that vicarious suffering of other people’s pain is of limited value. Acknowledgement, respect, and prayers are good, but it does them no good when we take on their pain and anxiety as our own. It does them no good, and it does us no good, and it impedes our ability to be God’s agents in the tasks that are standing before us—right here, right now.

It is a matter of balance, and this is something Hillel reminded his students and himself all the time.
אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. 
“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” 
וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. 
“But if I am only for myself, what am I?”  
וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתָי:
“And if not now, when?”

Our Jewish Stories

Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As I survey our assembled multitude on this holy evening, two thoughts come to mind.

The first is a sort of corny line that a rabbi or congregational president might use: “Welcome to the Annual Meeting of the Jewish People.” It’s sort of funny—with allusions to the fact that our multitude tonight is a little more multitudinous than on a weekly Shabbat service. It’s also sort of true. This is when gathering and making a showing in Temple is a way of showing everyone that we are a part of   עדת בני־ישראל the congregation of the Jewish people.

The second is an image from the Rosh Hashanah when Joni and I were living on a kibbutz in Israel. As we went into the dining hall, the foyer was filled with displays showing the kibbutz annual report. There were charts about the cotton, avocado, and grape harvests, reports on milk production in the dairy, photos of new machinery and facilities, and some financial tables showing expenses and income. My favorite board had the photos of the babies born that year—a kind of human production report. Rosh Hashanah was, for the kibbutz, a time of summing up and considering the current state of their communal story.

At our Rosh Hashanah gathering, we too should consider our communal story and think about how it is going. Clearly, the High Holy Days are focused on our personal stories as we reflect and repent and hope that our pages in the Book of Life are good ones (לשנה טובה תכתֵבו!). Our fates, the Tradition counsels, is a combination of what God writes and what we write. This makes us active participants in our own stories. 

I would maintain, as well, that we are active participants in the Jewish story. We Jews, as individuals and as a group, have the opportunity to write our own pages in the Book of Life. 

This combination of identities is always interesting. We have our individual identities and paths through life, and we are also members of various tribes—our families, our social groups, our religion, our nation. We often feel a kind of tension as we are pulled by different loyalties, divergent imperatives. Sometimes we feel great solidarity with our cohorts, and sometimes we feel differentiation. I would think that, for most all of us, Jewish gatherings can bring a kind of ambivalence as our individual identities and various tribal identities vie for attention. I also believe that part of our work as Jews involves developing and negotiating our relationship with our Jewishness.

What I would like to do, then, is to remind us of three Jewish stories—Biblical stories which point to the essence of this holy endeavor that calls to us and draws our attention. Each has a different theme, and each speaks to a different aspect of what it means to be Jewish. How we each relate to each story gives us an understanding of what Jewishness can mean. 

The first story is from Deuteronomy 26, and it involves a ritual from ancient times, a religious rite that includes a story. The mitzvah is bringing the first fruits of the harvest to the Tabernacle. Our ancient ancestors were to put the produce in a basket and give the basket to the priest on duty. The priest was to place the basket on the altar, and the worshipper was to say:
“My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down into Egypt and sojourned there, few in number, and there he became a great nation, great, mighty, and populous. And, the Egyptians treated us harshly, and afflicted us, and laid upon us hard bondage. Then we cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our voice, and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. And the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror, with signs and wonders, and brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So behold, I now bring the first of the fruit of this ground which You, O Lord, have given me.”

The theme of this story is appreciation—appreciation for God helping us through difficulty and appreciation for the abundance with which we are blessed. Part of Jewish Identity is this sense of thankfulness for our history, our community, and the blessings we enjoy.

A second story is a little more directive. It is from Exodus, chapters 19 and 20. Chapter 20, of course, has the Ten Commandments, but the lead-up to the revelation sets the emotional, spiritual, and communal stage.
“Israel encamped there in front of the mountain, and Moses went up to God. The Lord called to him from the mountain, saying, ‘Thus shall you say to the house of Jacob and declare to the children of Israel: “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me. Now then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be my treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”

Then, after some housekeeping about where everyone is to stand for the revelation and a description of the indescribable descent of the Infinite God to the finite world, we have the Ten Commandments: 

(1) I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage; you shall have no other gods beside me.
(2) Do not make idols and worship them.
(3) Do not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.
(4) Keep and observe the Sabbath day; make it holy.
(5) Honor your father and your mother.
(6) Do not murder.
(7) Do not commit adultery.
(8) Do not steal.
(9) Do not bear false witness.
(10) Do not covet your neighbor’s house or wife or anything that is your neighbor’s.

It is a story with purpose. God rescued us from travail—but for a reason. Our communal existence is thus put into the context of a holy mission, and we are then given our orders—all ten of them.

The third story comes in two episodes that comprise the Torah readings for both days of Rosh Hashanah. They may seem like two separate stories, but I think they should be seen as a unit. In both cases—the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael and the almost sacrifice of Isaac, our ancient family unit was threatened with tension and alienation. You may remember that, after many years of hoping for a child, Abram and Sarah resort to a curious custom. Sarah offers her handmaid Hagar to Abraham, with the idea of considering any eventual children Sarah’s contribution to the family’s future. Hagar gets pregnant and gives birth to Ishmael, but Sarah is less than happy. Things get worse when, miraculously, Sarah gets pregnant herself. Little Isaac brings laughter to the family, but Sarah worries about what it will mean for Isaac to have an older half-brother. When she demands that Abraham throw Ishmael and Hagar out, Abraham is mortified. He goes to God for help, but God tells him to follow Sarah’s demands. How can God command him to abandon his own son—and the woman whom he presumably has loved? We may not be satisfied with the resolution, but what God seems to be doing is establishing separate destinies for Ishmael and Isaac. Isaac is to be the Patriarch of the Hebrew religion, while Ishmael is destined for wealth and power and the leadership of his own tribe. Though Hagar and Ishmael are expelled from Abraham’s compound, they are still in God’s.

The story of Isaac is both more famous and more horrifying. This time, God asks Abraham to sacrifice his son, and Abraham—in a hard-to-understand devotion to God—agrees. He almost does it, but, at the last possible second, God’s angel stops him. Abraham offers a ram in Isaac’s place, and we have a ram’s horn ritual every Rosh Hashanah to recall this story in all of its complexity.  

How do these stories define our Jewishness? Sometimes, in this sacred endeavor, things do not go smoothly. Not only did our ancestors face truly heart-wrenching decisions, but also subsequent generations may have felt uncomfortable with the choices our people have made. 

Both stories have nechemta—ameliorating “happy endings.” Isaac is saved, and Ishmael is given greatness, but these holy destinies come at the price of great personal sacrifice. No one likes personal sacrifice and so therefore the stories represent the discomfort we often feel at what God’s holy mission requires.

The question before us tonight is how we connect to our Jewish stories. Do we see ourselves as active participants in these stories, and how do we want to continue them? As I said, I believe that a certain amount of ambivalence is inevitable as we balance our individuality, our communal membership, and the many different behaviors that can be found in our communal past. We can feel very Jewish in some ways and very distant in others. 

There is usually some common ground, but an open-minded, honest approach will certainly involve reservations—some of them serious. I would beware any tendency to sweep away legitimate concerns in the interest of group solidarity. Our communal moral presence has never been unanimous or un-debated. Indeed, part of what makes us Israel, the God wrestlers, is our willingness and moral commitment to work for both truth and wisdom, both justice and compassion, both holiness and holy practicality. We gather to feel the power of our tradition and to be reminded of the potential that our Jewishness can bring, but the details are ours to work out. We are called by a great unity in the universe and by the conviction that there can be a connection between heaven and earth, but we have to figure out how that connection is to be made. What we think and say and do make a difference, and so therefore we struggle. 

Let me conclude this reflection upon our Jewish stories with a piece in our prayerbook about one more definitional narrative:

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.

Gathering the Tribe

September 30th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The beginning of our Torah portion is reminiscent of Rosh Hashanah’s social and spiritual context: everybody shows up. It is a gathering of the tribe.
“Atem nitzavim kulchem: You are standing here this day all of you before the Lord your God; your captains of your tribes, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and your stranger who is in your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water…” (Deuteronomy 29.9-10)

 Rabbi Lawrence Kushner thinks in these terms—a gathering of the tribe—in a chapter entitled Wool Pants (in his The Book of Miracles, a book of spiritual mindfulness meditations which we give to each of our B’nai Mitzvah as a gift from the congregation). Thinking back to his childhood in Detroit, he remembers his family rushing to get to temple on Rosh Hashanah early so they could get a seat in the main sanctuary, “the big room.” He remembers the immensity of the gathering—that “every Jew in Michigan was there”—and how important it was for him “to be seen” and to make a good impression. A particular concern was his mother’s focus on the creases in his freshly pressed wool dress pants, but, even as a child, young Lawrence realized that there was something deeper at play.

 There is something essentially Jewish about showing up and being seen as part of our extended tribe. When we’re at the congregation where we belong, we certainly feel it, but many of us feel it more acutely when we’re visiting our hometown synagogue—the congregation from which we came—or when we’re strangers in a totally different part of the world and all of a sudden feel connected because “we’re all Jewish”—all part of our holy tribal community.

 Historical note: this tribal notion is not only ancient. As the 80 and 90 year olds will remember, MOT / Members of the Tribe was a hip way to describe other young Jews back in the 1940s.

 Most commentaries on the Deuteronomy passage speak to its expansiveness. Everyone is included. Some speak to the inclusion of women. Other speak to the inclusion of foreigners and low status people—“hewers of wood and drawers of water.” Some Midrashim point to the cryptic comment a few lines later: “It is not with you alone that I make this covenant and this oath, but with those who stand here with us this day before the Lord our God, and also with those who are not here this day.”  The simple meaning is that the covenant includes both those who are in the assembly and those who are back at camp—sick, tending the sick, taking care of babies, standing guard. The Rabbis of the Midrash, however, get really expansive and say that “those who are not here this day” refers to Jews of every subsequent generation—throughout time! Thus were you and I also “there that day to enter into the covenant with the Lord our God!”

 Another angle approaching this notion of gathering is to notice a kind of democratization. Yes, the leaders are mentioned first, but everyone else is included in the covenant and in the discussion—for Moses is delivering this reminiscence to the entire assembly as part of his farewell lectures (Deuteronomy). We are all included in the covenant, and that means we are all active agents in the continuing story of the Jewish people.

 This is important historically because those who were in leadership then were replaced in subsequent generations by people without noble family backgrounds. For manycenturies, the leadership was in the hands of a royal dynasty, the Line of King David, but later, the leadership passed to the Levites and then later the Levitical clan called the Sons of Aaron (the kohanim/priests). Both kings and priests were often counseled and sometimes even supplanted by prophets, people unconnected to the power structure but chosen by God for important communications. Still later, the kohanim were totally replaced by the Rabbis, scholars who arose through a Torah-oriented meritocracy. An example is Hillel, who, though his followers claimed he was a descendent of King David, was a poor Babylonian who scraped together his tuition money for the academy in Jerusalem he later headed. Over the 3500-4000 years of our people’s existence, our leadership and wisdom have come from a wide swath of the Jewish people, and thus everyone’s view is a part of the Jewish conversation.

 This is important today because every Jew who chooses to be Jewish and participates in Jewish life is a decider about the future of Judaism. There are leaders and public intellectuals, but their ideas are only valid if people follow their suggestions and make Jewish life a living entity.

 And so, this Torah portion invites us all to show up at synagogue for the High Holy Days. Be seen by the tribe. Be included in the people of Israel. Be an active participant in the ancient and continuing Jewish story.

Reading Our National Biographies

September 23rd: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion begins with a rather unusual passage. Attached to the rules for a religious ritual (the offering of the first fruits of the harvest), we have the actual prayer the worshipper is to recite. Though the Torah is full of communications from God and the rules for all sorts of rituals, there are only a few actual prayer texts, and this one is the most specific. It is also liturgical—intended to be recited on a regular schedule. Here is how it goes:

 “My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down into Egypt few in number and sojourned there where he became a great nation, mighty and populous. But, the Egyptians dealt ill with us, and afflicted us, and laid upon us hard slavery. So we cried to the Lord God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our voice, and looked on our affliction, our labor, and our oppression. Then the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand, and with an outstretched arm, and with great awesomeness, and with signs, and with wonders. God then brought us to this place, giving us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Now, behold, I have brought the first fruits of the land, which you, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) This is a prayer of both history and appreciation, expressing the worshipper’s thankfulness for the many, many blessings which have led to this happy moment.

 I was well familiar with this text—from its yearly reading in the Torah cycle and in the Haggadah for Pesach, but I was recently introduced to it in a different context. Last year, at the Hartman Institute Rabbinic Training Seminar (in Jerusalem), I took a class from Professor Israel Knohl of the Hebrew University, and he included this Deuteronomy 26 passage in a selection of “Biblical Biographies of Ancient Israel.” Professor Knohl suggests that each biographical statement of national identity selects certain aspects of history as a way defining our Jewish endeavor. As he titled the course, “The Past That Shapes the Present: Biblical Biographies of Early Israel.”

 The composition of such a national biography is akin to what we do when we reduce our whole lives to short biographical statements—on a resume in a job search, in a social media profile, or in a bio so we can be introduced when we speak. There is a lot that could be included, but only some details are chosen with the aim of presenting a particular image.

 The “My Father was a Wandering Aramean” passage is one such statement—written for particular purposes and with the intention of people regularly reciting it as a form of ritual self-definition. We can study the passage to see what themes the ancients—and later the compilers of the Haggadah—thought were important to their sense of Jewish purpose.

 In one of my Divray Torah on Rosh Hashanah (less than two weeks away), we shall be looking at several of these Biblical biographies with an eye to what they can tell us about our Jewishness:

(1) “My Father was a Wandering Aramean” from Deuteronomy 26

(2) Mount Sinai and the Ten Commandments from Exodus 19-20

(3) The Expulsion of Ishmael and Hagar AND the Binding of Isaac from Genesis 21-22

(4) Jacob Becoming Israel from Genesis 32

 As we gather to reflect upon our Jewishness, each of these stories can provide us perspectives and aspirations—possibilities of meaningfulness. I’ll be sharing my thoughts on these stories, but, in the meantime, let me ask you to look at these Biblical passages yourselves and think about the Bible’s messages.

How do these national biographies shape the present of our Judaism, and how can they shape the future?

Achat Sha'al'ti: One Thing Do I Ask, To Live in God's Presence Forever

September 16th: Ki Tetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most ambivalence-producing passages in the whole Torah comes in this week’s portion. In Deuteronomy 21.18, we read what to do when a child’s misbehavior gets totally out of control: “If a man has a wayward and defiant son, who does not heed his father or mother and does not obey them even after they discipline him, his father and mother shall take hold of him and bring him out to the elders of his town at the public place of his community. They shall say to the elders of his town, ‘This son of ours is disloyal and defiant; he does not heed us. He is a glutton and a drunkard.’ Thereupon the men of his town shall stone him to death. Thus you will sweep out evil from your midst: all Israel will hear and be afraid.”

Why the ambivalence? Because parents struggling to control/influence their children have been quoting this as a possible course of action for some 3000 years. Something about it is strangely appealing…. But, of course, no one can imagine actually doing such a thing. Indeed, the commentators are quick to point out that it was never necessary. Did the threat work, or was no one ever that bad?

Even in terrible conflict, the parent-child bond is very strong, and the strength of the relationship has gotten many families through some very difficult times. But, what if the embrace of familial love were to be broken? What if a child were to be abandoned by his/her parents?

This terrible scenario is considered by the Psalmist in Psalm 27, a psalm traditionally read during the season of repentance (Elul through Shemini Atzeret). Most of us know this psalm as the source of the song, Achat Sha’al’ti, which we usually sing during the High Holy Days:

אַחַת ׀ שָׁאַלְתִּי מֵאֵת־יְהֹוָה אוֹתָהּ אֲבַקֵּשׁ

שִׁבְתִּי בְּבֵית־יְהֹוָה כָּל־יְמֵי חַיַּי לַחֲזוֹת בְּנֹעַם־יְהֹוָה וּלְבַקֵּר בְּהֵיכָלוֹ:

Achat sha’alti me’et-Adonai otah avakesh.
Shiv’ti b’vayt-Adonai kol-y’may chayai,
lachazot b’no’am-Adonai ul’vaker b’haychalo.
“One thing I ask of the Lord, only this do I seek:
To live in the House of the Lord, all the days of my life.
To gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to frequent God’s Temple.”

 The Psalm approaches our relationship with God in a kind of melodramatic duality: we take great delight in God’s Presence, and we desperately fear God’s absence. Within this trepidation and bolstered by our faith, we are reminded that God is with us no matter what!

 That is where the fear of parental abandonment comes in. If the absolute worst thing were to happen—if our parents were to abandon us, God would still be our support and comfort. God will never abandon us. Never!  Here is the whole psalm. It is a worthy meditation for us at this time of year:

“The Lord is my light and my help; whom should I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life; whom should I dread?
When evil assails me—to devour my flesh,
It is they, my foes and my enemies, who stumble and fall.
Should an army besiege me, my heart would have no fear;
Should war beset me, still would I be confident.

One thing I ask of the Lord, only this do I seek:
To live in the house of the Lord, all the days of my life.
To gaze upon the beauty of the Lord and to frequent God’s temple. 

On evil days, God’s holy pavilion will give me shelter,
Granting me protection in the holy tent, raised high upon a rock.
My head will be held high, though my enemies are round about;
I will sacrifice in God’s tent with shouts of  joy, singing and chanting hymns to the Lord.

 Hear, O Lord, when I cry aloud; have mercy on me, answer me.
My heart cries out and says, “See me, Lord, I truly seek Your face.”
Do not hide Your face from me; do not thrust aside Your servant in anger;
You have ever been my help.
Do not forsake me, do not abandon me, O God, my Deliverer.

 Though my father and my mother abandon me, God will take me in.
Show me Your way, O Lord, and lead me on a level path safe from my foes.
Do not give me over to the will of my foes,
Those false witnesses and unjust accusers who appear against me.
What would I do if I did not have faith—faith in God’s goodness in the land of the living?
Look to the Lord, be strong and of good courage? O look to the Lord!”

 Look to the Lord. Look to the relationship we can have with the Lord. Look to the Lord and the closeness we can feel when we gather for our High Holy Days.

The Shefa of God's Blessings and Our Role

September 9th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

My assignment this week (albeit self-imposed) is to combine three time-convergent themes: Labor Day, the Anniversary of September 11, 2001, and, of course, the Torah portion. I believe that they can teach some similar lessons.

Our Torah portion communicates the value of justice and fairness. In Deuteronomy 16, we read: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the pleas of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.”

 The issue here is the court system and its integrity, but the general principle of justice has been expressed over and over again in Deuteronomy. Society and business are to be conducted with fairness and with a due regard for the rights and dignity of all participants—even the orphan, the widow, and the stranger. In the case of the Labor Movement, the concern is that workers should be treated fairly and given decent wages. The Bible does not specifically address organized labor, but the principle of fairness and dignity for workers is a core teaching of the Torah.

An interesting Jewish connection with the early Labor Movement is that many Jews switched the traditional religious Messianism of Judaism for a belief in the messianic promise of Socialism and Communism. As the Modern Age dawned and as some Jews began to doubt the traditional teachings, they looked for other ways to fix the world. Karl Marx and his philosophy’s various “children” attracted many Jews. Indeed, the persistent Liberalism of much of the Jewish population can be traced to this tikkun olam mentality transplanted from the mystical to the political.

Of course, religious Judaism also realizes the importance of the political in tikkun olam, and we can see a lovely example in the following prayer for social justice. (Originally composed for the 1940 Union Prayer Book of Reform Judaism, we have a slightly adapted version in our Siddur B’rit Shalom, page 95. Note the reference to Pennsylvania coal miners—an issue of pertinent importance to the guiding rabbi of the prayer book, Dr. Solomon Freehof of Pittsburgh.)

“How much we owe to the labors of our brothers and sisters! Day by day they dig far away from the sun that we may be warm, enlist in outposts of peril that we may be secure, and brave the terrors of the unknown for truths that shed light on our way. Numberless gifts have been laid in our cradles as our birthright.

 Let us then, O Lord, be just and great-hearted in our dealings with others, sharing with them the fruit of our common labor, acknowledging before You that we are but stewards of whatever we possess. Help us to be among those who are willing to sacrifice that others may not hunger, who dare to be bearers of light in the dark loneliness of stricken lives, who struggle and even bleed for the triumph of righteousness. So may we be co-workers with You in the building of Your kingdom, which has been our vision and goal through the ages.”

Notice how the prayer begins with appreciation for the labors of others and then moves to a sense of responsibility and participation with God in perfecting the world. In Kabbalistic terms, we are invited to be part of the Shefa, the flow of blessings from God to the world. We get blessings from God and other vessels of Divine energy—people who dig far away from the sun that we may be warm and enlist in outposts of peril that we may be secure, and we are offered the opportunity to spread our blessings to others.

There are obviously many questions about the specifics of justice, fairness, and dignity in employment, but the Scriptural goal is, in the words of Deuteronomy: justice, justice!

A final thought. One of the most amazing stories in the 9/11 narrative is what happened on the airplane that crashed near Shanksville. The people who rushed the cockpit knew that their actions would not save them—that they were going to die. Their decision was to take the short time remaining in their lives and give themselves to a greater cause: stopping the plane from being crashed into the U.S. Capitol.

I pray that none of us are ever in that desperate a situation, but the fact is that we, too, are short-timers. Our time in this life is of limited duration, and, though in a profoundly less dramatic way, we too have to decide how we are going to spend the time remaining to us. Our religion calls on us to expand our purview and realize our potential godly significance. As we read in our prayer books, “Eternal God, help us to walk with good companions, to live with hope in our hearts and eternity in our thoughts, that we may lie down in peace and rise up to find our hearts waiting to do Your will.”

We, who get to get up every morning and live, should remember and actualize our holy opportunities.

Putting Words in Our Hearts

August 26th: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, I wrote about the composite nature of the Shema and how the ancient Rabbis combined three different Biblical passages into the liturgical unit we know today. The first of these passages, Deuteronomy 6.4-9, was in last week’s Torah portion. The second one, Deuteronomy 11.13-21, is in this week’s parashah. (The third paragraph, Numbers 15.37-41, is from Parshat Shelach Lecha, which we read back in July.)

In both the first and the second paragraphs, we have an interesting thought, expressed in Deuteronomy 11.18, “Therefore keep these My words in your heart and in your soul.” The mitzvah here is for us to take God’s words and impress them upon our deepest sensibilities. There is a connection between the words we use and our internal attitudes, and the connection is worthy of our holy attention.

As we reflect upon the meaning of this mitzvah in our modern lives, I find myself wondering about way words convey messages that are problematic. In other words, since words affect and shade our attitudes, motivations, and relationships, it would behoove us to think carefully about the implications of what we say. Consider the following words and their implications.

In the struggle over abortion rights, much of the battle revolves around terminology. Do we call one side “pro-life” or “anti-abortion?” Do we call the other side “pro-choice” or “pro-abortion?” Each term carries a significantly different message; whoever can set the vocabulary gains an automatic rhetorical advantage.

Sometimes, we agree on the word to use, but we disagree about its meaning. Take the word patriotic and think back of the word battles we fought as we began the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. Does patriotic mean supporting our nation or does it mean agreeing with national policy? Is it possible to be a patriot and disagree with the leadership or strategy? It was/is a painful debate because the word packs a powerful emotional and philosophical punch.

In the case of the word homophobic, I am struck by the way this term has morphed way beyond its original meaning of “afraid of homosexuals/homosexuality.” Many of the people who oppose gay rights are not afraid of homosexuals; they believe that homosexuality is immoral or against God’s law. Using homophobic to describe them is like saying that people who keep kosher are afraid of ham sandwiches. It is a demeaning term which suggests that people opposed to gay rights are needlessly and foolishly frightened of something that is not dangerous. I happen to believe in GLBT rights, and Reform Judaism is a prominent proponent for full inclusion and affirmation of GLBT individuals. However, I think that the term homophobic is problematic and not as accurate as the discussion deserves.

I have similar reservations about the meaning and usage of the word racist. There is a notion that a non-racist person is colorblind, but colorblindness would ignore the importance of racial identity that is more or less present in every individual. If I invite a white friend over and serve fried chicken and watermelon, it is just a menu. But, if I served the same menu to a black friend, is it just a random choice of dishes, or is there something else present? Does racist mean being oblivious to another person’s racial sensitivities or identity, or does it mean discriminatory attitudes or actions. Or, does it mean disagreeing with the current agenda and attitudes of any of the various groups identified as the Civil Rights Community? As Jesse Jackson once and famously said, whites should not criticize Affirmative Action because it is “the Israel of the Black community.”

 This, of course, brings us to the term anti-Semitism and the Israel of the Jewish community, Israel. Is it anti-Semitic to criticize the Jewish State? Is it disloyal for Jews or anti-Semitic for non-Jews to question policies of Israel? I heard a speaker last year address the BDS Movement and its anti-Israel work on so many campuses. The speaker made the point that this Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (against Israel) movement is not unanimous. Some people in the movement are literally anti-Israel, believing that Israel has no right to exist and that it should be dismantled and eliminated. Others in the movement are concerned about what they consider to be immoral actions and policies of the Israeli government. It is important, the speaker said, to be sure to distinguish between the two BDS camps when addressing their rhetoric. It is inaccurate and unjust to lump everyone together. There is also the question of whether anti-Israel opinions are inherently anti-Jewish. Some maintain that the two can be separate, though, in all too many cases, there seems to be a convergence with the “anti” people themselves using Jewish and Israel interchangeably.

A final term to consider is genocide, a word which originally meant the complete annihilation of a group, generally an ethnic or religious group. This is/was the meaning, but the word has been so misused that even some dictionaries (which are really just followers and documentarians of current usage) have expanded the definition to be the deliberate killing of a large group of people. Annihilation is, for some, no longer part of the concept; it is just a matter of deliberateness and a non-specific quantitative measurement of the number of victims. With no threshold included, the term can be applied—with all of its attendant emotional intensity—to pretty much any case of oppression in which deaths have occurred. This is not to justify oppressive or murderous actions, but there is a difference in scale and quality between immorality and genocide. The conflation of the terms obscures the actual issues and is therefore not helpful in addressing serious matters. A case in point: For many years, some critics of Israel’s policy have said that Israel is committing genocide against the Palestinian People. Genocide?! Since the Israelis won the Occupied Territories in 1967, the Palestinian population has more than quadrupled—a fact which led Morton Klein of the Zionist Organization of America to an ironic quip, “Whoever is in charge of genocide is not doing a very good job!” Mr. Klein is a Zionist and supportive of Israel and its policies, but that does not affect his point: there is no genocide.  Even someone who is critical of Israel in the most intense way should have the linguistic and philosophical integrity to find words that are accurate and thus constructive in adjudicating the very difficult situation that both Israel and the Palestinians face.

Words have meanings, and the integrity of discussions on important matters— indeed, the ability of discourse to help resolve important challenges—is dependent on speaking with truth and clarity. The writers of the Torah may not have had these particular issues in mind when they wrote, “Keep these words in your heart and in your soul,” but they knew the connection and the power that words have over our attitudes. Let us be vigilant in both our attitudes and our words.

"Say It Like You Mean It!"

August 19th: Va’et’chanan
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is a difference between facts and meaningfulness. There is a difference between understanding something intellectually and incorporating it into one’s spirit.

We find this distinction in a curious Mishnah dealing with the Shema. In Berachot 2.1, we read: “If someone is reading the verses of the Shema in the Torah and the time comes to recite the Shema, if one directs the heart, the obligation has been fulfilled; otherwise, the obligation has not been fulfilled.”

What we know as the Shema is a composite of three passages: Deuteronomy 6.4-9, Deuteronomy 11.13-21, and Numbers 15.37-41. The first Deuteronomy passage is in this week’s Torah portion: “Hear, O Israel! The Lord is our God, the Lord is One. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. Take to heart these instructions with which I charge you this day. Impress them upon your children. Recite them when you stay at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you get up. Bind them as a sign on your hand and let them serve as a symbol on your forehead; inscribe them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”

The Mishnaic question is rather rarified since the vast majority of the Torah is not the Shema—and, since this would only be a question if it were time to say the Shema. Nonetheless, it highlights the difference between intellectual apperception and spiritual practice. Does one have to mean a text in order for its recitation to be counted as praying? According to the Mishna: Yes.

Lots of people know the first line of the Shema, and many know that it is attached to—actually part of—the Ve’ahav’ta/Thou Shalt Love. They may know that this section is not identified as The Shema anywhere in the Torah—that this prayer book unit was brought together and entitled by the Rabbis (200 BCE – 200 CE). It was during this Rabbinic Period that the mitzvah was created in which the Shema should be recited upon arising and when going to bed every day.

All these facts are good to know, but they do not get us to the heart of the matter religiously. The Shema mitzvah that the Rabbis crafted was not just for an intellectual reminder. God’s Oneness is an important fact and component of Jewish though. And, this intellectual point may be helpful to remember—especially since the cosmos seems to be filled with a multiplicity of forces. The Jewish insight that everything in the cosmos is part of a grand unity may seem counterintuitive and thus it is important to be reminded of this regularly. However, this is not the mitzvah.

The mitzvah is that we make these Biblical passage prayers and pray them. The mitzvah of saying the Shema involves connecting with the Unity in a prayerful way—as part of a relationship.

This idea of having and developing a relationship with the Holy One is part of the discussion in another famous section in this week’s Torah portion: the second presentation of the Ten Commandments. As with the Shema, our reading of this passage (Deuteronomy 5.6-18) is very much influenced by commentators and Biblical interpreters. What I mean to say is that neither original (not Exodus nor Deuteronomy) is called The Ten Commandments in the Torah text. The title and even the number ten were given many centuries after the Revelation.

There’s more: when it came to divvying up the section, different pious commentators separated the sentences into separate commandments at different points. For example, Christians count two commandments in the “Thou shalt not covet” section, while Jews count all the coveting together. There is also the question of exactly which verses comprise Commandment Number One is. Some say the first commandment is: “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage,” while others say that this is just an identifying prologue. The question then becomes: Is “You shall have no other gods beside Me” a continuation of the first commandment OR the beginning of the no idolatry commandment? Or, could it be the second commandment?

It is a pretty pedantic issue when one remembers that God gave the commandments without worrying about numeration. But, when one is trying to make an artistic representation of the Ten Commandments, it is helpful to know where to put the numbers. And, it can get confusing when Christians refer to the Fifth Commandment—thinking “Thou shall not murder,” while we know that the fifth is “Honor your father and your mother.” May this be the worst interreligious misunderstanding we ever experience!

The more significant question, however, is whether or not the “First Commandment” is a commandment at all. If you consider the entire text of commandment Number One as: “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage,” what exactly is the command?

The absence of a command leads some to say that “You shall have no other gods besides Me” is the actual commandment, and they see Commandment Number One as a prohibition of polytheism and Commandment Number Two as a prohibition of idolatry. Idols are wrong even if we only have one, and it is of the One God!

This is not a bad answer. In fact, sometimes, it is the one I prefer. However, another answer can be very instructive. If the first commandment simply states, “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage,” the commandment is that we recognize and have a relationship with God. It is an emotional action, a psychological action, a spiritual action, as opposed to physical nature of most other commandments.

My lesson, then, is that, in both of these monumentally important texts from our Tradition, we are instructed to engage in a relationship with God. It is what is supposed to happen when we pray the Shema. It is supposed to be the way we regard the Ten Commandments. The Holy One of Blessing is accessible to us and has guidance for us. Making this holy connection is something we really ought to do.

Reading Difficult Parts of the Torah, Part II

August 12th: D’varim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we considered violence in the Bible—particularly the stories in which God commands us to destroy other nations. The theme continues this week, as we begin Deuteronomy and hear about other instances of violent engagements: the massacre of Sihon’s kingdom of Heshbon (2.30-34) and of Og’s kingdom of Bashan (3.1-7). In both cases, according to the stories, there were no Amorite survivors.

We know about the wonderful and inspirational parts of our Holy Scriptures, but is not the whole document—perhaps our whole religion—tainted with these horrible, embarrassing, and manifestly unholy passages? Last week, I discussed some mitigating considerations: (1) the massacres described in these Biblical passages did not actually happen, and (2) though violence is sometimes necessary, it is not the only response to conflict the Bible teaches. Indeed, the Bible counsels peace and respect, leaving violence only for extreme situations. I also promised a third way to approach these passages, one which considers the evolution of human thinking. Improvements have occurred during the last 3000 years, and these affect the way we should regard our ancient Tradition.

The ancient understanding of cause and effect—the scientific knowledge of the day—was different than ours. In the case of the Midianites (from last week), think of the situation our ancestors faced. When our wanderings brought us to Midian and many of our men engaged with Midianite women in pagan religio-sexual rites, we were hit with a sudden and mysterious plague that killed thousands. The wisdom of the time saw this plague not in terms of germ theory or public health shortfalls, but rather as a punishment from God for religious misbehavior and rebellion. We can speak in our modern world about tolerance and mutual respect for other religious or philosophical systems, but only because we judge them not to be dangerous. If they are dangerous, then the discussion of affirmation and multi-culturalism takes a very different turn. Indeed, many discussions in our modern world deal with the question of whether different is just different or potentially dangerous. You can see this dynamic in the word used for people who are opposed to GLBT rights: homophobic. Homophobic people, say the GLBT rights proponents, are needlessly fearful. The same dynamic is at play in discussions about Islam—and, in particular, refugees from Muslim countries. Is the whole religion—and all of its adherents—dangerous, or is just a small minority of “radicalized” Muslims dangerous?

In the ancient mentality, the Midianites were considered a danger—possibly cultural, possibly religious, but definitely viz. the wrath of the Lord! They were a danger requiring an extreme response. Though we may view it differently today, it is important to remember that humanity has taken a long, long, long time to progress to the kinds of tolerance and mutual respect that we hold precious today. Do we not think—and give thanks—that human progress has occurred, that enlightenment has slowly/finally dawned?

When I try to reconcile the positive and negative aspects of our sacred texts, I think of how we can love people (relatives, friends, and ancestors) even if some of their attributes and qualities are problematic or offensive. Not everyone we love and respect is perfect in every way, and we do not have to agree with everything they think or do to nonetheless feel a sense of kinship and even pride at the good things they do/did with their lives.

The same can be said of our nation’s Founding Fathers, many of whom can be indicted for a number of moral failings. Slavery, adultery, racism, and misogyny are not faults to be justified or excused, but these terrible social mores are not the reasons we revere people like Washington, Jefferson, or Franklin. What we revere—and what we hope to continue—are their efforts to outgrow the moral limitations of their time and to set in motion principles that eventually brought liberation and a measure of equality.

When I look at the Bible, I see it as an ancient document reflecting what our ancient ancestors thought was wisdom. Much of it, we judge today, is wisdom—wisdom that is profound and sublime and eternal. These are the parts we revere and consider the essence of our encounter with God. But, some parts are not reflective of what we have come to understand as moral or even spiritual. The treatment of women—regarding them as property and denying them equal participation in society and religion—is something we moderns regard as time-bound and culture-bound attitudes that, thank God, we have outgrown. The same goes for the treatment of people with skin diseases, people who are physically malformed or mentally deficient, or people who simply choose not to be religious. The same goes for the Biblical insistence that the only way to approach God is through a sacrificial system, killing, butchering, and cooking animals in a sacred setting. The presence of these things in the Bible does not mean that we must take these ancient attitudes as marching orders. Rather, they show us how much we have grown morally, socially, and even spiritually.

The Bible reflects the beginning of our relationship with God, and it expresses what people back then thought was good and proper. Many of their principles and ideas were magnificent. Some were problematic, and the process of Judaism’s development every step along the way has been figuring out what should be kept and what should be interpreted away.

As much as our Tradition is defined by our ancient texts, it is also defined by the developmental process of adapting and mediating Biblical attitudes and practices. One can see this process in the many reforms and reformulations within the Bible itself, and one can see it in the Talmud and every subsequent stage in Judaism’s continuing growth and improvement.

Am I shocked to read stories of massacres and violence in the Bible? Of course. Am I happy to read some of the primitive and oppressive ideas held back then? Of course not. And yet, in the context of human history and in the process of finding both our moral grounding and our moral purpose, I rejoice at the stirrings of moral perception and strength that have been active in our holy community since its beginning, and I rejoice at the progress we have made. Torah is not the verbatim repetition of the ancient text; Torah occurs when we search the ancient text, mining it for its insights, its wisdom, and its goodness.

Reading Difficult Parts of the Torah, Part I

August 5th: Mattot/Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

If you were to read Chapter 31 of Numbers, you would be shocked. It tells the story of a massacre—a massacre commanded by God and executed by the Israelites. “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin.’ Moses spoke to the people, saying, ‘Let men be picked out from among you for a campaign and let them fall upon Midian to wreak the Lord’s vengeance on Midian. You shall dispatch on the campaign a thousand from every one of the tribes of Israel.’”(Numbers 31.1-4) By the end of the story, every Midianite man and boy and every female Midianite who was not a virgin was killed.

 No massacre is good, but the rationale for this one grates even more against our modern sensibilities: the Midianites were guilty of seducing many Israelites into their pagan sexual practices, and this was manifestly unacceptable. The Midianites needed to be stopped permanently, i.e., wiped out.

 Shades of ISIS—or the Crusaders! How can we, who have too often been the victims of genocidal rampages, deal with such a barbaric text in our Torah? How can we read such a text and reconcile it with the profound morality and holiness of our Tradition?

 Let me suggest three answers—answers that speak to the nature of the Biblical text and the way that we find meaning in our Holy Scriptures

 First, this and other stories of Biblical massacres are not borne out by evidence—neither archeological evidence nor from later books of the Bible. The kind of destruction that would have had to take place—“The Israelites destroyed by fire all the towns in which the Midianites were settled, and their encampments”—is not indicated by the archeological record. This is not to say that fighting did not occur or that the Israelites might have been victors, but the Biblical claims seem to be greatly exaggerated. Add to this the fact that later books of the Bible speak of these supposedly destroyed people, living in their supposedly destroyed places, and continuing to have relationships with Israelites/Jews. The Prophet’s ongoing complaints about the pagan and idolatrous religions testify to the persistent presence of these non-Jewish religious activities/temptations centuries after the alleged massacres.

 Could these ancient stories be some kind of hyperbole about a legendary past? Or, were these ancient stories told to further the agendas of later generations of Jews—building up or tearing down the reputations of various peers or competing groups? One needs to remember that the stories which present themselves as happening in the 12th Century BCE were not edited in their final form until the 6th Century BCE, and, with that much time and historical process, lots of editorial revisioning could have taken place. The one thing we know is that there is a disconnect between some of these Biblical stories and the political, military, religious, and sociological reality of subsequent periods. They do not seem to accurately reflect our actual history, AND, more importantly, they are not precedents or marching orders for modern behavior.

 Second, though we aspire to eschew violence and destruction, even we civilized moderns sometimes find it necessary to resort to extreme measures. Look at the massive forces we have assembled over the last few centuries to enforce our sense of righteousness (the Civil War) or to ensure our survival (World War II). Look at our response to the attacks on September 11, 2001. Whether or not we all agree with decisions made back then, the fact is that our country decided to send overwhelming force against those whom we judged to be our mortal enemies. Even today, look at the way people talk about stopping or “getting rid of” ISIS and Al Qaeda. And, I do not recall hearing any objections to the way Osama bin Laden was “taken out.”

 We may not like the fact that evil exists—or that there are enemies out to destroy our way of life. We may wish for, pray for, and work for peace, but the sad fact is that violence and destruction are sometimes the best or only option.

 We should also remember that the Bible presents many different ways to deal with the issues that humans face, and many of them did not involve violence. It is therefore important for us to look at the whole panoply of Biblical life and the many ways that the Bible teaches us to relate to each other. Violence is certainly a possibility, but the Bible counsels us that it is a last resort. Remember what King Solomon used to say, “Unto the counselors of peace there is joy.” (Proverbs 12.20)

 A third way to understand this and other problematic Biblical texts will have to wait until next week—though I shall give you a hint: progress has been made in human thinking and morality over the centuries, and the Bible gives us examples of both good and bad behaviors.

 In the meantime, let us look at our ancient texts expansively and with perception and moral judgment. 

 

The Process of God's Blessings

June 17th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, we read about the Nazir (Nazirite), a curious role that some Jews chose to take back in Biblical times. We do not know what they did, but it had something to do with dedicating oneself to a special level of holiness. A Nazir could be either male or female, and he/she got to choose the length of Naziriteship. (An exception was Samson—whose mother dedicated his whole life to being a Nazir.) We do not know what they did, but we do know what they did not do: (1) cut their hair, (2) drink wine or any grape products—not even vinegar, and (3) approach or tend to the dead. Otherwise, we just figure that they set aside a period of time to devote themselves to holiness, and the above requirements were signs of their special temporary status.

Perhaps some of them felt a special urge to develop their spirituality. Perhaps some of them wanted to repay God for special blessings. Perhaps some of them sought to make up for sinfulness and find some purity. The reasons for choosing this practice and the details of the practice itself are part of the fabric of ancient Jewish life that has just not been passed down through the generations. All we have are the rituals for initiating the status and the ritual for concluding it.

I wonder if deciding to be a Nazirite is like the decision that many modern Jews make to immerse themselves in Jewish organizational life or spiritual life. Many people are very dedicated to their Judaism, but, busy with the million other concerns of modern life, they are not particularly active in congregational or charitable activities. There are times, however, when they wish to draw closer and to take a more active role. They may start attending services more frequently. They may join a committee or the synagogue board. They may adjust their lives so that they can devote themselves to God and Jewish life in a more intense way, and they engage in this holy service for a while. Some volunteer for a program or event. Others stay active in the synagogue for a few years—or for many decades. Whatever their declared period of modern Naziriteship, they all deserve our appreciation and grateful thanks. Their presence and efforts make a world of difference in our Jewish community.

The most famous part of the Torah portion comes immediately after the rules for the conclusion of a Nazirite’s commitment. It is the Priestly Benediction—or, in Hebrew, Hab’rachah Ham’shuleshet, The Three Part Blessing. Here is the whole paragraph from Numbers 6.22-27:
“The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak unto Aaron and his sons:
This is how you shall bless the people of Israel. Say to them:
May the Lord bless you and protect you.
May the Lord shine upon you and be gracious unto you.
May the Lord smile upon you and bless you with peace.
Thus shall the priests put My Name on the people of Israel, and I will bless them all.”

This idea of God “putting the Divine Name on the people of Israel” is both interesting and important, but I shall not address it here. Our Bar Mitzvah this week, Oliver Paulson, will discuss this, and I’ll just say Amen to his teaching.

My interest is in the process of the blessing: that the Torah sees it as something the kohanim (priests) must say in order for the blessing to be dispensed. Of course, God can bless anyone God wishes to bless, but this system seems to require human transmission. And, it’s not just that the kohanim who are part of the process: they are functionaries in a communal structure in which everyone has a role. The priests officiate at the sacrificial meals; the Levites support the holy work, and the Israelites participate both in prayer and by bringing the foodstuff for the sacrifices. In other words, it is only through a functioning society where everyone plays a part that the blessing of God comes.

We often focus on the special status of leaders, but, as any leader knows, real leadership does not take place without the support of the community. As much as we live individual lives, we are also part of groups, and many of the blessings we receive flow because of the communities in which we are a part.

Let us give thanks that we have a Jewish community. Let us give thanks that various members—at various times in their lives—devote themselves to communal service, doing God’s work and Judaism’s work. And let us give thanks that our synagogue community can be the conduit through which we communally as well as individually approach God and live in holy relationship.

Rabbi Ostrich's Weekly Torah Commentary will be on vacation for the Summer, 
but look for new teachings in August.

Living in a Relationship with God

June 10th: Bemidbar and Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the Book of Numbers begins with a census of the Israelites (hence its Greek and English name), the bulk of the book tells stories about our forty years of wandering in the desert. As such, Bemid’bar is a book about our relationship with God, a relationship that turns out to be much like those between people—with both high and low points.

The event which we celebrate on Shavuot (this coming Sunday) is clearly a high point: after our multi-miraculous freedom from Egyptian bondage, we are brought to Mount Sinai and into a covenant with God. This bond is the purpose of our freedom, and the Ten Commandments and the Torah are handbooks for this continuing relationship. As God explains it:
“You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagle’s wings and brought you to Me. Now then, if you obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”  (Exodus 19.4-6)

One of the metaphors used throughout the Holy Scriptures speaks of God and Israel being married, and our various episodes reflect the joys and challenges of marital life. A prime example is the traditional Haftarah for this week, Hosea 2.1-22. Hosea is married to Gomer, a woman who loves him but who also continues to ply her trade as a prostitute. Hosea loves her despite her infidelity, just as God continues to love us despite our immorality and spiritual infidelity, and the Haftarah speaks to the angst that both Hosea and God feel.

In this metaphorical construction, Matan Torah (the Giving of the Torah) is seen as the wedding between God and us. One could then see the stories in the Book of Numbers as accounts of the challenges of living together—episodes in which loving partners can be pushed to their limits. Just as relationships between humans need work, our relationship with God requires continual attention. There is much work to do as we learn and adjust and seek to treat each other respectfully, fairly, and with sensitivity. An early crisis in our honeymoon is God’s decision to make us spend forty years wandering in the desert, and I would like to share with you three traditional explanations for this decision. Each, in its own way, speaks to the dynamic of living in relationship with the Divine.

One explanation comes directly from the text in Parshat Shelach Lecha (which we’ll read in a few weeks). God’s plan is for Israel to go immediately into the Land of Israel, but, of the twelve spies sent ahead to reconnoiter, ten come back with a fearful and pessimistic report, and the people fall into despair and reject God’s commission. God regards this as a lack of faith and a kind of disqualification. This generation does not deserve the Land, and God sentences it to wander in the desert until everyone is dead. Perhaps their children will be faithful enough to inherit the Land. Some commentators, however, wonder whether this is an outright punishment or simply God’s realization that the former slaves are not adept enough psychologically or spiritually to take the Land. The slave mentality handicaps aspirations, and God’s promise to give the Land to Abraham’s family has to wait for a while.

A second explanation approaches the issue of the Canaanites and the various tribes already living in the Land of Israel. There is an awareness of their “ownership,” but the Bible’s point of view is that the real Owner of Canaan and everywhere else is God. As a result, the Torah, the Prophets, and the Rabbis all approach this question asking about God’s allocation/assignment of various territories. A key to this line of thought comes from some verses that speak of the sins of the Canaanites “not being complete”—as though God’s tenants are allowed a certain amount of misbehavior before they are evicted. These passages lead to the Prophets’ belief that God’s gift of the Land of Canaan is conditional—and dependent on morality and religiosity. Yes, the Land is promised to us, but it is also promised to the Canaanites, and their sinning gets them dispossessed. Therefore, what’s true for the Canaanites is true for us: if we don’t follow God’s commands and behave ourselves, we could lose the Land, too. In fact, a frequent theme of the Prophets is that the conquest and exile of the Israelites and the Judeans are actually punishments by God for their immoral and irreligious lives. The great empires of Assyria and Babylonia are not challenges to God, but merely chastening rods with which God punishes us for our sins. In other words, the forty years in the wilderness can be seen as a delay God puts into the Divine justice system. Will the Canaanites behave properly, or will they use up their “last chances?” 

(What happens if they repent? According to the logic of the Book of Jonah, they would be allowed to stay in the Land—and live side by side in peace with the Israelites.)

A third reason for the forty year delay takes a very different tack. Instead of seeing the delay as a punishment or a waiting period, this approach speaks of the time in the wilderness as a kind of intense spiritual retreat. Freed from the burdens of farming, making a living, and even cooking, the Israelites are free to study Torah all day. They learn it from Moses himself—just after he hears it from HaKadosh Baruch Hu! In this environment of pure holiness, they explore and experience the full range of spirituality and Torah consciousness, and their intensity has been passed down through the generations. Our own spiritual sensibilities, thus,  come from a very deep cultural and psychic place. The forty years of spiritual nurturing and development prepare our people for lives of holiness. Likewise, our own times of prayer, study, and spiritual reflection can help us to prepare for our roles in tikkun olam, the ultimate repair and perfection of the world. Remember what Simon the Righteous used to say, “Upon three things does the world stand: on Torah, or Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” (Avot 1.2) What begins with Torah and worship continues in tikkun olam.

God and the Weather

June 3rd: Bechukkotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As much as the Torah is a theological and religious book, it is also an agrarian book. Though the stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob suggest semi-nomadic shepherding origins, once we arrived in the Land of Israel, our ancestors were farmers. This destination was the goal of God’s promise in the Patriarchs’ time and in the message to Moses at the Burning Bush. Other than, of course, our relationship with God and the Torah, the acquisition and possession of the Promised Land, “a land flowing with milk and honey,” is expressed as the purpose of the Exodus: the blessing of the relationship with God is a place of agricultural abundance.  Thus it should come as no surprise that the enforcement clauses of our covenant with God are also expressed in agrarian terms. Here is how this week’s Torah portion begins:
“If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments, I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. Your threshing shall overtake the vintage, and your vintage shall overtake the sowing; you shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land.” (Leviticus 26.3-5ff)

The concomitant curses section—“But, if you do not obey Me and do not observe all these commandments, if you reject My laws and spurn My rules…”—mixes natural disaster with conquest by cruel enemies. Not only will the land be infertile, “I will make your skies like iron and your earth like copper, so that your strength shall be spent to no purpose. Your land shall not yield its produce, nor shall the trees of the land yield their fruit,” but any produce that somehow grows will be eaten by the enemy!

Though our ancient ancestors thought of reward and punishment in terms of nature and its ability/willingness to help us live, there is a tendency for us to feel far away from this agrarian world. Industrialization and urbanization have changed our locations and our sensibilities. Rather than the farmer’s existential concern with rain and sun and the natural world, for most of us, Nature is a matter of scenery, farmers’ markets, and our AccuWeather® Apps. But, of course, we cannot escape the natural world, and many people are concerned with what seems to be the increasing violence of the weather and its effects on human habitation and agriculture. In previous generations, extreme weather was often seen as a plague from God (see the 1927 flooding in the Mississippi River), but today many attribute our weather problems to human induced global warming.

There is a lot spoken and written about global warming, and it is has become a kind of political football. Almost every week, someone makes a provocative statement and incites another round of arguing about the “evidence” or the “science.” What is interesting to me is how important the question of belief has become. Do people believe in the climate scientists’ conclusions, or do people not believe (or refuse to believe) them? There’s a lot of hot air expended on this debate, but, at a certain point, I wonder why belief matters so much. If all the climate change deniers would change their minds and start believing that human produced CO2 emissions are indeed causing global warming, would this change in belief result in changes in action?

Would we all stop using electricity and driving our cars? Would we all sell our gas guzzlers and buy Prius’ or Tesla’s—or bicycles? Would we all install solar panels on our roofs? It seems to me that all these solutions are already and gradually gaining steam. Saving money on energy costs, minimizing waste, and maximizing efficiency are natural and obvious goals in a capitalist system. Would we really be able to pursue strategies a lot faster without causing other very serious problems?

Would we shut down our industrial capabilities? Would we make gasoline so expensive that people cannot afford to drive? Would we shut down coal mining any faster than natural economic forces are already doing? And, what would we do to/for the people who make their livings mining coal or working in polluting industries—or simply driving to work? Would we stop jetting around the country and the world for business or pleasure (or sporting events!)? Look at the millions of people who travel and who find it necessary and/or pleasurable despite expense and inconvenience. Even if we all would agree that human activities are causing global warming, how much faster and more could we decrease all these CO2 emissions?

Would we jettison our nation’s military and economic superiority and let nations like China or India or the entire Third World catch us and surpass us? Yes, Americans may use more resources and emit more per capita, but, other than the gradual decrease in American CO2 emissions that seems to be happening anyway, what would/could/should we really do?

(We’ve all heard the doomsday predictions: “If we don’t cut CO2 emissions by 50% next Tuesday, it’s too late!” Even if we believe them, we know that the country will not cripple itself and our lifestyle, so I’m seriously asking the question: if everyone suddenly believed in global warming, what would we really do differently? And, if this belief is really not that important, what’s with all this consternation over opinion?)

In the ancient world, people thought of good and bad weather as reward or punishment from God—dispensed on the basis of obedience or disobedience to Divine Law. Today, we are discussing whether we humans can affect the weather. If there are natural consequences to the decisions we make, then it would behoove us to make good decisions. The question is, however, what decisions would we make differently?

Tzedakah: The More Things Change, The More They Remain The Same

May 27th: Behar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I began my education in political economics when I was on the high school debate team. Not only did we research and argue the issues of national policy with our teammates and opponents, but also we had great discussions with the parents who were inclined to chaperone our debate team trips. I remember, in particular, the political opinions of one mother—an oil-country Republican—who challenged mightily my liberal-minded heart. Most of the discussions—on the bus and in lobbies and auditoriums—centered around the proper role of government in the economy and in solving human problems. There were the Liberals who spoke of compassion and the need for the government to step in and help people. There were the Conservatives who spoke of the inevitable problems with government bureaucracies and how interventions in the free market create more problems than they solve. These debates were as stimulating and illuminating as the more formal competitions.

What strikes me today, almost five decades later, is how little the argument has changed: how the same questions and the same answers bounce back and forth like ping pong balls on an eternal table. If it weren’t for my baby-boomer conceit that our experience is particularly and uniquely unique and special, I would suspect that the argument hasn’t changed for centuries (since Adam Smith in the 1700s)—and maybe not even in millennia! Look at the Bible and how it addresses questions of ownership and assistance. Look, in particular, at the way the Torah addresses the plight of the poor and vulnerable and how the prosperous are commanded to help them.

In this week’s Torah portion, the subject of what we now call economic justice is approached in the two rather curious customs of the sabbatical year and the jubilee year. The sabbatical year is every seventh year, and it is one in which no agricultural work is allowed. Fields are to lie fallow, owners are only able to harvest what they can eat themselves, and the rest of the unharvested produce is available to anyone who wants to come and get it (for their own personal consumption). It is a Sabbath for the land dedicated to the Lord—Producer and ultimate Owner of the land. It is also a time for debts to be cancelled. If someone cannot pay back a debt after six years of trying, the system says that the creditor should simply write it off, leaving the debtor free to start afresh and hopefully have a better go at it this time around. All in all, the year is an exercise in building empathy and appreciation among the people and in grounding their sensibilities in the Divine Source of both their blessings and their moral code.

The jubilee year (Yovel) is the fiftieth year and comes after the seventh of seven sabbatical years. The Torah stipulates that all land should revert back to the original owners (or their families) and provides a kind of long-term economic stability and renewal of opportunity. No matter how much disaster or poor decisions have devastated one’s financial situation, there is a chance for a clean slate. It also minimizes the drama of land speculation. Whatever one determines to be valuable, there is a limited amount of time to reap its benefits. Again, underlying the whole system is the awareness that the real Owner of the land—and the Source of all blessings—is the Lord God. Grounding, humility, empathy, and appreciation are the “produce” of this jubilee year.

Some scholars think that the jubilee year was never actually practiced—that it was more an idea of an ideal society that proved too difficult and too problematic to practice. The sabbatical year, on the other hand, was practiced, and the Talmud discusses cases both theoretical and actual in re the various needs and adjustments for this complex of mitzvot.

Do these ancient Biblical prescriptions prescribe modern solutions to our economic and political problems? Not really. I think it would be manipulative to try to identify any modern policy with what the Bible says, but I do think it important to recognize that the Bible does instruct us to help the poor and the vulnerable. Whether it is with government programs, infrastructure development, higher or lower doses of capitalism and free enterprise, or lots and lots of charitable giving, the bottom line of Jewish morality is that “the bottom line is not the bottom line.” In addition to our economic pursuits, we should pay attention to the less successful among us and help them with the basics of a decent and safe life.

If you are interested in studying some of the Talmudic texts that get specific about helping the poor, you may want to consider the OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) course I’ll be teaching next Fall. Among the passages we’ll be considering is Tractate Ketubot 67b-68a from the Babylonian Talmud. How far does our obligation to help the poor go? How much is enough? How much help is enough? What do the poor deserve? Look for the OLLI catalogue on line (http://sites.psu.edu/olli/) or in the mail to see about the offerings.

The Eternal Lamp

May 20th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In this week’s portion, Emor, we read the mitzvah which has developed into the mitzvah of the ner tamid, the eternal light burning in the front of all Jewish synagogues. “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Command the Israelite people to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. Aaron shall set them up in the Tent of Meeting outside the curtain of the Covenant to burn from evening to morning before the Lord regularly; it is a law for all time throughout the ages. He shall set up the lamps on the pure lampstand before the Lord to burn regularly.” (Leviticus 24.1-4) Though the mitzvah originally called for a menorah of seven lamps to be lit every night (“from evening to morning”), the sacred practice developed into a single light burning all the time in synagogues by the Holy Ark.  (By the way, this week’s passage is a repetition of the original instruction in Exodus 27.20-21.)

As the practice developed, the eternal light has symbolized the eternal presence of God in our synagogues, in our lives, and in the world. It also symbolizes, inasmuch as we are the ones who cause this ritual light to shine, our role in helping that light shine—indeed in spreading the light of God’s wisdom and love to all the world.

In Leviticus Rabba Leviticus 31.4, the Rabbis of the Midrash have an interesting view of God’s intentions for this mitzvah: “As you shine your light on Me, I will shine My light on you,” which Etz Hayim, our sanctuary Chumash, explains in terms of our relationship and reciprocity with the Divine: “As you shine your light on Me (i.e., teaching the world about Me), I will shine My light on you (making you special among the nations).”

 Etz Hayim also has an interesting note on the Hebrew word tamid. The usual translation is eternal, but the modern archeological and historical understanding is that eternal is a mistranslation. The original sense of the ancient mitzvah was that the menorah should be lit regularly—every single night and not kept burning all the time. Of course, the word tamid also means eternal, and later generations elevated and enhanced this ancient Tabernacle/Temple mitzvah into an even more spiritually meaningful practice. Ours is, after all, a developing and ever-aspiring spiritual enterprise.

Whereas most eternal lights in synagogues have self-contained illumination, ours at Congregation Brit Shalom is a sculpture with three spotlights shining on it (one of which is always on). Apparently there was a significant discussion on this unusual design back when the synagogue was built, but the essential quality of a ner tamid is presented: the light in the synagogue burns eternally to represent God’s eternal presence.

The sculpture itself is the work of the late Rob Fisher, a local sculptor with an international reputation. I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Fisher—and asking him about the thinking behind his sculpture, but, when I look at the work, I see the tohu vavohu, the “unformed confusion” of Genesis 1.2 that preceded Creation. One view of the creative process has God wrestling the unformed chaos into form, and I see the light of God shining onto this tohu vavohu, considering, forming, and continuing the Work of Creation. It speaks to me of how the light, wisdom, and inspiration of God work in the world, and I am reminded to do my part in helping. 

The Chosen People?

May 13th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The “chosen people” idea has been problematic for a long, long time. First spoken by God back in Exodus 19 (leading up to the Ten Commandments), it has been both inspiring and morally difficult almost from its first utterance. On the one hand, it is an amazing proposition: that the Creator of the Universe has chosen our people for a mission of moral example and education to the world. This notion of election and responsibility is one that should fill us with a sense of purpose and a sense of connection to the Divine. On the other hand, it could make us think that we are better than other people, and that does not seem to be what God had in mind.

(On the third hand, the Bible’s teaching that we Jews are the chosen people can inspire non-Jews to hate us and think that we are self-centered, selfish, and unconcerned with all of humanity. An example would the very unflattering way 19th Century French Sociologist Emil Durkheim defined religion—the kind of definition that might have inspired the term self-hating Jew. “Religion is an aspect of totemism for which God becomes an expression of the deification of the group.”)

I have spoken before about the various Rabbinical texts that try to turn our people’s collective ego away from an air of superiority, but the efforts go further back than the Talmud and Midrash. In this week’s Haftarah portion, the Prophet Amos (8th Century BCE) addresses the issue, and he is quite specific:
“To Me, O Israelites, you are just like the Ethiopians—declares the Lord.
True, I brought Israel up from the Land of Egypt,
But also the Philistines from Caphtor
And the Arameans from Kir.”  (Amos 9.7-8)
Lest we think that we are somehow connected and thus insulated from God’s judgment, the prophet reminds us that God’s standards apply to everyone—even the Jewish people!

When I read this Haftarah at my Bar Mitzvah, back in 1966, the message that God loves black people (Ethiopians) just as much as Jews and other white people was important in bolstering the moral and religious position of the Civil Rights Movement. This element of Universalism in the Bible was a message people needed to hear when one part of humanity was being treated as inferior. The message of the Bible is clear: God loves everyone—and no one more than another!

On the other hand, it is possible to misread and misapply the Bible’s Universalism and think that the value of all humanity is the only value—that the cultures and religions of various groups are somehow obstructions to peace, harmony, and respect. In both the Bible and the Rabbinic texts, there is a balance of Universalism and Particularism, a balance in which God loves everyone and also the various groups, nations, ethnic groups, or religions that make up humankind. God’s love for everybody and God’s universal standards of behavior do not conflict with God’s individual relationships with various groups or the roles God assigns to them. Note the way the Amos passage makes it clear that, in addition to whatever purposes God has for Israel, God’s purposes also require the Philistines to play their part and the Arameans to play their part. It is not an insult to one child that a parent loves and has great or different hopes for another child.

In other words, there is nothing wrong with celebrating our special relationship with God and reveling in the religious approach our people has developed for understanding and manifesting God in the world. It does not demean any other group or suggest that they are unimportant or unloved/unguided by God. Indeed, one of the joys of a multicultural perspective is the realization that beauty, wisdom, and spiritual reach can come in many different forms.

It has often been noted—in criticism—that “the most racially segregated hour of the week is Sunday morning,” when blacks and whites go to their own separate churches. To some, this is an indictment of religion’s morality, but I differ. Is there not a beauty to the various styles and nuances of worship one finds in different worship settings? Why should white Baptists not be allowed to pray in their style? Why should black Baptists not be allowed to pray in their style? The same can be said for all of the other denominations and ethnicities in Christianity. Choosing a particular worship ambience and attracting like-minded people is not segregation or discrimination; in this day and age, almost all churches are open to people of different races and ethnicities. The so-called segregation is actually individuals choosing particular kinds of worship—staid or exuberant or traditional or contemporary—and meeting the God Who, we are told in Amos, has a relationship with every people and with different styles of worship.

I believe that we can fully embrace our Jewishness and at the same time appreciate, respect, and work with people of other religions. Particularism and Universalism are not necessarily exclusive. God can speak in many languages and cultures, and God can be approached in many languages and cultures. We can appreciate other religions as well as celebrate our own—and thus follow God’s example. 

The Jewish People and Humanity

April 29th: Conclusion of Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH     
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As we well know, after experiencing the Passover Seder year after year, our Festival of Liberation speaks to us about both the joy of liberation and the empathy we should feel for all humans—especially the ones who are suffering or oppressed.

Indeed, with the symbolism of Elijah and our prayers that he will come soon and announce the Coming of the Messiah and the perfection of the world, our focus on Passover should be twofold:
     (1)   The unique destiny of our people and how our rescue from Egypt was for the purpose of receiving the Torah.
     (2)   God’s love for and interest in the whole world because our selection and holy mission is to bring godliness to all of humanity.

We are certainly taught that God loves us—that there is a special relationship between God and the Jewish people. This is our tif’arah, our glory. But, lest we think that we are the only people God loves, our Prophets remind us of God’s universal interest and affection. In just two weeks, the Haftarah from Amos (9.7) will proclaim:
“To Me, O Israelites, you are Just like the Ethiopians, declares the Lord.
True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt,
But also the Philistines from Caphtor
And the Arameans from Kir.”

The Midrash makes a similar point in commenting on the location of Mount Sinai and why God chooses that place for the revelation of the Ten Commandments. Mount Sinai is out in the middle of nowhere, in a place owned by no one. This is so that the nations of the world will not think that God’s word is only for Israel. The Ten Commandments and the Torah’s holiness are given in a public place so that everyone will know that it is God’s gift and hope for everyone in the world.

The result is that universalism is as important a theme for Passover as is Israel’s particular good fortune (in being freed by God from Egyptian slavery) and destiny (being God’s messengers of Torah). One can even link this thinking to a Midrash on the Hebrew word for Egypt.

In Hebrew, Egypt is known as Mitzrayim, a name which can be translated as the Narrows. This makes geographical sense because the habitable part of Egypt is quite narrow—just a strip on the two banks of the Nile. Other than a few oases, the rest is desert. So, if Egypt is the narrow place, one way to look at the Exodus is as an escape from narrowness. It was not just slavery we left; it was the narrowness of thinking that allowed a sophisticated people to enslave and oppress other human beings.

Are there other kinds of narrow thinking from which we need to escape? A few come to mind: bigotry, intolerance, close-mindedness, penuriousness, arrogance and self-centeredness. The message of Passover’s liberation can remind us that we need to break the bonds of narrow thinking if we want to appreciate the world and if we want to perceive the world fairly and with understanding.

In our day, one of the great projects is learning to live with people who are different from us—different in re nationality, culture, religion, and even gender orientation. It’s one thing to affirm the value of different people, but the experience is not complete without actually getting to know these other individuals who, though quite different, are also created by God in the image of God.

For many generations, in America, we Jews were the different ones, and our leaders worked very hard to show the Christian majority that we are decent, law-abiding, God-fearing, and constructive people who can take on the responsibilities of American citizenship as well as its privileges. The Jewish community has spent a significant amount of energy on this work—and, in an interesting way, this public relations work has informed our own process of Americanization. We have been affected by the expectations of American citizenship, and our fulfillment of civic standards has helped to make us part of the social fabric of this country we love and celebrate.

As a result, we now have the opportunity to help welcome people who are different and who are trying to find their place in America. I am speaking now of our local Muslim citizens and visitors, people who are trying to figure out how to be true to their cultures and religions while also becoming a part of America. Fortunately, State College has had, for the last several years, an excellent organization that reaches out to Muslims and makes them a part of our religious community. Started by Dr. Sarah Malone (a member of the University Baptist and Brethren Church), the Interfaith Initiative Centre County has put together a variety of programs in which people of different religions meet, discuss religious issues, and get to develop relationships of respect and understanding. Some of these programs are formal presentations—some of which we have hosted here at Brit Shalom, and some are more informal.

Just this week, Sunday May 1st, the Interfaith Initiative is putting on its annual Spring Interfaith Picnic, and you are invited! It will be at Sunset Park from 1:00-3:00 PM, and everyone is invited. A good portion of the food will be donated by Pita Cabana, and participants are invited to bring something to share. If you do bring something, please make sure that it is vegetarian (or that the meat is Kosher).

I’ve been to several of these picnics, and they are always a treat. Join us as we manifest the lessons of Passover and share culture, food, and good will. “Let all who are hungry come and eat!”

Passover, Heritage, and Destiny

April 22nd: Passover
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

My message this week is simple and, hopefully, fairly familiar. The Passover Seder is a combination of mitzvot derived from dozens of passages in the Torah and all designed to do one thing. As Rabban Gamliel taught, “In every generation, each person should feel that he/she personally went out of Egypt, as it is commanded in Exodus 13, ‘You shall tell your child on that day, “I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.”’” (Pesachim 10.5)

When we get to that state of mind, we undergo a kind of moral transformation: we feel the heart of the stranger (because we were strangers in the Land of Egypt), and we know that godliness requires three responses: (1) We should appreciate the blessings of freedom and acceptance that we have. (2) We should be sure never to oppress or alienate another human being. (3) We should do our best to help the oppressed escape the narrowness of their predicaments—and extend the blessings of freedom and acceptance to all.

Notice, of course, that Rabban Gamliel’s lesson is based on the proof text from Exodus 13—which is one of the four which tells us to tell the story of the Exodus to our children. (Remember: four instructions means four types of children….)

Everything else in Pesach—from eating of Matzah and Maror to the not-eating of Chametz—are designed to help us tell the story and to listen to the story ourselves. In this narrative, with all of its interpretations and angles, is the essence of our ancestral endeavor.

As we read in the Shema (Numbers 15.41): “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt to be your God: I am the Lord, your God,” and, as God explains in Exodus 19: “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Passover is our origin, our mission, and our communal raison d'être.

Happy Passover!

Moral Priesthood

April 15th: Metzora (and Shabbat Hagadol)
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, I spoke about the latitude afforded to religious authorities in making the relationship with the Divine fit our human needs and sensibilities. There are clearly limits to this flexibility, but our Tradition teaches that both structure/strictness and accommodation/understanding are vital parts of our relationship with God. 

An example would be the way that the ancient priests had to use their judgment in diagnosing leprosy—a term used for certain skin diseases and also for outbreaks of mold in a home. Like modern physicians, the priests had to observe phenomena and then apply various standards and parameters in deciding whether or not an outbreak of tzara’at/leprosy had occurred. As you read the following instructions (Leviticus 14.34-38), notice how both exact and inexact the description of tzara’at is: When a homeowner thinks his house may have nega’ tzara’at, an eruptive plague, “The owner of the house shall come and tell the priest, saying, ‘Something like a plague has appeared upon my house.’ The priest shall order the house cleared before the priest enters to examine the plague, so that nothing in the house may become unclean; after that the priest shall enter to examine the house. If, when he examines the plague, the plague in the walls of the house is found to consist of greenish or reddish streaks that appear to go deep into the wall, the priest shall come out of the house to the entrance of the house, and close up the house for seven days.” Though one figures that the priests were well-trained, one can imagine that, while some possible infestations were clearly leprosy and other were clearly not leprosy, some were hard to call.

In our times, the diagnosis of physical ailments in both our bodies and our homes has been removed from the religious realm. However, the imperatives of the religious life can charge us with a kind of moral priesthood. We are moral people, commanded by Heaven to behave in a godly manner and to “let justice well up as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream” (Amos 5.25). As such, we feel a responsibility to make moral judgments about a variety of people, causes, and institutions. Are they social or moral lepers, and should everyone steer clear, or are they just different and not a threat?

I first learned this lesson about our moral priesthood from Dr. Eugene Mihaly, a great Talmudist and Midrash scholar at the Hebrew Union College. The moral question that day was over a plan in Cincinnati to place a group home for developmentally disabled adults in a residential neighborhood. Some neighbors objected to the group home, citing danger. The word lepers was not used, but the same sense of peril was invoked. Dr. Mihaly, however, invoked the ancient power of the priesthood and asked—in a moral sense, “Are these developmentally disabled people lepers, or are they not?” Knowing what we know about these citizens and the supervision the group home would afford them, Dr. Mihaly called on us to declare them clean and not leprous. I have always been struck how he combined this principled social justice stand with the methodology of Torah.

If one were to review the history of social activism over the last 200 years, one could see a similar kind of struggle or process. For a variety of reasons, certain persons have been considered less acceptable in society and democracy. Led by our moral priesthood, however, we have been called to re-examine some of these discriminations. 

Was the enslavement of Africans in the New World reasonable or fair—or even necessary for their own good (!)? Were they incapable of freedom and personal responsibility? Or, was the particular institution of slavery a kind of moral leprosy that needed to be declared unclean and dismantled? There were many religious leaders who rose up as moral priests, and, among the abolitionists was Rabbi David Einhorn, a father of the Reform Movement. His first posting in the United States was at Congregation Har Sinai in Baltimore, but an angry mob chased him out of town, and he continued his career at congregations in Philadelphia and New York. As an architect of what came to be called Classical Reform Judaism, Rabbi Einhorn spoke about our obligations to be modern-day prophets and to make judgments that proclaim God’s justice in the world.

After Emancipation, there were voices that questioned Black people’s ability to participate responsibly in the democratic process. Similar arguments were voiced about women, and the prevailing opinion was that Blacks and women were intellectual and hormonal lepers who were therefore unsuitable for professional pursuits and voting. In this case, the moral priesthood rose up and—though it took many years—declared that skin color and gender are not impediments to full participation in society. Socially, intellectually, and economically, they are not lepers.

One can also see the struggle for equality and empowerment for the disabled in these terms. The problem here was the belief/assumption that one form of disability makes one unsuitable for all kinds of work. The practical wisdom of the American with Disabilities Act and similar legislation is that job qualification is tied to ability, and reasonable accommodations have enabled many disabled citizens to participate much more fully in society—rather than being cast out and kept from the world of service and fulfillment.

In the case of the liberation of Gays, Lesbians, Bisexuals, and Transgender individuals, the parallel with the ancient situation with leprosy was/is a fear of contagion—sometimes the contagion of disease and sometimes the contagion of influence. Fortunately, our moral priesthood has risen—in Reform and Reconstructionist Judaism as well as other religious denominations—and declared unequivocally: GLBT persons are not lepers. These gender and sexual orientations may be different, but they are not dangerous.

One other group that fits this scenario may surprise you—since it is often seen as opposing the full affirmation and incorporation of other groups. What we now call Evangelical Christians have had their own struggle for acceptance in mainstream society. Prior to World War II, the Evangelicals were by and large rural people, practicing their forms of Fundamentalist or Charismatic Christianity in places that were considered insignificant. With post-war urbanization and education financed by the G.I. Bill, thousands of former country people found themselves in population centers, prosperous and civically powerful. Many observers thought that the explosion of Fundamentalist and Evangelical Christianity in the second half of the 20th Century was growth in this form of religion, but the eminent religious scholar Martin Marty sees it as no more than a population movement—from the hollers and hills and farms of obscurity into mainstream places: their sudden prominence is a result of their new-found wealth, status, and technological acumen. What I find interesting is how, despite their social importance and political power, there is still among many Evangelicals a defensiveness against persecution and dismissal—a sensibility developed during all those years when people who mattered thought of them as intellectual lepers.

We can continue this kind of analysis for a variety of different groups and individuals—some of whom are unjustly shunned and others who are actually dangerous. There are people who threaten us and our communities, and it is right and just that we protect ourselves against them. However, justice and righteousness require that we look carefully and exercise good judgment. Is it leprosy, or is it not? Are differences dangerous, or are we just looking at diversity? Fairness and accuracy require a moral priesthood that is judicious—and willing to do the hard work of careful examination.