Korach and Us

June 26th: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Korach is both one of the most distressing and the most satisfying of Torah portions. It is delightfully satisfying because Moses’ egotistical and selfish enemy is literally swallowed up into the earth. "Moses said, 'By this you shall know that it was the Lord who sent me to do all these things; that they are not of my own devising: if these men die as all men do, if their lot be the common fate of all mankind, it was not the Lord who sent me. But, if the Lord brings about something unheard-of, so that the ground opens its mouth and swallows them up with all that belongs to them, and they go down alive into Sheol, you shall know that these men have spurned the Lord.' Scarcely had he finished speaking all these words when the ground under Korach and his followers burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach's people and all their possessions." (Numbers 16.28-33)

It's not that I'm bloodthirsty, but wouldn't it be lovely to win an argument so decisively?! Argument over! Case closed! Boom! Then, of course, the angel within takes over, and I wonder why Korach's complaints had to lead to such a total and tragic disaster. 

The text is not particularly helpful in understanding his issues. He complains about Moses’ leadership and status, but the details are rather vague. When he and his band of 250 accost Moses and Aaron, they say, "You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord's congregation?" (Numbers 16.3)

It seems that all they want is fairness and equality—a point noted by every Bar/Bat Mitzvah student of mine who has worked with this portion. The Torah text does not show any nefarious motives on Korach’s part, and the aspiring teenagers side with him because his demands seem quite reasonable. Why should not all the Israelites be on equal-footing with Moses?

Well and good, but the text does provide another salient factor, God’s FURY! God is so angry at Korach and anyone who listens to him that the initial Divine inclination is to destroy the entire Israelite nation (except Moses and Aaron). As dramatic and devastating as the earthquake is, it is God’s less severe response. So, figuring that God knows Korach’s true motivations, the Tradition has always read Korach’s demands as nothing but selfishness, jealousy, and rebelliousness for its own sake. 

If we read the Torah as a a manipulative document justifying one group’s rule over another group, then Korach’s complaint seems reasonable and his treatment a miscarriage of justice. However, if we read the Torah as a history of God training a stiff-necked people to be a holy community, then Korach’s protest seems inappropriate and possibly disruptive to the mission. Is he sincere, or is he ego-driven? Is he attempting to help, or is he thriving on disruption as a means to raise his stature? Is he telling the truth, or is he couching his selfish, power-grabbing aspirations in high-sounding platitudes about equality? Though we moderns like to think in terms of democracy, that is not the the Weltanschauung (worldview) of ancient Israelite society. They see themselves in a military model—with a Commander (God) giving commandments (mitzvot) to the commanded (the Israelites). Discipline and obedience are central to the Torah’s approach, and Korach presents as disruptive and disloyal.

And, we must sadly admit, even if it were a democratic setting, dishonest people can use the ideals of equality and fairness as pretenses for less-than-democratic goals. Korach speaks of equality, but there is no indication that he is willing to give up his own special Levitical status—a never-earned privilege that he attains just by being born into the Tribe of Levi. Do his demands really call for full equality, or is he hoping to use his new-found stature to rise among the Levites to Moses’ level? When I think of his possible subterfuge, I think of George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Napoleon the Pig, a leader who speaks of liberty and equality but who twists them into: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” When we hear the words of idealistic reformers, it behooves us to look into their souls and ascertain their sincerity and how they will respond to power.

Perhaps a hint to Korach’s true motivations can be found in the way he presents his message. He gathers and whips up an angry mob and then accosts Moses and Aaron. Though he cites no evidence, he accuses Moses—his cousin and a man known as the humblest of human beings—of ill-gotten gains and haughtiness. Rather than present his complaints and proposals in a constructive way, he ramps up the anger and tries to turn “democracy” into a mob. Whatever political capital he may have—with perhaps legitimate issues, he squanders it with his ego-involvement and hostility. Perhaps we should ask about Korach’s real audience? Is he trying to convince Moses to be more democratic, or is his real goal to stir up a rebellion that he can take over? As I look around at political leadership, I get the feeling that some are more interested in prominence than improvement—more interested in being seen as tough enough “to take on the man,” than in trying to work with the system for actual solutions. Let us beware of such Korach’s. I worry they are not leading us to the Promised Land.

The case of Korach is exceedingly troubling because we do not know his heart. He could be a legitimate reformer, or he could be a demagogic rebel. His disapproval of Moses could be based on a different vision of a holy community, or it could spring from no more than his own jealousy and greed. The Tradition comes down hard on Korach based on God’s rather decisive judgment, and we are left wondering what this human being really intended. I believe that the ultimate message is less about this ancient character and more about us—us and our own motivations. When we lead or when we object, when we support or when we rebel, what is truly in our hearts? Are our goals noble, or are they selfish? Are they pure, or are they tainted with an over-abundance of ego and self-indulgence? Let us conclude with these words from Rabbi Yochanan the Sandalmaker in Pirke Avot (4.14): “Every assembly which is for the sake of Heaven will eventually endure. And one which is not for the sake of heaven will not endure.”

The Message of Tzitzit

June 19th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I have always thought of Judaism as a thinking religion—a religion where our greatest spiritual heroes have had both the right and the gumption to argue with God. Abraham challenges God’s justice with, “Shall not the judge of all the world deal justly?!” (Genesis 18.25). Jacob wrestles with God and, though he limps away, “prevails” and becomes a Patriarch (Genesis 32). Moses, too, encounters God not just as an obedient servant but also as a partner who challenges the Divine when God loses His/Her temper (Exodus 32).

Thus does a particular phrase in this week’s Torah portion comes as a kind of surprise. It is part of the mitzvah of Tzitzit in Number 15 (verses 37-41). God instructs the Israelites to “wear Tzitzit on the corners of their garments throughout their generations.” The purpose of these knotted fringes is to remind us of all of God’s other mitzvot. “They shall be Tzitzit for you so that when you look at them you will be reminded of all the mitzvot of the Lord and do them.” Thus does the Tallit, the holy garment with Tzitzit on its corners, represent an invitation from the Divine. When we robe ourselves in our Tallesim, we are robing ourselves with God’s influence. Just as the Holy One is robed in holiness—“You are clothed in glory and majesty, wrapped in a robe of light” (Psalm 104.1), so can wearing the Tzitzit clothe us in holy possibilities.

The surprise and challenge comes in the next phrase: “This is so you will not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you have so wantonly gone astray.” The Torah seems to be putting a halt to independent thought, and, in Orthodox circles, that is exactly how it is understood. There are very strict boundaries around what is permissible and what is forbidden. As long as one adheres to dogma and follows all the mitzvot, one can think and ponder and argue. However, for Orthodox Judaism, the Tzitzit are seen as reminders that it is beyond the limit to question the Divine origin and validity of the mitzvot.

Liberal Judaism, with its autonomous approach to religiosity, looks at this passage differently. Since we define mitzvot in a different way, the mitzvot represent a different kind of limit. We consider the Bible and Talmud to be human documents reflecting our ancestors’ attempts to understand and live in relationship with the Divine—and not as literal instructions from God. As a result, we see the mitzvot as possibilities for sacred awareness and connection. They offer us opportunities to gain an apperception of God and to respond with holiness. They also represent the compelling principles of righteousness, compassion, and holiness. Thus can we look at the Torah’s warning, “so you will not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you have so wantonly gone astray,” as a reminder that our urges can overtake our better sensibilities. Whether our temptations are a fattening dessert, a juicy bit of gossip, the opportunity for some larceny, or some other nefarious possibility, we all have Yetzer HaRa, an Evil Inclination, that can lead us to folly or calamity. Pausing to consider our actions in the light of Yetzer Tov, our Good Inclination, gives us time to remember the importance of our core values and godly principles. This is our best chance to turn aside from evil and follow the path of goodness. 

Temptation is, by definition, tempting; it seems like it will result in pleasure. The problem is that the temporary pleasure can do considerable damage—to our health, to our relationships, to communal trust. Illicit behaviors are ill-advised because they cause harm. Taking the time to process our urges through the filter of our principles can help us put a pause on impulsive actions and be the blessings we were intended to be.

Holiness is not a defense against sin. It is a reminder of better possibilities. When we wrap ourselves in the Tallit with the Tzitzit, we remind ourselves that we can do better—that we can make godly choices.

Emotional Intensity and Logical Thinking

June 12th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is nothing wrong with emotions or emotional responses; they are a natural part of our humanity. However, emotions can cloud our logical faculties and result in decisions that are counterproductive. Perhaps this is what Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar was thinking when he cautioned (in Pirke Avot 4.18), “Do not try to appease your friend during his hour of anger; Nor comfort him at the hour while his dead still lies before him; Nor question him at the hour of his vow; Nor strive to see him in the hour of his disgrace.” 

I do not believe Rabbi Shimon was saying that we should not be supportive of our friends and neighbors or take an active role in their lives. However, we should be aware that times of grief or other emotional intensity may not be the best times for philosophical and logical discussions. In my own work, I learned this through the experience of visiting families in grief. When someone asks through his/her tears, “Why?”—why the deceased had to die, I quickly learned that this was not an actual question about the disease process or the meaning of life, death, and suffering. No. It was/is an emotional statement expressing grief and exasperation. There may be a time in the future for philosophical thinking, but that moment is a time for care and support—for giving a physical or verbal hug. 

In both this week’s Torah portion and the world, there is a lot of emotional intensity, and some of the things being said may prove to be counterproductive in the long run.

In the Torah portion, in Numbers 11 and 12, everyone seems to be “losing it.” The people get hysterical at the boredom of their diets—at the manna which God provides them everyday in plenty. They heap abuse at Moses who loses his temper and unloads on God. Joshua gets very proprietary about religiosity and tries to stop two Israelites, Eldad and Medad, from having personal religious experiences. Later, Miriam and Aaron get involved in petty domestic gossip and lose sight of their roles as agents of the Lord. It’s a mess, and, while the commentators explain why these human responses are wrong, I find myself seeing myself in these stories of human frailty. In times of stress, my thinking is not always as clear-headed as it should be. 

We can start with the manna. “The manna was like coriander seed, and in color it was like bdellium. The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes. It tasted like rich cream. When the dew fell on the camp at night, the manna would fall upon it.” (Numbers 11.7-9) It seems like a rather perfect situation—plenty of food for little work, but the lack of variety drives some of the Israelites crazy. I can understand their frustration, but it strikes me how we humans have the ability to take our blessings for granted—and to find dissatisfaction in the midst of plenty.

When Moses unloads his frustration on God, he disrespects the Israelite people. “Did I conceive all this people, did I birth them, that You should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom as a nurse carries an infant’”—all the way to the Promised Land?! (Numbers 11.12). Why is Moses taking on the responsibility for the people’s dissatisfaction? Why is he referring to them as children—and not as responsible adults who have the ability to manage difficulty and frustration on their own?

As for Joshua’s over-functioning, in Numbers 11.27, someone reports that two Israelites, Eldad and Medad, are “prophesying in the camp!” Joshua thinks that this is inappropriate—that intimacy with God is the preserve of Moses and Aaron and the priests, and he  seeks to stop them. Moses, however, sees no problem at all. In fact, he seems to think that it is a good thing for individual Israelites to have religious experiences. “Are you wrought up on my account? Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets—that the Lord would put the Spirit upon them!” Perhaps Joshua is feeding off of Moses’ stress and forgetting that religiosity—a connection with God—is the purpose of the entire endeavor. He is focused on Moses and the stress and not on God’s Presence.

Finally, we have a nasty family squabble. “Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman he had married.” (Numbers 12.1) Whether this involves criticism of Zipporah or a possible second wife, the Torah does not give us much insight. Nor does it specify what the complaint is. It does, however, tell us that Miriam and Aaron take their intra-family concerns to the public arena, complaining about Moses’ leadership role. “Has the Lord spoken only through Moses? Has God not spoken through us as well?” God does not seem to get involved in the family process. What God sees, however, is the blurring of personal and public realms and how this is a gross misunderstanding of the prophetic process. Moses is not the key player here. God is! And, whoever God chooses is God’s business. (God is not managing this process based on focus groups—or on the opinion of the staff.)

In each of these less than admirable incidents, I think I can understand the emotional field. Something is bothersome or wrong and people get hot-headed. The problem is that their anger and frustration do not always lead to cogent thinking. 

I find it interesting how advocates often recall for their audiences their emotional reactions to the wrong they want to right. It can be an effective means of persuasion. However, if they are too effective and put their audience in that same state of anger, bewilderment, or panic, then the thinking process is impeded. The people may respond, but the solution preferred may not be the best long-term solution. This is why I read Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar’s warning as both personal and societal advice. Emotional intensity is an important part of life. We need to mourn, to be angry, to celebrate, and to be overwhelmed with delight. However, we also need to settle down, calm the emotional field, and proceed with logic and reason—with an eye to the bigger picture and the long term.

Translating the Holy

June 5th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The re-translation of well-known Biblical texts is a very delicate endeavor. When people know a passage and find it meaningful, changing the translation can be quite disturbing. 

I remember how disconcerting it was when the Reform Movement’s 1975 prayer book, Gates of Prayer, changed the Shema from the translation I had grown up reciting. Instead of, “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one,” we were instructed (forced!) to say, 
“Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.”
Adding that extra “is” changed the grammar and the rhythm—and, to me, the holiness and mantra-like quality of this “watchword of our faith” was disrupted. 

Similarly disturbing was the change of the next line (from Deuteronomy 6). The old version (Jewish Publication Society, 1917, and “old” Union Prayer Book, 1940) had rendered it,
“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might. The new version: 
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your mind, with all your strength, and with all your being.”
Many modernists appreciated changing the Elizabethan “thou’s, thee’s, and thine’s” to “you’s and your’s,’” but many traditionalists felt that the archaic language gives the passage a special and holy feeling. A larger problem was the retranslation of heart, soul, and might to mind, strength, and being. Though the old translation is literally correct, it does not accurately convey the original meaning. The ancient Hebrews thought that the mind resided in the heart, so references to the lev/heart involve the intellect—and not the emotions. The word nefesh/soul can refer to the divine part of us that God implants within our bodies to give life, but, idiomatically, it means one’s resolve. The final word of the three, m’odecha is much more ambiguous, and all your might does not seem that much different from the newer all your being. The three terms seem to be a hendiadys, a grouping of words intended to convey a single thought: you shall love God completely. 

One may wonder why scholars feel the need to re-translate ancient texts since the texts themselves are set and unchanging. As it turns out, this is not the case. From time to time, slightly different versions of the ancient texts are found—in archeological digs or in rare manuscript collections. Or, other ancient texts may be found that use words or phrases differently. When a variant version or usage is found, scholars must then try to figure out which is more authentic and what the differences can tell us about the original intent. This is one of the issues in translating Isaiah 7.14, which Christians see as a prophecy of the Virgin Birth. While the Hebrew alma is clearly young woman (a reference to Isaiah’s wife who will shortly give birth), the Septuagint, a Greek translation that Christians consider a revealed translation, has a Greek word that, at the time of the Septuagint translation, seems to describe a young woman without sexual experience, a virgin. Finding additional ancient manuscripts in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek can help us to understand better terminology, connotations, and the figures of speech—and this can lead to the need for newer and better (?) translations.

There is also the fact that modern languages change. There was a time when English speakers used terms like “thy, thine, and thou,” but that is not the way we speak anymore. While some people like the archaic language because it sets the Bible and prayer apart from daily English and makes it more special, many moderns prefer modern English usage—a usage that continues to change every year. Each new translation must come to terms with what words will mean to the people who read them. 

Examples may be found in this week’s Torah portion, in the very well known Priestly Benediction. The older translation renders Numbers 6.24-26 as:
“The LORD bless thee, and keep thee. 
The LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. 
The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.”  
The new one changes/improves it to: 
“The LORD bless you and protect you! 
The LORD deal kindly and graciously with you! 
The LORD bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!” 
Aside from the Elizabethan “thee’s,” there are some other issues here. First is the term keep. In olden days, this word could often mean guard or protect, but modern people think of it in terms of acquisition and control. It is not a bad thing to think about God possessing us and holding us dear, but the Hebrew yish’m’recha is talking about protection. Hence, the modern (New Jewish Publication Society translation 1964-2000) translation renders it, “...and protect you!”

Another issue is the second line’s “make his face shine upon thee.” The Hebrew does use the word for face, panim, but what does it mean for someone’s face to shine on someone else? One could also ask about the phrase “and be gracious unto thee.” Is this a separate blessing, or is it a synonymous and parallel part of the first phrase?  The newer translation sees the whole line as an idiom with a single meaning (hendiadys) and renders it, “The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you!” 

The third blessing line involves a matter of English meaning. What is a “countenance?” The Hebrew uses the same word as in the second line, panim/face, and I do not know why the King James translators used this Elizabethan synonym for face. Perhaps it was an attempt to minimize repetition. In any event, the modern translators also approached the phrase as an idiom and spoke to the idea of God favoring the person being blessed—a beaming face being an indication of approval and fondness. Thus do we have, “The Lord bestow His favor upon you...”

We could also ask a question about the choice of grant over the traditional give, but I think we’ve had enough for today.

Suffice it to say that this ancient blessing asks for protection, favor, and a sense of closeness. When God is paying attention to us and we know it, then we feel loved and are induced to bring forth the best that is inside!

Uniting God in Love

May 29th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The idea of Israel being the Chosen People is at the heart of the Mount Sinai story. So, as we celebrate Shavuot, the traditional anniversary of Matan Torah, the Giving of the Torah, let us consider this significant assignment. In the chapter leading up to the Ten Commandments, God explains: “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.” (Exodus 19.4-6)

Apparently, many people—both Jews and Gentiles—failed to read this verse carefully and somehow thought that the Chosen People status meant that Jews were better than other human beings. To remedy this false impression—for both Jews who might think they can get away with ungodly behavior and for Gentiles who think the Jews consider themselves better than everybody else, prophets as early as Amos decried the idea that God’s love is particular and not universal. “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) The Rabbis followed suit, creating Midrashim about Israel being God’s last choice. God needed someone for the mission of bringing the Torah to the world, and, since no one else would take the job, God was stuck with us! 

The details of this holy mission are found in many places in Jewish Tradition. One of the more vivid is in the second section of Alaynu, where doing God’s work is likened to hard farm labor. We look forward to the day when everyone else will join us in bearing “Ol mal’chut hashamayim,” the Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. Some may not consider it a compliment to be compared to an ox, but, if everyone is an ox, is it not an honor to to be the ox that pulls God’s load?

More details are found in Ahavah Rabbah, the second prayer after Barchu in the Morning Service. After thanking God for the overwhelming love shown for us by teaching us the chukay chayim, the laws of life, we ask God to help us learn, teach and observe these laws. “Enlighten our eyes with Your Torah; focus our minds on Your Mitzvot; and unite our hearts and minds to love and revere Your Name.” Part of our holy purpose is to devote ourselves to God’s Name—that is, to God’s reputation in the world. We are God’s representatives.

A few sentences later, we get a glimpse into another of our sacred duties. “For You are God...Who chose us, drawing us near to Your great Name...so that we may give thanks to You and unite You in love.” Note that the Hebrew, l’yached’cha does not say unite with You, but rather unite You, suggesting that our work is not just for the benefit of God’s reputation. There are things in our holy mission that have an effect on God’s substance—bringing God together, helping God, enhancing God. Lurianic Kabbalah even suggests that our holy work can heal God. This is the origin of the term Tikkun Olam, the Repair of the World. Though we now use it to refer to social justice work, the original Kabbalistic term meant repairing or healing a primordial injury experienced by the Deity.

There are several ways to understand this dynamic, two of which appeal to me. First is the idea of God being in need—in need of connection with the world. God created the world, but the separation between God and the Creation can potentially leave God out of contact and yearning for closeness. When we do godly things—helping the poor, healing the sick, feeding the hungry,  struggling for justice, and fostering our awareness of God’s Presence, we connect God to the Creation and create a profound unity. Rabbi Akiva likened this to the connection between a mother cow and its calf. “More than the calf wants to drink, the cow want to give the milk.” (Talmud Pesachim 112) 

Second is the spiritual process we effect when we focus on God in prayer. Being the God of all the universe, God can be pulled in all directions and suffer from an in-cohesiveness. This is reflected in the Hebrew word for God, Elohim, which is actually a plural term. God is the combination of all the godly forces. However, we have the ability to focus God’s Presence into a unity—l’yached’cha, uniting God with our spiritual energy. This is one way for us to understand the Shema: “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad. Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” The forces and dynamics in the universe can seem disparate and disarrayed, but we have the ability to recognize the unity at the heart of it all. The Ayn Sof, the Infinite, can be united—can be understood as One. 

The profundity of this sublime insight can be sensed in the Mount Sinai story when we imagine the interface of this finite world with Infinity: “As morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the shofar; and all the people who were in the camp trembled. Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain. Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire, the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the shofar grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” (Exodus 19.16-20)

Spiritually speaking, we are called to listen carefully and still hear that thunder.

Numbers

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

Though the Book of Numbers deals with lots of subjects, it is called “Numbers” because its first story is of an ancient census. God instructs, and the Israelites do a count of Israelite men who are suitable for military service. 

We usually think of a census as counting everyone, but the census in Numbers was only for men—a fact that rankles those of us who believe in egalitarianism. In fact, since women were not counted—and their stories generally not told in our ancient texts, Rabbi Dr. Carole B. Balin has worked up a series of alternative stories in Numbers—the women’s view—that she will be presenting for the next several weeks on the Union for Reform Judaism’s weekly Torah commentary. If you would like to read Professor Balin’s commentary, go to URJ.org and scroll down until you see “This Week’s Torah Portion.” Her goal is to represent those who were not counted.

For every set of statistics or opinion polls, there are multiple interpretations. It is one thing to have the numbers, but another thing to figure out what they mean. In the case of the Biblical census, the assumption was that 600,000 fighting men would be sufficient to take the Promised Land. However, as we shall read in a few weeks (Parshat Shelach Lecha), Israeli’s 600,000 fighting men did not have the heart to do God’s work, and we were thus forced to wander in the desert for forty years. They had the numbers, but the meaning of the numbers was not so clear.

In the Jewish world today, we have similar questions about what numbers mean. In Israel’s last three elections—conducted over the last year and without a clear majority or even a working coalition, the struggle has not been between the Labor Party—Israel’s founding party and the stalwart of the Left—and Likkud, Menachem Begin’s, Yitzchak Shamir’s, Ariel Sharon’s and now Benjamin Netanyahu’s Right-Wing party. No. The Labor Party has receded into obscurity, and the entire political debate is taking place Right-of-Center. The main rival to Likud has been another Right-Wing party, Kachol Lavan (Blue and White), led by former General Benny Gantz. 

Many of us think of Israel in terms of its great Labor Party tradition—with heroes like David ben Gurion, Golda Meir, Moshe Dayan, Yitzchak Rabin, and Shimon Peres, but that party has receded to a point of insignificance in real political deliberation and power. Why? The prevailing opinion is because of the failure of the Left’s peace efforts over the last forty years. After the Second Intifada and the continuing terrorist attacks from Gaza, Lebanon, and Syria, most Israelis have despaired of peace with the Arabs in the near future and are hunkering down with the political Right as the best hope for national survival. 

With this ascendancy of the Right, there are lots of issues and values at stake. Among them is religious freedom and civil liberties for non-Orthodox Jews. The Chief Rabbinate has a complete monopoly over religious life, and the Orthodox minority (only some 20%) has fueled opposition to a variety of civil liberties such as gender equality and LGBT rights. These are the numbers. What do they mean for our idealistic vision of the Jewish State?

I recently heard a talk about these issues from Rabbi Uri Regev, head of Hiddush, an organization dedicated to religious freedom in Israel. I’ve known Rabbi Regev for many decades—since we were co-counselors at summer camp back in the 1972. He is a lawyer and a Reform Rabbi and has been at the forefront of civil liberties efforts in Israel for many years—leading the Israel Religious Action Center and the World Union for Progressive Judaism. 

When he looks at the numbers—at the shift from a balanced electorate to a decidedly Right Wing polity, he sees a surprise in the details. While the vast majority of Israelis are voting Right, they are doing so strictly for security reasons and not to endorse the Right’s traditional social policies.  This is the significance of Benny Gantz and his Kachol Lavan Party. His supporters—the same number as Netanyahu’s—want the former General to shepherd Israel through its security challenges, but they are overwhelmingly supportive of religious freedom for Reform and Conservative Jews, gender equality and feminism, and LGBT rights. They want a safe society, but they want a tolerant and kind society, too. That’s why they did not vote for Netanyahu who has based his power on pandering to the ultra-Orthodox. They voted for a Right-Wing alternative, and the latest National Unity Government has Gantz and his Kachol Lavan party as partners with Likud—with Gantz as Vice-Prime Minister now and slated to become Prime Minister in the Fall of 2021.

Though the Ultra Orthodox (Haredim) and Religious Zionists get a lot of attention, the fact is that they constitute only some 20% of Israel’s Jewish population. The other 80% of Israelis are secular, traditional non-Orthodox, or Progressive, and these Israelis overwhelmingly support tolerance and religious freedom. 

Rabbi Regev believes that the current power sharing agreement has the ability to protect and extend religious freedom and other civil liberties IF Gantz can successfully exert power within the coalition. The coalition agreement affirms principles of civil liberties and religious tolerance and gives him and his party veto power over efforts to pander to the Ultra-Orthodox. However, Netanyahu sees the ultra-Orthodox parties as important political supporters, and there have already been some opening salvos in this burgeoning intra-government battle. 

Rabbi Regev and his Hiddush organization (www.hiddush.org) and a large number of Israelis believe that pressure from American Jews can help bolster the Israelis who believe in civil liberties and help the Blue and White party to do what its own charter promises. We are being invited to participate; we are being invited to be part of the count.

Utopian Visions and Reality

May 15th: Behar-Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the world of visionary statements, there are always interesting encounters between the dreams and the attempts to bring them to fruition. Sometimes, our most noble ideas turn out to be aspirational rather than actionable.

A few examples can be found in America’s founding philosophy. When Thomas Jefferson wrote that “All men are created equal,” was he speaking a current truth or an ambitious goal? When the First Amendment insists that “Congress shall make no law...abridging the freedom of speech,” was that an absolute rule or an aspiration that needs reasonable adjustments? 

The history of our country’s grappling with human and civil rights shows that Jefferson’s aspiration was not immediate. Indeed, we are still working on this vision. And, as for freedom of speech, everyone accepts the general principle, but there has been wrangling over the particulars from the very beginning. Very few jurists have agreed with Justice Hugo Black who insisted that “no laws...abridging the freedom of speech” means no abridgments at all. None! Instead, the general consensus has been that “no abridging” means “very little abridging, and only with good reason.”

One can find a similar disconnect or point of encounter between the idyllic views of communism and the practical and ideological failures of every communist government. It is one thing to say that everyone should do his/her share and that resources should be divided fairly, but the practical reality of different attitudes and desires inevitably interferes with the smooth operation of the utopian ideal.

And, relevant to American Jewish history, there was the utopian dream of Edward James Oglethorpe. He was sent by King George to found a colony to defend the thriving settlement at Charleston. In his charter, three evils were banned from the colony: lawyers, slaves, and Jews. The first exception came within six months when a swamp fever killed the only doctor and a boatload of refugee Jews begged for admission. Fortunately, Dr. Samuel Nunez was on board, and he negotiated the admission of his fellow Jewish passengers in exchange for his medical services. It was not long before the “dream” faded: lawyers and slaves came to Savannah, too.

My musings are not to denigrate utopian visions but to reflect upon their value as symbols more than as plans. 

Such thinking comes up when we consider this week’s Torah portion and its utopian visions of both the Sabbatical Year (Sh’mitah) and the Jubilee (Yovel). Every seven years, God commands, there is to be a sabbath of the land.  Then, every fifty years—after seven cycles of Sabbatical Years, there is to be a Jubilee—in Hebrew Yovel. “You shall count off seven weeks of years—seven times seven years—so that the period of seven weeks of years gives you a total of forty-nine years. Then you shall sound the shofar loud...to hallow the fiftieth year. You shall proclaim release throughout the land for all its inhabitants. It shall be a jubilee for you: each of you shall return to his holding and each of you shall return to his family.”  (Leviticus 25.8-10) The theory was that, in that fiftieth year, all real estate deals were nullified, and every Israelite would return to the homestead assigned by Moses to his ancestors (circa 1200 BCE). 

It is one thing to insist that the land lie fallow every seven years, but one wonders about people really being willing to call off all land deals. The Torah anticipates these concerns and insists that, once everyone buys into the system, real estate transactions will be treated more like long-term leases rather than actual purchases. However, many scholars wonder if the Jubilee was ever actually done—if it was more a utopian dream rather than a historical reality.

As I read these chapters—and the other passages anticipating concerns and assuaging them, I am reminded of other similar documents—among them Der Judenstaat, Theodor Herzl’s proposal for a Jewish State. Though we usually focus on his idea of Zionism, Herzl spends more time in the pamphlet on his idyllic notion of the way a country and society should be run. He describes a socialistic system with appropriate representation and policies, and a modern observer is struck at how much of what he writes was thrown out as the Zionist polity was carved out of 20th Century realities in Ottoman and later British Mandated Palestine.

I do not think that Herzl was in any way repudiated; indeed, his dream was brought to fruition. However, as with all visionaries, there is a tendency to over-function, and, the actual builders of the State had to find their own way.

What is the value of studying and praying over such utopian texts? It is to fill ourselves with the hopes and aspirations they entertain. When the writers of the Torah present their utopian vision of Sabbatical and Jubilee Years, it is less about prescribing a plan of action and more about suggesting an attitude: the Land belongs to God—as do the world and life itself. “The Land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me.”  This awareness is the key to living life with meaning and security.

As Pierre Teilhard de Chardin explained, we are spiritual beings temporarily experiencing physical existence. We need to pay attention to the physical world, but the spiritual path of nobility and holiness is our real purpose—and our ultimate fate.

“May we be Your hands in the world, bringing the blessings of heaven to all the earth.” 

Running From the Lions

May 8th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Lately, I feel like an antelope running in a herd, fleeing some lions. Our herd is being hunted, and the best thing I can do is keep running. I realize the limits of this analogy: We are not antelope; COVID-19 is not a lion; and we can do a lot more than simply run. On the other hand, my sense of empathy is being pulled by the sadness so many are experiencing, and I find myself thinking about that antelope whose herd  members are being pulled down by predators.  What do they think? How are they affected? 

Our Tradition is emphatic about us caring for everyone. As the Rabbis teach us: “Why did the Holy One create all humanity with one person, Adam? To teach us that the life of one human being is worth the life of the entire world.” And yet, how can we feel sorry enough and bad enough about the suffering of so many?

Part of this problem may lie in the psychology of exposure. Many of us spend some time each day surveying the newspaper and listening to the news. The problem these days is that there is little going on in the world other than the COVID-19 situation, and the reporters—who are trying to earn a living—write about little else. Thus is our daily news exposure overloaded with the anxiety and tragedy of the pandemic. We read the many obituaries of people not only from our own communities, but from around the world. We read about the desperation of individuals, and we are invited into their disasters or impending disasters. Instead of the normal balance of news, we are being overdosed with bad and terrifying news, and there is little we can do for all the millions—except sit and worry and hopefully survive.

We are taught to care, and something in our sense of altruism and social responsibility stimulates our adrenal process and pushes us to do something. Our minds work overtime trying to understand and to formulate policies and to feel everyone’s pain. Some of us are incredibly busy, but many of us are in a waiting situation—waiting and worrying and tending to ourselves.  Like the antelope who smell or see the lions, we are pumped full of energy; but we are not antelope, and there is no where to run, and the adrenal/anxiety overload is overwhelming—and painful.

What can we do? First, we can find ways to release this excess adrenaline, and exercise can really help. As I explain to Bar/Bat Mitzvah students shortly before the big day, our bodies are very similar to those of our cave-dwelling ancestors, with biochemical processes that can help us flee or fight when danger appears. Physiologically, our bodies do not know the difference between a saber-toothed tiger and a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. We just know that something BIG is coming. We are pumped full of adrenaline, and we need to get rid of it somehow. Running, calisthenics, isometric exercises, and even a very hot bath or shower can help us find release. 

Second, we can address the stimuli of our anxiety, and I ask you to be very careful in understanding this next idea: We can learn to care less, to be moved less by the danger and sadness of others, and Jewish Tradition gives us some insights in this regard.

In this week’s Torah portion, we read: “The Lord said to Moses, speak to priests, the sons of Aaron, and say to them: None shall defile himself for any dead person among his kin except for relatives that are closest to him: his mother, his father, his son, his daughter, and his brother, and his unmarried sister.” (Leviticus 21.1-2) Since attending the dead renders priests temporarily unfit for the divine service, they are only allowed to attend the dead of their immediate families. This does not mean that they do not feel sad when someone outside of this small circle dies. This does not mean that they do not offer condolences to their relatives or friends when someone dies. However, this does establish a set of concentric circles of grief and responsibility—a principle continued in the traditional Jewish rules about mourning. Only the immediate family follows the most intense mourning rituals. Others are sad, but they are not obligated or even allowed such things as saying Kaddish; their lives do not stop. There are some for whom we mourn intensely. There are others for whom we feel sad. There are others whose passing we note with sympathy but without real sadness. This is not a failing. It is, rather, our Tradition’s awareness of the emotional limitations of human beings.

Our inspirational literature urges us to be compassionate and to care for others. Our social justice texts urge us to be helpful to those in need. However, compassion and care need to be balanced with an awareness of what is humanly possible and healthy. 

God may care for everyone, but God is God, and we should feel thankful that the Eternal One is able to pay attention to everyone and everything—including us—and feel the pain and joy of every bit of creation. But, as Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes about our tendencies to over-function, we should imagine God saying, “I’m God, and you’re not.” 

We can also be taught by a Midrash about four ancient rabbis. As great as Rabbi Akiva was, he knew his limits, and part of his greatness lay in respecting his limitations. The story is told that Akiva and three colleagues mystically ascended to Heaven and beheld the Divine Presence.  “Ben Azzai gazed directly and died. Ben Zoma gazed directly and lost his mind. Acher (Elisha ben Abuyah) gazed directly and lost his faith. Akiva entered in peace and departed in peace.” For Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, and Elisha ben Abuyah, the intensity was too much, and each one broke. Akiva, on the other hand, was able to dose himself, entering and leaving, and thus both  surviving the experience and gaining incredible wisdom. 

In other words, as we approach and behold the anxiety and sadness of the world, we are allowed to dose ourselves, caring for others but not caring or knowing beyond our abilities. It is okay to limit our awareness and limit our empathy. It is okay to enjoy the blessings we have. It is even a commandment. As Rebbe Nachman of Breslov used to say, “Mitzvah g’dolah lihiyot b’simcha tamid. It is a great mitzvah to be joyful all the time.” Even in times of difficulty and sadness, we are instructed to sense our blessings and to find joy.

Loving Our Neighbors and Loving Ourselves

May 1st: Acharay Mot/Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Kedoshim is one of the most profound portions in the Torah—in particular, the “Holiness Code” of Leviticus 19. “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.”

What follows can be understood as a working definition of Holiness. It involves a number of mitzvot which call on us to (1) treat God with respect, and (2) treat human beings with respect and fairness. Its pinnacle is in verse 18 where we are told: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  

Leviticus 19 also reminds us that God is watching and that God cares. The phrase, “I am the Lord” appears seven times in just the first eighteen verses. Among the most poignant reminders involves not oppressing people who are disabled: “You shall not insult the deaf, or place a stumbling block before the blind. You shall fear/respect your God: I am the Lord.” The deaf may not hear the insults, and the blind may not see the stumbling block until it is too late. They may not be aware, but there may be an audience who may be entertained. The Torah wants us to know, however, that among the onlookers is God, and God is not laughing. The Lord wants us to remember that what we do counts.

This question of fearing or respecting God is an interesting one. Many have interpreted the Hebrew word yir’ay as fear, but the Hebrew does not mean “terrified” or “scared witless.” The Hebrew is more in line with a healthy fear or respect—the kind one should have with fire, or a weapon, or nuclear energy. So, though some religious thinkers like to portray God as angry and fearsome, the Jewish position has been one of appreciation for God’s power and presence. As we read in Proverbs (9.10), “The beginning of wisdom is yir’at Adonai, the fear/respect of the Lord.” 

The ideas of respecting God and respecting people are pretty obvious, but there is another kind of respect represented in Kedoshim. Look at the section about proper and decent sacrifices: “When you sacrifice an offering of well-being to the Lord, sacrifice it so that it may be ratzon, accepted on your behalf.” (19.5) The Hebrew is “lir’tzon’chem,” literally “to your ratzon.”

Ratzon is an interesting word. It is often translated as “will,” as in God’s Will. In this context, we should sacrifice the offering so that it will in line with God’s Will—will be acceptable to God. Worship should be done decently, respectfully, and with the right intention and motivation. The whole point of a gift is to establish or develop the relationship, and this word reminds us that the sacrifice is more than just presenting the foodstuff and reciting some phrases. As one can imagine, the word ratzon is used frequently when speaking about our relationship with God. 

However, this time, the Torah adds the second person plural possessive chem to the word, making it “for your ratzon.” The 1999 Jewish Publication Society translation renders it “so that it may be accepted on your behalf,” but I think there can be something deeper here. Rather than focusing on what it acceptable before God, perhaps we can consider the notion of self-respect—of offering the sacrifice in a way that honors the worshipper and his/her best self. 

We all have, I suspect, sometimes been slipshod in attending to duties or obligations. Sometimes, this is fine: not all duties require the utmost attention or perfection. But, if we never bring our all to our tasks—never approach our best work, we may not be respecting ourselves and our potential and our ideals. Ideals are certainly not always met, but there is something definitive and noble about the ideals to which we aspire. Self-respect means holding ourselves to higher standards and to working toward personal quality. Not every day is a successful day, and there are plenty of reasons why every moment is not one of ideal actualization, but there is something to be said for knowing the potential that exists and for striving toward it. 

In the case of our sacrifices—our worship, perhaps the lesson is this: bringing our best to God involves knowing what our best is and then learning how to bring it forth. That is self-actualization. That is self-respect and self-love. As the poet Marge Pierce mused, let us love our neighbors as ourselves, and let us love ourselves as we love our neighbors, for we are all of God.

The Purposes and Limitations of a Handbook

April 24th: Tazria and Metzora
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though academics use the term “Documentary Hypothesis” for a particular theory presented by Julius Wellhausen in the late 19th Century, it can also refer to the general body of theories about the origin and composition of the Torah. The theories suggest that the Torah is not a single work written by a single author, but rather a composite document, compiling and editing several pre-existing documents from Israelite tradition. This accounts for the many anomalies in the Torah (in Hebrew, “koshi’s”) such as differences in writing style and vocabulary, different names for God, different versions of the same story, and different instructions for who is in charge of the sacrificial cult (Levites or Aaronides).

One can imagine how earth-shaking this was for traditional Jewish sensibilities—suggesting that the Torah was not written or dictated by God to Moses on Mount Sinai, but rather that it is a human work, written and edited by humans. The whole authority structure of Rabbinical Judaism was shaken, and thus do we have the continuing conflicts between Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist Judaism on one side and Orthodox Judaism on the other side.

In these “Documentary Hypothesis” theories, each book of the Torah—and often sections in the book—are identified as originating with particular groups and presenting their traditions. While the books of Genesis, Exodus, and Numbers are composed largely of narratives, the book of Leviticus—which we are now reading—primarily seems to be a handbook for the priests. It tells them the steps for the various kinds of sacrifices and how to perform other priestly duties. In this week’s double portion, Tazria and Metzora, the duties detailed involve the diagnosis and treatment of skin disorders and various molds and mildews that occurred in houses.

It may seem strange to us that religious functionaries would be tasked with medical or construction duties, but our weltanschauung (worldview) is much different than that of the ancients. They did not see the world as compartmentalized as we do. Since God created everything, then God’s guidance on everything was appropriate. Also, in a pre-literate society, the priests were the most educated people present and thus were given a wide range of responsibilities.

(On a personal note, please do not consult me for medical advice—or, for that matter, on automotive advice or for financial counseling.)

If Leviticus is, as it seems, a handbook of procedures for the priests, then it needs to be seen with its limitations. It is not the complete training the priest probably received. It is rather simply the technical manual outlining procedures and requirements. For instance, the early chapters deal extensively with the rules for sacrificial worship, but there is nothing worshipful or spiritual in the instructions. Does this mean that ancient sacrificial worship was devoid of spirituality—of kavvanah? My thought is that spirituality and prayerful intention was part of the process—brought to the worship experience by both priest and worshipper. The Torah speaks so often in spiritual terms, it stands to reason that there was a spiritual sensibility in the people of the covenant and that the sacrificial worship services were formats for expressing their relational response to God’s Presence. However, this element of worship is simply not the purpose of the handbook.

I would say the same thing about this week’s portions. Here, Leviticus tells us the technical details of the priest’s functioning, but it does not tell us about the “bedside manner” the priests presumably brought to their encounters with the Israelites. One suspects that some priests were better at relating to people than others, and hopefully the priest instructors taught by lesson and example the human touch that helps people through difficult situations.

Hillel even alludes to this in this proverb from Pirke Avot. He speaks of Aaron (the High Priest!) as an exemplar not just of technical expertise but also of humanity: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing it, loving your fellow creatures, and drawing them near to the Torah.”

Let us remember that, whatever we do, there are ultimately human beings involved, and that human beings—also created in the image of God—deserve respect and consideration. The technicalities certainly do matter, but the kindness and humanity of our actions can turn our deeds in blessings.

Nadab and Abihu: Focusing on the Task at Hand?

April 17th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
RABBI DAVID E. OSTRICH

This is the portion where Aaron’s two older sons, Nabab and Abihu, die, and the big question is Why? What do they do that is so bad—so egregious—that God sends forth a flame and literally zaps them?  “Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, took each of them his censer, and put fire in it, and put incense on it, and offered strange fire before the Lord, which he commanded them not. And there went out fire from the Lord, and devoured them, and they died before the Lord.” (Leviticus 10.1-2) The Torah sort of explains that they offered Aish Zarah, strange fire, but this really does not tell us very much. It was not something that God has commanded them, but what exactly is the problem?  Into such an obvious koshi, the Tradition has suggested several possibilities.

Some look at the verses following this story and think that the young men were drunk. “Do not drink wine nor strong drink, you nor your sons, when you go into the Tent of Meeting, lest you die; it shall be a statute forever throughout your generations; that you may differentiate between holy and unholy, and between unclean and clean, and that you may teach the people of Israel all the statutes which the Lord has spoken to them by the hand of Moses.” (Leviticus 10.9-11) Inebriation decreases precision and skews our normal sensibilities. Sometimes that is fine, but other times it can result in disaster.

I remember a Driver’s Ed film I saw when I was a teenager. An astronaut drove a car through a parking lot, beautifully negotiating a path marked by orange cones. Then, he drank a single shot of whiskey and drove the course again. We could see that he was hitting cones and missing the path. However, when he was interviewed afterwards, he reported that he was just as accurate as the first time. Not only does inebriation make us less coordinated; it also skews our judgment.

Other commentators focus on the term zarah / alien and wonder if they were worshiping other gods. (The Mishnaic section describing how Jews are not supposed to participate in idol worship is called Avodah Zara, Idol Worship. It is an interesting section which explores the way that Jews can live in a society with idol worshipers without worshiping idols or facilitating/enabling idol worship themselves.) Though we like to think that our people were monotheists from the start, there are a number of passages which suggest certain elements of polytheism or idolatry hanging on. A giant example is the Golden Calf incident which we just read a few weeks ago.

Some wonder about the possibility that Nadab and Abihu were being creative—that they offered their worship “outside the box.” There are times when creativity is important and helpful, but there are also times when following orders or procedures is paramount. Remember, this incident was just days into the sacrificial worship system. Could this be a situation where God’s commands were meant to be obeyed literally—at least, at the start? If so, then Nabab and Abihu’s “creativity” was actually disobedience.

In all three interpretations, there is the theme of not attending to the task at hand. Rather than focusing on the prescribed worship of God as commanded, Nadab and Abihu seem to be focused on different agendas: the agenda of inebriation, the agenda of idol worship, or the agenda of creative arrogance or indulgence. They are letting non-relevant concerns predominate, and, as a result, they do not perform their assigned tasks. They are not thinking clearly; they are not “on task,” and the results are disastrous.

In the current COVID-19 crisis, it is hard to keep our heads about us. Fear is a constant. The danger is unseen and, in many ways, unknown. When it hits, it is many days after exposure. And when it hits, there are variety of experiences—from nothing (non-symptomatic) to death. Anxiety is certainly present in our lives, and we are often not “in our right minds” as we seek to understand and respond to the danger.

Reb Simcha Bunim of Przysucha (1765-1827) used to twist Hillel’s famous golden rule into a way to learn from the mistakes of our fellows. Hillel said, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.” Reb Bunim said, “What is hateful in your neighbor, do not do yourself.”

And, so, with this in mind, let us consider some of the mistakes people around us have been making in this time of heightened anxiety—how their other agendas or mindsets have made them less effective in their assigned tasks. Hopefully, we can learn from their mistakes.

Some approach the subject with an over-inflated sense of optimism and salesmanship—talking positively and misrepresenting the truth. They are less concerned with their jobs than with their positive message.

The same can be said for those who approach the subject with an overinflated sense of pessimism and doom. This is an emotional response which, while understandable, does not support strategic thinking.

Some approach the subject with an agenda of certainly—projecting certainty and “science,” even when the science is inexact and far from certain. The face-mask controversy is just an example. Wear them? Don’t wear them? Beyond the scientific facts, the rhetoric of authority has been too often weaponized, and certainty has been claimed much more than is appropriate.

Some approach the subject with anger, looking for groups on which they can project their own angst. We have seen attacks on “young people,” on “old people,” and on various racial or ethnic groups without any regard for the injustice of generalization or for judgments made from an anecdote or two. Is their agenda an actual discussion of facts, or is it more self-indulgent?

Some approach the subject with an eye to their autonomy and boredom, letting these rule their decisions rather than thinking long-term. Short-sightedness is a well-known way to be “not in our right minds,” and anxiety can muddle our thinking and lead to foolish mistakes. 

We do not know exactly what Nadab and Abihu were thinking when they offered the Aish Zarah in the Tent of Meeting, but we can—when we step back and contemplate—see the folly of our own less-than-clear-headed thinking. Let us be aware of our emotions and of the ways they can skew our logical thinking. It is fine to have emotions and to feel them deeply, but separating them from logical and strategic thinking is vital if we are to respond to crisis well.

Preparing for Passover and Our Virtual Seder

April 3rd: Tzav and Shabbat Hagadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, facts can be misleading. The fact in question: In Tradition, Rabbis would only give sermons twice a year—on the Shabbat before Yom Kippur (Shabbat Teshuvah) and on this week, the Shabbat before Pesach (Shabbat Hagadol).

Interesting, yes? The surprise is that, in Tradition, Rabbis did not give sermons at all. Other people—known as Maggidim, Preachers—gave sermons. They would travel around from village to village, and some became very popular for their style of preaching and storytelling. Rabbis, on the other hand, would teach and lead Torah study sessions—but not during services. It was a different synagogue and pulpit culture. So, when it came to the Shabbat before Yom Kippur and the Shabbat before Pesach, the subject of the Rabbi’s “sermon” was not particularly inspirational: it was to make sure everyone knew the Halacha for the upcoming holy days.

What we know as the modern Rabbinate developed in the 1800s, and the weekly Rabbinic sermon was just one of many new customs.

So, given that this is the week of Shabbat Hagadol, let’s talk about Pesach. This is a festival full of Tradition, but, whatever our ideas of Tradition are, this year will probably be a bit different. For example, we may have difficulty getting all of our traditional foods. Passover things are in the grocery stores, but spending all day, going from grocery store to grocery store may not be the wisest course in these days of social distancing. It is entirely possible that we might find ourselves at the Seder table without a few of the traditional components. For instance, I’m in doubt about whether we’ll have parsley for the Karpas. What’s a Yid to do?

My initial advice is to quote the website of Washington Hebrew Congregation where, in discussing their Virtual Seder, readers are assured that one can still have a Seder without everything. Think about the original Pesach. Our ancestors leaving Egypt probably didn’t have every Passover ingredient, but they managed nevertheless to have a pretty meaningful holiday.

Secondly, there is a certain amount of wiggle-room. If I cannot get parsley, I’m thinking of Belgian Endive or the tops of green onions. They do sprout up in the Springtime, and we already have them. More importantly, they can hold enough of the salted water to remind me of the tears our ancestors cried while in Egypt.

If one cannot get Matzah, one can make it at home. It won’t come out exactly as Manischewitz, but decent Matzah can be made at home—with flour, water, and a very hot oven. The key is to mix the water and flour, roll it out very flat, and get it into the oven in no more than eighteen minutes. It’s very doable. The same can be said for Gefilte Fish. There are recipes using canned salmon or fresh salmon—and pretty much any fish you may have on hand. The point is that Passover is historically a time of making things work and focusing on God’s Presence in history and our lives.

Speaking of Seders, we’ve figured out a way to have a Virtual Congregational Seder for the first night of Passover, and you are all invited. We’ll have three links on the congregational website (britshalomstatecollege.org):
(1)  One will be a link to join the livestream Seder.
(2)  Another will have a link to a PDF of our Virtual Haggadah—which you can print or which you can follow on a tablet.
(3)  The third will have a link to a PDF of our entire congregational Haggadah. This is for those who want to it to conduct their own Seder.

The Virtual Haggadah is an abbreviated version of the regular Haggadah. Our plan is to pray and sing through all the main parts BEFORE we eat our main meal. This includes Elijah’s Cup and the third and fourth cups of wine. That way, we can conclude, and then you can enjoy your meal.

I am estimating that the Virtual Seder will last about an hour and fifteen minutes. In any event, there will be a slight break so you can eat a whole sheet of matzah with charoset before the last ten minutes of the service. (I know how hungry we all get!)

To be fully prepared at home, just prepare a Seder plate (or regular plate) with the following ingredients: parsley (or a fresh green), a boiled egg, horseradish, and charoset. Also, have a small bowl of salted water, wine or grape juice (four cups per person), and, of course, matzah. We’ll work on having a lamb bone to show everyone.

Now, here are the details: The Livestream Seder will begin on Wednesday April 8th at 6:00 PM. We have enough Zoom capability for several hundred people, so please invite anyone in your family you’d like to have join us.

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me: rabbiostrich@britshalomstatecollege.org or (814) 441-9312.

Take care, and stay healthy!

Leviticus and the History of Virtual Worship

March 27th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Most years, there is less than a lot of excitement as we start Leviticus, the book of the Torah that has very little narrative and lots and lots of ritual instructions. This is the book where the many rules for the Levitical Priesthood are recorded—so much so that some scholars think that it was originally a handbook for the priests and not intended for a general readership. Then, when the Temple was destroyed (70 CE) and the priesthood stopped functioning, it became increasingly irrelevant except on the metaphorical level—where generations of Sages looked in its ritual instructions for images and principles that they could apply to their lives.

The strange thing is that, in this year of our own particular challenges, there is a kind of ironic convergence of Jewish themes. Due to the current need for social distancing, we have to adapt our sense of communal Judaism, doing things virtually. Back in the days of the Second Temple (500 BCE – 70 CE), there was also a move to virtual worship, and it was called the synagogue.

We start with the sacrificial service as described in Leviticus: “When any of you bring an offering to the Lord…from the herd, you shall bring a young bull without blemish to the door of the tent of meeting that it may be accepted before the Lord…You shall kill it before the Lord, and Aaron’s songs, the priests, shall present the blood, and dash the blood round about against the altar that is at the door of the tent of meeting. And you shall flay the burnt offering and cut it into pieces, and the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar and lay wood upon the fire. And Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall lay the pieces and the head and the suet upon the altar…” (Leviticus 1.2-8)

We do not know why the ancient thought that God wanted sacrifices of meat—and grain, oil, and wine, but a clue comes in the story of Noah and the Flood. When Noah leaves the Ark, he offered animals to God: “And Noah built an altar to the Lord and took one of each of the clean beasts and clean fowl and offered burnt offerings on the altar. And the Lord smelled the sweet savour…” (Genesis7.20-21). God apparently likes the smell of roasting meat. (For more on this ancient belief, look up the story of Utnapishtim in the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, where the gods actually get sustenance from the smoke of roasting meat.)

As I understand it, the ancients thought that cooking the meat would attract God—Who would then be present for prayer. In other words, the sacrificial meal was not the prayer; it set up the context for the prayer. It was also a way of honoring God and celebrating along with God and the God’s priests (who got some of the meat for their own sustenance).

There seems to have been a time when people had sacrificial meals in their own areas or in places other than the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. However, there was a drive for centralizing worship in the Temple—mentioned in many of the Prophets, and this centralization seems to have been the case in the Second Temple Period (500 BCE - 70 CE). Jerusalem’s Temple was the only place sacrificial worship could be conducted. The tradition was for everyone to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem three times a year—for Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot—and worship at the Temple.

The problem was that some people in the outlying parts of the Land of Israel wanted to worship on a more regular basis—daily or weekly. It was part of their piety and devotion to God. However, since sacrificial worship was only allowed in Jerusalem, an institution developed to for worship in the hinterland. We do not know the exact origins, but by around 200 BCE, there were houses of study and worship—called synagogues— in many villages where worship services were conducted at the same time as the Temple sacrifices. These dawn and afternoon worship services were structured similarly to the Temple worship except for the actual offering of animals. Psalms were recited to get worshippers in a spiritual mood. The main attributes of God were recited (God as Creator, Revealer of Wisdom, and Savior). The distant sacrifice in Jerusalem was acknowledged. And, more psalms and prayers were recited to complete the worship experience. It was, to use modern language, a virtual sacrificial worship experience.

The local synagogues were the central institutions of the newly forming Pharisaic/Rabbinic Judaism, and they turned out to be lifesaving for Judaism when the Romans destroyed the Temple, Jerusalem, and the Priesthood in 70 CE. The rules about not sacrificing anywhere other than the Temple were so emphatic, and there was no possibility of rebuilding the Temple. So, what was Judaism to do? The Rabbis consulted the Bible and noted a number of passages in which both Prophet and Psalmist dismiss the necessity for animal sacrifices. They were not necessarily arguing against the sacrificial system but rather speaking of its goal: piety and morality before God. God does not need the meat or the blood or even the smoke. What God needs is sincerity and piety and morality and attention. And, since those could be achieved in the synagogue environment, the Rabbis decided that, until the Temple and the sacrificial system could be re-established, the synagogue service would be the temporary substitution.

And so it has been for close to 2000 years. Our service replicates the service in the ancient Temple. Psalms and other prayers set the spiritual mood. We declare our belief in God (the Shema) and describe the essential characteristics in our relationship with God (Creator, Revealer of Wisdom, and Savior). We have an extended prayer that takes the place of the sacrifice (Amidah). And, we conclude our worship with more prayers and songs. Of course, over the years, new prayers have been added, but the essential structure is there—and it all comes from the Rabbis’ desire to participate virtually in Temple service.

We’ll be having Virtual Shabbat again this Friday at 7:00 PM. Just go to our congregational website: britshalomstatecollege.org. At the bottom right of the home page, there is a box to click for Virtual Shabbat. You’ll also notice a place to get our prayer booklet in PDF form—either to print or to read from a tablet/computer.

Last week, over fifty people worshipped together. We hope you will join us for both holiness and health!

Following the Plan

March 20th: Vayak’hel-Pekuday
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is an interesting koshi (difficulty) between the first two chapters of Genesis. In Genesis 1, God creates the whole world in six days. In Genesis 2, none of that seems to have taken place, so God starts from scratch and creates the whole world. It is as though there are two completely different creation stories. Which is the real one?

The confusion continues. In the Six Day Story of Genesis 1, God creates the human being, “in the image of God, male and female God created them,” (Genesis 1.27) so we seem to have both a man and a woman. However, in the Genesis 2 story, there is neither man nor woman. God “forms man from the dust of the earth, blowing into his nostrils the breath of life to make him a living being.” (Genesis 2.7) This man is alone. After creating all the animals—as potential companions for the man, God realizes that only something more like the man will do, so God takes a rib from the man and creates a woman. Tradition is thus tasked with trying to figure out what happened to that man and woman from Chapter 1.

This discrepancy is one of the clues for the Documentary Hypothesis—that family of theories suggesting that the Torah is not a single document, written by one Author, but rather a composite document, written by a number of different authors with different opinions and religious agendas. Documentary Hypothesis scholars explain the two contradictory creation stories as evidence of different traditions and pre-Torah texts that were, at some point, woven together into what we call the Five Books of Moses.

Modern scholars, however, were not the first to notice this major koshi. Tradition noticed it, but, committed to the authenticity and authority of the Torah, the Sages fashioned a number of Midrashic explanations. One has particular interest this week as we read about the crafting and construction of the Mishkan/Tabernacle which our ancestors use as a portable “tent temple.” After six chapters describing every single item’s design and construction and the final assembly of the Mishkan, we have this culminating blessing: “When Moses finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle.”  (Exodus 40.34) God plans and the craftsmen and craftswomen of Israel make it real. The plan is made real, and God dwells in the midst of the Israelites.

One way of resolving the contradiction between Genesis 1 and Genesis 2 is to think of Genesis 1 as the planning phase and Genesis 2 as the construction phase. Why would not the Divine Designer have to think about and plan the world? This process took the famous six days. A clue to this design process comes in the passage about the creation of humans. Notice what God says. “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” (Genesis 1.26) Us? Our? To whom is God speaking?

A traditional answer is that God is speaking to the angels (malachim), and that the plan for humans is to make them part animal and part angel—thus giving us the ability to be both animalistic and godly. A Christian answer is to imagine a conversation among the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. However, one ancient Midrash identifies God’s conversation partner as the Torah, and imagines God using it as a blueprint/design specifications for the world. In other words, God creates the world in order to fit the way of life the Torah teaches.

Thus is the contradiction rendered a sequential process—with God designing the world in Genesis 1 and actually constructing it in Genesis 2. This also explains the rather strange phrasing of the human’s creation—“male and female He created them” (which leads some to speculate about the first human being hermaphroditic, a single human being with both male and female genitalia).  If Genesis 1 is the design phase, then the “male and female” can refer to the two possibilities for this basic design. It is like the way auto manufacturers create a car that comes in several models: sedan, coupe, station wagon, convertible, etc. The human comes in both male and female models.

The Kabbalists of Judaism pick up on this ancient Midrash and turn it into a moral lesson. This first human being—called Adam Kadmon, the first Adam (as opposed to Genesis 2’s second Adam whose rib is used to create Eve)—is the design prototype for humanity. Adam Kadmon is the ideal human, the one who is “in the image of God.” However, the production of human beings has resulted in models that are less perfect that our prototype. We have the potential of godliness, but, all too often, we fail to meet God’s and our aspirations.

The moral lesson, however, is that we have godliness—“the “image of God”—in us. It is our potential, and practical Kabbalah seeks to help us actualize this innate purity and holiness. The classic Kabbalistic approach is to compare ourselves with Adam Kadmon, noticing our similarities and our divergences. For the similarities, keep up the good work. For our shortcomings, seek inspiration, discipline, and techniques for improvement. In all, however, Adam Kadmon is our example and standard—our aspiration.

The story of the Mishkan has a perfect ending: at each step along the construction, we are told that Moses did everything “just as the Lord had commanded him.” Here is a case where the heavenly design and the earthly performance are identical. As such, it represents a hopeful plan for humans: we, whose design is based on a perfect human being, have the ability to improve. Yes, we can become the blessings we were created to be.

Wondering About the Golden Calf

March 13th: Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are some interesting pairs in Jewish tradition—two ways of doing things that are similar but slightly different. Why, for instance, are there two versions of Mi Chamocha? Why are there two versions of the peace prayer at the end of the Amidah—Sim Shalom and Shalom Rav? Why are there two versions of the God-loves-us-with-the-Torah prayer just before the Shema? In all these cases, one is assigned to morning services and the other is assigned to evening services—even though the prayers themselves are not particularly morning-oriented or evening-oriented. Why? Tradition does not give us an answer, so we are left with theories and speculations.

One of the theories is that, as the Jewish tradition grew and developed, different communities did things differently. Everyone sang Mi Chamocha, the two passages from the Song of the Sea in Exodus 15 to celebrate God’s saving power: “Who is like You, O Lord, among the mighty?! Who is like You, glorious in holiness, awesome in praises, working wonders?” and “The Lord will rule forever and ever!” The middle connecting passages, however, developed differently. Some communities used: “The freed slaves sang a new song to You there on the shore of the sea. Together, they gave thanks and sang…”  Other communities used this middle part: “Your children saw Your might, there at the splitting of the sea. “This is my God,” they cried, singing…”  When there was an effort to standardize things—as happens in religions and cultures, those in charge decided to respect both versions by keeping them and assigning them to different services. “Tradition” was thus both preserved and adjudicated by Tradition.

By the way, this theory may also explain why the main prayer, the Amidah or Shemonah Esreh (Hebrew for eighteen), actually has nineteen blessings. Some communities used eighteen; others used nineteen. To compromise and standardize, the “eighteen” name was preserved, but nineteen blessings were prayed.

I bring up this liturgical history as a way of possibly explaining the Golden Calf incident in Exodus 32. It is such a strange story—how, just weeks after witnessing amazing miracles from God, the people turn to expressly forbidden worship. After being freed from Egypt, crossing the Red Sea, and receiving the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, how could they doubt God and worship a calf?!

One theory sees the story as a means of reconciling two different worship modes—and subjugating one to the other. In many of the ancient Middle Eastern religions, the gods are depicted as sitting or riding on animals. There is an Egyptian god who stands on the head of a crocodile. There are Mesopotamian gods who ride on rams or bulls. There is mention in the northern part of ancient Israel—where the Ten Tribes lived, of a god named El who rides a bull. Could this be the context of the Golden Calf? Rather than making a new and different god to worship, could the people have been trying to solve the problem of Moses’ disappearance at the flaming and smoking top of Mount Sinai? Could the calf have been an attempt to invoke God’s presence by providing the deity with a ride?

If this sounds far-fetched, consider the fact that the Ark of the Covenant was designed (by God!) to have two angels—angels on whose wings God would rest/sit when dwelling among the people and speaking to Moses: Here are the instructions from Exodus 25.17-22 for the top of the Ark of the Covenant: “You shall make a cover of pure gold, two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide. Make two cherubim of gold—make them of hammered work—at the two ends of the cover. Make one cherub at one end and the other cherub at the other end; of one piece with the cover shall you make the cherubim at its two ends. The cherubim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall face each other, the faces of the cherubim being turned toward the cover. Place the cover on the top of the Ark, after depositing inside the Ark the Tablets that I will give you. There I will meet with you, and I will impart to you—from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Covenant—all that I will command you concerning the Israelite people.” In other words, the Torah describes God resting on the Ark—between the cherubim—just like other ancient Near Eastern gods who have places for them to reside/ride.

So, when we have a story about a Golden Calf being very much against the wishes of God, could this be a way of reconciling two ancient Israelite traditions—one from the northern tribes where God sits on a bull’s head, and the other from the southern tribes (Judah and Levi) who believed that God rests between two golden cherubim?

Sometimes, when there are different ways of doing things, the Tradition can incorporate both into assigned roles. Other times, the Tradition must decide which will be continued and which will not. So, rather than seeing human disloyalty in the Golden Calf incident, perhaps what we are really seeing is an adjudication and reconciliation dynamic in which two traditions are joined.

A final and random thought: When Moses descends from Mount Sinai, the stone Tables of the Covenant in his hands, he and Joshua hear the noise of the Golden Calf celebration in the camp below. Joshua says, “There is a cry of war in the camp,” but Moses says, “It is not the sound of the tune of triumph, or the sound of the tune of defeat; it is the sound of a song I hear.” (Exodus 32.17-18) It is an interesting little moment where two people hear the same sounds but interpret them differently. I never thought too much about it until I was walking one of our greyhounds on the beach. As we were walking along, we approached a very loud party in the distance—some young people drinking beer, listening to music, and loudly participating. I recognized it for what it was, but our greyhound stopped in his tracks. He seemed to hear like Joshua, “There is a cry of war in the camp!” and fear showed in his body. To him, the party sounded hostile, and we needed to find a different route. There are all kinds of places to learn Torah, and walking a greyhound on the beach is one.

Purim, The Amalekites, and Opera

March 6th: Tetzaveh and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to our regular weekly portion, Tetzaveh (Exodus 27.20 – 30.10), we have a special extra portion this week—one introducing Purim. It comes from Deuteronomy 25.17-19: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land  the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”

This ancient instruction (circa 1200 BCE) is tied to Purim through the Midrashic tradition that Haman is a descendant of Amalek—through a line that somehow survived. Since we did not totally obliterate Amalek, some of the Rabbis teach that we are doomed to suffer threats from his just as evil descendants.

This is also the reason why we make noise whenever Haman’s name is mentioned: we are supposed to “blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven!”  The irony, of course, is that we are commanded to remember to blot out something—which, if it were really blotted out, we would not remember. Perhaps this is why we don’t exactly blot out Haman’s name: the reader of the Megillah says it, and then everything makes noise.

The tradition of merriment and silliness comes from the stark irony and surprise of the story in Megillat Ester: in a matter of moments, Haman’s high status is reduced to nothing, and Mordecai’s medium status is lifted high—and it all comes about because of a woman! Thus do things flip on Purim: the serious become silly; the great can masquerade as the small; and the small can masquerade as the great. The mitzvah is that things should be turned on their heads.

The tradition of a Purimspiel goes way back, and the silliness—or unexpectedness—is not just reserved for the story. Many of the great cantors in Europe would reformat the sacred prayers of the service and sing them in popular tunes of the day. In particular, tunes from the grand opera were adapted, and Verdi, Donizetti, Puccini, and friends were sung in the synagogue.

This is one of my favorite ways of observing Purim, and so our service this Friday night will have some unusual tunes. Perhaps you would like to prepare, so here is the current list:
Shalom Alaychem: Torna a Surriento (De Curtis)
Lecha Dodi: Habanero (Bizet)
Mi Chamocha: O Sole Mio (di Capua and Mazzucchi)
Vesham’ru: Vesti La Guibba (Leoncavallo)
Va’anachnu Korim: Una Furtiva Lagrima (Donezetti)
Adon Olam: La Donna e Mobile (Verdi)

So, get out your prayer books and your opera CD’s: you have some practicing to do before Friday night!

Lessons From Giving

February 28th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Terumah begins the most anachronistic section of the Torah: the instructions for and the construction of the Mishkan, the “tent temple” that our ancestors used for worship in the wilderness and for the first few centuries in the Promised Land. Later replaced by the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem, our Tradition never looks forward to re-assembling this Mishkan. If we ever restore the sacrificial service, Tradition teaches that it will be in a new Temple—and not in a new tent.

Why, then, do we spend so much time—five Torah portions!—focusing on details that we will never need again? The simple answer is that this comes with the territory when one reveres an ancient text. It is in the Torah, and we read the Torah. The task becomes one of finding meaning, and here are three lessons the text can teach.

In Terumah, the initial phase of the construction, we have the building campaign.
 “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved to donate. These are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; yarns of blue, purple, and crimson; fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, and spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting—for the ephod and for the breastplate. And let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”  (Exodus 25.1-8)

From this detailed instruction, we can learn a lesson about the value and dynamic of giving. The story suggests that Israelites of every economic level were encouraged to give—and that both large and small gifts were welcome and appreciated. A little bit of gold here, and a little bit of gold there, and soon there was more than enough to cover the ark and the incense altar and the tent poles and carrying poles. All the gifts worked together to complete the Mishkan.

Actually, people were so enthusiastic that the building campaign was oversubscribed. In a few weeks (Parshat Vayakhel), we shall read about how Moses has to ask the people to stop bringing gifts. The artisans say to Moses, “‘The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the Lord has commanded to be done.’ Moses thereupon had this proclamation throughout the camp: ‘Let no man or woman make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary!’ So the people stopped bringing; their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done.” (Exodus 36.5-7)

A second lesson comes from comparing the specificity of God’s instructions in different situations. In this case, God goes into great detail, specifying the exact dimensions and specific building materials of the Mishkan and all of its furnishings. Contrast this to God’s instructions to Abram in Lech Lecha—telling him to leave his father’s house and go to the Land of Canaan. In that case, no details are included: the route, timing, destination within Canaan, and who is going along—all the travel details—are left completely to Abram’s discretion.

Perhaps the reason for this difference is obvious: sometimes the details matter, and sometimes they are not as important. We all hear the popular advice about “not sweating the details,” and this is certainly true for many situations. I remember one summer in particular where I was the supervising educator at the Jacobs Camp in Mississippi. In a spurt of great enthusiasm, I wrote lesson plans for every class, for every teacher, and thought it was great. The problem was that this micro-managing deprived the talented and enthusiastic teachers of the creative energy that is a big part of the camp experience; the program that summer was rather lackluster—and all because of my over-functioning. Here was a case where sweating the details—and not trusting other enough to do a good job—was a problem.

On the other hand, there are times when the details just have to be sweated. In Numbers 20, God tells Moses to speak to the rock and produce water for the thirsty Israelites. Moses hits the rock and suffers major repercussions. The fact that God had, in a previous situation, instructed Moses to hit a rock for water is no excuse. God is specific; Moses disobeys; and in this case, the details make a big difference. Moses is not allowed to enter the Promised Land.

A more modern and tragic example is the catastrophe of the Space Shuttle Challenger. It was cooler than expected that January morning in 1986, and the seals that kept the fuel contained in the tanks contacted with the low temperature. The people in charge thought that a few degrees would not make a difference, but just a minute after lift-off, rocket fuel leaked and was ignited by the exhaust. The spacecraft exploded, and an exciting and “routine” mission became a disaster. Seven brave explorers lost their lives.

Sometimes, the details are less than important, while other times, they are manifestly important. The key lies in knowing the difference.

A third lesson lies in the charge that God gives to the Israelites. Yes, bring the various gifts, but notice the purpose: “And let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”  (Exodus 25.8) The purpose of the gifts is not obeisance but rather hospitality. The purpose of the Mishkan is to make God feel at home in the Israelite community. We can certainly understand this in terms of our synagogue—how we work for a place that is conducive to holiness and reflects respect for God and our holy community. It should also be a metaphor for the ways we construct our community and society—that we should act in ways that reflect our holy relationship with the Eternal, making God feel at home in our midst.

Thus do ancient details lead to modern insights. It is the process of Torah.

Torah, Law, and Lore

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

The art of translation is always curious. How does one give an accurate translation of the words and the connotations and the historical context and the sensibility of a text? It is seldom a straight process, and the multiplicity of translations of the Bible speaks to the complexity.

A case in point comes in the word Torah. Often translated as The Law, this is too narrow for the whole approach to life and existence which the Torah represents. Though Torah contains laws, it also holds other components which draw our attention: narratives, interpretive retellings of narratives, poetry and prayer, genealogies, and philosophical thinking. In the texts that Judaism developed from and after the original Torah, the subject matter is generally categorized as either Halachah/Law or Aggadah/Stories, and Judaism is taught in both.

Though we usually use the word Torah to refer to The Five Books of Moses, Judaism actually has eight definitions/usages of the word.

(1)   The Five Books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.

(2)   The Torah Scroll—the Five Books in their ancient scroll format.

(3)   The whole Jewish Bible/Tanach (which Christians call The Old Testament). In Rabbinic Judaism, this is called the Written Torah.

(4)   The Written Torah and the Oral Torah (the Mishnah and the Gemara, which together comprise the Talmud).

(5)   Any Jewish texts that continue the Rabbinic Tradition—Responsa, Law Codes, Mystical Writings (Kabbalah), Philosophical Writings, Hassidic Teachings, etc.

(6)   All Jewish knowledge—including Jewish Literature and Journalism and modern thought.

(7)   A particular story or interpretation or teaching from Judaism, as in, “Here, let me teach you a Torah.”

(8)   The sensibility of Judaism and Jewishness in which individuals have the opportunity to approach God and to live in a holy relationship with God. This definition of Torah is similar to the Chinese notion of Tao, The Way.

Whenever we hear the word Torah, we need to discern which meaning is intended.

That being said, this week’s Torah portion is actually law. Up until the Ten Commandments last week, all of the Book of Genesis and the most of the first nineteen chapters of Exodus are narrative/Aggadah. Now, however, we get a multiplicity of specific laws.

“When a man strikes the eye of his slave, male or female, and destroys it, he shall let the slave go free on account of the injury. If he knocks out the tooth of a slave, male or female, he shall let the slave go on account of the injury.” (Exodus 21.26-27)

“When a man opens a pit, or digs a pit and does not cover it, and an ox or a donkey falls into it, the one responsible for the pit must make restitution—paying the price of the animal to the owner, but keeping the carcass.” (Exodus 21.33-34)

“When a man’s ox injures his neighbor’s ox and it dies, they shall sell the live ox and divide its price; they shall also divide the dead animal. If, however, it is known that the ox was in the habit of goring, and its owner has failed to guard it, he must restore ox for ox, but he shall keep the carcass of the dead ox.” (Exodus 21.35-36)

“When a man steals an ox or a sheep, and slaughters it or sells it, he shall pay five oxen for the ox, and four sheep for the sheep.” (Exodus 21.37)

“When a man lets his livestock loose to graze in another’s land, and so allows a field or a vineyard to be grazed bare, he must make restitution for the impairment of that field or vineyard.” (Exodus 22.4)

“When a fire is started and spreads to thorns, so that stacked, standing, or growing grain is consumed, he who started the fire must make restitution.” (Exodus 22.5)

“You shall not subvert the rights of your needy in their disputes. Keep far from a false charge; do not bring death on those who are innocent and in the right, for I will not acquit the wrongdoer. Do not take bribes, for bribes blind the clear-sighted and upset the pleas of those who are in the right.” (Exodus 22.6-8)

“You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
(Exodus 22.21)

“If you lend money to My people, to the poor among you, do not act toward them as a creditor; exact no interest from them. If you take your neighbor’s garment in pledge, you must return it to him before the sun sets; it is his only clothing, the sole covering for his skin. In what else shall he sleep? Therefore, if he cries out to Me, I will pay heed, for I am compassionate.” (Exodus 22.24-26)

The idea here is that living a holy life involves the details of life. It is one thing to espouse the goals of fairness and justice, but how you deal with a goring ox or an out-of-control flock or a fit of temper against a subordinate? The details of life are where the Torah is lived, and God is instructing us to follow the model of creation—a grand and magnificent endeavor that necessitated lots of details: the invention of physics, biochemistry, psychology, etc., and the development that had to be carried out molecule by molecule and atom by atom. Given that God loves us and has gifted each of us with a spark of the Divine Image, God cares about us and how we are treated by others. Thus do ten commandments grow to 613. Living Torah means “sweating the details.”

“Once a heathen came before Shammai and said to him, ‘I will be converted if you teach me the entire Torah, all of it, while I stand on one foot.’  Shammai instantly drove him away with the builder’s measure he had in his hand.  The same man came before Hillel and said, ‘I will be converted if you teach me all the Torah while I stand on one foot.” Hillel converted him. He said to him: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah.  All the rest is commentary. Now, go and study.”  (Talmud Shabbat 31a)

The Ten Commandments!

THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion brings us the indelible scene at Mount Sinai. I say indelible because, in many ways, the thundering voice of God still reverberates in the Jewish consciousness. Every aspect of Judaism and Jewishness is a response to that moment when our people encountered the Infinite One and absorbed some of its holiness.

Jewish identities vary widely—in intensity, practice, knowledge, style, and affiliation, but there is this common spiritual call that began our endeavor and has inspired generation after generation through the ages.

In my own thinking, practice, and teaching about Judaism, I have long been guided some insights developed in a Jewish education curriculum in the 1980s. In addition to the various subjects necessary in a Jewish education, it spoke about five learning modalities—angles from which to approach Judaism and understand it more fully. They were developed in re educating children, but I soon realized that these modalities or learning strategies are for much wider application: they represent a complete approach to Judaism that all of us should incorporate into our Jewish lives. In other words, when we respond to the call of Mount Sinai, each of these approaches to Judaism and Jewishness is vital.

The first is Jewish Functional Skills. These are the facts and skills that we all need to know in order to be literate and able in Jewish contexts.

The second is the Ethical Dimension of every Jewish story, ritual, and teaching. How does our religion affect our relationship with ourselves and with others? How do our attitudes and actions reflect the godliness intended in every aspect of our faith? Remember, ours is a religion which the great Hillel summarized with a simple ethical teaching: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.” (Talmud Shabbat 31a)

The third is the Historical Experience of our people. Ours is a communal history—a story of how we have encountered life and history and done so in Jewish ways. We see ourselves as part of a long term process or project, with each generation continuing the Tradition it inherited. Years ago, when being introduced to a college class, the professor who invited me “warned” his students about how rabbis never give definitive answers. They always quote a variety of voices—from different times and places—answering a question with a discussion. He was right, of course, because the process which began with Abraham and Sarah continues today with you and me, and every step in that story is relevant to the continuing Jewish process.

The fourth is the Textual Experience. As much as we consult our holy and historical texts for information, there is something essentially Jewish about sitting over a text and encountering its wisdom. When Chananya ben Teradion (Mishna Avot 3.3) says “When two people sit together, and words of Torah pass between them, the Divine Presence rests upon them,” he is reminding us that studying Torah brings us into the realm of the holy and fills us with a sensibility of godly possibility. Whether in the Torah Service or study luncheons or film series or programs with our youth, text study—and the many places it leads us—is an essential aspect of Judaism.

The fifth is Creative Adaptation—how we understand the information, insights, and practices of traditional Judaism and make them our own. We all do this, choosing what is meaningful to us or our families and crafting a Jewish life and sensibility that connects us individually to God and Tradition.

There is much to be said about each of these learning and experiential aspects of Judaism, but, for this week, I want to focus on the primary text of this week’s Torah portion, the Ten Commandments.

Years ago, I visited a congregation that started every service with the congregation rising and reciting together the Ten Commandments. It was quite moving and meant that, among other things, everyone knew the Ten Commandments. I believe this knowledge is an indispensable Jewish skill, and my request this week is that every member of our congregation takes the time to memorize these ten essential teachings of our Tradition. This goes for adults as well as children, and I am particularly asking parents to spend some time working with your children on this Jewish text.

The full versions are in Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5, but here is a memorize-able version.

*I am the Lord your God, Who brought you out from the Land of Egypt, out of the House of Bondage.
You shall have no other gods besides Me.

*You shall not make any idols or graven images and worship them.

*You shall not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.

*Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.

*Honor your father and your mother.

*Do not murder.

*Do not commit adultery.

*Do not steal.

*Do not bear false witness against your neighbor.

*Do not covet.

This is a text to consider, study, and discuss. First of all, however, it is a text to know by heart.

The Lord: Warrior is God's Name

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

As much as we celebrate God’s miraculous rescue of the Israelites from Egypt, there is something disturbing about the violent imagery in Shirat Hayam, the Song of the Sea that Moses leads after we cross the Red Sea.
“The Lord, the Warrior, is God’s Name!
Pharaoh’s chariots and his army God cast into the sea;
And the pick of his officers are drowned in the Red Sea.
The deeps covered them; they went down into the depths like a stone.
Your right hand, O Lord, glorious in power,
Your right hand, O Lord, shatters the foe!
In Your great triumph, You break your opponents;
You send forth Your fury, it consumes them like straw.”  (Exodus 15.3-7)

For us, the Exodus and the Crossing of the Red Sea is a matter of awe-inspiring salvation, but, for the Egyptians, it is about horror and devastation. God is the agent of both experiences.

We usually do not like to think about God in such violent imagery. In fact, the Rabbis of the Talmud sought to mitigate this savage impression with the following Midrash: When Moses led the men singing with joy to God—and Miriam led the women in dancing their joy, the angels in heaven decided to join in the celebration. God shushed them, however, with, “How dare you sing for joy when My creatures are floating dead on the waters?!” (Talmud Megillah 10b and Sanhedrin 39b)

God is torn about the end of the story: though the Israelites are free and safe, God mourns for the Egyptians—who are also God’s children, also created in the Divine Image. And, yet, this remorse does not stop God from killing them. Though God is sad, God realizes that the Egyptians deserve to die—that their immoral and cruel ways cannot be allowed to continue, and that their murderous charge must be stopped before they destroy the Israelites.

In other words, the Tradition finds a tension in the story: God does not like violence, but sometimes God finds violence necessary. Fighting may be a tragic option, but sometimes it is the only way to survive. “The Lord, the Warrior, is God’s Name!”

Another tension found in the story regards the nature and availability of miracles. While the Torah clearly tells us of God’s miracles, the Rabbis were concerned that people would depend on miracles too much—and not do their parts to solve human problems. Thus do we have the Midrash from the Talmud, Sotah 37a, and Numbers Rabbah 13.7 about Nachshon stepping into the water before the waters parted. In addition to resolving the koshi of how it is possible to step into the sea (water!) on dry land, it teaches us that humans have a role in solving our own problems. Even if God helps, we must work on our own behalf.

I find both tensions on my mind as I consider the latest peace plan for Israel and the Palestinians, the one proposed last week by President Trump. Despite his penchant for the superlative, this “deal of the century” is remarkably like all the other peace plans proposed over the last hundred years, and it offers the same questions every other peace plan has asked. How much will it take for the Arabs to agree to Israel’s existence? How much will Israel be willing to give to the Arabs for peace?

It seems foolhardy for Israel to agree with any plan that does not guarantee its safety—or to trust blindly in assurances and treaties that may blow away with the winds of a crisis. Remember the final words of Psalm 29: “The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord blesses our people with peace.” Put another way, when our hope is peace, a necessary precursor is strength.

It also seems foolhardy to think that anything is permanent in that part of the world (or anywhere). Much has been said about how President Trump’s plan will embolden Israel to annex Jerusalem and the West Bank—or about how President Trump’s move of the U.S. Embassy to Jerusalem has excluded the Palestinians. But, anything moved can be moved back, and anything annexed can be un-annexed if a real peace possibility is present.

Speaking of real peace possibilities: a persistent theme of many has been the need for a “Two State Solution,” one in which Israel and Palestine live next to each other in peace, cooperation, and prosperity. It is a dream of many of us—including J Street and many other Jewish organizations in Israel and America. Some say that the unwillingness of the Palestinians to participate in negotiating the current peace plan means that their voices have been excluded. How can a peace plan proposed by only one side have a chance of succeeding?

This question assumes that the Palestinians have not been participating in the conversation, and perhaps this assumption is fallacious. What if the Two State Solution is merely a myth, a fantasy of our Western desires for everyone to “play nice with each other?” What if the voice of the Palestinians and Arabs has been very much a participant in the conversation for the last 100 years? When every peace plan from the Balfour Declaration to the 1947 U.N. Partition Plan to all the modern versions has been rejected out of hand by our Arab neighbors, is this not a statement of the Arab position—that the only real condition for peace is for Israel as a Jewish State to disappear?

I am sure that there are Arabs and Palestinians who share the same Two State idyllic dream, but how representative are they, and will their desires ever have significant support among their Arab and Palestinian brothers and sisters?

So, on this celebratory Shabbat with its militaristic imagery, I believe that we should remind ourselves of the importance of self-defense and survival. It is one thing to feel compassion for our enemies, but it is another to abandon our defenses and let our enemies complete their bloody quest.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten. Adonai y’varech et amo va’shalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord blesses our people with peace.”