Choosing "Our Own Kind"

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

In sending for a wife for Isaac, Abraham is walking a fine line. On the one hand,  he does not want his servant “to take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell, so go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac.” (Genesis 24.3-4) On the other hand, he does not want Isaac to ever go back to Mesopotamia. “On no account must you take my son back there!” (verse 6)

Abraham does not want Isaac to be drawn into the pagan customs of the Canaanites and figures that an Aramean (Mesopotamian) woman will be better able to help Isaac resist local influences. On the other hand, he does not want Isaac to be drawn into the pagan customs of the Arameans—and thus wants him far from Haran.

In short, Abraham wants Isaac to continue their independent identity—to be among “his own kind.”

There is a fine line between choosing an ethnic/religious identity and xenophobia. Choosing a particular expression of humanity and reveling in its particularity can be a healthy and life-enhancing choice. However, believing that one’s particular ethnic or religious identity makes him/her better than others—and that others are not only different, but also inferior or evil, is a decidedly immoral position. It leads to discrimination, acrimony and hate—and crimes which unfortunately we know too well.

In Judaism, our people have negotiated the line between particularity and universalism for some 4000 years. Abraham was well-integrated into the society in Hebron. The local Hittites hold him in great regard: “You are the elect of God among us,” but Abraham sees himself also as “a resident alien among you.” (Genesis 23.4-6). He is both part of local society and the holder of a unique religious identity. Is this not similar to the eternal Jewish challenge? How much do we incorporate our Judaism into our civil or secular identities? How much do we incorporate our civil or secular identities into our Judaism? Sometimes, it is really important to be among the larger community. Other times, we need to be with other Jews. Each of us, in our own ways, works for a good balance between and among our many identities.

Ours is not the only group to negotiate such a situation.

In the case of African Americans, desegregation or integration has been an important step in achieving equality and the many blessings America promises. On the other hand, there have been costs to Black Culture and communal health. Integrating Major League Baseball destroyed the Negro League—and the fortunes of many African American businessmen. Bussing Black children across town to better schools removed them from the guiding influence of Black neighborhoods. Desegregation may have been necessary for all of the obvious reasons, but it should not come as a surprise that some all-Black institutions find value in their Blackness.

Sometimes, people want to be among “their own kind.”

It is for this reason that I always wince when I hear social commentators lament the fact that “Sunday morning is the most segregated time in American life.” Are there institutional barriers preventing Black Christians from attending White churches, or it is a matter of Blacks preferring to worship with other Blacks?

Is it a problem for African American Christians to choose their own particular style of worship? Is it a problem for any ethnic group to choose its particular style of worship? Surveying the panoply of human worship experiences reveals a wide variety of spiritual expression. Many were surprised, in the wedding of Prince Harry and Megan Markle, at the exuberant style of the African American Episcopal Bishop who gave the homily. Suffice it to say that his style was not the typical staid and reserved style of Episcopalians—White or Black. For some, his animated and highly dramatic presentation was unsettling. For others, it was “right on.” For some, the shouting and physical movement of Black Baptist worship—and the hymns they sing and the traditions they continue—are at the essence of the worship experience. For others, the calmer ambience of United Methodist or Presbyterian worship is what connects them to God. It is one thing to decry churches prohibiting people from different backgrounds. It is another thing entirely to complain when people prefer a particular worship approach and then choose that over a different or more universal spiritual ambience.

The same principle can apply to the choices that African Americans make when they resist efforts to recruit them to majority White areas. If an African American student living in Philadelphia or Pittsburgh has an opportunity to study in Philadelphia or Pittsburgh—and have a large peer group and African American mentors and cultural institutions, one can certainly understand his/her decision not to emigrate to a place like Penn State. I remember an African American friend of mine remarking, “When you live in State College, you have to get used to having the only Black face in the room.” The same can be said about efforts to recruit African American teachers, police officers, and other professionals to places like State College. The difficulty is more about the demographic and cultural facts in a State College than about the efforts of recruiters and employers. People often choose to be among “their own kind.”

Is this not similar to the conversations we have with Jews considering relocation here? I remember a promising Princeton Ph.D. in Jewish Studies being interviewed by Penn State and how, with each question asked and answered, her interest level waned. Is there a Kosher butcher? Is there a Traditional synagogue? Is there a Jewish Day School? Those of us who love it here have made our adjustments to living in a small Jewish community. We make a point of finding Jewish friends. We affiliate with and support the synagogue. We read Jewish magazines and newspapers and give to Jewish charities. We manage to find enough Jewishness here. However, we all know Jews who would ignore all sorts of inducements to come here and instead choose a larger Jewish community with all of its religious and cultural accoutrements.

There is certainly a value in our assimilation into American and modern life, but there are also times when we choose to be “among our own kind.” It is a negotiation in which we and many others are continually involved—and a very, very old story.

Unexpected Lessons

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

One of the tropes found in wisdom literature all around the world is surprise—surprise at a spiritual master breaking the rules or changing the paradigm. Everyone in the story—and the reader—thinks he/she knows what the rule is or what the wisdom tradition dictates. However, the spiritual master turns the thinking upside down to make an important point.

We have a case of this in the commentary on our Torah portion this week, but let me give a few other examples of this trope.

In one Hassidic story, a great and stern Rebbe comes to a little village for a visit, and, as he enters the town, he sees a wagon driver dressed in Tallis and Tefillin, greasing the axel of his wagon. When the great Rebbe gets to the local Rebbe, he makes a comment about how disrespectful this practice is to the Tallis and Tefillin—and God. The local Rebbe expresses surprise and explains. In our town, everyone is so focused on God and holiness that they pray all the time, even when doing manual labor. This is not what we expect, but the local Rebbe makes his point about a constant state of holiness.

In Exodus 32, as Moses descends from Mount Sinai with the tablets of the Ten Commandments, he sees the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf. “He became enraged and hurled the tables from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain.” (Exodus 32.19) It seems that he loses his temper, but Dr. Eugene Mihaly, the late professor of Midrash at the Hebrew Union College, used to explain Moses’ decision in a kind of holy irony. He threw the tablets to the ground to teach that sometimes, in order to save Torah, one must destroy Torah. Sometimes, the greater truth of Torah requires dismissing or changing some of its minutiae. This is not the lesson we expect, but it expands our thinking about the essence and truth of Torah.

There is also a story told about the Baal Shem Tov teaching Rabbi Yechiel Michel of Zolotchov about how to be a rebbe. A student had desecrated the Sabbath, and Reb Yechiel Michel had disciplined him harshly. The student felt terrible about the sin, but Reb Yechiel Michel felt that stern admonishment and some very harsh repentance was necessary to teach the lesson. The BESHT seemed to ignore the story and told Reb Yechiel Michel that he needed him to run an important errand. It had to be done in a town six hours away, it had to be done at 2:00 PM on Friday, and Reb Yechiel Michel had to return to the Baal Shem Tov for Shabbat. Though it all seemed impossible, Reb Yechiel Michel felt obligated to follow the BESHT’s instructions and did so. He traveled the six hours, performed the errand, and hurried back. Despite his hurrying, however, he found himself out on the road when the Sabbath began and did not arrive at the BESHT’s home until well after sundown. He felt terrible about breaking Shabbat and entered his rebbe’s house sobbing. “What penance should I perform?” he implored his master. “Penance?” replied the Baal Shem Tov. “Your remorse is your penance. When one knows his sin and feels such guilt that he never wants to commit it again, that is his penance.” Thus did Reb Yechiel Michel—and those who hear the story—realize that harshness may not be necessary in teaching a lesson.

There is also a famous example from the New Testament. Mark 10.17-27 describes a young man coming to Jesus and declaring his dedication to him. The young man expects a warm welcome, but Jesus switches the thinking. “Go and sell everything you own and give the money to the poor....It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” This is not at all what the young man or the disciples or the reader expected! 

Now to this week’s Torah portion. In Genesis 18, we read: “The Lord appeared to Abraham by the terebinths of Mamre; he was sitting at the entrance of the tent as the day grew hot. Looking up, he saw three men standing near him. As soon as he saw them, he ran from the entrance of the tent to greet them.” Thus does Abraham invite the visitors in and show them hospitality.

Who were these visitors? Tradition teaches that the three “men” were God and two angels. (Later in the story, God dispatches the angels to visit Sodom and Gomorrah and then stays to discuss the two cities’ fates with Abraham.) However, there are other possibilities. Some say that the three visitors were just three people, but that Abraham was able to see within them the Presence of God. For Abraham, the phrase, “created in the image of God,” was a matter of spiritual practice. A third interpretation comes from our Christian friends who read about God in the form of three men and immediately see the Trinity. 

And then, there is RASHI, Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac, the 11th Century commentator who lived in the Rhineland. Rashi sees the story as sequential. Abraham is communing with God, and then three humans arrive. Believing that hospitality is a divine imperative, Abraham breaks off his conversation with God and attends to his human guests. (Talmud Shevuot 35b, Shabbat 127a, Rashi on Genesis 18.3)

This is quite a surprise because showing respect to God is of paramount importance. Add to this the extensive tradition about focusing one’s attention in prayer. In the Mishnah, it is clear that one in prayer should not be distracted for any social interactions. The only exception is if the person walking by is a Roman officer who could take offense and exact revenge; to save lives, a worshipper is allowed to briefly interrupt his prayers. Otherwise, communion with God is never to be interrupted. How, then, could Abraham do such a thing? The answer—the surprising answer—is that God values humans helping each other even more than prayer. God is so invested in us and our fortunes that God is happy for Abraham to leave his prayer and welcome the stranger. RASHI’s unexpected twist on the text teaches us that Hach’nasat Or’chim (welcoming visitors) is a divine imperative of the highest order.

Plotting a Continuing Path

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

I just learned something I had never thought about before. In the Union for Reform Judaism’s weekly Torah commentary, Rabbi Michael Dolgin of Toronto, Ontario, makes the point that Abram’s journey to the Land of Canaan predates his call from God. We are all familiar with the “call of Abraham” in Genesis 12.
“The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you; I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you; all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.” 

This is the first time God speaks to Abram, and yet, this happens not in Ur of the Chaldeans, Abram’s hometown at the mouths of the Tigres and Euphrates Rivers. This Divine communication takes place in Haran in Syria—at the top of Mesopotamia. As the last paragraph of the previous Torah portion explains: 
“Now this is the line of Terah: Terah begot Abram, Nahor, and Haran; and Haran begot Lot. Haran died in the lifetime of his father Terah, in his native land, Ur of the Chaldeans...Terah took his son Abram, his grandson Lot the son of Haran, and his daughter-in-law Sarai, the wife of his son Abram, and they set out together from Ur of the Chaldeans for the land of Canaan; but when they had come as far as Haran, they settled there. The days of Terah came to 205 years, and Terah died in Haran.”  (Genesis 11.27-32)

Abram’s family had already started their journey to Canaan before God gives him the “Judaism-founding” instructions. Though Abram clearly responds to the instructions of the Lord, he is also continuing a journey his father Terah had begun. 

Though each of us has taken our own journeys, they are in many ways continuations of the journeys undertaken by those who have come before us. Our ancestors braved the ocean and the New World to get us out of the squalor and danger of Europe—often times finding very hard lives in America, but persevering so that their children and grandchildren could do better. Our parents and grandparents raised us and coached us and helped us to find our paths. How often do we reflect with appreciation on the wisdom and faith with which we have been gifted by our forebears!

It is also true for our faith journeys. Though we each work on our own understanding of and relationship with God, our sense of tradition comes from the faith and sensibilities of our parents and grandparents and extended families. 

This is even true for converts. I remember a woman in Florida who had converted to Judaism and always worried about the way her family of origin felt about it. Some had felt that she had strayed from the path, and she was looking for a way to explain her decision and reconnect with them. The moment came at her daughter’s Bat Mitzvah. She had managed to convince her parents to attend, but one could see the sense of unease in their faces. In her speech, after she finished praising her daughter, she turned to the subject of tradition and said the following, “I come from a long line of people who loved the Lord. My Judaism is my way of loving the Lord—and continuing my family’s faithfulness.” It was a simple statement, but one could see the tension drain from her father’s face as he heard these words. She had not turned her back on her pious ancestors; she had just continued that path in a Jewish way. She, like Abraham, continued a journey begun by her family. 

As we reflect on our family and personal journeys, here is a piece adapted from Rabbi Abraham Joshua Herschel (Israel: An Echo of Eternity, page 128)
“We are a people in whom the past endures, 
In whom the present is inconceivable 
Without moments gone by.
The stories of Abraham and Sarah
And our other ancient ancestors
Lasted just a moment,
But it was a moment enduring forever.
What happened once upon a time
Happens all the time.”

Though the Mountains May Move and the Hills Be Shaken…

October 23rd: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Is there any sin which God will not forgive? Are there any deeds evil enough to make the sinner irredeemable? This is question which has been debated for many, many years in the Tradition. On the one hand, we are taught that God will forgive us for all of our sins if we only repent. On the other hand, there is our human feeling sense that some people’s sins are so far beyond the normal, garden-variety of misdeeds that they should never be forgiven. 

A Midrash approaches this in a story about the torture of the evil King Manasseh. He was the last king of Israel and was captured by the Assyrians around 710 BCE. They put him in a copper kettle and cooked him. At some point, he decided that, despite a lifetime of idolatry and evil, he should repent, and he began to pray. The angels in heaven were aghast. To them, his deeds pushed him far beyond the line of possible redemption. Worried that God Who is so compassionate and forgiving would forgive him, the angels started stuffing the holes in the floor of heaven so that Manasseh’s prayers would not be able to ascend to God’s ears. Nonetheless, God heard the prayers of repentance, and God forgave Manasseh. The moral of the story is that, no matter how terrible our sins, if we truly repent, God will grant us forgiveness. 

But what about the generation of the Flood? Why were they not given the chance to repent? Why were they so thoroughly removed from the earth? 

A simple answer is that they had many chances to repent, and they did not. God sent the floodwaters because they, by their own evil and intransigence, made themselves irredeemable. Without repentance, there is no forgiveness, and a whole generation removed themselves from God’s presence. 

A more complex answer comes from one of our Religious School students. Last year, I wrote about Ellie Kaufman’s Bat Mitzvah speech in which she sees in the story of Noah a change of heart in the Divine. According to Ellie’s view, God loses patience with the evil generation and destroys them. After the destruction, however, God realizes that human will inevitably continue to be imperfect and that there must be a better way to improve them. The Rainbow serves as a reminder that there is a better way—that repentance and forgiveness is a much more realistic response to humanity’s shortcomings. 

We like to think that our sins are nowhere near the level of depravity of the Flood Generation, but are we sure? Indeed, it may even be good to worry a little bit—to approach our own sinful natures without an over abundance of sanguinity and confidence. Though we leave the High Holy Days with the assurance of God’s forgiveness, the story of Noah and the Flood reminds us that evil and sin are never dormant. Thus should we be reminded that God’s alternative to the destruction of sinners involves both love and repentance. This is the point of the Haftarah, Isaiah 54.
“The Lord has called you back, 
As a wife forlorn and forsaken.
Can one cast off the wife of his youth? said your God.
For a little while I forsook you,
But with vast love I will bring you back.
In slight anger, for a moment, 
I hid My face from you;
But with kindness everlasting
I will take you back in love.”  (Isaiah 54.6-8)

God’s relationship with humanity is compared to the time of the Flood. Though almost all of humanity perished, God loved us enough to save a remnant and start over.
“For this to Me is like the waters of Noah:
As I swore that the waters of Noah
Nevermore would flood the earth,
So I swear that I will not
Be angry with you or rebuke you.
For the mountains may move
And the hills be shaken,
But my loyalty shall never move from you,
Nor My covenant of friendship be shaken—
Said the Lord, who takes you back in love.” (Isaiah 54.9-10) 

Judgment is an eternal verity. Sin is a human experience. God wants us to return from our evil and repent—to join God in holiness and righteousness. This repentance—this turning—can be a daunting task, and God assures us that our repentance will be greeted with loyalty and acceptance. We must just return to God’s ways serious and sincere.

Some may think that pairing Isaiah 54 with the Flood Story is because of the reference to the Flood. However, I also sense in the ancient Rabbis’ choice the theme of eternal Divine love—which is a theme of the recent High Holy Days. Though we focus on teshuvah then, we are also reminded to repent every day of our lives. The Flood Story is a dramatic reminder that there is no time to waste in getting ourselves right with the Divine.

Choosing Words Carefully

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

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s D’var Torah for Kol Nidre.

Many years ago, a clergy friend of mine was audited by the Internal Revenue Service. It was one of the years when they targeted those in the religious professions. My friend was not a savvy financial wizard, and he entrusted his taxes to one of those tax services, i.e., he really did not know much about his own return. So, when the auditor asked him for a log to document his business mileage deduction, he did not know anything about it. The agent explained to him the need to keep a log of every pastoral trip and then said, “So, when I come back next week, I’ll want to see that mileage log.”

My friend, a good and pious man, but not so quick on the financial uptake, said, “I said I do not have a mileage log.” “But,” the agent protested, “Next week, when I come back, you’ll have the log for me to inspect?” “But I don’t have the mileage log,” my friend protested back. The agent tried again, “I mean the log you’ll have to show me next week.” My friend finally got the point. “Oh, that log. I’ll have it for you Monday.”

This helpful I.R.S. auditor, trying to educate my friend about the specifics of the tax form, was engaging in a behavior described some 2000 years ago in Pirke Avot 1.9: “Shimon ben Shetah said: Examine the witnesses diligently and be cautious in your words lest from them they learn to swear falsely.” This perek is one of many in our Tradition reminding us of the great power of words—and of the great danger in using words un-carefully. As modern Rabbi Rami Shapiro explains Reb Shimon’s words: “When seeking Truth, question thoughtfully. Choose your words carefully: A shrewd listener can detect your bias and, through your words, learn to lie. The ‘truths’ we desire support what we already know. We become victims of our own opinions and rationalizations. The Truth we need frees us from the known, makes us simple, and plants us firmly in Reality.”

Another teaching from Avot goes further. “Avtalion said: Sages, give heed to your words lest you incur the penalty of exile and be exiled to to a place of evil waters, and the disciples that come after you drink of them and die, and the name of Heaven be profaned.” (Avot 1.11) Again, Rabbi Rami Shapiro’s commentary: “Be careful with words. C-O-W gives no milk. M-A-N-U-R-E has no stench. L-O-V-E knows no passion. Mistake words for Truth, and you exile yourself from Reality. Others may follow and drink the poison of your confusion. They will die, and Truth will be defiled.”

There are a lot of words used in our civilization, and in the current issues facing our country, many of these words are not as clear as they could/should be.

Just the other day, I heard on NPR a sociology professor explain what the phrase “Defund the Police” really means. In other words, while the words seem to have a meaning, the different people who support the words mean them differently. Does it mean “abolish the police,” or does it mean “divert some police funding to social services?” Or does it ask for additional funds to be allocated to social service purposes? Despite the lack of clarity, the chant goes on.

I am not the first person to discuss the limits of bumper sticker politics or sound bites or phrases being used to encapsulate large and complex issues, but I must say, we are being plagued by the problem today, and I yearn for clarity and clear-headed thinking—for phrases that mean what they say.

There are many of these phrases—on both sides of the political divide, and, as I review some of them, notice the way the words are susceptible to widely variant interpretations—and how confusing this is when we have serious issues to resolve.

We can begin with the slogan “Black Lives Matter.” Of course, Black lives matter, but what about this phrase seems to provoke a kind of hesitation or defensiveness? Could it be that the phrase is often used in regard to conflicts between police officers and African American civilians, and that many of us are also concerned about the lives of the officers? I do not know of any reasonable person who thinks that Black lives do not matter, and I wonder whether the slogan would have been so controversial if it had been stated, “Black Lives Matter, Too.”

We could also ask about the term “Systemic Racism,” an idea whose definition I have had a hard time pinning down. Does it suggest that the system of America is structurally racist, or does it mean that the system has too many racists in it—racists who are perverting it for their immoral purposes? If we are going to hold such a term as a belief requirement for public servants, then we really need a more specific definition.

Or, we could consider the chant once heard at President Trump’s campaign rallies, “Lock her up!” This seems to be a reference to Hillary Clinton’s alleged e-mail improprieties as Secretary of State—or the tragic missteps in the attack on our consulate in Benghazi. According to the President’s apologists, the chanters were not actually calling for Secretary Clinton to be imprisoned. They just did not want her to win the election. In other words, rather than using words with actual meanings, the phrase was a kind of euphemistic expletive—which is not good news about the state of our language or of our thinking.

It sort of reminds me of a similar chant during the 1844 Presidential election, where James K. Polk defeated Senator Henry Clay with the slogan and song, “54.40 or Fight!” Its ostensible meaning was that our country’s northwestern border should go about halfway into what is now the Canadian Province of British Columbia. Once elected, the demand was quickly shelved, but people screamed and sang themselves hoarse over these words which apparently did not really mean what they said.

We could also probably discuss the actual meaning of President Trump’s battle cry about “draining the swamp” or “building a wall” on the whole Texas/Mexico border. The many “explanations” on both sides telling us what the words “really mean” are not helpful in problem solving.

I am also consternated by the use/misuse of words like Nazis and Genocide. I remember back in the 1960s and 1970s when people who did not like President Richard M. Nixon would call him a Nazi. Though I was not a fan, I remember trying to figure out how his particular policies were equivalent to the National Socialist Democratic Workers Party in Germany in the 1920s, 30s, and 40s. (They were not.)

I was similarly bothered when the policies of Israeli General then Prime Minister Ariel Sharon were described as Nazism. There may be plenty to disparage about Mr. Sharon’s attitudes and policies, but the actual defined word Nazi is wholly inappropriate. It seems to be more an expletive indicating severe disapproval rather than a word with a definition.

The same can be said of the word Genocide. The word actually has a definition: “the deliberate killing of a large group of people with the intent of destroying the ethnic, religious, racial, or national group.” It is what the Nazis tried to do to us Jews. It is what the Turks tried to do to the Armenians. It is what the Rwandan Hutus tried to do to the Tutsis.

It is not, however, an appropriate word to describe the Trans-Atlantic African Slave Trade. There are plenty of words to describe the horrific and terrible and unspeakable tragedy in which thousands of West Africans were kidnapped and forcibly brought to the Western Hemisphere for cruel bondage. The trauma of this experience still reverberates in the minds and souls of the descendants of the victims. This was a horrible crime against humanity, but it was not a genocide. It was many terrible things, but it was not an attempt to eliminate these people from the earth.

Another place where the word Genocide is inaccurate is in regard to Israel’s occupation of the West Bank, the Golan Heights, and Gaza. We could have an extensive discussion about Israeli’s policies, and there are, no doubt, some people in our congregation who decry Israel’s policies. But, it is not in any way a genocide.

I remember hearing Morton Klein, President of the Zionist Organization of America, critiquing the misuse of the term. He explained that the Palestinian population in 1967 was around a million people. Over the next several decades of Israeli occupation, that population grew to several million—in part because of how much better Israel’s water and sanitation and health care are to Jordan’s. As Dr. Klein quipped, “If it started at one million, and it’s now at four million, whoever is in charge of the ‘genocide’ is not doing a very good job.”

It is not a funny subject, but the misuse of this and other terms is its own sort of intellectual violence—skewing and warping the serious conversations that modern complexities require. There are real issues facing us, and they deserve systematic and acute analysis.

I understand the motivations for summary slogans and generalizations. Getting down into the weeds on any issue can be exhausting. How many times do we get tired of a long editorial or essay and simply jump to the conclusion? How many times do we doze off or space out when hearing a long and complex policy discussion? Sometimes, stating positions in shorter form is both necessary and helpful. However, reducing important discussions to one phrase slogans inevitably obscures the real issues and hampers deliberation. It also makes it hard to know what potential leaders intend to do.

When a leader or social critic uses inexact words and phrases in an attempt to ramp up emotions—words which then have to be “explained” as meaning something other than what they appear to say, then we are doing just what the ancient sage Avtalion warned us not to do. When we are not careful with words, the ones who listen will “drink the poison of confusion, and Truth will be defiled.” The progress needed so sorely in our society will not be made, and solutions will be obscured.

Let us be careful with our words, and let us demand that our leaders be careful as well. The gravity of our civic responsibilities demands clear and deliberate thinking and speaking.

What Are We Doing Here?

October 9th: Shemini Atzeret
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s D’var Torah for Rosh Hashanah Morning.

Our Torah portion describes a kind of dream experienced jointly by both Abraham and Isaac. Both follow the voices of authority in their lives, and both find themselves on top of Mount Moriah. “What are we doing here?” both must wonder. “Will this dream be a good dream or a nightmare?” The answers to these questions reverberate through the ages and our souls—and in the sound of the Shofar.

Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel once remarked, “How strange to be a Jew and go off on God’s perilous errands.” It is strange perhaps, but it is also beautiful—that a people takes so seriously the idea of a relationship with the Divine, that a group believes itself capable of holiness and significance. Here is the rest of the quotation from his essay, The Earth is the Lord’s:
”Our life is beset with difficulties, yet it is never devoid of meaning. Our existence is not in vain. There is a Divine earnestness about our life. This is our dignity. To be invested with dignity means to represent something more than oneself. The gravest sin for a Jew is to forget what he represents…We are God’s stake in human history. We are the dawn and the dusk, the challenge and the test. How strange to be a Jew and to go astray on God’s perilous errands. We have been offered as a pattern of worship and as a prey for scorn, but there is more still in our destiny. We carry the gold of God in our souls to forge the gate of the kingdom. The time for the kingdom may be far off, but the task is plain: to retain our share in God in spite of peril and contempt. There is a war to wage against the vulgar, against the glorification of the absurd, a war that is incessant, universal. Loyal to the presence of the ultimate in the common, we may be able to make it clear that man is more than man, that in doing the finite he may perceive the infinite.”

When we gather together in holy convocation, one of our purposes is to share this noble hopefulness. Whether we are theistic or humanistic or mystical or here for an ethereal sense of family, we gather together on these holy occasions to reflect upon our sacred vision. Some would say that we gather to ask for God’s Presence. Others would speak more in terms of the wisdom of our Tradition or the ancestral memory of parents and grandparents praying together. Some speak in terms of the Jewish community. As Rabbi Lawrence Kushner once wrote, there is a “religious power of simply being seen and looking good” in the synagogue. “It is a way of appearing before God who we suspect is not beneath looking through the eyes of the community. Being seen by the congregation is like being seen by God. All those souls, together in that sanctuary, make something religious happen.”  (Invisible Line of Connection, page 58-59).

I yearn for this spirit of our sacred and mysterious endeavor, and I look forward year after year to the gift of a renewed sense of sacred possibilities.

Many of our prayers speak of this dynamic—of the way that our relationship with the Presence fills us with holy potential, but one stands out to me, Sim Shalom from the morning service. As I read it, consider the process it describes.

“Grant us peace, goodness and blessing, grace, and lovingkindness, and compassion.
Bless us all, our Creator, with the light of Your Face…”
Many translations say, “with the light of Your Presence,” but the literal words are, “with the light of Your Face,” which I think is significant.
“For, with the light of Your Face, you give us, O Lord our God, The Torah of Life
And the love of lovingkindness, righteousness, blessing, compassion, life, and peace.”
The insight here is that God’s Face—as anthropomorphic as it may sound—that God’s Face gives us these particular affinities: an life-affirming approach and a deep love of lovingkindness, righteousness, blessing, compassion, life, and peace.

When I consider this imagery, I see a parent beaming at a child, and the child looking at the parent, absorbing the hopes and dreams and pride that the parent is visiting upon the child with such a gaze.

I know, from my perspective as a child, that that gaze was extremely important. It came not at every moment, but, when I was visited with that gaze, it was precious. That gaze inspired me to be better, to live up to my potential, to be the David that was possible.

This was also the gaze I would, from time to time, get from my grandparents or certain aunts and uncles—and from mentors. It was a gaze based on what that person who loved me and knew me saw within me, on what that person saw was a blessing that I could become.

We all know that the expectations of others can be both wonderful and oppressive—and one of our tasks is to determine whether the hopes of others are really for us. However, the fact is that each of us, no matter what our situation or potential, has blessings within, and, sometimes, that loving gaze from someone who knows us and who sees the best us—such a gaze can mean everything.

As for God’s motivations, look at the next phrase:
“It is good in Your Eyes to bless Your people Israel
at each moment and every hour with Your peace.”
When God visits us with the gaze of,
“the love of lovingkindness, righteousness, blessing, compassion, life, and peace,”
God is hoping for us to have a sense of holy purpose, one that will give us peace and completeness and awareness and security continually. God will be happy when we are happy and fulfilled, and the gaze of God’s Face can help us get there.

I would like you to think of the gazes you have received in your lives. There are certainly all kinds, from all kinds of people, but think of the ones that looked at you to inspire the best and most noble values—that called to you with the highest ideals in which you and the gazer believed. There is something about the people we love and admire looking upon us in noble expectation—as a reminder of our higher selves, as an inspiration to fulfill the deeper goals and aspirations. Those gazes, from people who love us and know us, transmit values and determination, and that, I believe, is what our exposure to God can bring.

One my teachers, Dr. Jacob Petuchowski, used to explain that there are two parts of Jewish worship. Prayer is when we talk to God, and Torah is when God talks to us. If you were to analyze the service, you would notice both components. The service is thus a conversation between us and the Eternal Holy One. One enhancement I would add to Dr. Petuchowski’s explanation is that, sometimes, there are excerpts from the Prophets and Psalms that—while they originally come from God, are being voiced by us—spoken by us to God. We are quoting God to God, showing that we have heard the Divine and are trying to frame our thoughts and prayers in language and values we have been taught.

We are called by many voices and many possibilities. Our lives are complex, and our opportunities are many. It is good to respond to many of these voices, but it is sometimes hard to resist those that do not represent the best that is in us. This is why it is so important and so deeply fulfilling to be reminded of the holy and noble that reside within us all. When we come to the synagogue and engage in our holy conversation with the Divine, we allow ourselves to bask in the gaze of the Holy and to remember our best and most noble selves.

Thus, while it can seem a little “strange to be a Jew and go off on God’s perilous errands,” it is also a precious and beautiful thing. God is with us, smiling and hoping, and realizing that, in doing the finite, we may perceive and actualize the infinite.

The Antidote to Injustice

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

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah d’var Torah:

In Leviticus 19, God gives us a rather curious instruction:
“You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”
Whatever it means to be holy, God is, and God wants us to be holy, too.

We can go into a whole philological and spiritual discussion about the meaning of the Hebrew word,  / קָדוֹשׁ kadosh/holy, and it can be a fascinating and inspiring exploration. However, for our purposes right now, let us just focus on the fact that God wants us to be like God.
“You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”

This notion that humans should strive to be godly is ancient and has been a quest for many religious seekers in most all traditions. One of my favorite terms comes from the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers who spoke of humans being imitatio deo, imitating or resembling the qualities of God.

I think that most of us would agree that this is a noble goal, but, when we look around us at the world, we see so much that is ungodly. While God commands us to pursue justice and righteousness, all too often, we see unfairness, oppression, and evil. What does God do when facing the imperfection of the world? Perhaps this can be an avenue for us; perhaps we can model God’s behavior.

The Tradition is full of examples of God’s attitudes and behavior, and a few in particular come to mind. The first one comes from Exodus 3 and is the story of Moses and the Burning Bush. Moses is tending his father-in-law’s flock in the wilderness and comes upon a miraculous sight. A bush is burning but is not being consumed. From this Burning Bush, God addresses Moses and tells him that the period of Israelite slavery in Egypt is coming to an end. God has heard the cries of the Hebrews and is coming to rescue them. Moses will be God’s prophet and will pursue God’s strategy and plans for the Exodus. At this point, the Midrash enhances the story. Moses listens to God, thinks for a minute, and objects: “O Lord, the plan you are describing—with me going before Pharaoh many times and each of the Ten Plagues—will take about a year. What about all the suffering of the Israelites during that year? What about those Israelites who will die in the coming year and will never see Redemption? Can you not free the Israelites at this instant?!” At this bold questioning of the Divine Plan, God has two reactions. God’s right hand of justice and judgment lashes out instinctively to destroy Moses, but God’s left hand of compassion and understanding stops the right hand. Yes, it is a problem that Moses is questioning the Divine Will, but Moses is not doing it out of impudence or disrespect; Moses is doing so out of compassion for the Israelites. Ultimately, God goes with compassion instead of judgment.

A second Midrash involves the prayers that God recites. Yes, the Midrash imagines God davvening just like us. This discussion revolves around a verse from Isaiah (56.7) that reads,"I will bring them to My holy mountain, and make them joyful in the house of My prayer.” Since the verse says, “house of My prayer,”—as opposed to “the house of their prayer,” the Rabbis believe that God has a synagogue in which the Holy One prays. For what does God pray? As the Rabbis explain, God prays for kindness. “May My mercy overcome My judgment.” God is very aware of truth and judgment, but God is also inclined toward mercy, compassion, and understanding. According to this Midrash, God prays and strives mightily to be inclined toward compassion.

These and other ancient texts lead a modern thinker, Dr. Yehuda  Kurtzer of the Shalom Hartman Institute, to propose the following understanding of the Rabbinic mindset. “For the Rabbis, the antidote for injustice is not a passion for justice. Rather, it is a passion for lovingkindness.”

Let me repeat that: “For the Rabbis, the antidote for injustice is not a passion for justice. Rather, it is a passion for lovingkindness.”

To some, this may seem counterintuitive. How can a passion for justice be wrong? How can the goal of justice not be won by the passionate pursuit of justice? And yet, sometimes the passion for justice can easily lead to such a focus on truth and judgment that compassion for and understanding of the human condition are forgotten. This is not to discount truth but to try to understand the factors which lead some children of God to behave in ungodly ways.

One can also look at Dr. Kurtzer’s insight from a rhetorical perspective. If one wants to overcome injustice, how are the perpetrators of injustice best persuaded to become righteous? By instilling in them a passion for lovingkindness.

Though we believe in rights—as in our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, the rights approach often pits one citizen’s rights against another’s. It is a conflictual way to analyze human behavior—one that generally creates a winner and a loser. Most of the losers are not very happy. One almost never hears a loser say, “I was wrong, and my opponent was right.” Losers are forced into acquiescence, nurse their wounds, and often plot their revenge. Whether at the ballot box or in legal proceedings or in other more nefarious ways, the rights approach does not settle conflicts permanently. It merely engenders a sense of being wronged and the necessity of more conflict.

How would compassion—as an alternative antidote to unrighteousness—work? Consider these scriptural possibilities.

In the story of Abraham’s two wives, Sarah and Hagar, there is a problem, and Sarah wants Hagar cast out. Abraham does not know what to do, and, to Abraham’s surprise, God tells him to listen to Sarah. However, God does not abandon Hagar or Ishmael, and neither does Abraham. Abraham makes arrangements for Hagar to live just a few miles away in Gerar where his friend Abimelech is king. Hagar and Ishmael are thus close to Beersheba, and Abraham continues to have contact with them. God blesses Ishmael, too, with stature and power and wealth. God and Abraham have compassion upon Hagar and Ishmael, and their lovingkindness avoids or overcomes the conflict.

Another example comes in a Midrash on Exodus 24 where we read about a post-covenant ritual with the Israelite leadership. Coming after the Ten Commandments and after the chapters of additional laws for a just and equitable society, Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel go up on Mount Sinai. Then the text then gets remarkably anthropomorphic: “They saw the God of Israel and under His feet was a pavement of sapphire stones with an appearance as clear as the sky.” (Deuteronomy 25.10) They eat a sacrificial meal and drink in honor of God. This celebratory banquet to conclude the covenant is curious but understandable. However, what is with this this pavement of sapphire stones? An ancient Sage explains as follows. This pavement is what God constructed when God was enslaved along with Israel in Egypt. The Israelites built the store cities of Pithom and Raamses; God built this very beautiful road; but they were all in slavery together.

This is exceedingly difficult to imagine—that the Lord God of the Universe would be enslaved, until one considers the love of a parent for his/her children. When children hurt, their parents hurt. When a child is in pain or being picked on, the parent hurts. God, this ancient Midrash teaches us, is so invested in humanity that, when humans are enslaved and oppressed, God is enslaved and oppressed as well.

This notion is found in other religions, as well. For example, in the Christian Bible, in Matthew 24 (v.40), Jesus makes the same point. Speaking for God, Jesus says, “Whatsoever you do unto these, the least of my brethren, so you do unto Me.”

What you have in these passages is an attempt to develop a sense of empathy is those whose behavior is unjust. It is not a matter of power or even of rights—for various systems assign “rights” that oppress others. Rather, this sensibility encourages us to see the oppressed as ourselves—as worthy of our concern, respect, and love.

While there are wars where the idea is to kill one’s opponents, our social justice issues are not wars. Our goal is not to kill those who oppose civil rights or economic justice. Our goal is to convince them that they can be compassionate and just and not sacrifice their own viability and security. Our goal is to convert them to understanding and empathy.

This is certainly the way it is with God. As we are reminded on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, “O Lord, this is Your glory: You are slow to anger, ready to forgive. It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their ways and live. (Ezikiel 18.23) Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.” 

Think about this as you pursue our goals. Is the antidote for injustice a passion for justice, or is a better, more godly path developing a universal passion for lovingkindness?

Moses’ Final Message

September 26th: Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Haftarah in Jewish liturgy is an interesting institution. Historians argue about the origins, though it seems to have begun sometime during the Rabbinic Period, 200 BCE - 200 CE. The idea is that, after the reading of the weekly Torah portion (also probably a Rabbinic innovation), a section from the Prophets was read. These Haftarah portions are picked from various places in the Prophets, from Joshua through Malachi, and they generally have some connection with the Torah portion. Usually, this connection is slight—a matter of a single verse or theme, but the idea is that the Prophetic reading enhances the Torah’s message. 

The term Haftarah comes from the Hebrew root P T R which means accompanying or following. Note that the “T” sound in Haftarah is a TET, as opposed to the “T” sound TOF in the word Torah. Thus the Haftarah is not a “half Torah:” the Hebrew words are completely different. What is confusing is that the Ashkenazi pronunciation of Haftarah is Haftorah because Ashkenazim pronounce the kametz (Hebrew T vowel) as an “O.” This difference in the two Hebrew accents accounts for all kinds of Ashkenazi/Sephardi differences: Adonai vs. Adonoi, Shabbat vs. Shabbos or Daveed vs. Dovid.

Sometimes, the Haftarah portion is a narrative that tells a story or a poem that presents a theme. The story of Hannah’s struggle for a child on Rosh Hashanah morning or Isaiah’s sermon on Yom Kippur morning are examples of these free-standing Biblical messages. However, often, the Haftarah portion is an impassioned and rather incomprehensible rant by a prophet. If one does not know the context of the message, its meaning is quite difficult to fathom. These portions were chosen in a worldview in which the context of the message was well-known. The ancient Rabbis were versed in all the books of the Prophets, and so they understood the greater context and message. This, however, is not the case today. Most modern Jews are not knowledgeable in the books of the Prophets, and many of these ancient and sacred messages are obscure and less than meaningful. Thus do many Liberal Rabbis often choose alternative readings for the Haftarah.

In our congregation, I have been particularly mindful of finding a portion that will be meaningful to our B’nai Mitzvah students. Sometimes, the story in the Prophets works well, but other times, I find a Psalm or series of Psalms to be more understandable for the students and something from which they can frame their B’nai Mitzvah with memorable messages and principles. 

The Reform Movement is currently preparing a volume with such alternative Haftarot, and I have been privileged to participate. Edited by my colleague, Rabbi Barbara Symons from Monroeville, Pennsylvania, this volume should be published soon. I have been invited to  provide a Psalm Haftarah for three portions, one of which is this week’s, Ha’azinu. Here is my submission:

Alternative Haftarah for Ha’azinu: Psalm 90

“A Prayer of Moses, the man of God:
O Lord, you have been our refuge in every generation. 
Before the mountains came into being, 
Before You brought forth the earth and the world,
From eternity to eternity, You are God.

Satisfy us in the morning with Your steadfast love,
That we may sing for joy all our days.
Let Your deeds be seen by Your servants
And Your glory by their children.
O may the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
Establish with us the work of our hands;
The work of our hands, O prosper it please.” (Psalm 90. 1-2 and 14-17)

In the Torah, Moses’ last message to Israel reminds them of the wonders of a relationship with God. Showing his selflessness and dedication to our holy mission, Moses talks about God and not himself. In Psalm 90, “A Prayer of Moses, the Man of God,” Moses parallels this message but with a prayer. “Turn, O Lord…show mercy to Your servants!” (v.13) Moses prays that all the people will have the sense of God’s presence in their lives.“Let Your deeds be seen by Your servants, Your glory by Your children. May the favor of the Lord, our God, be upon us!” (v.17) Just as he has felt God’s guiding spirit in his life, he yearns on behalf of the people for a similar connection with the Divine.  

He also prays, on behalf of all the Jewish people, that our contributions to Tikkun Olam, the Perfection of the World, will count. “Establish with us the work of our hands; the work of our hands, O prosper it please.!” (v.17) May we make a holy difference in our world.  

What is Abraham Supposed to Do?

September 18th: Rosh Hashanah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When I was a younger rabbi, I attended a “sermon schmooze” at a Rabbinical Conference. The point of the gathering—in early August—was for colleagues to share ideas that they were hoping to develop for High Holy Day sermons. One of the rabbis—older and more experienced than I, and one of the people I considered a mentor—said that he thought he was finally ready to tackle the terribly difficult story of Akedat Yitzchak, The Binding of Isaac. I was really struck by his comment because, I had been giving my take on the story for over ten years; I didn’t know we had a choice. It was the  Torah portion, and we had to address it. 

I suspect his interpretation was more profound than any of mine, but my point here is that thousands of rabbis over hundreds and hundreds of years have approached this difficult story and tried to draw wisdom from it. How can a God Who is good demand that a pious man sacrifice his son? How can a pious man think that an unconscionable act is somehow what God wants or needs? The impossibility of this situation is like one of those Zen Buddhist koans—a conundrum to contemplate, not so much for an answer but for an understanding of the nature of the world. What is the sound of one hand clapping? What should Abraham have done? How can we sharpen our spirits on the stone of this story?

For many generations—when martyrdom seemed a real possibility, most commentators praised Abraham’s faith and willingness to make a sacrifice. Though far too many Jews did end up as martyrs L’Kiddush Hashem, For the Sanctification of the Holy Name, most survived, and their willingness to live as Jews and do God’s work in the world kept our sacred mission going. It also kept God’s dream alive. By committing to lives of Torah, we put ourselves at risk, but for a holy cause.

I say this with historical perspective, but I must admit that I cannot imagine actually being at risk. Ours is a fortunate time. Though we certainly are not immune from life’s challenges, ours is a time of social acceptance and power—social, financial, and political. Through the acceptance we have gained/been granted in the modern world, we are able to approach life and the Torah’s stories from difference angles. Thus do we have a fairly new interpretation of this story. Remember, the whole story is presented as a test: “Some time later, God put Abraham to the test. God said to him, ‘Abraham,” and he answered, ‘Here I am.’ God said, ‘Take your son, your only son, the one whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering...’” (Genesis 22.1-2) While the consensus of Tradition praises Abraham for his faithfulness, this newer view says that he fails the test. 

What is Abraham supposed to do? The right thing for Abraham to do is to refuse the immoral order. Murdering another human being is against God’s law. Parents are not supposed to harm their children. God has no business ordering such a horrible thing, and the test is to see if Abraham will stand up to God and refuse. Abraham had done just that in the case of Sodom and Gomorrah, challenging the Lord with, “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike! Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the world do justly?!” (Genesis 18.25) God is hoping that Abraham will stand up for justice and refuse an immoral order.

What is our evidence? Other than the horrendous nature of the command, note an interesting change in personnel. God personally gives Abraham the order (test), but a mere angel is sent to stop Abraham’s crazed piety. “Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son, but then an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven, ‘Abraham! Abraham!’ And he answered, ‘Here I am,’ And the angel said to him, ‘Do not raise your hand against the boy, or do anything to him.’” (Genesis 22.9-12) God is disappointed with Abraham and disgusted with his mindless zealotry.

Though God has spoken to Abraham many times before, God never does again. While Abraham passes nine tests, he fails the tenth. Thus is the blessing afterwards more a consolation—as though God is saying, “Yes, 90% is still a good grade, and I’ll still keep our covenant, but I wish you’d have done better and known the limits to blind obedience.”  

This is the kind of interpretation borne of an age when we are part of the power structure, when we need to wield our power justly. Having been victims of unjust orders followed by too-willing and non-thinking followers, we have learned the deadly folly of blind obedience and morally-unexamined actions. 

By the way, the source of this interpretation is unclear. Some say that Rabbi Emil Fackenheim spoke of it—attributing it to an anonymous Hassid, though others attribute the lesson to Elie Wiesel. In any event, this now well-known Drash speaks to our unique and modern perspective.

Think about the many centuries of Rosh Hashanah’s and all those rabbis giving sermons—and all those Jews listening to them. Akedat Yitzchak is an impossible story, but it speaks to the complexity and paradoxical nature of existence. We have many interpretations but no answers. Thus do we continue year by year to contemplate God’s questions and grow our spirits.

It is Not in the Heavens

September 11th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion has many important messages—among them the assurance that the mitzvot of the Lord are eminently do-able—and by regular people.
“This commandment which I command you this day is not hidden from you, nor is it far off. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who shall go up for us to the heavens, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it?’ Nor is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who shall go across the sea for us, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it?’ But the word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, that you may do it.” (Deuteronomy 30.11-14)

In the Talmud, however, the passage’s fairly simple message is transformed into an amazing story and doctrine—that the do-ability of the Torah means that we need to have a voice in how it is understood and practiced. 

The story is found in the Babylonian Talmud, in Baba Metzia (The Middle Gate) and takes as its starting point a discussion about how to kasher a particular kind of oven.

The oven was made out of separate coils of clay, placing one upon another, with sand between each of the coils.  Since each coil in itself is not a utensil, and the sand between the coils prevents the oven’s being regarded as a separate utensil, a debate ensued about whether and how to make it kosher. Rabbi Eliezer says that the separate components mean the oven is not liable to uncleanness. The other Sages, however, hold that the oven’s outer coating of mortar or cement unifies the coils into a single entity—which is therefore liable to uncleanness and hence kashering.

Don’t yawn. The argument—called The Oven of Akhnai—is really just the pretext for an amazing debate:

“There is a Mishna which speaks of an oven which Rabbi Eliezer says is ritually clean, but the Sages say is not ritually clean; it is called the oven of Akhnai/The Snake (because, like a snake, the argument and the tactics used were treacherous).

“Rabbi Eliezer justified his opinion with all the answers in the world, but they would still not agree. Then he said: ‘Let this carob-tree prove that the Halachah prevails as I state,’ and the carob was (miraculously) thrown off to a distance of one hundred ells; according to  others, it was four hundred ells. But they said: ‘The carob proves nothing.’ He then said: ‘Let that spring of water prove that my opinion is the Halachah.’ The water then began to run backwards. But again the Sages said that this proved nothing. He then said: ‘Let the walls of the college prove that I am right.’ The walls were about to fall, but Rabbi Joshua rebuked them, saying: ‘If the scholars of this college are discussing Halachah, what business is it yours to interfere?!’ They did not fall, for the honor of Rabbi Joshua, but they did not become again straight, for the honor of Rabbi Eliezer [and they are still leaning in the same condition]. Rabbi Eliezer said again: ‘Let it be announced by the heavens that the Halachah prevails according to my statement,’ and a bat kol (heavenly voice) was heard, saying: ‘Why do you quarrel with Rabbi Eliezer, who is always right in his decisions?!’ Rabbi Joshua then arose and proclaimed [Deut. 30.12]: ‘The Law is not in the heavens.’

How is this to be understood? Explained Rabbi Jeremiah: ‘It means, the Torah was given already to us on the mountain of Sinai, and we do not listen to heavenly voices, as it reads [Exod. 28.2]: “Incline after the majority” (as opposed to invoking heavenly voices to interfere in the arguments of the Rabbis).

Once, Rabbi Nathan met Elijah the Prophet and asked him about the incident: ‘What did the Holy One of Blessing, say at that time?’ Elijah answered, ‘God laughed and said, “My children have bested Me, My children have bested Me.”’”

The Rabbinic belief is that God entrusted the Torah to us and that we are responsible for interpreting it and practicing it. Certainly, various debates will arise, and the majority of the Sages may change their understanding and interpretations over the years. However, if miracles and heavenly voices can outweigh the deliberations, it would be impossible to fulfill the religious responsibilities God gave us. “Lo bashamayim hi,” The Halachah “is not in the heavens.” Its do-ability means that we are the ones who must make God’s hopes real on earth.

Look Down From Your Holy Abode and Bless Us

September 4th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The most famous part of this week’s Torah portion is the self-identifying history that ancient worshippers recited when they brought their first fruits to the Lord:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand, an outstretched arm, and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10)

Later, as part of the ritual, the worshipper would pray, “Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You swore to our fathers.” (Deuteronomy 26.15)

The notion is that the good things that happen to us in life are at the direction of God—as rewards for obedience to the Divine Will. Later, in Chapters 27 and 28, we have an elaborate liturgy of blessings and curses declared by Moses and the Levites to all the Israelites. IF we obey God’s instructions, everything will be good: weather, agriculture, health, foreign relations, personal safety, and general prosperity and happiness. However, if we disobey God’s instructions, all those things that could be good will instead be calamitous. Here, the picture of the pastoral ideal becomes a nightmare—with plenty of poetic imagination about how bad things can be. Among the most striking: “The Lord will strike you with consumption, fever, and inflammation, with scorching heat and droughts, with blight and mildew; they shall hound you until you perish! The skies above your head shall be copper and the earth under you iron. The Lord will make the rain of your land dust, and sand shall drop on you from the sky, until you are wiped out.” (Deuteronomy 28.22-24)

Again, the ancient mentality was that good things are rewards from God, and bad things are punishments from God. This Deuteronomic Theology was and remains a pillar of many people’s worldview. Something in our minds drives us to be very solicitous in re God, hoping for goodness and feeling guilty when life goes badly. The problem, however, it that this understanding of the world does not seem to be accurate. Too often, we see the good suffer and the evil prosper. Flying in the face of this Deuteronomic thinking is reality. 

Many scholars think that this disparity between Deuteronomy and life is the reason for the Book of Job. Written in the style of a Greek drama, it seems to be an extended philosophical work of fiction—based perhaps on an actual man named Job, but dramatized by the writer to highlight various approaches to the problem of theodicy (how an All Powerful and All Good God can allow evil to happen). Though Job is given an answer—that human understanding is so much lesser than God’s that we cannot fathom Divine justice, many apparently did not feel that the question had been resolved. 

Enter the Pharisaic sages—later called Rabbis—who put this question at the center of their religious reforms (beginning around 200 BCE). They believed fervently in God’s justice, but their experience of this world seemed to deny it. Thus did they intuit (or deduce) that there must be a realm in which true justice reigns—a world after this one, after we die. Their Olam Haba, the World-to-Come, is the place where wrongs are righted and where the moral accounts of this world are balanced. The good are rewarded for their piety and obedience, and the evil get their just deserts. As Rabbi Judah teaches (Pirke Avot 4.16): “This world is like an anteroom before the World-to-Come. Prepare yourself in the anteroom so that you may enter the banquet hall.” Or, as we sing in Yigdal (a poetic setting of Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of the Jewish Faith): “Gomel l’ish chesed k’mif’alo / God deals kindly with those who merit kindness, Noten l’rasha ra k’rish’ato / and brings upon the evil the evil they deserve.”

It is curious how little detail the Rabbis provide about this Olam Haba—perhaps because no one had ever gone there and come back with a report. There are speculations, but the basic belief is that God will take care of us both in life and after we die. Trust is the salient factor, and the many voices of the Tradition reflect various possibilities of the way that God will take care of us. 

Rabbi Stephen Wylen summarizes many of the views in this piece we include in our own Siddur B’rit Shalom (page 146): 
“Judaism permits a variety of beliefs concerning life after death. Some of our Talmudic Sages believed that the souls of the righteous are kept in a treasury under the throne of God. Others believed that the righteous sit on thrones, enjoying the heavenly light that shines from the Blessed Holy One. Many of our forebears anticipated sitting at the table in the Yeshiva on High, where the righteous of all ages discuss the teachings of Torah. The Pharisees taught that at the end of time all the dead would be resurrected to earthly life, while other Jewish movements, including the modern Reformers of Judaism, taught that the soul separates from the body at death and, after submitting to judgment, goes to its eternal reward. The various Jewish teachings agree that we live on in some manner after death and that there is reward for obedience to the Torah.”

Thus does the Tradition affirm—with a little interpretation— the message of the Torah: the Judge of all the earth will do justly, rewarding morality and punishing evil. As is our Jewish way, we read the Torah and interpret it through our observations of and our experiences “b’alma di-v’ra chir’utay,” in this life created by God.

The Flow of God’s Blessings

August 28th: Ki Tetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes we look at Biblical mores and standards, and we think of how idyllic life must have been with this level of righteous simplicity. Other times, we look at the Bible and feel very far away from the values and social understandings of ancient life. 

In this week, we have an interesting mixture. First, there is the prohibition against charging interest on loans. Second, there is a serious abrogation of the notion of private property.

Let’s start with private property. In Deuteronomy 23.25, we read:
“When you enter another person’s vineyard, you may eat as many grapes as you want, until you are full, but you must not put any in your vessel. When you enter another person’s field of standing grain, you may pluck ears with your hand, but you must not put a sickle to your neighbor’s grain.”

In other words, trespassing and helping oneself to another person’s garden or vineyard seem to be fine. The only limitation is that the snack or meal not turn into a harvest. This is very much against our sensibilities today. One would hardly be happy about a neighbor or stranger picking our flowers or apples or tomatoes. Our social contract says that my property is mine, and that others need to stay off. Using someone else’s driveway to back up and change directions is one thing. However, there are limitations that are firmly ingrained in our way of thinking. 

(For an example of the fury that our sense of property propriety can ignite, try reading NextDoor.com and see the very animated discussions about dog walkers allowing their dogs to relieve themselves on other people’s lawns.)

Our own sense of private property not withstanding, there is something very nice about having free food available for those in need. The assumption of the Torah is that the percentage of food taken will be small and will not hurt the family who owns and farms the land. And, there is the commandment mentioned many times about helping the poor and the stranger—leaving the corners of the fields unharvested, leaving the gleanings, etc. Whereas we have the United Way, Interfaith Human Services, and the Food Bank, the ancients’ sense of tzedakah was less institutionalized but more available. And, it functioned on the honor system. 

The ancients’ understanding of tzedakah also speaks of the Biblical understanding of the origin of our plenty. A few paragraphs before our passage, there is the frequently used phrase, “b’chol mish’lach yadecha, whatever flows to your hand.” The idea is that good fortune and all blessings flow from God. Our efforts may be a factor, but fortune is a factor, too, and we should be cognizant of the Divine’s role in abundance. In other words, the blessings that flow to us are not actually ours. They are God’s, and it is God’s right to have us share some of “ours” with others, particularly those in need.

The question of charging interest is also in that earlier paragraph. In Deuteronomy 23.20, we read, “You shall not deduct interest from loans to your countrymen, whether in money or food or anything that can be deducted as interest; but you may deduct interest from loans to foreigners.”

As you may know, this distinction is why Christian authorities forbade Christians charging each other interest, but allowed Jews to be money-lenders. Reading this passage, the Church classified Jews as foreigners/strangers/aliens. As a result, money-lending became a “Jewish” profession—sometimes with famous results (like the Rothschilds), and other times with tragedy. For many Christians, the only Jews they knew were money-lenders—and, while one is always glad to see the money-lender when borrowing, one is never happy to see the money-lender when it is time to repay the loan. Many of Europe’s anti-Semitic incidents over the last 1000 years began as nothing more than anger at having to pay back borrowed money.

In any event, one cannot imagine modern finance and banking without the ability to charge interest on loans. When capitalism first developed in Holland and Belgium, the religious authorities struggled with this Biblical teaching, but eventually the practicality of financial needs prevailed. It is one thing to lend to a neighbor or relative in need and not charge interest; family and neighborhood bonds influence the repayment. However, when it comes to strangers and various risky uses of money, the lender is taking a real risk, and the interest provides the motivation for the lender to help. Without this accommodation, the development of capitalism and much modern progress would simply not have taken place. 

The principle in both of these ancient practices is that members of a community support each other, and one can see this even in modern times in various “Hebrew Free Loan Societies.” The Shefa (the Divine Flow of Blessings) comes from God to us in order for us to pass it on to others. Thus can we participate in God’s blessing process.

Our Jewish Paideia

August 21st: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In every culture, civilization, and group, there is a cultural ideal—the set of qualities encouraged in every member. Physical skills, social skills, attitudinal skills, and others help to describe the kind of members the group is hoping to “produce.” The ancient Greeks called this their paideia, and there were furious debates about the characteristics an ideal person would have. One of the debates, portrayed in the Platonic Dialogue, Gorgias, involves the comparison between rhetorical skills and morality. What is more important, the way one communicates or the moral quality of one’s message? Perhaps the best resolution of this ancient argument came from the Roman Quintilian: “a good man, speaking well.”

This kind of debate is ubiquitous. What is the ideal soldier? What is the ideal parent? What is the ideal physician, or athlete, or executive, or musician? And, of current interest, what is the ideal public servant or politician? Notice in the whole panoply of the Presidential Campaign, how all sorts of criteria are applied to the candidates. I remember, in particular, when Al Gore ran for president, and his handlers were trying to figure out how best to dress him. In the early days after the convention, they questioned his business suits and ties, trying plaid work shirts and other more casual wear—hoping to make more like a “regular guy.” 

There is also, of course, the debate over the ideal woman and the many roles women are expected to fulfill. Feminism opened up many options, but women still feel extreme pressure to conform to a variety of cultural ideals. There was the discussion of Hillary Clinton’s pantsuits and hair, and there is the current discussion about Kamala Harris’ drive and ambition. From Sheryl Sandberg’s Leaning In, to the latest rap song from Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion, to “Karens” and suburban housewives and Tiger Moms and the La Leche League, there is a vibrant debate about the paideia of a modern woman. 

And, to be fair, men are also faced with many choices. As a male who does not hunt or fish or play poker, I am personally aware of the many ideals of masculinity that tug at our sensibilities. 

Our Torah portion this week addresses the paideia of a leader—specifically the ideal king of Israel. In Deuteronomy 17.14-20, we learn the following:
“After you have entered the land that the Lord your God has assigned to you, and taken possession of it, and settled in it, if you decide, ‘I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,’ you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by the Lord your God. Be sure to set as king over yourself one of your own people; you must not set a foreigner over you, one who is not your kinsman. Moreover, the king shall not keep many horses or send people back to Egypt to add to the horses since the Lord has warned you, ‘You must not go back that way again.’ And, this king must not have many wives, lest his heart go astray; nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess. When the king is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll by the Levitical Priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching as well as these laws. Thus will he not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from Instruction to the right or to the left, so that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel.”

The political prowess of the king is not at issue. Rather, the Torah is concerned about other important qualities. Excessive materialism—and the use of public resources in its pursuit—seems to be a major problem. The many wives remark may be less about sexuality than diplomacy and religious loyalty. Most of Solomon’s 300 wives and 700 concubines were from abroad and were part of diplomatic and commercial relationships that allowed them to bring their cultures and religions with them. Many Israelites were thus scandalized at the many pagan temples in Jerusalem. 

More important is the beautiful imagery of the king seated on his royal throne, holding a Torah from which he reads every single day. With this kind of ongoing influence, the Torah’s authors hope that the king will follow God’s path and thus be the Biblical paideia. Note also the hope that a person so much higher than his subjects will remain close to them emotionally and culturally. He should be one of and one with the people.

While the specific reference is about the ideal king, the lesson is also meant for regular Israelites. The value of Torah in our daily lives—and humility in material and amorous pursuits—is seen as vital to the kind of people our religious culture aims to produce.

For more on our Tradition’s view of our Jewish paideia, look at the Talmud in general and at Pirke Avot in particular. Almost very perek (paragraph) is devoted to some aspect of the ideal person. An example is the very well-known proverb of Rabbi Shimon HaTzaddik, Simon the Righteous: “The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” When he says “the world,” he is speaking about human life and the three most important components. For those less inclined to the religious life, he emphasizes Torah and Worship—reminding us that even a life of good deeds needs a connection to God. And, for his Yeshiva bucher students—who already know how crucial Torah and Worship are, he is sure to include Deeds of Lovingkindness. Knowledge and religiosity without good deeds is hollow and unholy. 

Every culture has it principles and ideals, and every culture hones them in the hope of excellence. We who are at home in many cultures respond to many demands and strive for many aspirations. Let us remember every day the hopes and expectations of our Judaism. We have great potential, and our Jewish Tradition is a guidebook for living our best lives.

The Needy Among Us

August 14th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s portion is one of the most political in all the Torah, but it is also rather quixotic—and often misquoted. In Deuteronomy 15, we are told, 
“There shall be no needy among you—since the Lord your God will bless you in the land the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion—if only you heed the Lord your God and take care to keep all this Instruction that I enjoin upon you this day.”

Then, just a paragraph later, we are told, 
“If, however, there is a needy person among you, one of your kinsmen in any of your settlements in the land that the Lord your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kinsman. Rather, you must open your hand and lend sufficient for whatever is needed.” 

So, will there be poor or not? I think we all know the answer, and the Torah is full of advice on how the poor are to be helped. We are supposed to share our blessings and invite the poor and the stranger—and the Levite—to our feasts. We are supposed to leave a corner of our fields unharvested so that the poor can help themselves. We are not supposed to pick the fields clean, again leaving grain and fruit for those in need. We are also supposed to lend money to people in need. All in all, we are supposed to allow some of our plenty to pass through our hands to the hands of God’s children who do not have enough.

As far as politics is concerned, this passage is both helpful and unhelpful. It clearly states the imperative to help the poor, but it does not address the political question of who should be providing the help. Liberals believe that individual and civic charity can never meet the need—making governmental assistance necessary. Conservatives believe that government is essentially and inevitably inefficient and unable to fix the problems—making civic and private charity the way to fulfill the Biblical imperative. The Torah does not get involved in this aspect of the discussion—probably because the ancient world was typified by smaller communities in which the poor were known by the wealthy—or at least were visible and part of the social fabric. Traditionally, Jewish communities were not part of the government and established our own social service agencies to help their poor; the purview of assistance was thus smaller. Though the Torah does not favor Democrats or Republicans, I believe that during Republican administrations—which tend to decrease assistance to the poor, it is incumbent on all of us to increase our participation in charitable agencies like the Food Bank or Interfaith Human Services. Regardless of the delivery mechanism, the obligation to give is Biblically enjoined and emphasized. 

Another problem with this passage is the way that some interpretations attempt to negate it. Some religionists and politicians read these passages and then preach that economic need is a sign of God’s disfavor—a sign that the poor person is a sinner. Concomitant is the belief that economic plenty is a sign of God’s favor—a sign that the wealthy person is ipso facto righteous and pious. 

This connection is most unBiblical—and certainly contrary to the message of the Prophets. They are very concerned—actually incensed!—that too many wealthy both ignore the plight of the poor and cheat them.  We’ll be reading a classic example of this Prophetic message on Yom Kippur morning, when Isaiah rails against ritual observance in the face of social injustice. In other words, a closer and more expansive reading renders such “Prosperity Gospel” thinking as completely wrong. Nonetheless, there is a selfishness that often dwells in the human heart, and this selfishness can pervert the Torah and Prophets. This is nothing new, and we can see the intensity of the Torah’s and the Prophets’ efforts to remind us of the need to be generous to the needy.

There is a vibrant discussion in the Talmud about how Tzedakah should be given. What kind of assistance is necessary? How can the privacy of the recipient be respected, and how can assistance be given without causing humiliation? And, how does one give with a purity of mind—and not use the mitzvah for self-aggrandizement? As a kind of culmination and summary of these discussions, the medieval philosopher Rabbi Moses Maimonides constructed a ladder of giving.  His “Eight Levels of Tzedakah” are presented in ascending order of goodness:

1. Giving a donation grudgingly

2. Giving less than one should, but doing so cheerfully.

3. Giving directly to the poor upon being asked.

4. Giving directly to the poor without being asked.

5. Giving when the recipient is aware of the donor’s identity, but the donor does not know the identify of the recipient.

6. Giving when the donor is aware of the the recipient’s identity, but the recipient is unaware of the source of the tzedakah.

7. Giving assistance in such a way that the giver and the recipient are unknown to each other. (Communal funds, administered by responsible people, are in this category.)

8. Helping to sustain a person before he/she becomes impoverished by offering a substantial gift in a dignified manner, or by extending a suitable loan, or by helping him/her find employment or a way of self-support.

While one can see the increasing goodness as one moves up the ladder, it is important to remember that all the levels are good. Giving tzedakah is vital to the moral fabric of society—and to the moral fiber of each individual soul.

Let us rejoice in the blessings we have, and let us rejoice in sharing our blessings with others!

A Land Flowing With Milk and Honey?

August 7th: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Part of my family came to the United States through Galveston, Texas. We do not know why they came there, but the 1800s saw a lot of settlement in Texas—and a lot of land speculation. Once I was doing some research about early Galveston and came across some pamphlets from land speculators. To sell their land to people on the East Coast, they advertised Texas in Biblical terms: as a Land Flowing with Milk and Honey. 

This apparently brought them some success, but their second attempt at selling land was stymied by the reports of the initial buyers. Writing from Texas after trying to start farms there, new landowners reported that the East Texas land was not like the Biblical Promised Land at all. There was no “Milk and Honey!”

Undeterred by such naysaying, a second wave of pamphlets was distributed with some Biblical commentary: even in the Land Flowing with Milk and Honey, it is necessary to work hard and bring forth the blessings. 

This brings to mind a Midrash on the phrase—one which attempts to make God’s Biblical promise literally true. The Rabbis explain that “Honey” refers to date honey, the gelatinous syrup that drips from overripe dates. The Promised Land was so rich that the dates ripened and literally dripped honey onto the ground: Eretz Yisra’el flowed with honey. As for the milk, the earth was so rich that the goats and sheep didn’t even have to be milked: their milk dripped from their udders onto the ground: the Land also flowed with milk.

Of course, this literal reading of the text is fanciful—a kind of grandiose testimony of God’s miraculous deeds. But for those involved in working the land, the real miracle is that, when the land is worked, the crops grow. Here is a passage from this week’s Torah portion that speaks of the abundance of the land—which we must work:
“For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill: a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper.” (Deuteronomy 8.7-9)
The blessings will be abundant, but they will only be brought forth when we work the land and mine the hills. 

Then, a very famous instruction:
“You shall eat and be satisfied and give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land that has been given you.” (Deuteronomy 8.10).
This is the prooftext for Birkat Hamazon, the traditional Blessing After a Meal. Notice the order: eat, experience satisfaction, and then bless the Lord our God. Notice also the mitzvah of experiencing satisfaction. 

Though God promises plenty, our ancient ancestors realized that satisfaction is not simply a function of enough: it is that mental process in which one sees and feels “enough.” This seems to be what Ben Zoma had in mind when he taught, “Who is rich? One who rejoices in things already owned.” (Avot 4)

It is actually part of a longer perek in Avot:
“Who is wise? He who learns from every man, as it is said: “From all who taught me have I gained understanding” (Psalms 119:99). Who is mighty? He who subdues his [evil] inclination, as it is said: “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that rules his spirit than he that takes a city” (Proverbs 16:3). Who is rich? He who rejoices in his lot, as it is said: “You shall enjoy the fruit of your labors, you shall be happy and you shall prosper” (Psalms 128:2) “You shall be happy” in this world, “and you shall prosper” in the world to come. Who is he that is honored? He who honors his fellow human beings as it is said: “For I honor those that honor Me, but those who spurn Me shall be dishonored” (I Samuel 2:30).”

The point is that wisdom, riches, strength, and honor are all qualities that spring, in large part, from our own attitudes. This is not to say that certain minimums are not required for health and security, but it does identify our attitudes as a major factor in our ability to find happiness. 

I believe that we are all intelligent enough to realize that “the glass is half empty.” There are certainly problems in the world and in our lives. We are caught between infinite desires and finite possibilities. However, the question of human happiness lies in our ability to see that “the glass is half full.“ It is a skill we can hone and use, and we can start with appreciating the blessings we are given. 

“Eat your fill and be satisfied and give thanks to the Lord your God.”

The Ten Commandments and The Shema

July 31st: Va’et’chanan
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When I was growing up, we learned that the first commandment is, “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.” That was it, though what this commandment commands is a matter of some conjecture. The second commandment thus prohibited other gods and included two clauses, “You shall have no other gods besides Me,” and the longer passage prohibiting graven images and idol worship.

Some consider the opening passage merely a prologue—one that identifies the Deity issuing the upcoming ten commandments. Thus the first commandment would be, “You shall have no other gods besides Me,” and the second commandment would be the prohibition against making and worshipping idols.

This is one of the problems with an ancient text that does not provide numeration.

If we regard the prologue as a commandment itself—as I learned as a child, we need to address the question of what exactly it is commanding. Though it does not seem to instruct us in any particular behavior, it does insist that we acknowledge the Lord God. Some might even see it as a command to believe in God.

There is an opinion, often heard, that Judaism is a religion of deeds and not doctrines, but a closer look at Tradition shows a number of beliefs that are emphasized mightily. In the Bible, we are frequently reminded that all humans need to acknowledge that “the Lord is God in heaven and on earth.” In the Rabbinic world, this belief is enhanced to include not only belief in God and in God’s revelation of the Torah, but also in God’s revelation of the Oral Torah (Talmud) and Olam Haba, the World-to-Come. Then, several centuries later, we have the most famous statement of Jewish belief, Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ “Thirteen Principles of Faith.” This text—derived from the Bible and Talmud—clearly states the mandatory beliefs of traditional Judaism.

So, perhaps it is not so far-fetched to think of the first commandment as a command to acknowledge the One God. Indeed, this imperative is reiterated in the powerful sequel to Deuteronomy’s presentation of the Ten Commandments. In the very next chapter, we are given the Shema and Ve’ahavta: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might...” (Deuteronomy 6.4-9) We are again instructed to acknowledge the Divine and to express our devotion.

We all know the Shema. Many of us recited it daily as children, and many continue to recite it as a devotional practice. Many see it as a declaration of our belief in One God: “The Lord is One.” This is certainly a time-honored understanding, but there is more.

Notice that there are two names for God in the passage, “Adonai/The Lord” and “Elohaynu/Our God.” The Torah has four names for the Deity. God is called “Elohim/God,” “Adonai/The Lord,” “Adonai Elohim/The Lord God,” and also “El Shaddai/God Almighty.” “God” is English for “Elohim”—used in the possessive form in the Shema as “Elohaynu:” our God. “The Lord” is an English translation for “Adonai,” a title used instead of pronouncing God’s four letter ineffable Name. Whenever we see the four letters, “YHVH,” we do not pronounce them; instead we use the title, “Adonai/ Lord.”

One can see in the Shema an interest in reconciling the two names, “Adonai” and “Elohim.” These two names do not refer to two different gods, but to a single Deity: “The Lord is our God.” Some commentators say that the Torah uses “The Lord” in passages describing God’s unique relationship with Israel, while “God” is used in passages describing God as the universal Creator and Ruler. (This is often the case.) Thus can the Shema state our belief that the God of Israel is also the God of all humanity.

Other commentators—particularly mystics—view the two names as two dimensions of the Divine. “God”—particularly “Our God / Elohaynu”—represents the aspect of God Which is perceptible and present to us: the part of God of which we have knowledge and to which we relate. This is in contrast to “The Lord” (the YHVH ineffable Name) which refers to the transcendent aspect of God which is far, far, far beyond our understanding and experience—the “Ayn Sof” or Infinite. Thus would the Shema be reminding us that both the Transcendent Divine and the Immanent Divine are part of the One God. There is unity in the cosmos.

A final insight relates to the last word, “Echad /One.” In addition to the belief that there is only One God, this last word can be understood as almost a verb—that by declaring God’s Oneness, we can contribute to the unity and strength of the Deity. In the mystical teachings of Rabbi Isaac Luria, the imperfection of the world is attributed to an injury suffered by God during Creation. Humanity was created to help God in healing, and our actions—both ritual and ethical—can heal the rift in the Divine. This is the original meaning of the phrase Tikkun Olam. Though we in the Reform Movement use the term to give spiritual depth to our social justice work, the original Lurianic term speaks of our ability to repair/heal God. Among the things we can do is declare God’s Unity and act in concert with God’s will for the world. Thus do mystics interpret the phrase, “The Lord is One,” as the spiritual and intellectual merging of all forces and all existence into the Oneness of God—or, as the prayer book puts it, “l’yached’cha b’ahavah, to unite God in love.” 

For me, reciting the Shema with full kavanah (intention) means reaching out both to identify the Divine and to identify with the Divine. The Lord our God is present and accessible—and hoping to be united with us.

Retelling Our Sacred Story

July 24th: Devarim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the Bible is presented as history, it is not a history book. It is rather a collection of episodes and teachings compiled for the purpose of presenting particular messages. In other words, there is a lot that happened in those days that did not get included. For example, the Biblical figures about whom we know the most—Abraham, Jacob, Moses, and David, have gaping holes in their Biblical curriculum vitae. There is a lot about their lives and experiences we do not know. 

A case in point came up a few weeks ago, in Numbers 12, when there is some domestic drama in Moses’ family. “Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman he had married.” We may feel like we know Moses, but we have no idea who this Cushite (Ethiopian) wife is. It could be a reference to Zipporah, who was from Midian and might have had darker skin than most Israelites. It could be a reference to a second wife Moses might have married at some point. And, we have no idea why Aaron and Miriam complain. In other words, this is a highly edited story, leaving out most of the details and including only what the editor found relevant to the intended message. We do not know who selected and compiled these stories, but, whether it was God or human editors, a selective editorial process was clearly at work. 

This simple and perhaps obvious fact is important in understanding the Book of Deuteronomy, which we begin this week. It is presented in the Torah as a series of farewell lectures by Moses. The Israelites are poised to enter and conquer the Promised Land, and Moses has been informed that he is being retired. This is his last chance to communicate the experiences and wisdom of the last forty years, and he undertakes telling the people their story. 

If one were to compare the stories in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers with Moses’ retelling in Deuteronomy, one would notice a number of differences. Among the most famous are a few changes in the Ten Commandments (which come in next week’s portion). It may not seem like a big deal in Commandment #10 when Moses inverts the order of whom one is not supposed to covet: Exodus 20 says not to covet one’s neighbor’s house and wife. Moses says not to covet one’s neighbor’s wife and house. However, Commandment #4, on the Sabbath, has some larger interpretative issues. In Exodus 20, we read: “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days shall you labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of the Lord your God: you shall not do any work—you, your son or daughter, your male or female slave, or your cattle, or the stranger who is within your settlements. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.”

However, in Deuteronomy, Moses recounts it this way: “Observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy, as the Lord your God has commanded you. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your ox or your ass, or any of your cattle, or the stranger in your settlements, so that your male and female slave may rest as you do. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath Day.”

Moses is not repeating the historical event at Mount Sinai; he is interpreting God’s words. 

Another example is in this week’s Torah portion where Moses explains the development of the Israelites’ leadership hierarchy. In Exodus 18, Moses’ father in law, Jethro, notices Moses’ burden and suggests designating responsibility to other leaders. However, in Deuteronomy 1.9, Moses “remembers” it this way: “I cannot bear the burden of you (the Israelites) by myself. The Lord your God has multiplied you until you are today as numerous as the stars in the sky—May the Lord, the God of your fathers, increase your numbers a thousandfold, and bless you as promised. How can I bear unaided the trouble of you, and the burden, and the bickering! Pick from each of your tribes men who are wise, discerning, and experienced, and I will appoint them as your heads...”

There is a tradition that everything in the Torah is dictated by God and therefore represents a set of immutable instructions. However, a closer reading shows a multiplicity of voices and opinions—not only in the Torah, but also in the Prophets and the Writings. In fact, sometimes there are outright debates. Should all the Levites be priests, or is the priesthood reserved for one family of Levites, the Sons of Aaron? Is Solomon a hero, or do his habits of conspicuous consumption and “promiscuity” (300 wives and 700 concubines!) represent a problem with unbridled authority? Does God want and need sacrificial worship, or is God more concerned with piety and righteousness? Is intermarriage with non-Jews a way to increase our population, or is it a threat to our communal “purity?” (See Ezra and Nehemiah.) 

Through the panoply of Jewish experiences and texts, many have sought to record the stories and wisdom of our historical and spiritual experiences. While some regard the textual tradition as a unanimous set of instructions dictated by God, we in the Liberal Jewish community (Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, Renewal, etc.) see it as a sacred discussion that began long ago and continues into the future. Moses’ interpretative re-telling of the story reminds us that the story is ours—ours to tell and ours to craft. 

Ancient Feminism? Take #2

July 17th: Mattot - Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we read about the Daughters of Zelophehad. As you may recall, Zelophehad dies in the wilderness and leaves no sons to take possession of his portion of the Promised Land. His five daughters approach Moses and ask that the law of male-only succession be amended. Moses turns it over to God Who allows the women to inherit their father’s portion. This is always heralded as a feminist story in the Tradition—a seed which 3000 years later helps to establish egalitarianism in modern Judaism.

The problem is that some of the Israelite tribal leaders object to the inheritance’s implications. In week’s portion, they approach Moses and argue: “The Lord commanded my lord to assign the land to the Israelites as shares by lot, and my lord was further commanded by the Lord to assign the share of our kinsman Zelophehad to his daughters. But, if they marry persons from another Israelite tribe, their share will be cut off from our ancestral portion and be added to the portion of the tribe into which they marry; thus our allotted tribal portion will be diminished.” (Numbers 36.2-3).  If Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirztah marry someone outside of their tribe, then Manasseh, one of the Josephite half-tribes, loses territory. Moses turns to God, and God makes a compromise. The women’s inheritance is affirmed but with a caveat: they must marry men in their own tribe. It is not exactly the feminist ideal. In fact, as Rabbi Hara Person explains in The Women’s Torah Commentary, since they end up marrying their first cousins, the daughters essentially hand over their inheritance to the same men who would have received the land had they not stood up for themselves in the first place.

So, is the story of the daughters of Zelophehad an important step in women’s rights, or does it reveal a trick of the patriarchy? Or, is this an example of the incremental steps in the long, long fight for female rights? Or, is this a case where there are more issues involved than just feminism? 

Or, is this a case of moderns analyzing an ancient story from our modern perspective? Inasmuch as we moderns are supposed to find meaning in the ancient texts, it only stands to reason that we would try to put ourselves and our sensibilities into the stories. Sometimes, this is good, but sometimes, it can skew the story’s context. In this case, I can understand modern frustration with the limited autonomy granted to the daughters of Zelophehad, but these women were given more autonomy than they would have otherwise had. In this ancient patriarchal, male-dominated context, this is a step forward. Is it far enough? Of course, not, but the inertia of social institutions is not easy to break.

This leads me to two debates being held today—debates in which modern sensibilities and agendas are being forced onto historical situations. The debates involve (1) who freed the slaves in America’s South, and (2) who got women the vote.

In the promotional material for a PBS program, The Vote, we hear someone declaring, “Textbooks say women were given the vote. No one gave us anything. We took it!” This is very inspiring and empowering, but it is factually inaccurate. Since women were not allowed to vote, the campaign for Women’s Suffrage involved persuading the men who did vote to change the system. Of course, the work of thousands of suffragettes made a great difference, but the name of the game was persuading male voters.

The same can be said of the argument about the role African-American slaves played in their liberation. Of course, many Africans participated—buying their freedom, running away, fighting in the Union Army, speaking, and manning the Underground Railroad. However, suggesting that the African slaves freed themselves ignores the fact that the White people in the Union gave blood and money in the Civil War—ultimately passing  amendments to the Constitution and laws that ended slavery and produced civil rights. In abolition work and in the subsequent civil rights efforts, the main strategy was to persuade White people that Black people should be treated fairly. 

It is even true today. What are “White Privilege” and “Woke” and “Black Lives Matter” if not arguments to persuade non-Black people that racism needs to be acknowledged, stopped, and remedied?

What is happening here, I believe, is that historical situations are being reinterpreted to fit modern agendas. Female empowerment remains a goal, and claiming that Women got The Vote for themselves is a way to encourage and inspire modern women to keep up the fight for total gender equity. Similarly, claiming that the Black slaves freed themselves is a way to remind modern African Americans that they have both the responsibility and the ability to help with their own continued liberation and equality. In other words, though couched in the language of history, these are modern rhetorical strategies.

I understand the motivation, but I am still bothered by misreading history. To my mind, we should look at history with both a critical eye and an appreciation for the small steps and principles that eventuate in societal improvements. Less than complete solutions can nonetheless be helpful.

The male-dominated society of ancient Israel does not measure up to our modern ideas of equality. Women like Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirztah bat Zelophehad have suffered from unfair treatment since time immemorial. However, the ideals of equality and fairness have always been there, and they have been forwarded in a number of subtle actions and messages. It reminds me of a verse from Psalm 90 and a prayer from the weekday Amidah. In Psalm 90, we read, “Light is planted for the righteous, gladness for the upright in heart.” Then, in the Amidah, we are bidden to pray, “We praise You, O Lord, Matz’mi’ach keren y’shu’a, Who causes salvation to sprout and blossom.” The seeds of righteousness and truth were planted long ago. When they sprout and when they blossom, let us give thanks.

Developing Judaism—Developing God

July 10th: Pinchas
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Jewish sense of historical connection is extremely important: we feel ourselves to be the continuation of what Abraham and Sarah started some 4000 years ago. And yet, our faith today is not the same as theirs or our other ancient ancestors’. In fact, it is technically inaccurate to call the Bible’s religion “Judaism” at all. We started out not as “Jews,” but as “Ivrim / Hebrews.” Then after Abraham and Sarah’s grandson Jacob fathered twelve sons, we were known as “B’nai Yisra’el / The Sons of Israel.” As the sons’ families grew into tribes, we kept this name—often rendered in English as “Israelites.” Though we use words like “Hebrew,” “Israelite,” and “Jew” interchangeably, the words “Jew” and “Jewish” do not become historically accurate until after the Babylonian Exile (586 - 538 BCE). The predominant group to return from Babylonia was the tribe of Judah—who were called “Judeans,” in English translation, “Jews.” 

We can also get technical about the word we use for our religion. “Judaism” really should refer to the post-Biblical religion that the Rabbis crafted from the Biblical religion. Over some 400 years (200 BCE - 225 CE), succeeding generations of scholars—called Pharisees, Tanna’im, and Rabbis—shaped the Bible’s religious teachings into the spiritual and ritual lifestyle that we know as “Judaism.” Though based on the Bible, Judaism is defined in the Talmud (Mishna and Gemara).  

As I like to explain to non-Jewish visitors to the synagogue, neither Judaism nor Christianity are the religions of the Bible. Christianity is the religion of the Bible viewed through the lens of the New Testament. Judaism is the religion of the Bible viewed through the lens of the Talmud. Both religions identify certain elements of Biblical religion and interpret and adapt them into their own religious sensibilities, beliefs, and practices. We revere the Bible, and we trace our ancestral search for God to our forebears in Biblical days, but their ancient religion has grown and developed into the religious systems that express and nurture spirituality today.

To illustrate this developmental process, consider the holy day of Rosh Hashanah that is described in this week’s Torah portion: “In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a sacred occasion: you shall not work at your occupations. You shall observe it as a day when the shofar is sounded. You shall present a burnt offering of pleasing odor to the Lord: one bull of the herb, one ram, and seven yearling lambs, without blemish. The meal offering with them—choice flour with oil mixed in—shall be three-tenths of a measure for a bull, two-tenths for a ram, and one-tenth for each of the seven lambs. And there shall be one goat for a sin offering, to make expiation in your behalf—in addition to the burnt offering and the regular burnt offering with its meal offerings, each with its libations as prescribed, offerings of fire of pleasing odor to the Lord.”  (Numbers 29.1-6) 

Notice that the Holy Day is not called “Rosh Hashanah,” nor is there anything about the Book of Life, Unetaneh Tokef, or “Who shall live and who shall die.” There are no details about the shofar calls, or the “Avinu Malkaynu” prayer or the special High Holy Day tunes or additions to the regular prayers or even the Holy Day candle blessing. There is no mention of Tashlich (casting our sins into the water) or apples and honey. In other words, the observance that we call “Rosh Hashanah” has its roots in the Torah, but it has grown and developed over the centuries. And, as much as this is true for one holy day, it is true for Judaism in general. Our faith has grown and developed in a continuing quest to cultivate our relationship with the Divine. 

But lest we think that this reforming tendency is strictly post-Biblical, consider another passage in this week’s Torah portion, the case of Zelophehad’s daughters. As the forty years of wandering in the desert draw to a close, it is time for Moses to divide the Promised Land into tribal territories and individual holdings. However, one of the Israelites, Zelophehad, has died before his assignment. If he had a son, then the son would get his share, but he has five daughters, and daughters do not inherit land. (The system assumed that women would live with their families of origin or their husbands or children.)

So, Zelophehad’s five daughters—Mahlah, No’ah, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirtzah—approach Moses and make a claim: “Our father died in the wilderness...and has left no sons. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen.” (Numbers 27.1-4)

Moses realizes that the women have a point, but he does not feel able to accommodate them within the law. So, he brings their case before the Lord. The Lord agrees with the women and amends the rules, allowing Zelophehad’s daughters AND all daughters in a similar situation to inherit land. Even at this early point, the Tradition has begun to develop, and this progress continues today. 

One could ask what this says about the nature of God—Whom many view to be perfect and unchanging from before the beginning to after the end. Many believe that the Torah—given around 1200 BCE—was/is/will be perfect as well. No changes are ever necessary—or allowed. However, this view does not take into account the changing situations in which humans find themselves, or the changes in humanity and our human sensibilities. Despite what our Orthodox co-religionists claim, the developmental process in the Bible, Talmud, and subsequent Jewish legal literature is obvious to anyone who carefully looks. This is the basis of the innovations of Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist Judaisms. God may not change, but humans do. 

On the other hand, there is a modern view that sees God as changing and developing, too. Known as “Process Theology,” it suggests that, as “existence” proceeds, the Divine Force behind it—or encompassing it—grows from the experience and adapts, matures, and processes. If this is the case, then it only stands to reason that our understanding of the Divine and our techniques for living in relationship with the Divine would also process and progress. The seeds of the Torah sprout and blossom in our traditional and continuing partnership with God.

The Many Meanings of Symbols

July 3rd: Chukkat
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Everyone knows that Jews do not have idols, but some Biblical customs seem to flirt with the idea. In Exodus, right around the time when the Israelites are learning (the hard way) that a Golden Calf is not the way to get God’s approval, they get instructions about putting two large Cherubim, fierce looking winged angels, on the Ark of the Covenant. 

Then, in this week’s portion, we have the installation of a large copper sculpture of a serpent in the camp—and then later in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. The reason is an incident of rebellion in the wilderness: “The people grew restive on the journey, and the people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food (the manna).’ The Lord sent fiery serpents against the people. They bit the people and many of the Israelites died. The people came to Moses and said, ‘We sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you. Intercede with the Lord to take away the serpents from us!’ So Moses interceded for the people. Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a seraph (fiery serpent) figure and mount it on a tall pole so that it is visible. And anyone who is bitten and looks at it shall recover.’ Moses made a copper serpent and mounted it, and anyone bitten by a serpent would look at the copper serpent and recover.” (Numbers 21.4-9)

The technical difference between an idol and a symbol is that an idol is worshipped, and a symbol is not. The Cherubim’s wings provided God a place to sit in the Tent of Meeting, and the copper serpent is a reminder that the snake bites are a punishment from God for disrespect—and that repentance and respect can get a person healed.

However, by the time we get to King Hezekiah (739-686 BCE), some 500 years later, the copper serpent has become a problem. In Second Kings (18.4), Hezekiah refers to it with a derogatory name, Nehustan, and has the serpent destroyed because the Israelites are burning incense to it—a practice akin to idolatry. Thus does the meaning of this symbol change over time—beginning as a commandment from God, and turning into an affront.

It is neither the first nor the last symbol to change, and we who find meaning in symbols are often of different minds about their validity and significance. Some seek to understand a symbol by finding its original meaning, and they reason that the original meaning is still valid. Thus is the Christmas Tree really a pagan custom (the Yule Log), and Halloween really a Satanic observance. One could apply the same logic to the little bells on the Torah ornaments—originally put there to scare away evil spirits. But, we should ask, is it possible that symbols change? Do succeeding groups, cultures, or religions take symbols that mean one thing in one context and co-opt the symbols and use them for completely different messages? I think they do, and the examples, I believe, prove the point. Christianity took a number of pagan customs and symbols and converted them to Christian purposes. Halloween is an amalgam of several customs, and, though it may have pagan or Satanic origins, I find it hard to believe that children dressed up as cartoon characters and begging candy from the neighbors are actually or even inadvertently observing a pagan rite. We need to beware the Myth of Primitivism—the belief that a symbol has a fixed and permanent meaning. 

Our society is now in the midst of a reevaluation of symbols. What did they mean originally? What do they mean now? How do they affect people?

I believe that we have a role to play in the meaning of symbols—in the management and interpretation of symbols. We could talk about the controversy over statues of Confederate generals, but we can also talk about Jewish symbols—about something as volatile as the yarmulke. There was a time in the 19th Century when most all Jewish men wore hats or skullcaps in synagogue. Then, around 1900, the Reform Movement dispensed with yarmulkes. Not wearing a yarmulke was a sign of modern, enlightened Judaism and was experienced as a liberating and purifying of the ancestral faith. Then, starting in the 1960s, the custom staged a comeback and was seen by many of us as an enhancement to our spiritual work. As a religious symbol, yarmulkes or the lack thereof have great symbolic power, and yet, the people who wear them do not accept a single meaning (as though it were handed down on Mount Sinai). The people who wear this symbol, or the Tallit, or who participate in the the rich symbol system of Kashrut all have a say in the meanings they find. When people ask me about the the meaning of such a symbol, I need to talk about a range of possible meanings. The people using the symbol are involved in the symbol’s management and definition.

A case in point in the current Zeitgeist is that of the statue of President Lincoln with a newly freed, kneeling African in Washington, D.C. When it was dedicated in 1876, Frederick Douglass spoke quite critically about Lincoln’s racial attitudes, though to the hundreds of former slaves who paid for the statue, Lincoln was a hero. Today, some African American activists are citing Douglass to get the statue removed, but many others love the statue and their historical appreciation of the President whom they consider their Redeemer. Who owns the meaning of the symbol when both interpretations are legitimate?

One can also see a multiplicity of meanings in the recent discussion of Juneteenth, a celebration of African American freedom that refers to several different anniversaries in the gradual process of release from slavery. Whether it is observed in some families—as it has been for years—or is celebrated more widely or is established as a national holiday, it is a symbol which will be construed and managed. Symbols do not control us; we control them. 

Symbols can be powerful expressions of concepts and experiences, but they are flexible and manageable. We can honor them or dishonor them or interpret them as we will. Just like the copper serpent originally commanded by God, the meanings of symbols change because people regard them differently. We can be active in this process.