Begging, Borrowing, and Stealing?

January 22nd: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As dramatic and redeeming as the story of the Exodus is, there are some troubling passages. One is in this week’s portion, and it deals with items our ancestors borrow/steal from their Egyptian neighbors. This part of the story is mentioned three times.

It is first foretold in Genesis 15.14 when God is sketching out the future for Abraham’s family: “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed 400 years; but I will execute judgment on the nation they shall serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.”

The second iteration is Exodus 3.21-22 when Moses is getting instructions from God: “I will dispose the Egyptians favorably toward this people, so that when you go, you will not go away empty-handed. Each woman shall borrow from her neighbor and the lodger in her house objects of silver and gold, and clothing, and you shall put these on your sons and daughters, thus stripping the Egyptians.”

This week, in Exodus 12/33-26, we have the report of the actual occurrence. After the tenth and final plague, “The Egyptians urged the (Hebrew) people on, impatient to have them leave the country, for they said, ‘We shall all be dead.’ So the people took their dough before it was leavened, their kneading bowls wrapped in their cloaks upon their shoulders. The Israelites had done Moses’ bidding and borrowed from the Egyptians objects of silver and gold, and clothing. And the Lord had disposed the Egyptians favorably toward the people, and they let them have their request; thus they stripped the Egyptians.”

As one can imagine, the Tradition has a variety of voices commenting on this episode. Since God commands it, many assume that this “borrowing” is just, a punishment for all those years of slavery and oppression. Other commentators explain God’s instruction in terms of the ultimate use of the gold and silver: this is what the Israelites donate to build the Mishkan, the portable Temple Tent we construct in the wilderness.

Rabbi Mary Zamore (in this week’s Ten Minutes of Torah from the Union for Reform Judaism) sees the gold and silver as reparations for the wrongs done to our ancestors. She sees in Exodus a Biblical precedent for the United States to pay reparations to African Americans for their 400 years of oppression. It is an interesting application, but to my mind a bit stretched. In most conversations about reparations, the goal is to provide appropriate compensation for pain and suffering AND lost wealth. In this story, we are talking about the few valuables of poor neighbors. Who else would be the Israelites’ neighbors but other poor people? How would robbing them penalize the real cause of the slavery, Pharaoh and the aristocrats who were surely not living next door?

In any event, there is an ethic of just revenge in both the Torah and in some commentators.

Other commentators, however, view the incident with embarrassment. How could we do such a thing, “borrowing” when we have no intention of returning the items? There is even the opinion that this immoral thievery comes back to bite us. Some commentators say that this stolen gold and silver is what we use to build the Golden Calf—that the evil of the original deed propels us to the even worse sin of idolatry.

I think we all understand revenge. When we are hurt or oppressed or cheated, we want justice. We want the violation of our sensibilities to be erased and assuaged, and revenge often appears to be the best and most direct way. In some situations, this is certainly the case. However, in others, one wonders how helpful the revenge turns out to be.

A simple text for ascertaining the wisdom and goodness of an action comes in the Rotary Club’s Four Way Test. The test suggests judging possible actions or policies with these four questions:
(1)  It is the truth?
(2)  Is it fair to all concerned?
(3)  Will it build goodwill and better friendships?
(4)  Will it be beneficial to all concerned?
As much as we may yearn for payback, it may behoove us to consider the long-range consequences of revenge or retaliation or any kind of “justice.” I am not speaking against compensation or punishment for wrongs committed, but I am wondering about how it can be structured or arranged to make things better in the future.

There may be situations in which oppressors or wrong-doers need to be eliminated—destroyed or killed as in God’s punishment of Egypt. Most situations are different, however, and call for “the bad guys” to be persuaded to repent—to turn from the Sitra Achra (Dark Side) to goodness. When we look around today and see the many examples of injustice, oppression, and wrongdoing, we need to ask ourselves: Is this an elimination situation or a persuasion situation? Which will bring about the best results in the long run?

A guiding principle in our deliberations comes from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Despite the profound hostility he faced in his striving for social justice, he maintained, “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.” A parallel approach can be found Rabbinic Judaism. As you may remember from my Rosh Hashanah sermon, Dr. Yehuda Kurtzer of the Shalom Hartman Institute summarizes the Rabbinic philosophy with, “For the Rabbis, the antidote for injustice is not a passion for justice. Rather it is a passion for lovingkindness.” Chesed / Lovingkindness is not only something we receive from God. It is a human possibility as well and a guiding principle as we try to fix our world.

I do not judge our ancient ancestors too harshly. Who knows how I might respond after a lifetime of slavery and oppression? Who knows whom I may identify as an oppressor—or collaborator or enabler? Who knows what I might have “borrowed” from my neighbor as I made my escape?

However, when I consider modern wrongs and modern anger, I hope we can muster expansive vision, looking down the road and remedying wrongs with responses and policies that will be beneficial to all concerned—building goodwill and better friendships.

Expanding Our Human Embrace

January 15th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the main themes of Exodus is that God wants us to treat each other fairly and with both righteousness and compassion. It is an underlying theme of the story of our redemption from Egypt, and it continues in the revelation at Mount Sinai (both in the Ten Commandments and in the subsequent commandments of Exodus 21-23). God expects good behavior from us. Of course, we can turn this around and have a similar expectation about God. Remember Abraham’s passionate questioning of the Divine in Genesis (18): “Will not the Judge of all the world do justly?”

We Israelites are happy with God’s justice in freeing us from Egypt, but there is something troubling about God’s justice in re the Egyptians. Notice God’s plan when the whole process is explained to Moses: “…you and your brother Aaron shall speak to Pharaoh to let the Israelites depart from his land. But I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, that I may multiply My signs and marvels in the land of Egypt. When Pharaoh does not heed you, I will lay My hand upon Egypt and deliver My ranks, My people, the Israelites, from the land of Egypt with extraordinary chastisements. And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch out My hand over Egypt and bring out the Israelites from their midst.” (Exodus 7.2-8)

This hardening of Pharaoh’s heart does not seem fair. Fair would be demanding that Pharaoh let the Israelites go and then judging him on his response. If he lets them go, then he and his country should not be punished. If he persists in his sin of enslaving others, then he deserves to be punished. However, from the very beginning of the story, God plans to “harden Pharaoh’s heart,” forcing Pharaoh to continue his evil and thus merit more punishment. Where is God’s justice here—and in the stories of the plagues that will follow?! When Moses demands “Let My people go!”, why is not Pharaoh given the chance to comply?

There are a number of ways to approach this question, but two stand out to me as most helpful. The first was taught by the late Professor Herbert Chanan Brichto of the Hebrew Union College. He used to interpret the phrase “harden Pharaoh’s heart” as a kind of exasperated bewilderment on the part of the ancient narrator. Given the successive disasters visited upon Egypt, there seems to be no rationale reason for Pharaoh continuing to refuse Israelite freedom. Idiomatically throwing his hands up, the Biblical narrator attributes Pharaoh’s behavior to a non-earthly source. “It must be God hardening his heart! There is no other possible reason!” As Dr. Brichto would explain, today we would say that he is “crazy”—not so much as a psychological diagnosis but as a reaction to an utterly unexplainable response.

A second approach comes from Tradition and expands the context of Pharaoh’s sins. Enslaving, oppressing, and murdering thousands of people is not a simple or accidental sin. Pharaoh and his ancestors have been pursuing this horrible breach of morality continually and systematically for many generations. Much like God’s comment to Cain (Genesis 4.10), “What have your done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!”, the sins of the Egyptians are obvious and habitual. The awareness of their immorality and the need to repent has been evident for years. Now is not the time for a moral reckoning; that time is long past. Now is the time for an object lesson—a time to instruct the entire nation and the rest of the world and the rest of history that such cruelty and unrighteousness are not acceptable. So, at the point of Moses’ entry into the story as God’s prophet, the point is punishment. With the Ten Plagues, God will show that the “God-King” Pharaoh is not so powerful and not in control—that he is helpless to protect his land and people. Notice God’s intention: “I will harden Pharaoh’s heart, that I may multiply My signs and marvels in the land of Egypt.” If one were to compare this to a criminal trial—with the trial, the verdict, the sentencing, and the punishment, Moses is sent for the punishment phase.

In other words, the story does not describe God’s injustice but rather human sin and irrationality—our unwillingness to fix ourselves.

These are important lessons for this season in our secular world. This coming Monday is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a day dedicated to our nation’s long-time struggle to see the full humanity in every person. One of our country’s original and primary principles—“That all men are created equal” and “that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,” including “Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness”—has been a goal aborning for over 200 years. It began as a principle interpreted narrowly, and it is to our credit that our communal awareness has grown to include millions of the formerly unacknowledged—enslaved Africans, women, Jews, Catholics, LGBT individuals, the disabled, Muslims, etc. –as full members of humanity. From a tragic Mitzrayim (Egypt/Narrowness), our understanding of and embrace of humanity has grown profoundly. We have made substantial progress, but, as Dr. King reminds us, there is much more work to be done.

How fast do we push that progress? How much patience needs to be exercised? How is the goal best communicated, i.e., how are those resisting progress best persuaded? And, how can progress for one group not result in threats to another? Dr. King’s life and career show the complexity of the task, and his “Letter From a Birmingham Jail” shows a microcosm of the complexity of strategic thinking. He is arguing with friends and colleagues about when and where to stage demonstrations. Even those who agree in principle may disagree about particular strategies.

We stand—as Americans and as citizens of the world—somewhere between that first Pharaoh “Who knew not Joseph” and the final Pharaoh in the Exodus story who waited too long to make things right. I do not see plagues descending on our country from Heaven, but I do see the continuing tragedy of dehumanization to which no one should be a party. “What have you done? Hark, your brother’s blood cries out to Me from the ground!”

Every year—actually many times a year, we Jews reflect on the Exodus and its lessons. We know what it is like to be a slave. Let us pursue the transformation that the story can effect. Let us join in the eternal call of “Let My people go!” as speakers, persuaders, and workers.

The New Pharaoh

January 8th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Things have been good for Israel in Egypt for many, many years. The Torah does not say how long, but the temporary quality of this prosperity and tranquility is made clear in Exodus 1.8:
“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. He said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise in the event of war they may join our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground.’ So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…”

Rather than appreciate Joseph’s contributions to Egypt—and the significant increase in Pharaoh’s land holdings, this new Pharaoh turns on the people of his predecessor’s trusted servant and turns a good place into a site of oppression and tragedy. The irony of the Pharaoh’s historical ignorance is painful, and it calls to mind the folly of leaders who do not understand what came before them.

Perhaps it is just a natural function of my own elderliness, but I am often shocked by the lack of historical knowledge among those discussing public policy publicly—and how it skews the discussions and deliberations. Often old policies that need changing are criticized for current problems and not seen in the context of their origins. An example is the “Don’t Ask/Don’t Tell” policy enacted by President Clinton that allowed Lesbians and Gays to serve in the military without the threat of discovery, humiliation, and punishment. In 1992, this was gutsy and very controversial and changed centuries of overt persecution of Gays and Lesbians. It was about as far as progressives dared to tread. That it was not a complete solution should be no indictment of the effort and the individuals it helped. Some twenty years later—and a with an improved awareness of the contributions of Gays and Lesbians in the military, President Obama determined that a more complete solution was doable, and he made the appropriate changes.

Similarly, the current large-scale incarceration of African Americans was not the intended goal of the drastic penalties for criminals enacted in the 1990’s. The thought was that increased penalties would dissuade individuals from crime—crime being a major threat to citizens of every racial category. Why the plan did not work is a matter of a longer discussion, but, if one wants a fair discussion of governmental policy, it is important to know history and judge policies and policy makers in context.

One can even extend this principle to the controversies on Civil Rights and the Shelby Decision. Back in 1965, the focus on was the South and the ways that Blacks had been systematically deprived of their Constitutional right to vote. Thus, a number of counties with bad track records were put under the supervision of the Justice Department: any changes in districts or voting procedures had to be approved by the Federal Government. In Shelby County v. Holder, the Court ruled that things have changed since 1965 and that fairness requires that all districts where voter suppression is practiced (in other Southern counties and in many, many counties in the North) need to be included in the supervision system. Otherwise, the 1965-identified counties are being treated unfairly—and the rights of Blacks in other counties are not being protected adequately. The Court thus instructed the Congress to address the problem and fix it. In other words, the history and context of the issue is vitally important in understanding the justice of the decision—and the way forward.

In more local and congregational matters, it is extremely important for us at Brit Shalom to know how and why things were done in the past—what many call institutional memory. Our go-to board member for this important work is Ron Hodes who has been in the congregational leadership since the last century. (Some say since 1847, but the records are not complete that far back.) In the Board’s deliberations, it is not that policies and practices cannot be changed, but Ron helps us understand how things were done, why and how they might have been changed, and the continuing context of our congregation’s efforts to provide a Jewish center in Central Pennsylvania.  Ron’s institutional memory is a real blessing.

Back to Exodus and the case of the new Pharaoh. His folly is not just in ignoring the past. He somehow thinks that morality and ethics have no place in his machinations. Note who is not consulted as the “God King” hatches his plan. The text says he consults the people, but there is no mention of any moral discussion—that part of life where God or the gods are supposed to provide us guidance. He ignores morality and, though he gets some well-built store cities out of it, his enslavement of the Hebrews raises the ire of God and ultimately destroys his country.

This notion of acting without the counsel of heaven—and the dire consequences—reminds me of a discussion later in Exodus about punishing thieves. Thieves who rob at night are punished more severely than those who rob in daylight. Why? As the Rabbis explain, a thief who robs people in daylight is just a brazen person who will look his victim in the eyes while he steals. However, one who sneaks in at night supposes that he is undetected—since his victims are asleep—and ignores the ever-wakeful Eye of God. He commits two crimes—theft of property AND disrespect for God, and thus he merits greater punishment.

Pharaoh behaves as though no one else is watching, and one of the lessons of the Exodus is that the Eternal One is always watching—watching and hoping and evaluating. Let us be careful in the decisions we make.

God Intends It For Good?

January 1st: Vayechi
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is a passage in this week’s Torah portion that is both reassuring and disturbing. It is found near the conclusion of Genesis and the Joseph saga, just after Jacob’s funeral. Joseph’s brothers are concerned that, without their father to protect them, Joseph will exact revenge for when they sold him into slavery. Despite the fact that Joseph welcomed the whole family into Egypt and arranged for them to get excellent land, they have apparently been worried for many years. Now, their anxiety reaches a climax as they anticipate their just desserts being served.

“When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead, they said, ‘What if Joseph bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did to him!’ So they sent this message to Joseph, ‘Before his death, your father left this instruction, “So shall you say to Joseph, ‘Forgive, I urge you, the offense and guilt of your brothers who treated you so harshly.’” Therefore, please forgive the offense of the servants of the God of your father.’ And Joseph was in tears as they spoke to him.

His brothers went to him themselves, flung themselves before him, and said, ‘We are prepared to be your slaves.’ But Joseph said to them, ‘Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people. And so, fear not. I will sustain you and your children.’ Thus he reassured them, speaking kindly to them.” (Genesis 50.15-21)

Though this message is about a particular situation, many interpret this passage as a paradigm. Whatever happens to us—good or bad—is part of God’s plan. Therefore, when something tragic happens, we should console ourselves with faith that the eventual result will be good. Sometimes, this theology can be very comforting—seeing the sadness in this life as steps toward a greater good. It is especially poignant when one considers the sacrifices made in our behalf—by soldiers, police officers, firefighters, and health care professionals. There are those who consciously put themselves in danger’s way for our sakes.

On the other hand, this kind of reasoning can seem to negate the sadness and senseless tragedy that we so often behold and experience. Though Job is told that his understanding of God’s ways pale in comparison to God’s exponentially grand purview, “Who is this who darkens counsel, speaking without knowledge...Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundations?” (Job 38.2-4), the fact that we do not understand makes such faith almost impossible. Seldom are there roadmaps showing how tragedy today will lead to wonderful things tomorrow. And, this kind of reasoning can lead to very troubling questions: Why must the Divine Plan necessitate this particular sacrifice? Did six million need to die for God’s ultimate purpose? Not to be grotesque, but could not a smaller number of deaths have accomplished the same goal? Or more to the point, could not the Eternal God of the Universe come up with a method of persuasion or machination that did not involve so much human suffering? Do God’s “silver linings” require such dark and horrifying clouds?

Like I said, some people find great comfort is the notion of a Divine Plan in which tragedies are necessary steps toward a greater good. “Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good.” Other people find it abhorrent that the Compassionate One would allow us to be so cruelly abused. If God is truly omnipotent (all powerful) and omnibenevolent (all good), then terrible things would not afflict us and make our loved ones suffer.

In philosophy, this is known as the question of theodicy, and it has been debated for at least 3000 years. Among the many answers, one is inspired by a blessing in the traditional liturgy, Blessing #15 in the Weekday Shemonah Esreh/Amidah. 
Baruch Atah Adonai, Matzmi’ach keren yeshu’a.
Matzmi’ach means to plant, like a farmer plants a seed. Keren is a cornucopia, a reservoir full of what is needed. And, yeshu’a is the word for salvation—that which makes our lives meaningful.

There is no way to know whether God puts “silver linings in dark clouds”—using terrible things as vehicles for blessings. However, this benediction suggests that what God plants is not within the dark clouds but within us. God gives us resilience—that combination of will and creative adaptability with which we endure the tragedies that beset us and often recover from them. The solutions we develop do not “justify” the calamities and tragedies, but they do speak of the spirit God places within us to endure and struggle and pursue nobility even in the face of grave difficulty.

Baruch Atah Adonai, Matzmi’ach keren yeshu’a.
We praise You, O Lord, Who plants an abundance of resilience within us.

Baruch Atah Adonai, Shom’raynu, Go’alaynu, v’Tzur yish’aynu.
We praise You, O Lord, Who protects us, Who helps us when we are in difficulty, and Who is our eternal and everlasting hope.

Sage Wisdom

December 25th: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of our most venerable traditions is deference to the elderly—to our sages. We are taught to respect our forebears and to respect their experiences and judgment. The Traditional attitude is that they are closer to the purity of the Revelation—to Sinai—and thus have a better understanding of the directions we were given back then. Of course, there is a difference between respect and obedience. The Fifth Commandment does not say, “Obey your father and  your mother.” It commands us to “Honor your father and your mother…” (Exodus 20) It is one thing to respect the elderly; it is another thing to obey them without question. Honor and respect dictate that we listen carefully to our elderly, but we are not obliged to obey them. This dynamic tension was approached by Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, the thinker behind Reconstructionist Judaism, when he said, “The past has a vote, not a veto.”

This all comes to mind this week because our Torah portion presents a brief but possibly significant meeting of the minds. After the dramatic family reunions between Joseph and his brothers—and then his father, and after Jacob moves the whole family down to Egypt (Genesis 45-47), “Joseph then brought his father Jacob and presented him to Pharaoh; and Jacob greeted Pharaoh. Pharaoh asked Jacob, ‘How many are the years of your life?’ Jacob answered Pharaoh, ‘The years of my sojourn on earth are one hundred and thirty. Few and hard have been the years of my life, nor do they come up to the life spans of my fathers during their sojourns.’ Then Jacob bade Pharaoh farewell, and Jacob left Pharaoh’s presence.” (Genesis 47.7-10)

The text is not clear about whether Pharaoh understands whom he is meeting. Some commentators treat it as a polite encounter—Pharaoh is just meeting his trusted assistant’s family. Others, however, intuit that Pharaoh knows that he is meeting a person of high spiritual status: Ya’akov/Yisra’el, the Patriarch of God’s new religion, the man who wrestled with both God and with men and prevailed. In their minds, Pharaoh is thrilled and impressed with meeting Jacob and is hoping for some wisdom and spiritual profundity. This possibility that Pharaoh is impressed with Jacob’s “sageness” is supported by a few points. Pharaoh asks about Jacob’s age—length of years being a basis for respect. Jacob does most of the talking—indicating that Pharaoh is in the presence of a spiritual master and takes the opportunity to learn from him. And, at the end, Jacob blesses Pharaoh.

Our translation renders the Hebrew, “Vayivarech Ya’akov et Par’oh” as simply “Jacob bade Pharaoh farewell”—based on Rashi’s notion that the scene describes polite social conversation. The RAMBAN (Rabbi Moses Nachmanides) has a different view, based on a literal translation of the text. The word “Yivarech” means “blessed,” leading Nachmonides to see a disciple (Pharaoh) appearing before a master (Jacob) to receive wisdom. From his superior spiritual position, Jacob bestows blessing and wisdom on Pharaoh—and Pharaoh is both happy and honored to receive the Patriarch’s blessing.

Does this affect Pharaoh’s and Joseph’s economic policy—or foreign policy or any of their plans? Apparently not. Though the Pharaoh knows that Jacob is his superior in intellect and spiritual wisdom, he does not invite him to sit at the table of national decisions. He honors Jacob; he learns from Jacob; he welcomes Jacob to his country and gives him the land of Goshen. He does not, however, install Jacob as a governmental leader. To paraphrase Kaplan, Pharaoh gives deference to the sage, but he does not give him control.

How does one become a sage, and what should one do with the status? Sometimes, retired (or dismissed) public officials try to actualize their sage status by writing memoirs in which they “set the story straight” and try to influence from the Great Beyond of retirement. They may provide important insights, but it is important to remember that their new positions are markedly different from when they held the reins of power. Do we listen to them? Of course. Are we bound to believe them or obey them? No, hardly. Their wisdom may be helpful, but, then again, it could be bound and limited by the same opinions and situations that hampered them when they were in charge. Idealistic visions are wonderful, but turning them into reality is the challenge, and the elevation to sage does not automatically confer correctness.

So, let us imagine the relationship between Jacob and Joseph during the seventeen years Jacob lives in Egypt. One figures Joseph is pretty busy—and that Jacob is retired. Nonetheless, one figures that they get together from time to time and that the busy administrator “talks shop” with his Dad. As an elderly sage, with wisdom to share, one can imagine Jacob holding forth on various issues of interest. As a dutiful and affectionate son, Joseph is probably interested in his father’s insights. He certainly listens and considers, but this is not a dynamic of command and obedience.

As much as we can learn from Jacob’s many experiences—examples of both good and not-so-good behaviors, a positive lesson we can learn here is about letting go and trusting the next generation to figure things out on its own. Jacob has fathered a nation, and he has made great spiritual progress, but he is not the leader of Egypt, and he must let the Pharaoh and Joseph fulfill their responsibilities. Part of being a sage is realizing that one is no longer in charge.

Joseph, Ambivalence, and a Chanukah Rant

December 18th: Mikketz
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As the story of Joseph progresses, we see all kinds of ups and downs. Joseph begins the Torah portion in prison, abandoned by his family, betrayed by his master’s wife, and scorned by his master. He is even forgotten by the Pharaoh’s cupbearer—a friend who Joseph is hoping will help him get out of prison. However, things soon change—after two years of waiting! When the Pharaoh has disturbing dreams, the cupbearer suddenly remembers Joseph and his ability to interpret dreams. Joseph is whisked out of prison, cleaned up, and offered to the Pharaoh as the key to understanding these mysterious messages. Though Joseph has had a tendency toward arrogance, in front of the Pharaoh, he finally shows some humility. “Pharaoh said to Joseph, ‘I have had a dream, but no one can interpret it. Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.’ Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, ‘Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.’” (Genesis 41.15-16)

The rest is history. Joseph interprets the Pharaoh’s dreams and is elevated to the heights of the Egyptian government. He supervises the storage of grain during the years of plenty and the dispensing of grain during the years of famine. He is wealthy, powerful, and respected. He marries a woman of great status, and they have two sons. We do not know his feelings about his family back in Canaan—whether his memories are angry or sad or simply forgotten, but his past does not stay in the past. One day his brothers show up in Egypt hoping to purchase grain, and Joseph is face to face with his tormentors. 

Eventually, Joseph shows compassion for his family. However, he toys with his brothers for quite a while, testing them and putting them under additional stress. One can almost sense an ambivalence in Joseph as he considers what should be done to/for his family. Eventually, he does the right thing, but, along the way, he seems to have all kinds of thoughts about what to do.

Ambivalence. Ambivalence! How often are we caught between competing values or divergent sensibilities. It is a ubiquitous human trait, but happy occasions seem to bring out a special dose of ambivalence. Why do we feel the need to mitigate our joy? On the one hand, we may be fearful that celebration today will precede tragedy tomorrow. Thus does the Tradition prescribe, whenever something is good—a baby looking beautiful, a success achieved, an escape managed, we punctuate our joy with the phrase “kayn ahorah / k’ayin hara / against the Evil Eye.” We do not want to invoke calamity. Even when counting a minyan, Tradition warns us not to count “1, 2, 3, 4, etc.” Lest we invoke the Evil Eye to reduce our number by a hitherto unplanned tragedy, we are taught to count, “Not 1, Not 2, Not 3”–all the way up to “Not 10.” Being too happy can be dangerous!

On the other hand, we know that all happiness is fleeting—that it will not last. Thus we have a unique human ability to ignore good things because bad things are certain to come along at some point in the future. We can be very good at not enjoying joy.

On the third hand, there can be a narrowness in the human soul that wants to rain on other people’s parades. If we are feeling bad about something—anything, why should someone else get to feel good?

Unfortunately, Chanukah is among the prime times for this pitiable human tendency. I see it almost every year in those Chanukah editorials one sees in newspapers. In an attempt to add some multicultural sensitivity to news coverage, editors grab some column by some Jewish writer from somewhere and publish it. The New York Times did one this year by a Christian from a Jewish background who, guess what, prefers Christmas to Chanukah. 

Our own local Centre Daily Times grabbed one of these columns—from out in San Diego, and presented us with two time honored Chanukah ambivalences. Lest we enjoy our holiday, we are warned (1) that it is a MINOR holiday—not one for too much celebration—and (2) that we should NOT give our children presents. Talmudically, Chanukah is a minor holiday. However, over the 2000 years since, lots of things in Judaism have changed. We no longer offer sacrifices in the Temple in Jerusalem.  Sukkot and Shavuot have decreased in significance. Yom Hashoah  and Yom Ha’atzmaut have been invented. And, Chanukah has morphed into something very important and very celebratory. It is our Jewish way of standing up as Jews against the tidal wave of Christmas that seems to overwhelm everything in its path. Just as the Maccabees stood tall in their Jewish Identity—fighting both culturally and militarily against Hellenism, modern Jews affirm their Jewishness and feel pride as they celebrate a Jewish holiday at this season of the year.

As for gifts, the prophet cries, “Children don’t need any more things! Charities need gifts, not your children!” We all struggle with materialism, and we all figure out our limits. We  all also realize our obligation to help the poor, and we all figure out how we can help—and how we can teach Tzedakah to our children. However, why cannot children enjoy the gifts of the holiday? Why is it necessary to make parents feel guilty about indulging their children and showing them love with gifts? Why must some begrudge us the joy of giving and receiving gifts? True, if we were starving on the Oregon Trail or in Theresienstadt, we’d have to make do without new toys, but we are not starving on the Oregon Trail or in a concentration camp. We are shepherding our families through a very difficult time—with disruptions and separation and fears, and it seems to me that this is the perfect time to brighten our children’s lives with gifts. Yes, there are problems in the world, and we certainly have a responsibility to help solve them, but there is nothing wrong with celebrating joy when it comes to us. There is something very small-minded and sad about criticizing others who are having fun. As Rebbe Nachman used to teach: “Mitzvah gedolah lihiyot b’simchah tamid. It is a great mitzvah to be happy all the time.” Chanukah is a time for joy on many different levels. It is a mitzvah to celebrate when God gives us reason!

Not By Might and Not By Power

December 11th: Vayeshev and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Torah is often referred to as “The Law,” and there is a tendency in our Tradition to focus on singlemindedness in observing The Law. This is certainly a message of the Maccabees, Jewish priests who were so focused on observing the Law that they risked (and, in many cases, lost) their lives fighting against the Syrian Greek Empire. This singlemindedness is supported by any number of Biblical passages, perhaps the most notable of which is in the Shema: “You shall love the Lord your God with ALL your heart, with ALL your soul, and with ALL your might.” (Deuteronomy 6.5) This is not a tentative sentiment, and it is bolstered by the story of Rabbi Akiba’s martyrdom. Sentenced to death for teaching Torah, Akiba was tortured through the night. He prayed throughout the ordeal as though he were impervious to pain. When the Roman general asked if he were a sorcerer, Akiba replied that he was not. However, he explained that he had always been frustrated that he could not follow the mitzvah of loving God with all of his soul—until that moment. He recited the Shema and died happily.

This, by the way, is where we derive the tradition of saying Shema in our last breath.

And yet, despite the fact that devotion is encouraged and admired, our Tradition is not single-minded. The Torah and Talmud are full of a variety of different opinions and sentiments about virtually everything. We have many names for God. We have two Creation stories and three versions of the Ten Commandments. We have lots of different attitudes on sacrificial worship, and, within and beyond the Bible, we have been discussing and debating the practical and spiritual details of our religion for some 3000 years.

One of the most famous Chanukah debates involves how we light the candles in the Menorah. Shammai, the second leading rabbi of the time, held that we should begin with eight candles and then work our way down to a single candle on the eighth night. This is because our excitement for Chanukah is greatest on the first night and then wanes as the festival continues. There is also the logic, as explained by one of our Religious School students, that the amount of the miraculous oil decreases nightly. Hillel, leading rabbi of the time, held that we should begin with one candle and gradually work our way up to eight. His logic? That the miraculousness increases with every passing night. The miracle on the eighth night is demonstrably more miraculous than on the second, fourth, or sixth nights.

It is a manifest mistake to find a Biblical or Talmudic verse and stand on it as though it is the only expression of the Divine Will. Whatever we read in one passage is invariably countered or shaded by another passage, and our job as Jewish servants of the Most High is to join the discussion and debate and apply the many textual views to the realities of life.

A case in point comes in the Haftarah this week. In Zechariah (4.6), we read the famous, “Not by might, nor by power, but by My spirit, says the Lord of Hosts.” Set in the middle of a mystical vision, the plain meaning of the verse is difficult to ascertain. Perhaps, Zechariah is insisting that, despite the fact that the second Temple might be much less glorious than the first one (destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE), something should be built. Even if the effort is less than ideal architecturally, it would not be “might” nor “power” that would connect them to God; rather, it would be God’s “spirit” that would make Temple worship holy.

The verse has also been associated with Chanukah’s miracles—both the miracle of the oil AND the miracle of the rag-tag Maccabean army defeating the Greek Syrians. It was not by military might, nor by military power, but by the indomitable spirit of holiness visited upon them by God that the Maccabees were able to succeed.

An interesting divergent interpretation is found in Debbie Friedman’s Not By Might, written in the early 1970s. In her adaptation of Zechariah, she channeled the anti-war sentiments of the folk-music movement and the Reform Movement in Judaism and produced a very popular and often sung anthem:
Not by might and not by power,
But by spirit alone shall we all live in peace.

The children sing; the children dream,
And their tears may fall, but we’ll hear them call,
And another song will rise, another song will rise, another song will rise!

Not by might and not by power,
But by spirit alone shall we all live in peace.

Not by might! Not by power. Shalom!

Such an interpretation does not go against the stream of Jewish attitudes about armed resistance. Indeed, after the Bar Kochba Revolution (in 133 CE, the one where Rabbi Akiba was martyred), the general attitude of Jewish survival taught that armed resistance is futile. The best we can do is just bear the oppression and strive to be true to the spirit of our religious mission. “Not by might and not by power, but by My spirit!” It was only in the 19th Century, with the development of “Jewish Self-Defense,” that some Jews began fighting back.

There is also an interpretation—voiced by a number of commentators—that sees the verse as directed against odds-making and pessimism when it comes to pursuing God’s causes. Though it may seem impossible for us to achieve our task, it is not OUR might nor OUR power but rather God’s spirit and our willingness to be vessels of God that cause us (God!) to prevail.

This certainly is a message of David in Psalm 29. The real power in the world is God’s, and God will give us strength so that we can prevail and eventually find peace.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo vashalom.
The Lord will give strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.”

Once May Not Be Enough

December 4th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

It is always interesting to me when the Torah gives a message twice. The Traditional attitude is that God is never redundant. If we are paying close attention to God’s communications—as we know we should (!), once is enough. Therefore, if God chooses to repeat a message, there must be a reason for it. 

Modern scholars see such repetitions as clues to multiple authors and documents, and explain that the Torah is a composite document with different stories and rules—and sometimes, different versions of the same stories. These different documents—tribal traditions from different time periods—were at some point compiled and edited into what we know as the Torah. (See the Documentary Hypothesis.)

Tradition, however, always looks for editorial reasons why God, the presumed author of the Torah, chooses to give some messages more than once. One possible reason is that God wants emphasize the importance or immediacy of a revelation. In the case of Pharaoh’s double dream portending seven years of plenty and seven years of famine, Joseph explains: “As for Pharaoh having had the same dream twice, it means that the matter has been determined by God, and that God will soon carry it out.” (Genesis 41.32) 

Another reason for such planned redundancy is the addition of Divine approval to a human action. In Toldot and Vayetze (our recent Torah portions), we have a double assignment of Jacob’s spiritual leadership. The first comes when Rebekah and Jacob fool old blind Isaac into giving Jacob the blessing intended for Esau. The second blessing/assignments comes in Jacob’s dream—with the Ladder between Heaven and Earth. As you may remember, God is at the top of the Ladder and tells Jacob: “I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants.” (Genesis 28.13-15)

The best reason I can see for this double blessing is to establish its legitimacy. Imagine the taint on Jacob’s leadership and spiritual authority if his blessing/assignment is given under false pretenses. Moreover, why should God be bound by a blessing given as a mistake—by an imperceptive and beguiled blesser? The fact that God now gives the blessing reinforces Jacob’s standing as the Patriarch—making it clear that Jacob is God’s choice to lead the new religion. (It also leads the Rabbis to reconfigure with Midrash the story so that Rebekah and Jacob are heroes who protect the religion from the profoundly unsuitable Esau.)

I see a similar pattern in this week’s double renaming of Jacob. He is first renamed Israel by the mysterious “man” with whom he wrestles through the night: “Jacob was left alone. And a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn,. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket, so that the socket of his hip was strained as he wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go, for dawn is breaking.’ But he answered, ‘I will not let you go, unless you bless me.’ Said the other, ‘What is your name?’ He replied, ‘Jacob.’ Said he, ‘Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with beings divine and human, and have prevailed.’” (Genesis 32.25-29)

The story is compelling, but who is this “man,” and on what authority does he get to change Jacob’s name? Tradition says that he is an angel, but the mystery is not fully resolved. Perhaps this is why God reiterates the name change later in the portion. Well after the wrestling match, “God appeared to Jacob on his arrival from Paddan-aram, and God blessed him, saying, ‘You whose name is Jacob, you shall be called Jacob no more, but Israel shall be your name...I am El Shaddai.’” (Genesis 35.9-11) God wants readers of the Torah to know that the new name is of Divine origin—regardless of who the wrestler may be.

One other point in this portion: While most of us think of the name Deborah in terms of the famous judge and military leader in the Book of Judges, she is not the original Biblical Deborah. In Genesis 35, just before God declares the name change for Jacob, there is a small, almost out-of-context, detail: “Deborah, Rebekah’s nurse, died, and was buried under the oak below Bethel; so it was named Allon-bacuth / Oak of Crying.” (Genesis 35.8) We have not been introduced to this Deborah before, but, apparently she is part of the story—coming along with Rebekah from Paddan-aram when Rebekah is a young bride. The fact that she is described as a nurse and not a handmaid fuels a Midrash about Rebekah’s age when she gives water to Abraham’s servant and camels and is invited to marry Isaac. One figures that, since she gets water and welcomes the traveler—and seems to be of marriageable age, she is at least a teenager. However, through a Midrashic process, the Rabbis “reveal” that she is actually only three years old. Her perception, hospitality, and maturity indicate to Abraham’s servant that she is eminently qualified to be both a wife and Matriarch. But, as a three-year old, she needs her nurse—not a handmaid!—to accompany her, and thus we have Deborah, Rebekah’s nurse, being a part of the household throughout Rebekah and Isaac’s marriage. One more thing, realizing that a three year-old is much too young for marriage, the Rabbis explain that Isaac waits many years—until Rebekah grows up—before living with her as man and wife. That is why (1) she stays in Sarah’s tent and not in Isaac’s, and (2) he is so old (60) when they have the twins, Esau and Jacob.

There is a whole world in the Bible, and we can learn from it every time we look carefully. As the Talmudic Sage Ben Bag-Bag explains, “Turn it and turn it for everything is in it. Reflect on it, and grow old and gray with it. Do not turn from it, for nothing is better than it.” (Pirke Avot 5.22)

Heroes or Normal People: Our Biblical Examples

November 27th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When it comes to Biblical heroes, there are two approaches. One is that they are heroic 100% of the time—from the moment they are born and forever. Whatever they do is good and right—even if it appears otherwise. A case in point is our ancestor Jacob who seems selfish in refusing lentil stew to his famished brother Esau and dishonest in stealing the blessing their father intends for Esau. The Rabbis feel compelled to reconfigure his seemingly ignoble behavior into piety and holy leadership: he is trying to save Judaism from the impulsive, foolish, and brutal leadership of the unfit Esau. To this end, they embark on a kind of character assassination on Esau, finding fault in everything about him. They could be right, but the most important thing is to establish Jacob’s righteousness at every moment of his existence. 

This is not just a Jewish way of thinking. In Christianity, there is a debate about when Jesus achieves his Divine abilities. I remember seeing a Renaissance painting showing the Baby (infant!) Jesus standing, holding his hand up in a gesture of blessing, and presumably speaking wisdom. The point of the artist seems to be that, even as a six month old, Jesus can already speak with Divine profundity.

The second view is that Biblical heroes’ heroism or wisdom comes as part of a developmental process. They may not start off perfect; indeed, they may make many missteps. What makes them heroic is that they learn and grow and rise to the occasion. This is certainly a view we can take of Jacob—and of his son Joseph. They are guilty of a variety of less than ideal behaviors in their youth, but they grow out of selfishness or vanity and learn righteousness and wisdom.

Following this line of thinking, we can read Jacob’s early actions—against his brother and his father—not as righteous but as sinful. It can also explain a curious passage in this week’s Torah portion. After finagling his brother and father and escaping from Esau’s wrath, Jacob camps out along the way to Syria and has his famous dream about the ladder between heaven and earth. In that dream, God promises him an amazing destiny, but Jacob tries a little hard-dealing with God. He accepts the blessing but only with conditions:  “IF God remains with me, IF He protects me on this journey that I am making, and IF He gives me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and IF I return safe to my father’s house, THEN the Lord shall be my God.” (Genesis 28.20-21) 

Jacob finagles his brother. He finagles his father. He tries to finagle God. And then he meets a Master of the Finagle, Uncle Laban. They work on each other and, while Jacob wins some of the battles, he also loses many—and the sad life of Leah, the many family betrayals, and even the death of his beloved Rachel are all the results of his continuing attempts to get one over on Laban. As it turns out, these defeats lead him to a kind of wisdom—bringing him face to face with the struggles of life. This process is symbolized with his wrestling match with an angel, and what emerges is the Patriarch Israel. His spiritual status is hard won, and he carries a limp as a reminder of the costs of unholiness, but God’s way is righteous—as Jacob eventually learns. 

For an interesting alternative view on the view of Baby Jesus presented in that Renaissance portrait, consider a fascinating book by a local author. In The First Resurrection of Christ: Becoming Christ, Reverend Dr. Sarah Quinter Malone describes Jesus starting out as a child and following the normal course of human development as he grows into his wisdom and spiritual mission.

By the way, this notion of Biblical figures growing into wisdom can also shed light on those times when heroes backslide or revert to sin. King David is perhaps the best example. Here is a man who has moments of greatness and moments of terrible depravity. He, many modern commentators observe, is an example of how we must all work hard to stay on the straight and narrow—to resist temptation and, when we do not, to repent with all our hearts. 

In any event, even those who see total righteousness in the Bible’s heroes believe that learning and growth is necessary in life, and the story of Jacob is one of many used to teach this lesson. I have written before about the story of the ancient academy of Jewish learning, led by Shem and Eber (Noah’s son and great-great-grandson) and located at Mount Moriah (Salem / Jerusalem). Further corroboration for this tradition is found in the saga of Jacob.  Though his mother suggests traveling from Hebron to Syria (Paddan-aram) “for a while, until your brother’s fury subsides—until your brother’s anger against you subsides—and he forgets what you have done to him” (Genesis 27.44-45), Jacob ends up being away from home for twenty-one years. However, the events described in the Torah only add up to fourteen years. What is he doing for those seven missing years? The Midrash’s answer is that he was studying, of course—studying at the Yeshiva of Shem and Eber. Patriarchs have to study—and so do regular people, like me and you. 

I conclude with another interfaith insight. The Tibetan Buddhists have an interesting belief about their main three leaders, Lamas, being reincarnated and continuing to lead them continually. When one dies, the body of his rebirth must be ascertained—and the child’s parents must agree to releasing their child to the monks for training. Though he is the spiritual leader and the possessor of a higher soul, he is nonetheless a child and must be taught all the skills and wisdom of their religion—growing into the spiritual leader he is destined to be. 

Wisdom and skills require learning and study. It is the way.

The Unknowns of Ancient Spirituality

November 20th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

All stories or reports, even in the Bible, are edited by the narrator. Even if we are talking about the Narrator (God), there is a certain amount of selection involved in choosing which details to include and which details to omit. In other words, when one thinks about the myriad details of a human life and the relatively few specifics included in the Torah’s account, there must have been a lot in the lives of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs that we simply do not know. Though we have many and important stories, giants swaths of their lives and experiences are simply untold. Every once in a while, however, a little hint pops up that suggests a hitherto unknown aspect of their ancient lives. 

A case in point comes in our Torah portion this week, as we read about Isaac’s and Rebekah’s twenty year struggle with infertility. “Isaac was forty years old when he took to wife Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel the Aramean of Padan-aram, sister of Laban the Aramean. Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived.”
This is all wonderful, but the pregnancy does not go well.
“But the children struggled in her womb, and she said, ‘If so, why do I exist?’ She went to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her.  
‘Two nations are in your womb,
Two separate peoples shall issue from your body;
One people shall be mightier than the other,
And the older shall serve the younger.’
Ultimately, she is able to carry the pregnancy to term.
“When her time to give birth was at hand, there were twins in her womb. The first one emerged red, like a hairy mantle all over; so they named him Esau. Then his brother emerged, holding on to the heel of Esau; so they named him Jacob. Isaac was sixty years old when they were born.” (Genesis 25.20-27)

There is a lot to think about in this paragraph—most importantly the contentious nature of the twins’ relationship. However, I want to focus on that almost skippable mention of the unnamed place where Rebekah goes “to inquire of the Lord.” It could simply mean that she prays and gets an answer, but the passage suggests something else: that there is a particular place where people can go to communicate with God, and that there is someone there who effects the oracle.

I am not the first reader to wonder about this. In fact the ancient Rabbis worked their Midrashic skills to give us an answer. Rebekah, they explain, goes to Jerusalem—then called Salem or Moriah. It is the home of a religious academy—a yeshiva, as it were—where Shem and Eber teach ancients the ways of God. Shem is Noah’s son, and, in his 600 years (Genesis 11.10-11), he lives to see many generations of his descendants, including Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Eber is Shem’s great-grandson (Noah’s great-great grandson), and, in his 464 years (Genesis 11.16-17), he also gets to see many, many generations of his descendants. Some ancient scholar added up all the years and used this curious fact to construct an important lesson. No one gets to be a spiritual master spontaneously; he must be trained; he must study. So, the legend developed where these ancestors of Abraham run a religious institution at the future site of the Temple—a religious place where the pious of the time go to study, and where people can commune with the Divine.

This could have been the unnamed place where Rebekah “went to inquire of the Lord,” though, without the Midrashic treatment, one can imagine other possibilities. There were and are in the world certain places known for their spirituality. Often these are associated with a particular religion, but some are open to all. In Morocco, both Jews and Muslims visit the graves of spiritual masters of both faiths, hoping to commune with the great spirits and get guidance from Above. In ancient Greece, there was the Oracle of Delphi, and, throughout India, Iran, Tibet, etc., there are places where people go for an extra intense spiritual experience. Perhaps one of these places is accessible to Rebekah and with interpreters to help with her query.

The Tradition is uncomfortable with our pious ancestors accessing any non-Jewish sources, and thus it assumes that everyone is 100% Jewish from the very beginning. We know, however, that Abram and Sarai begin their lives as Aramean idolators, and we know that Rebekah and later Leah and Rachel also begin their lives as Aramean idolators. When the “conversion to Judaism” takes place—and the length of time such a transition requires—is not part of the Biblical narrative. In other words, it should not come as a surprise that they may retain remnants of the attitudes or practices that they learned as children.

Clearly, we have only speculation—because the Biblical Narrator/narrator leaves out details of the Judaization process. However, the logic of a gradual transformation in a gradually developing “Judaism” makes sense. Even as late as the Talmudic Period, our religion is clearly undergoing a developmental process as the Rabbis derive and apply Divine principles to earthly and communal life. Why would this not be happening at the very beginning of our faith? And, could not this unnamed place where Rebekah goes “to inquire of the Lord,” be part of her pre-Jewish spiritual world?

The modern author, Anita Diamant, thinks in these terms in her 1997 novel, The Red Tent, a “behind the scenes” look at the life of the Matriarchs. She speculates about the gradual process of Judaizing—and how some pre-Jewish rituals and practices hang on. It is all speculation, though she does see a variety of hints in various passages in Genesis and uses them to construct a modern Midrash. Her point—and mine—is that the entirety of history is not included in the Torah’s narrative, and we are left to wonder about the broader religious views, practices, and experiences of our ancient forebears. 

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.