A Festival of Sacred Imagination

April 2nd: Conclusion of Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Passover is an experiment in imagination. Whatever our current situation, we are asked to put ourselves into the Torah’s narrative and imagine what it would have been like to experience both slavery in Egypt and the miraculous rescue. As Rabban Gamliel teaches in the Mishnah (Pesachim 10.5): “In every generation, each person should feel that he/she personally went out of Egypt, as it is commanded in Exodus 13, “You shall tell your child on that day, ‘I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.’”

Pretty much everything in the Seder is devoted to this purpose—this extended imaginative experience. That is why we dip the parsley in salt water. That is why we eat the bitter herbs. That is why we eat the matzah and charoset. That is even why we scrounge around for a lamb shank bone. Remember, the whole Passover Seder experience comes from that single commandment (though repeated three times), “You shall tell your child.” Telling the story is the purpose, and our Sages developed the entire narrative meal to get us to immerse ourselves in the story.

Some years, it is easier to feel the story. Depending on our mindsets and circumstances, the story may resonate more or less with our souls. Indeed, the phenomenon of the Passover story being applied to current events is an example of this imaginative enhancement. Think about the “Freedom Seders” held when the current oppressive concern involved Civil Rights for African Americans. Remember the fervor when the Seder’s message paralleled the need for freedom for Jews in the Soviet Union.  There is also the continuing tradition of Women’s Seders, Jewish celebrations which run a double track, recounting the Exodus from Egypt and yearning for full liberation for women.

While the story of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, is our story, it is also a universal story. I remember, in particular, a model Seder I led in the early 1990s at a Metropolitan Community Church—a Christian denomination dedicated to LGBT individuals and their families and friends. I as led the Seder and told our story, the eyes of the participants glistened with the tears of their hopes and struggles. The hope for liberation and meaning is universal.

Of course, there are some great ironies in the story’s application. Back in the 1800s, while African slaves in America were aligning their stories with that of the Israelites in Egypt, so were the Dutch South Africans—the Afrikaners. In their Transvaal Trek to escape British domination, they saw themselves as the Hebrew slaves marching across the wilderness to the Promised Land. Here was a group that developed one of the most oppressive racist regimes in the world, while their nationalistic mythology cast them as the oppressed Israelites yearning for freedom.)

By the time most of us are in our teens, we know the story quite well. We might even be able to tell our Christian friends about it—as we explain why we eat Matzah for lunch at school. We know the parts of the Seder, and we have opinions about the tunes and the recipes and the way the Seder is conducted. But, do we really feel the story? Do we respond to the prompts of the Seder and, as Rabban Gamliel’s urges, feel as though we personally experienced Yetzi’at Mitzrayim?

Of the many teachers with whom I have studied, one of the most inspirational and insightful was Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, z’l. He had a particular take on this notion of putting ourselves into rituals that I find most helpful. Borrowing from Maslow’s terminology, Reb Zalman spoke of moments like Yetzi’at Mitzrayim as peak experiences. Collected in Torah, our communal spiritual memory, they happened once but, hopefully, continue to happen in our lives. How do we relive these peak experiences? In our rituals. They, according to Reb Zalman, are peak experiences domesticated. They are our efforts to take moments that are miraculous and completely unexpected and make them accessible when we need them in our lives. These rituals, he taught, are the ways that we can experience God’s awesome presence and be reminded of the Divine’s ever-present possibility.

So, when we chant this week’s Torah portion, Shirat Hayam, the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15), we are urged to put ourselves in the minds and souls of our ancient ancestors—just escaped from Egyptian bondage, seemingly safe, but then faced with terrifying death. The thunder of the Egyptian cavalry was a horrible reversal of the reversal of fate that God had wrought. They knew the ferocity and ruthlessness of the people who had enslaved them for 400 years. They knew what the Egyptians were thinking. “The foe said, ‘I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; My desire shall have its fill of them. I will bare my sword—my hand shall destroy them!” (Exodus 15.9) The certainty of death was so intense that our ancestors cried out to Moses, “What? Was it for a lack of graves in Egypt that you brought us out here to die?” (Exodus 14.11)

As Professor Dvora Weisburg teaches (in this week’s Ten Minutes of Torah on the Union for Reform Judaism website, ReformJudaism.org), “When the Israelites saw the Egyptians, they forgot about the power of God manifested in the ten plagues; all they could think of was their present peril.” But then, there was the miracle: the Sea split, and a pathway opened up before them. “The Lord is our strength and our might; God has become our deliverance!” (Exodus 15.2)

This is the feeling—the historical and holy sensibility—that we are taught to regain and to reimagine. This is the spiritual memory we are taught to preserve. When we read Shirat Hayam in the Torah, or we chant Mi Chamocha in our services, we have the opportunity to sample a peak experience domesticated—and to feel awe and amazement and joy and appreciation. God is an ever-present possibility.
“Who is like You, O Lord, among the mighty?!
Who is like You, glorious in holiness, awesome in praises, working wonders?!”  (Exodus 15.11)

The Conversation with God

March 26th: Tzav and Shabbat HaGadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Tzav, the second portion in Leviticus, continues the detailed instructions for sacrificial worship. In the olden days—pre-Temple and during the days of the Temple, our ancestors would bring animals, grain, oil, and wine to the Lord, and these foodstuffs—along with frankincense—would be used for a variety of worship occasions. These rules were very important for they were commanded by the Lord, and they were the official methods of coming close to the Divine. The Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban, comes from the root KRB which has to do with closeness.

The specificity of instructions even extended to what we might consider janitorial chores. In Leviticus 6.1-4, we read: “This is the ritual of the burnt offering: the burnt offering itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept going on it. The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar. He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments and carry the ashes outside the camp to a clean place.” When dealing with holy things, even cleaning up must be done with kavannah—with concentration and sincerity.

Our holy books are full of this kind of thing—of telling us exactly how to do rituals. We want to be diligent, but sometimes we can focus so much on the rules that we lose sight of the relational process the rules are supposed to facilitate.

There is a Mishna which may help us to reorient ourselves and understand the reason for the rules. It is in the very beginning of the Mishna, Tractate Berachot 2.1. It first addresses the way the Shema is to be read: “If a man is studying the Shema in the Torah, and the time comes to recite the Shema, if he directs his heart, he has fulfilled his obligation; otherwise, he has not fulfilled it.” In other words, just reading the words is not enough. One must mean the words of the Shema and use them to connect with God. Then, there is the matter of interrupting the reading because someone comes up and says Hello. “Between the sections he may salute a man out of respect and return a greeting; but in the middle of a section, he may salute a man only out of fear of him and return a greeting. So says Rabbi Meir.” The concern here is that a potentially hostile Roman may get insulted if the worshipper ignores him. To save one’s life—and perhaps the lives of the whole community, one is permitted to interrupt his fervent recitation of the Shema. By the way, the sections they are discussing are the three paragraphs of The Shema: Deuteronomy 6.5-9, Deuteronomy 11.13-21, and Numbers 15.37-41. Rabbi Judah, however, seems concerned that returning a Roman’s greeting may not be enough. One may need to greet the Roman pre-emptively in order to avoid insulting him. And there is the matter of politeness to friends as well. “Rabbi Judah says: In the middle he may salute a man out of fear of him and return a greeting out of respect; between the sections, he may salute out of respect and return the greeting of anyone.”

I think we can understand the issue of a potentially hostile greeter—and even of returning courtesies in the synagogue, but is this the real issue? Why are the Rabbis concerned about interrupting a prayer at all? Is not a prayer just some words—that we can continue after a brief chat? Not exactly. The problem is the conversation that is taking place in the prayer—the conversation with God! Taking a break in the midst of a prayer suggests that one is not fully involved in the relational process—that words are being recited without kavannah. This is hardly the way to treat the Divine. Even more than that, however, is the plain rudeness of interrupting a conversation with God. Assuming one is fully involved with God in the words of prayer, interrupting the time together is like a conversation in which your partner is constantly looking over your shoulder—searching for someone more important or more interesting. One could even compare it to the way some people answer every cell phone call—even when they are involved in a face-to-face conversation with someone else. There are certainly some phone calls which need to be taken—like the potentially hostile Roman saying Hello, but there are lots of cell phone calls that can wait. We owe it to the people with whom we are conversing to give them priority, some directed attention. And, if we are conversing with God, then it is all the more important to maintain our focus on the holy—on our connection with the Eternal.

As we sit down for our Passover Seders this next weekend, let us pay attention to the details of the Seder—the symbolic foods, the prayers and songs, and the family traditions, but let us also realize that they are all instruments for the real work of the Seder—focusing on the spirit of God that manifests in our lives and on the Presence of God in every human being. We can also celebrate our family and friends, realizing that they are a manifestation of God and that together we can join in our conversation with the Eternal.

The Spiritual Infrastructure of Leviticus

March 19th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most frustrating moments in my film watching years occurred in The Hundred Foot Journey, starring Helen Mirren as a snobby French restauranteur. A poor immigrant family from India moves across the road from Dame Mirren’s acclaimed restaurant and opens their own restaurant. The Indian family’s son is quite talented as a chef but is accorded no respect by Ms. Mirren’s haughty (hauté cuisine?) character. After hostility and drama, he finally wrangles an audition: if he can make the perfect omelet, then he can cook at her fancy restaurant. As the young man begins with great earnestness to cook, using his special blend of rare Indian spices, Helen Mirren projects smug skepticism. However, when she tastes his omelet, her countenance changes dramatically: she is overwhelmed with the wonder of its flavor, and the Indian immigrant chef is on his way to stardom. A beautiful scene…but I wanted to taste that omelet! I wanted/want to be overwhelmed by the incredible flavor, but alas, it is a movie, and my sensual experience was thus significantly limited.

I realize that this is not the most earth-shaking problem, but it points to a problem with this week’s Torah portion. In Vayikra, the beginning chapters of Leviticus, we are treated to a series of sacrificial recipes that neither we nor any of our ancestors for the last 1900 years have ever experienced. Since the Temple was destroyed back in 70 CE, we Jews have been worshipping God with prayers instead of sacrifices. Even though there is theological and textual equivalency, the Levitical details of those sacrificial meals—with their various purposes, prescriptions, and options—are limited in their ability to seize our minds and spirits. They are as hard to access as that incredible omelet.

Perhaps this is why the Sages who paired the Torah and Haftarah portions chose a passage from Isaiah for this week. Given our inability to resonate with the sacrifices, the Prophet offers a conceptual look at the role the sacrifices played in our relationship with the Divine. Beginning in 43.21, Isaiah specifies God’s desire for our attention. We are, according to God, “The people I formed for Myself that they may declare My praise.” God wants two things in our relationship/covenant. (1) That we draw close to God, and (2) that we follow God’s moral commandments. Have we maintained this relationship? Hardly! “But you have not worshipped Me, O Jacob, that you should be weary of Me, O Israel. You have not brought me your sheep for burnt offerings, nor honored Me with your sacrifices…Instead, you have burdened Me with your sins, you have wearied Me with your iniquities.” We have not drawn close—which is the meaning of the Hebrew korban / sacrifice, and we have broken the moral law. God is willing to “wipe your transgressions away and remember your sins no more,” but we have to engage God; we have to work on our relationship. “Help Me remember! Let us join in argument, tell your version, that you may be vindicated…” God is not asking us for a criminal defense—an argument in which we try to justify our misdeeds. No, what God wants is a relationship discussion, hoping that with this engagement, we can rebuild our sense of connection and joint purpose.

Isaiah then proceeds into an extended diatribe against idolatry—the essential problem being that people are worshipping the work of their own hands. Idolatry represents a mistaken understanding of reality and of the actual forces in which we exist. It has us relating to ourselves rather than to our Creator, and such a misperception is limiting both to us and to our Creator.

The Kabbalists speak of our partnership with God—that we have a role to play in Creation and in Tikkun Olam. Such a relationship involves knowing each other and working together—being on the same page with God. This is the point of worship. In the olden days, people believed that God loved the aroma of roasting meat and would come around to enjoy it. Thus could we invoke God’s Presence with our sacrificial meals (as outlined extensively and in excruciating detail in Leviticus), and then engage in prayer. When the change from sacrifices to prayers occurred after 70 CE, we sought to continue the relationship but with slightly different techniques. Instead of the sacrificial meals with meat, pan bread, and wine, our Sages developed an extensive conversation with God and codified it. Some of our worship service is Tefilah/Prayer—when we speak to God, and some of the service is Torah—when God speaks to us. In most traditional prayers, Torah and Tefilah are combined—with Biblical verses interspersed with Rabbinic thoughts. The texts of the prayer book thus comprise a vessel for our relationship with God.

This, I believe, is the message of Isaiah as well as many subsequent Prophets and Sages: the techniques of the service—be they sacrificial meals or prayer book services—are all purposed as vehicles for conducting this relationship. They are valuable primarily to the extent that they foster and develop and enhance our time together with the Lord.

In more modern times, this message has found different wording. Reb Israel, the Baal Shem Tov, spoke of it in terms of opening ourselves to God’s Presence and influence: “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.” Reb Menachem Mendel of Kotzk put it in almost existential terms: “Where is God? Whenever we open our hearts.” This relational aspect of prayer was also taught by Rabbi Leo Baeck, “The purpose of prayer is to leave us alone with God.”

The science, art, history, and literature of prayer are vast, but the essential kavannah / purpose is that we use the prayer and worship techniques to spend time with God and deepen our relationship. This is not something to learn about from a distance; it is something we can experience ourselves.

Remembering "Our" Sacred Journey

March 12th: Vayakhel-Pekude and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, in addition to the completion of the Mishkan, the Tabernacle, we have the special portion reminding us that Passover is fast approaching. Since the initial instructions for the first Passover were given two weeks early—on the first of the month of Nisan, we are reminded as Nisan begins (on Saturday night) that we need to make our own preparations for Passover—which will be here on Nisan 14th.

When God gives those original instructions in Exodus 12, the emphasis is on everyone in the holy community doing the rituals together: “…every man shall take a lamb…and the whole assembly of the congregation of Israel shall kill it in the evening. And they shall take of the blood and strike it on the two side posts and on the upper door post of the houses…and they shall eat the meat in that night, roast with fire, and unleavened bread; and with bitter herbs they shall eat it…it is the Lord’s Passover. All Israel shares a common experience and a common fate—a communal salvation.

This togetherness theme continues at Mount Sinai, in Exodus 19, 20, and 24. Everyone is there and included in the covenant: “…as morning dawned, there was thunder and lightning and a very loud blast of the shofar, and all the people in the camp trembled. Then Moses led them out toward God.” (Exodus 19.16-17) After the Ten Commandments are pronounced, “All the people witnessed…and said, we will obey.” (Exodus 20.15-16). Later in Exodus 24.3, “All the people answered with one voice, saying, All the things that the Lord has commanded we will do!”  We are all together in this holy and awe-inspiring experience. In Deuteronomy 29’s retelling of the covenantal ceremony, we are even given a list testifying that everybody means every body: “You stand this day all of you before the Lord your God; your tribal captains, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and the stranger who is in your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water; that you should enter into covenant with the Lord your God…”

Of course, if we think about such a series of events in practical terms, it makes sense that not everyone would be 100% focused every step of the way. It stands to reason that, with human beings, some distractions would be present—or different people would experience the Exodus and the Revelation in their own ways. This seems to be the thinking of poet Jacqueline Kudler as she reflects on the 600,000 attention spans and what it means for a community to be present.

Revelation

For every exile who walked out
of Egypt between walls of water,
for everyone who remembered
the feel of sea bottom underfoot,
the sibilant roar of water rearing
on the right, on the left, someone
forgot. Someone scanning

the dry horizon for a well
or already mourning the musky
smell of autumn in her father’s
fig trees, forgot the hosannahs
and, by the bitter waters of Marah,
forgot the flash of dancing feet,
the shimmer of timbrels.

For every proselyte at Sinai,
someone never heard the horns
at all. Someone turned back from
the mountain to bank the fire,
feed the baby, steal a second
moment with another.

Revelation begins in attention:
while the elders trembled before
the word of God flowing down
the scorched north flank of Sinai,
someone, rising from a last long
embrace, gazed into the rapt face
of the beloved and saw
that it was good.

This poem is published in the new Reform Haggadah, Mishkan HaSeder, and paired with the traditional passage: “Therefore, even if all of us were wise, all full of understanding, all distinguished in learning, all experts in the Torah, it would still be a mitzvah for us to tell the story of the Exodus from Egypt. Blessed is one who lingers over the telling of this story.”

We read in the Seder’s passage about the Four Children that our perceptions and realizations of holiness vary—from moment to moment and from person to person. And so, we return to our communal memory regularly—revisiting the events and revelations that represent a continuing font of Revelation: repeated access to the Mind of God. Returning to our sacred memories gives us the opportunity year by year to “remember” parts of the sacred journey experienced by others in our congregation. Our is a communal salvation.

Perhaps this is what the Lord means in Deuteronomy 29: “It is not with you alone that I make this covenant and this oath; I make it both with those who stand here with us this day before the Lord our God, and also with those who are not here with us this day.”

To Be an Eved Ne'eman

March 5th: Ki Tissa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Recently, I had a chance to share one of my teachings in the Center Daily Times. The piece focused on Psalm 92 and its particular recasting of the nature of human conflict. Though it seems that bad people are fighting against good people, the Psalmist suggests that the real battle is between bad people and God. “O Lord, how great are Your works! Your plans are so subtle!
The fool will never learn, the dullard never grasp this:
the wicked may flourish like grass, all who do evil may blossom,
yet they are doomed to destruction, while You, O Lord, are exalted for all time.”

There is, of course, hope that the good people (presumably us) will also do well—that God will “lift up my cause in pride” and I will be “bathed in freshening oil, seeing the defeat of my foes and hearing of their fall,” but the real and ultimate victory is God’s. Indeed, the force of the Psalmist’s counsel is that we should subsume our thoughts of grandeur and focus on God and God’s work.

This certainly seems to be the attitude of Moses—and one of his greatest traits. This week, we read about our dramatic moral and religious failure, the Golden Calf incident. God’s initial reaction is to kill all the Israelites except Moses and start over. “I see that this is a stiff-necked people. Now, let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and make of you a great nation.” (Exodus 32.9-10) Moses does not entertain this possibility and redirects God’s attention to the mission. “Let not the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that God delivered the Israelites, only to kill them off in the mountains and annihilate them from the face of the earth.’ Turn from Your blazing anger, and renounce the plan to punish Your people.” (Exodus 32.12) Moses does not focus on personal feelings; he is all about the mission (to bring God’s ways/Torah to the world.)

A chapter later, Moses shows a similar devotion to the holy mission. God has put Moses in the leadership position, but what Moses wants is guidance. “You say to me, ‘Lead this people forward’…and You say that “You have gained My favor. If I have truly gained Your favor, pray let me know Your ways…” (Exodus 33.12-13) He not interested in imposing his will on the people; rather he wants to lead them into a unity with the Divine.

This is why Moses is so prized by God—trusted by God. As God explains to Aaron and Miriam (Numbers 12.7), “My servant Moses is trusted throughout My household.” You may recognize this sentiment from a passage in the Saturday morning service. Just before Ve’shamru, we read: “Yis’mach Moshe / Moses rejoiced in his unique portion, for You called him a faithful servant. You placed a crown of glory on his head when he stood before You on Mount Sinai. He carried the two tablets of stone in his hand,, on which were inscribed the mitzvah of Shabbat. Thus it is written in Your Torah: V’shamru B’nai Yisrael et Hashabbat/the Children of Israel shall keep the Sabbath…”

Thus do we have a standard of leadership and stewardship. Let our joy be in our closeness to God and our devotion to our holy mission. It is a worthy goal—to which we are all called to aspire.

Halachah and Aggadah, Part 2

February 26th: Terumah and Tetzaveh, Part II
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, I wrote about the difference between Exegesis and Eisegesis, Exegesis being the legitimate identification of a lesson in a Scriptural passage, and Eisegesis being a preacher’s imposition of his/her own agenda on the text.  We also considered the extreme malleability of a text like the Holy Scriptures—and how all kinds of absurd cases can be made with Biblical verses. In the gradual development of the Jewish Weltanschauung, our world view, there seems to be a wisdom that is deeper than the text—that can be accessed with the text, but which is not always subject to the text.  This is the realm of Midrash and Aggadah, the stories of our faith that speak to these deeper truths.

A case in point comes in Exodus 25. In both last week’s and this week’s Torah portion, we learn about the construction of the Mishkan, the “tent-temple” that travels with our people in their wanderings. Six chapters in Exodus (25-31) include God’s many and detailed commands for this sanctuary. The key verse, however, comes with the initial assignment: “Let them make for Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8

This verse is preceded by a shopping list of supplies needed for the Mishkan—a list in which a modern Sage sees a teaching opportunity. Here is the list. “… gold, silver, and copper; yarns of blue, purple, and crimson; fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting—for the ephod and the breastplate.” (Exodus 25.3-7)

One could well ask about where a bunch of escaped slaves would get all these precious materials, but the modern Rabbi Marc Gelman seizes on a particular item, the dolphin skins. Dolphin skins? Such an unusual item is what the Rabbis call a koshi, something in the Torah which begs for further explanation. What follows is a Midrash he created about thirty years ago. It is no less factual than any of the classic Midrashim—all of them being fictional stories created to make a point, but it is just as masterful an application of the ancient art: using a small detail in the text to teach a moral lesson. In Midrash, as in fables and parables, the truth is in the wisdom.

When our ancestors, the children of Israel, escaped from Egypt, they found the dolphins of the Red Sea waiting for them, chirping their happy dolphin-chirping sounds and splashing the blue waters of the Red Sea with their flat tails.

Suddenly the Israelites heard the terrible sounds of Pharaoh's great army chasing them from Egypt—long spears clanking and horses' hooves pounding the dry earth as the Egyptians pulled the war chariots with the metal wheels and the pointed hubs. "We are trapped!" the children of Israel screamed. "If we go back to Egypt, Pharaoh and his army will kill all of us," and about this they were absolutely right. "And if we go forward, we will all drown in the Red Sea." But about this the people were quite wrong. Moses raised his arm, and God split the Red Sea right down the middle so that two huge walls of water stood straight up with just a narrow path of dry Red Sea bottom in between.

The sight of the Red Sea split in half right down the middle with a hallway of dry land in between was amazing and confusing to the children of Israel. But can you imagine—can you just imagine—how amazing and confusing this was for the fish of the Red Sea? Now let's face it: Fish are dumb, and your average Red Sea fish would be swimming along just minding its own fish business when, suddenly, it would be swimming in midair—which is nowhere—if you're a fish. Fish, fish, and more fish just kept plopping and flopping through the wall of water and flopping around on the dry hallway of the Red Sea bottom.

The dolphins tried to save their friends, the fish. They swam quickly along the edge of the walls of water, chirping a warning in fish language, "Don't go there!" But as I said before, fish are dumb, and so they would ask, "What do you mean, don't go there? Where is the there?" And the dolphins would scream, "THERE IN THE AIR!" and then the fish would say, "HUH? We don't see any air there." And, of course, by the time this conversation was over, the fish were already there in the air—which is nowhere—if you are a fish.

As if the problem of dumb fish in the air was not enough for them, the kindly dolphins of the Red Sea had another problem. Our ancestors, the children of Israel, left Egypt with some flocks of sheep and goats and a few cows, and on their way across the Red Sea on the dry hallway of land, some of those flocks strayed a little and walked right through the walls of water and right into the bottom of the Red Sea—which is nowhere if you are a sheep or a goat or a cow. So the dolphins would swim quickly down to the bottom of the Red Sea and nudge the animals back into the air—which is somewhere if you are a goat or a sheep or a cow.

Now as if the problems of dumb fish and dumb animals were not enough for the kindly dolphins of the Red Sea, there was another problem for them. The army of Pharaoh was gaining on our ancestors, the children of Israel, in their race across the dry hallway of the Red Sea bottom. The dolphins tried to slow down Pharaoh's army by flicking their tails through the walls of water and showering Pharaoh's army and the dry hallway of Red Sea bottom so that it was not dry any more. Because of the flicking, the wheels of Pharaoh's war chariots got stuck in the mud.

Then God warned the dolphins that the children of Israel were almost all safely on the other side of the Red Sea hallway and that the walls of water would soon collapse on Pharaoh's army. But the dolphins were so busy warning the fish, pushing the flocks, and flicking Pharaoh's army that some of them did not hear God's warning. Thus when the walls of water came crashing together to make the Red Sea whole again, a few dolphins were sucked down onto the spears, onto the arrows, onto the swords, and onto the pointed hubs of Pharaoh's war chariots.

The next day, along with the junk of Pharaoh's army, there were some dead dolphins washed up on the shores of the Red Sea. Our ancestors, the children of Israel, complained to Moses, "Let's get out of here; the place stinks of dead things." But God commanded Moses and Moses told the people to gather up the dolphins, prepare their skins, and sew them together to make a tent covering that would be the top tent for the great golden box that would hold the words of God written on the stone tablets by Moses on Mount Sinai. Moses said, "When you see this tent of dolphin skins, I want you to remember that we did not leave Egypt and become a free people without a lot of help."

When our ancestors, the children of Israel, left their camp at the shore of the Red Sea, the dolphins were waiting for them, chirping their happy dolphin-chirping sounds and splashing the blue waters of the Red Sea with their flat tails.

Halachah and Aggadah, Part 1

February 19th: Terumah and Tetzaveh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Jewish literature in the Rabbinic Period is comprised of both Halachah and Aggadah, Law and Lore, and both are vital building blocks in crafting the Jewish worldview. While it may seem obvious that Halachah, the various rules and rituals, is central to our faith, we should also realize the important part that Aggadah, the stories of Judaism, plays in our Jewish sensibilities. The Tradition tries to draw a line of distinction, holding that Aggadah must not be used in making Halachic decisions, but the sensibility undergirding and inspiring the crafting of Halachah is clearly informed by the thinking that our stories represent.

By the way, another name for Aggadah is Midrash. From the Hebrew root D-R-SH / search, Midrash involves searching the text for deeper insights. It begins with a Koshi, a difficulty or anomaly or unexplained detail in the text of the Bible. Something does not make sense, or the reader wants to know why, or there is a contradiction between one passage in the Scripture and another. Rather than regarding this as an indictment of the Bible’s veracity, the art of Midrash sees the problem as an opportunity to look deeper and find the answer—often using verses from somewhere else in the Scripture.

What most people remember are the stories—which can be quite entertaining, but I have always found it fascinating how the Koshi can be a springboard or platform for teaching a completely new lesson.

There is a tension in Biblical interpretation between finding a teaching in the Scripture and superimposing a teaching on the Scripture. Finding a lesson legitimately from a Scriptural passage is called Exegesis, while creating something and then trying to say that it is part of the Bible’s message is called Eisegesis. Preachers from all religions are warned about using the Scripture for their own purposes instead of what the Biblical authors intend.

An example of Eisegesis is the claim by various Christian social activists that Jesus was a Labor Organizer, a Feminist, or a Vegan. Equally spurious are claims that the Bible endorses segregation of the races or, in the case of Jerry Falwell’s “Moral Majority,” the B-1 Bomber and the Abrams Tank.

There are even jokes about this kind of Biblical preaching: Where in the Bible does it mention baseball? In Genesis 1: “In the big inning…”

Where in the Bible does it mention tennis? In Genesis 41: “Joseph served in Pharaoh’s court.”

How do we know that Moses had headaches? In Exodus 31: “God gave Moses two tablets…”

There is also this one from the New Testament: What kind of car did the apostles drive? Acts 2.1 says it was a Honda: “They were all in one Accord.”

Don’t worry, Purim is coming soon, and hopefully, the jokes will be better then.

The flexibility of the Scripture in human hands is no new thing. In fact, Rabbinic legend holds that one of the ancient requirements for becoming a Rabbi was the ability to prove that a sheretz, a slimy lizard-like creature, is kosher. It is clearly not kosher, no matter what arguments are brought forward, but the requirement called for a Rabbi to have enough facility with the text to concoct an impossible proof. Of course, this implies that there was something more to Halachah than mere citation and application of verses—that there was a sensibility and innate wisdom to which the Rabbis subscribed and which they used in parsing the various arguments that could be crafted. Though anything is possible Scripturally, a holy, righteous, and compassionate sensibility governed their textual gymnastics.  

Which brings us to Midrash and why it generally does not stray into Eisegesis. The values that Midrashim teach are all stated or implied in the ethical passages of the Scripture. What the Sages did (and do) with Midrash is find another platform for teaching them.

When the Rabbis talk about God being enslaved alongside Israel in Egypt, they are clearly making up a story, but the lesson it teaches about Divine empathy and investment in humanity’s welfare is sublime. When the Rabbis create the story of Abraham’s father’s idol shop, they are teaching children that they too have a grasp on truth and wisdom. When the Rabbis speak about Nachshon leading the Children of Israel into the water to “jump-start” the splitting of the sea, they are reminding us that there is a human role to play in Heaven’s miracles. With Midrash, the Sages find new platforms for teaching the values imbedded in Scripture.

Next week: a modern Midrash on an ancient shopping list.

All Those Laws!

February 12th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24) consists mostly of laws—lots and lots of them (53!). Though we focus on the drama and priority of the Ten Commandments, living a godly life involves lots of details. It is not just enough to “be a good person.” One must figure out the right way to behave when one comes across an enemy’s ox or donkey wandering aimlessly (24.4: return it to your enemy). One must know how to be respectful of a poor neighbor who borrows money (22.21: do not charge interest, and, if he gives you his cloak as collateral, return it to him at night so he can sleep in warmth). One must make sure that one’s property does not present a danger to others (22.4: keep your livestock on your property so it will not graze on another’s). Righteousness is not merely an attitude: it is a varied and continuing set of behaviors.

Though the high drama of God’s thundering proclamation of the Ten Commandments (in Exodus 19 and 20) rivets our attention, the structure of the Torah suggests that the additional commandments in the following three chapters are also part of the Sinai Covenant. After the initial ten, God puts off a covenantal celebration until after revealing all the commandments of Exodus 21, 22, and 23. Only then does God invite Moses and the leadership up to the mountain for a celebratory banquet. Before they ascend the mountain, Moses makes sure that all the people affirm the covenant. “Moses repeated to the people all the commands of the Lord and all the rules; and all the people answered in one voice, saying, ‘All the things that the Lord has commanded we will do!’ Then Moses wrote down all the commands of the Lord.” (Exodus 24.3-4)

Moses then sets up an altar at the foot of the mountain, with twelve pillars representing the twelve tribes of Israel, and designates some young men to offer burnt offerings and sacrifice bulls to the Lord. “Moses took one part of the blood and put it in basins, and the other part of the blood he dashed against the altar. Then he took the record of the covenant and read it aloud to the people. They said, ‘All that the Lord has spoken, na’aseh v’nish’ma, we will do and we will listen!’ Moses took the blood of the covenant and dashed it on the people and said, ‘This is the blood of the covenant that the Lord now makes with you concerning all these commands.’” (Exodus 24.6-8)

This is when Moses and Aaron and the leadership climb up the mountain to celebrate with God the just-concluded covenant. “Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel ascended; and they saw the God of Israel: under God’s feet was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity. Yet God did not raise a hand against the leaders of the Israelites; they beheld God, and they ate and drank.” (Exodus 24.9-11)

This notion of celebrating a covenant with a sacred meal has roots much older than the Exodus story. In the Gilgamesh Epic, an ancient Babylonian cultural and religious text, one of the stories explains the reasoning. In this story, the gods get very tired of all the noise that humans are making, and they resolve to solve the problem by killing all the humans in a great flood. One of the gods is not so sure about this plan and secretly tells one human, Ut’napish’tim, about what is coming and that he should build a big boat and load it with animals to escape the coming disaster. Ut’napish’tim does so, and, when the rains flood the world, he and his animals survive. With all humanity dead, the gods come to a terrible realization: without the humans to serve them (with the fatty smoke that comes off of roasting meat), there is nothing for the gods to eat. They are all starving and miserable until, when the waters recede, Ut’napish’tim comes out of his boat and sacrifices some of his animals. Then, as the Gilgamesh Epic describes it, the gods hover around the roasting meat like flies.

This might sound a little familiar—though the Bible’s version of the story has some differences. There is no moral component in the Babylonian version: the gods are unhappy with human noise. In Genesis, however, God’s objection to humans is their immorality: “The earth became corrupt before God; the earth was filled with lawlessness…for all flesh had corrupted its ways on earth.” (Genesis 6.11-12) There is also the difference in the sacrifice Noah and Ut-napish-tim offer when they emerge from the boat. Whereas the Babylonian gods get sustenance from the fatty smoke, our God simply enjoys the re’ach nicho’ach, the savory aroma of Noah’s post-flood sacrifice (Genesis 8.20-21).

Throughout the Torah’s many instructions about sacrifices, this savory aroma is often mentioned as what God likes. While the Bible is clear that God does not need the meat or blood—what God wants is our respect and obedience, God does like the great smell of meat being roasted. This is why, as the ancients understood it, God would come around for the sacrificial meals, enjoying the re’ach nicho’ach and being present for the people’s praise, thanks, and petitions. The sacrificial meal invoked God’s presence.

After the Temple was destroyed, we had to transition to a different kind of worship service, one relying on prayers rather than sacrificial meals. What remained the same, however, was our belief that God wants our piety and obedience. All those mitzvot are ways for us to live in holy relationship with the Divine.

The Fear of God and The Love of God

February 5th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is a tension in our Tradition between Yir’at Hashem and Ahavat Hashem, between the Fear of God and the Love of God. We are taught to love God: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might” (Deuteronomy 6.5), and we are taught that God loves us. In the morning service: “Ahavah rabbah ahavtanu. With a great love have You loved us.” In the evening service: “Ahavat Olam Bet Yisrael am’cha ahavta. With eternal love do You love Your people Israel.” Indeed, the idea is for us to receive and return this Divine love—a dynamic described later in that morning blessing: V’ha’er aynaynu b’toratecha, v’dabek libenu b’mitz’votecha, v’yached l’vavenu l’ahavah ul’yir’ah et Sh’mecha. Enlighten our eyes with Your Torah; focus our minds on Your mitzvot, and unite our hearts and minds to love and revere Your Name.” The blessing concludes with: “For You are God Who…draws us near to Your great Name in utter truth so that we may give thanks to You and unite You in love.” The loving nature of our relationship with God creates the sensibility in which we regard God as someone with Whom we can converse—like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof. We might not go as far as calling God a friend, but that is the way Abraham is characterized in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam: Abraham, the Friend of God. (II Chronicles 20.7, Isaiah 41.8, James 2.23, and Quran Sura 4.125).

On the other hand, we are reminded continually of God’s extreme and frightening power. As much as God loves us, getting too close to God is dangerous. Notice the trepidation taught in the description of God’s revelation to us at Mount Sinai. On the third day after the Israelites arrived: “…as morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the shofar; and all the people who were in the camp trembled. Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain. Now Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the shofar grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder. (Exodus 19.16-19) It was so frightening that the people insisted on Moses going forward alone to receive God’s word: “All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the shofar and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance. ‘You speak to us,’ they said to Moses, ‘and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.’” (Exodus 20.15-16) The idea of the Infinite coming in contact with our finite selves is more than we can imagine, and we are overwhelmed. As God explains later to Moses, “You cannot see My face, for humans may not see Me and live.” (Exodus 33.20)

This extreme allure combined with great danger is represented in the famous Talmudic story of the four rabbis who ascended to heaven to behold the Holy One. “The rabbis taught: Four men went up into the heavenly garden, and they were: Ben Azzai and Ben Zoma, A'her and Rabbi Akiba. Ben Azzai gazed and died; to him the scriptural passage may be applied: "Grievous in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his pious ones." (Psalm 116.15) Ben Zoma gazed and went mad; to him the scriptural passage may be applied: “Hast thou found honey? Eat so much as is sufficient for thee, lest thou consume too much of it, and have to vomit it forth." (Proverbs 25.16) A'her cut the plants. Rabbi Akiba departed in peace.” (Talmud Hagigah 32)

While we are supposed to have a great love for God, we are also supposed to be very wary of the incredible power of God—and not get too close.

It is for this reason that we do not pronounce God’s Name—using Adonai / The Lord whenever the Divine Name is written in the Torah or prayer book. There was, apparently, a time when it was pronounced but only by the holiest of the priests and at very specific and holy moments. It is a name so full of power that humans dare not even pronounce it. And, for the last 2000 years, the actual pronunciation has been purposely forgotten.

This is the context in which we can understand the third of the Ten Commandments: “You shall not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold blameless one who swears falsely by The Name.” (Exodus 20.7)

Most people interpret this commandment as prohibiting the use of the word “God” with “damn,” a disrespectful usage that treats God as an expletive to express anger. The usage is also a problem because of what it is ostensibly asking. Let us imagine someone walking in the dark and stubbing his/her toe on a dresser. When that person angrily says, “G—dam that dresser!” is the God of the Universe really being asked to destroy a piece of furniture? If God were to respond by sending a lightning bolt and eviscerating it, one suspects that such a miracle would not be considered an answer to a prayer. Indeed, the angry shout was not a prayer—though it was phrased as one. This is one example of what the Tradition calls a Beracha L’vat’halah, A False or Vain Blessing.

We are taught to be very careful in our prayers—praying only what we really mean. We should concentrate on our prayers—speaking the words with kavannah and using them to connect to God. One can even interpret a famous prayer phrase to express this notion on a deeper level. In Mah Tovu, we have the verse from Psalm 69.14: “As for me, may my prayer come to You, O Lord, as a favorable moment.” However, one can also read the words, “Va’ani t’filati” as “May I be my prayer:” My prayer comes at a favorable moment when I put myself into my prayer completely, becoming my prayer.

If this seems extremely serious, it is. The idea of our mortal and vulnerable selves standing before the immensity of the Infinite One should fill us with reverence. We should also, of course, feel God’s overwhelming love. Indeed, this is our blessing: to be able to perceive and live in relationship with HaKadosh Baruch Hu, the One Who is Eternal and Awesome and Loving.

Our Long Term Conversation

January 29th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though most of us know it intuitively, we may not have heard a basic characteristic of Judaism ever stated directly. Rather than a set of doctrines and dogmas, Jewish Tradition is a chorus of different voices, united by common experiences and common texts and an aspiration to live in holiness. How we are to understand our sacred mission is where the different opinions find voice. Rabbinic Literature from the Talmud to the Siddur (prayer book) to all the works of philosophy and law is full of different voices as we collectively try to understand the human predicament and fulfill our holy potential. Even the Bible is not immune to these many voices; our discussion with the Divine and each other goes way, way back.

One of the techniques of our Jewish Tradition is to embellish our sacred stories with alternative views. As you may remember from last week’s discussion about “borrowing” gold and silver from our Egyptian neighbors before we left Egypt, some traditional commentators applaud the move and create stories of how the “borrowed” items were used for good, and others find it embarrassing and create stories of how the stolen items were used for ill purposes.

This week, as we witness the miracle of the splitting of the Red Sea, I would like to share three Midrashic voices which mediate or even debate the message in the Torah text.

The first involves the miracle itself. In Exodus 14, beginning with verse 10, we see Pharaoh and his chariots and horsemen bearing down on the Israelites. Understandably, we panic and start complaining to Moses, “Was it for lack of graves in Egypt that you brought us out to the wilderness to die?!” Moses assures us that God will save us and “take care” of the Egyptians: “The Lord will battle for you; you hold your peace.” At this point, God gives Moses a rather strange command, “Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the Israelites to go forward. Lift up your rod and hold out hand arm over the sea and split it, so that the Israelites may march into the sea on dry ground.” Notice: God gives the order to move forward before the sea is split. Moreover, we see in verse 21 that the splitting is a rather slow affair, taking several hours. In other words, the people are instructed by God and then Moses to walk into the water. Thus do the Rabbis in Numbers Rabbah give us this Midrashic embellishment:  
When the Israelites stood on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, terrified at the onrushing chariots, Moses lifted up his rod to divide the waters, but nothing happened. Nothing happened because Moses and the Israelites were waiting on God for the miracle. Then Nachshon, an Israelite filled with faith and bravery, jumped into the water and started walking. “By our faith shall these waters be divided,” he shouted, and everyone followed him in. When all the people were in the sea—with the water up to their noses—only then did the sea part, and the Children of Israel could walk through on dry land.
As much as the Rabbis believed in a God Who could and would rescue us, they realized that too much faith can be a problem. If we rely too much on miracles, we fail to work on our own behalf. We fail to do what we can do to fix ourselves and our problems. They never doubted the miracle, but they wanted to balance the belief in miracles with human responsibility. True wisdom is thus a dual realization about the relationship between God and humanity. For the fellow stuck in the middle of a lake in a storm, pray very hard, and row for shore!

A second Midrashic insight into the story involves our human ability to perceive and appreciate miracles.  Originally from Exodus Rabbah 24.1, this version is told by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner (in his The Book of Miracles):
When the people of Israel crossed through the Red Sea, they witnessed a great miracle. Some say it was the greatest miracle that ever happened. On that day they saw a sight more awesome that all the visions of the prophets combined. The sea split and the waters stood like great walls, while Israel escaped to freedom on the distant shore. Awesome. But not for everyone. Two people, Reuven and Shimon, hurried along among the crowd crossing through the sea. They never once looked up. They noticed only that the ground under their feet was still a little muddy—like a beach at low tide. “Yucch!” said Reuven, “there’s mud all over this place!” “Blecch!” said Shimon, “I have muck all over my feet!” “This is terrible,” answered Reuven. “When we were slaves in Egypt, we had to make our bricks out of mud, just like this!” “Yeah,” said Shimon. “There’s no difference between being a slave in Egypt and being free here.” And so it went, Reuven and Shimon whining and complaining all the way to freedom. For them there was no miracle. Only mud. Their eyes were closed. They might as well have been asleep.
God’s wonders are not merely an objective reality; how we experience them can make all the difference.

A third Midrashic example comes from the celebration after the crossing. Moses leads the men in chanting the poem in Exodus 15, and Miriam leads the women in a great dance. They are all understandably excited, but the poetry is a little bloodthirsty:
“I will sing to the Lord who has triumphed gloriously. Horse and driver has been thrown into the sea…The Lord, the Warrior is God’s name. Pharaoh’s chariots and his army God has cast into the sea. His best officers are drowned in the Red Sea. The deeps covered them; they went down into the depths like a stone. Your right hand, O Lord, glorious in power! Your right hand, O Lord, shatters the foe! In Your great triumph, You break Your opponents; You send forth Your fury, it consumes them like straw…”    
One can appreciate the adrenaline flowing through our ancestors’ veins after such a narrow and miraculous escape, and the fierce sentiments of the poem certainly reflect that energy. However, later generations sensed that this kind of fury needs to be mediated by compassion, and so we find, in Talmud Sanhedrin 39b, a Midrashic embellishment that tones down our reading of the celebration, pointing us to an important universalist and humanitarian lesson.
After the Israelites finished crossing the Red Sea, Moses led the men in chanting a victory poem, and Miriam led the women in a victory dance. It was all very exciting, and the angels in heaven wanted to join in. However, when they started singing, God shushed them, saying, “How can you celebrate when My children are floating dead in the sea?!”
Though the Egyptians deserve their punishment, God takes no joy, and thus the Rabbis teach us to have compassion for all—even our enemies.

This is why questions like “What does Judaism teach about ___?” never have short answers. The discussion has been going on for many, many years, and lots of Jewish voices have weighed in with their opinions. Some may be more appealing than others, but the aspiration is consistent throughout. We are in a sacred conversation, paying attention and thinking through the issues that God places before us.

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.