Balaam: Equal to Moses?!

June 25th: Balak
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

What do we do with other religions? What does one religion do conceptually with the existence of other religions? In our Tradition, it is very clear that other gods do not exist. Thus does the Torah regard the “gods” worshipped by pagans and idolators as false gods. As the traditional version of the Aleinu puts it, “They worship gods of wood and stone that do not save!” Our position is that there is only One God—the One we address as Adonai, and our Lord does not want us to “have any other gods!”

Nonetheless, other religions which worshipped other gods did exist, and our ancestors lived in close proximity to these various pagans and idolators—whom the Talmud refers to as AKU’M, an acronym for Ovday Kochavim uM’zolot, Worshippers of Stars and Constellations.  We lived side by side with them and participated with them socially, civically, economically, and personally. This is why the Prophets were so insistent that we resist their religions.

There were so many possible entanglements and opportunities for enabling idolatry that an entire section of the Mishna, Avodah Zara / Idol Worship, is devoted to drawing lines so we can avoid or evade them. (It is in this context that we get the modern rules for the kashrut of wine—and Scotch Whisky.)

On the other hand, there is a clear sense that non-Jewish religions can be valid and godly—and much of that sensibility springs from this week’s Torah portion. The story itself is rather strange. The Torah usually focuses on God’s revelation and continuing interest in the Hebrew/Israelite people—and on the singularity of God’s main prophet, Moses. In this story, however, the attention turns to a non-Jewish prophet, Balaam, who also communicates directly with God. The story of King Balak’s attempts to hire Balaam to curse the Israelites seems to be the main narrative, but the theological revelation is what captivates the Rabbis of the Midrash. For them, more than the drama and the talking donkey and the failure of King Balak’s plan is the mystery of this non-Jewish prophet of the One God. Remember, when he speaks the words, “Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov, mish’k’notecha, Yisrael. How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel”( Numbers 24.5), this is not the first or only instance of Balaam speaking the words of the One God.

Though the story in the Torah reveals relatively little about Balaam, there are indications that he was well known among both Gentiles and Israelites, and from these clues, the Rabbis of the Midrash craft a remarkable theological scenario. Since God created all people and loves all people—not just the Jews, God is interested in communicating with every nation and giving them advice about how to live. For the Israelites, God gives these instructions through Moses, and, for the Gentiles, God gives these instructions through Balaam. He is, in this legendary construct, equal to Moses in prophetic ability and importance—and in God’s eyes. So, though we certainly have our own sense of chosen-ness and our special relationship with the Divine, we also have these voices in our Tradition thinking positively of non-Jew’s ability to connect to God and godliness.

This appreciation of non-Jewish religiosity has two prominent legal expressions. First is the famous statement of Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah (in the Talmudic tractate Sanhedrin) that “The righteous of all nations have a place  in the World-to-Come.” Second is Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ extending of this principle to include not just non-Jewish righteousness but also non-Jewish religiosity: “The pious of the nations of the world have a portion in the World-to-Come.” (Mishna Torah, Yad, Teshuvah 3.5).

For our sacred mission—to be “Mam’lechet kohanim v’goy kadosh / A kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19.6) and “L’or goyyim, A Light to the Nations,” (Isaiah 42.6), we have been assigned our own special mitzvot (613). Other nations/religions, however, have their own roles, and they too are expected by God to live up to the standards of their covenant, the Noachide (Rainbow) Covenant and it seven mitzvot: Do not worship idols, Do not curse God, Do not commit murder, Do not commit adultery, bestiality, or sexual immorality, Do not steal, Do not eat flesh torn from a living animal, and Do establish courts of justice. This, according to the Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 561a-b (and Tosefta Avodah Zarah 8.4), is how non-Jews can be faithful to God and accepted into the World-to-Come.

Of course, the inter-religious dynamic became different once our main competitors were also monotheists. With the advent of Christianity and later Islam, the anti-idolatry concerns in the Bible and Talmud became less applicable. The differences between our religions are real, and it is very important that we maintain the authenticity and integrity of our unique spiritual tradition, but the ferocity of Biblical attitudes about AKU’M are out of place in our modern world.

To be fair, there are also voices in the Tradition that are parochial, chauvinistic, and exclusivist, but we who strive for mutual respect and cooperation with all other religions have ancient precedent and textual support for our open-minded and universalist approach.  

Taking Care of the Social Fabric

June 18th: Chukat
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Social Fabric is an interesting term and phenomenon. It refers to the way the relationships in our lives are interwoven. Living in relationship with our families, friends, neighbors, and fellow citizens (of our towns, states, nation, etc.) creates a context in which we can feel connected and covered—hence the term fabric. And, of course, there are our other connections: social, civic, and professional groups, political affiliations, sports loyalties, charitable favorites. They all work together in myriad ways, setting a context in which we live.

While the Torah’s main lessons involve our relationship with the Divine, there is a hint in this week’s Torah portion about the crucial and fragile social fabric of Israelite life—and some lessons we should consider. At the beginning of Numbers 20, Miriam the Prophet, Moses’ and Aaron’s sister, passes away and is buried. It is an obviously sad time, but this personal sadness is quickly followed by a national crisis. The people have a hard time finding water, and they complain bitterly to Moses: “If only we had perished when our brothers perished at the instance of the Lord (see Korach’s rebellion in last week’s portion)! Why have you brought the Lord’s congregation into this wilderness for us and our beasts to die there? Why did you make us leave Egypt to bring us to this wretched place, a place with no grain or figs or vines or pomegranates? There is not even water to drink!” (Numbers 20.2-5) Moses and Aaron are pretty flustered and “fall on their faces” before God. The Lord then instructs them to gather the people and speak to a rock so that it will produce water. Moses, still very angry, berates the people for their ingratitude and lack of faith in God and then strikes the rock with his rod. To most readers, this seems an understandable flash of anger and a misunderstanding of God’s instructions. However, God is not so understanding. “The Lord said to Moses: Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.” (Numbers 20.12)

Some modern commentators see the two events—Miriam’s death and Moses’ serious misstep—as connected, suggesting that Miriam’s role in Israelite society is to work the social fabric and keep the polity functioning. When she dies, there is no one to support Moses’ and Aaron’s work,  no one to finesse the various factions and interest groups, and their leadership loses focus and effectiveness. We should note this important feminist lesson: while women’s work has not always made the headlines or history books, much of the cohesion and progress of human life has only been possible because of the real contributions of the women who work and maintain the social fabric.

There is also a lesson about the many groups which comprise or strain our social fabric. Though Moses will not lead the Children of Israel into the Promised Land, he is still in charge for a while, and his task is to help the Israelites in their encounters with a number of groups in the neighborhood: Edomites, Canaanites, Moabites, and Amorites. When each group is encountered, Israel sends messengers asking for permission for transit: “Allow us, then, to cross your country. We will not pass through fields or vineyards, and we will not drink water from wells. We will follow the king’s highway (an ancient trade route), turning off neither to the right nor to the left until we have crossed your territory.” (Numbers 20.17) As it turns out, no one wants the Israelites to pass through their territory. (With 2,500,000 people and the mighty empire of Egypt in tatters, one can understand their trepidation.)

The reactions to these refusals, however, vary significantly. The Edomites—who are considered by Israel to be “brothers” (since Edom/Esau was Jacob’s twin)—are not confronted. When Edom says No, the Israelites pursue a detour. It is a different story, however, when the Canaanites, Moabites, and Amorites say No. Wars break out, and the Israelites—with God’s help!—utterly destroy these inhospitable kingdoms. Thus do the Israelites vanquish a number of ancient rulers, including the celebrated Sihon, King of the Amorites, and Og, King of Bashan. These stories remind us that our social fabric includes those both within and without our community—with some being closer than others.

Next week, we read about a Moabite plan to curse Israel—and a Gentile Prophet who is just as close to God as Moses. 

Who Loves the Palestinians? Certainly Not Hamas!

May 28th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Let us accept, just for the sake of argument (!), the proposition that Israel is an evil entity and that it oppresses the Palestinian people—and that the court case involving property in Sheik Jarrah is a colonialist attack on all Palestinian, all Arabs, and all Muslims. The question then becomes: Who is best suited to take on the cause of the residents of that tiny neighborhood?  If, indeed, the problem requires a military response (and not the legal remedies available in Israel—or the civil demonstrations of Jews and Arabs in Israel), then we should consider which Arab or Muslim entity is the best suited to take on the evil Zionists.

Among the nominations are the Arabs of Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates, Yemen, Syria, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, or Morocco. Among the non-Arab Muslim countries, we have Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, and Indonesia. All are well-armed and capable of warfare. And, they are able to defend their own populations.

Thus it is surprising that, of all the possible Arab and Muslim defenders of the Arabs in Sheik Jarrah, the one entity that rose to the challenge is Hamas in Gaza. It is certainly armed—as the thousands of rockets rained upon Israel have shown, but its military might is limited. There are no real ground troops. There is no Navy or Air Force—unless one wants to count the incendiary kites and drones used to burn Israeli crops. Moreover, Hamas has no ability to defend its own citizens. A pretty well-known and logical fact of international relations is that, when one country attacks another, the attacked country generally counterattacks. So, when attacking from an undefended area, Hamas is setting up the civilian population of Gaza for terrible destruction. Could the victory they seek be the photos, videos, and angry editorials that seem to be covering the planet?

What has happened to the Palestinian people in Gaza is terrible. We should all recoil and mourn at the loss of life and at the destruction and despondency that these people face. The tragedy is especially devastating because these victims all know that a big portion of the aid they will receive to rebuild their country will be siphoned off for the reconstruction of terrorist tunnels and the purchase of armed missiles for the next round. They also know that, instead of buying electricity or clean water or better health care or education—or building up an infrastructure for a real Palestinian State, the Hamas tyranny will keep them suffering for the sake of heart-rending photographs.

Part of the discussion of Israel’s strategy involves the tragedy of civilian deaths. The Israelis explain—and it is well-documented—that Hamas places military installations in close proximity to civilians. In a number of cases, Hamas and Hezbollah have even prevented civilians from evacuating structures after Israeli phone calls and pamphlets dropped from the air warn them about imminent attacks. Why would they prevent civilians from saving themselves? Why would they put missile launchers next to day-care centers and residential dwellings? The goal of these terrorist organizations is civilian casualties—both Israeli and Palestinian. As Gilad Erdan, the Israeli Ambassador to the United Nations, mournfully explained, “Israel uses missiles to protect its children. Hamas uses children to protect its missiles.”

We could argue about the particular choices of targets—like the building which housed some press organizations, and we could ask if the Associated Press or Al Jazeera were free to report on Hamas corruption or placement of military targets in civilian buildings, but the fact is that it is not a matter of individual buildings or neighborhoods. The entirety of Gaza is used by Hamas as a “human shield.” That is the logic of Hamas—of all the Arab and Muslim countries—“taking on the Zionists.” There is no chance that Hamas will destroy Israel. There is no chance that Hamas will affect the Israeli legal process that is considering the rights of Arab homeowners whose ancestors seized Jewish land in 1948 and are now being threatened by developers. The only chance Hamas has is of drawing enemy fire and then parading reporters by the victims.

Weep for the Palestinians who are oppressed by the tyranny of their own leaders. Weep for the thuggery which prevents free elections in Palestine. Weep for the diversion of humanitarian funds to build terrorism tunnels and purchase weapons. Weep for the moral blindness of naïve observers whose moral worldview is played like a fiddle by heartless terrorists.

There is an interesting passage in this week’s Torah portion, one which evokes a “them vs. us” or “friend or enemy” kind of thinking. “Advance, O Lord, May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!” (Numbers 10.35) It makes sense back in the context of the Exodus generation: As they well knew, there are enemies out there, and we need to defend ourselves. A similar awareness is found at the end of Psalm 29: “The Lord will give strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.” Sometimes, the best course of peace is through strength and self-defense.

 
A final thought. Though Hamas’ inhumane strategy purports to defend Arab rights in Israel, it has actually had the opposite effect. Due to the frequent cycles of Hamas attacks, Israeli responses, and Iranian re-arming, the Left-Wing in Israeli politics has pretty much collapsed. Whereas Labor and its Liberal successors used to command a solid 40% of the electorate, the last several elections have seen them getting only a handful of Knesset members. The siege mentality provoked by Hamas and Hezbollah have removed the political power of the one segment of Israeli society that wants to make peace with the Arabs, both within and without. There are lots of Israelis who want peace and equality and prosperity for all, but these concerns are being shoved to the back seat by the constant state of war with Hamas and Hezbollah—and with the international audience that is being hoodwinked by human shield policies and propaganda.

God's Loving Gaze?!

May 21st: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Anthropomorphism is a curious technique. It can be both very helpful and problematically limiting. Given that God is Infinite—is beyond our ability to place definitional boundaries, we need to realize that any understanding we have of the Deity is inevitably less than complete. Like a line in geometry, we can visualize the line going from one point to another, but the continuation of that line in both directions and forever is something we are taught but cannot really fathom. Forever is a long way—beyond comprehension and certainly beyond verbalization. This was the thinking of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel who referenced God with the word ineffable—God being so far above and beyond anything we can conceive or verbalize; our best course is just to stand back in awe. Rabbi Moses Maimonides wrote of the Negative Attributes of God—that, since we cannot say what God is, all we can say is what God is not. God is not corporeal; God is not limited in time; God is not limited by human logic, etc. Kabbalists are a little more compartmentalized, thinking about God from two angles: the Transcendent (Ayn Sof / Infinite) and the Immanent (Shechinah / Indwelling Presence of God). Another way to look at it is in the Shema. When we say, “The Lord is our God,” we can read “The Lord” as the transcendent aspect of God—the Ayn Sof—and then “Our God / Elohaynu” as our experience of the Infinite. We can indeed be in touch with the Infinite—our hold / “our God”—all the while realizing that there is much more to God that we know or experience. That is why the Torah speaks of nora / awe and yir’ah / reverence.

That being said, there is something in the human soul which yearns for a more personal relationship with God, and that is where anthropomorphism finds its purpose. It helps us when we want to understand something that is far beyond our ken. When Balaam could not see the sword-bearing angel standing in his way—and his donkey could, having that donkey speak begins the process of opening the prophet’s eyes to reality. “The Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and she said to Balaam, ‘What have I done to you that you have beaten me these three times?’ Balaam said to her, ‘You have made a mockery of me! If I had a sword with me, I’d kill you.’ The donkey said to Balaam, ‘Look, I am the donkey that you have been riding all along until this day! Have I been in the habit of doing thus to you?’ And he answered, ‘No.’ Then the Lord uncovered Balaam’s eyes and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in his way, his drawn sword in his hand; thereupon he bowed right down to the ground.” (Numbers 22.28-31; though the text does not say that Balaam ever apologizes to the donkey.)

One can see a similar dynamic in the many anthropomorphic descriptions of God. When God “walks in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the day” (Genesis 3.8), we have the stage set for God to encounter Adam and Eve hiding in their barely covered nakedness. God is all around before, but this literary device reminds Adam and Eve—and us--that God is aware. When God frees the Israelites from Egyptian slavery, the notion of God’s  “mighty hand and outstretched arm”  gives dramatic power to the narrative and a reference that humans can understand. In Exodus 24.10, when God is described as “standing on a pavement of sapphire stones,” it gives an enterprising Rabbi in the Midrashic tradition the opportunity to comment on how God is so lovingly invested in humanity that God suffers alongside the Israelites when they are slaves in Egypt.

And then we have very personal and parental imagery in this week’s Torah portion. In Numbers 6.22-27, we are presented with the Priestly Benediction, an ancient technique for putting or placing God’s Name on the people of Israel.
“The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to Aaron and his sons:
Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them:
May the Lord bless you and protect you!
May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you!
May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace!
Thus shall they put My Name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.

Though the New Jewish Publication Society translation renders v’samu as link—giving us: “Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them,” I think that the more literal imagery of putting / v’samu  God’s Name on us is quite evocative. One can see this as a furthering of the first part of the blessing: “May the Lord bless you and protect you!” When we are so closely associated with God—the Deity being on us, we are certainly both protected and blessed.  

More than that is the image of a very parental God Who may not always be paying attention to us—and Whom we hope will turn from other concerns to gaze favorably upon us: “Ya’er Adonai panav elecha” literally means “May the Lord lift up His face to you.” And “Yisa Adonai panav elecha” literally means “May the Lord lift up His face/countenance upon you.” Though we try to de-genderize the language, the imagery of a parent’s face turning or looking up to gaze at us goes to a very deep place. We yearn for God’s attention just as a child years for a parent’s loving gaze. “Look at me, Mommy/Daddy!” is not just a sentiment for the very young. We see ourselves through our parents’ eyes and crave approval and love.

We are cautioned not to make images of God (in the Ten Commandments, Number 2!), and we should realize that our intellectual constructs can be just as idolatrous as statues. On the other hand, this humility should remind us that a truly Infinite or Ineffable God is also not limited by our logic or reasoning. God can be both ineffable and knowable, both transcendent and personal. The idea that the universal God can also pay attention to us should not be out of the question. If Infinity is really infinite, then all kinds of possibilities are present. Thus can we stand in awe at the ineffable presence that contains all the cosmos while we also hope for our loving Divine Parent to pay attention to us and embrace us with love.

Some Numbers to Consider

May 14th: B’midbar and Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I was not at the “committee meeting” some 2000 years ago when the Greek names were given to the Books of the Torah. Whereas the Hebrew custom was to name a book by the first significant word in it, the Greeks chose titles that summarize the main themes of the book. Thus, the fourth book of the Torah is called B’midbar in Hebrew, based on the first sentence: “The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai…” The Hebrew word for in the wilderness is B’midbar. The Greeks based the name Numbers on one of the first stories in the book, where God commands that a census be taken. If I had been at that committee meeting, I would have suggested that the Hebrew term is a much better summary than Numbers: Yes, there is a census, but it only takes up four of the book’s thirty-six chapters. The rest of the book tells about the forty years Moses and the Children of Israel spend wandering in the wilderness.

When Moses is commanded to take the census, God also appoints twelve men to supervise the count. Their names are recorded in the Torah (Numbers 1.5-15), but none of the other 603,550 non-Levitical Israelites’ names are recorded. (Separate census counts are ordered for the clans in the Tribe of Levi.)

It is interesting to think about all those people—and how their legacy is us. There is a chain, both physical and spiritual, that goes all the way from them to us, and we are all connected in a common covenantal commitment to holiness.

 
Another set of numbers we should remember this week are the Ten Commandments—the giving of which we celebrate on Shavuot, Sunday May 16th and Monday May 17th. Though God gives us many instructions on how to effect holiness in the world (some 613!), the ten in Exodus 20 and  Deuteronomy 5 are considered the most important:
(1) I am the Lord you God, Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the House of Bondage:
You shall have no other gods besides Me.
(2) You shall not make any graven images or idols and bow down and pray to them.
(3) You shall not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.
(4) Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy.
(5) Honor your father and your mother.
(6) You shall not murder.
(7) You shall not commit adultery.
(8) You shall not steal.
(9) You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
(10) You shall not covet.

A number of years ago, there was a billboard campaign where each sign featured one of the Ten Commandments. Then it would have this question: “What part of commandment did you not get?” These communications from God are not suggestions; their moral intensity is much, much stronger. When we see the world and our lives through the lens of these ten Divine utterances, good and evil are defined, and we have a much clearer path. We should read them seriously many times a year.

This year, there is a new set of numbers for us to consider. They are not commandments, but they are very important suggestions or questions. When we read news stories about Israel—or anything else, should we just accept whatever is written or spoken, or should we consider the origin, orientation, and the perspective or perhaps lack of perspective in the report? The author of these Eight Tips for Reading About Israel should know of what he is speaking. Matti Friedman is a former editor for the Associated Press in Israel, and he has learned of the wisdom of listening carefully. Here are the titles of his Eight Tips, but I really encourage you to read his whole essay. It is published in the Sapir Journal, a new magazine by the Maimonides Fund, and, though written specifically about news coverage in the Middle East, it gives principles for all reading and all reports. Here is the hyperlink: Eight Tips for Reading About Israel – Sapir Journal

The Eight Tips for Reading About Israel:
(1)  Does the source speak the language?
(2)  Why are you telling me this?
(3)  Are you sufficiently suspicious of shocking images and details?
(4)  What are other countries up to?
(5)  Is the scope rational?
(6)  Is the regional context clear?
(7)  Is the chronology straight?
(8)  What else is going on?

 
As we plot our way b’midbar, through the wilderness of life, let us remember that we are part of a long line of path-finders—and that we have much wisdom to point us in good directions.

A Just Society for All

May 7th: Behar-Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich                                     

In most cases of communication from God, Moses is told simply to repeat mitzvot to the Children of Israel. However, in the opening passage of Parshat Kedoshim (Leviticus 19.1-2), God adds the distinctive word Adat / Congregation: “Speak to the whole congregation of the Children of Israel and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” Professor Devorah Weiss of the Hebrew Union College suggests that “whole congregation” is invoked because much of the work of holiness is communal. These are not just personal mitzvot; our whole community is commanded to establish a holy society.

This is a noble aspiration, but a variety of passages indicate the challenges of getting everyone “on the same page.” Throughout the legal and ritual sections of the Torah, we find instructions which would only have been necessary because of a lack of unanimity in moral, ritual, and aesthetic judgment. Wrangling the Israelites to do things properly was and is a continuing effort.

Then there is the issue of non-Israelites. At least the Children of Israel can be presumed to be under the authority of God’s covenant. Gentiles, on the other hand, may subscribe to any number of other religious or cultural traditions. It is one thing to insist that they refrain from murdering and stealing, but what about their religious practices. Should it be prohibited for Gentiles to have their own gods and worship them? (When King Solomon welcomed his 300 wives and 700 concubines to Jerusalem, he allowed many of them to bring their religions with them, building temples for their gods and supporting their priestly attendants. As you might imagine, this policy was quite controversial…)

Though the Torah seems to assume that Israelites are in charge—that we ruled the land and allowed Gentiles to be present if they behaved according to our laws, many other passages indicate that this was never the case. There have always been non-Israelites living in close proximity, and the various rules for God’s righteous society have had to be mediated through the eyes and practices of people who are not part of the covenant.

This question comes into play in this week’s Torah portion when we consider the utopian visions of the Sabbatical Year and the Jubilee Year. The first involves the right of redemption—that, in the 50th year, all property goes back to the original families that owned it. As the Torah explains in Leviticus 25.23: “The Land must not be sold beyond redemption, for the land is Mine. Throughout the land that you hold, you must provide for the redemption of the land.” This means that all real-estate transactions are really leases and only provide “ownership” by the purchaser for the years remaining in the fifty-year Jubilee cycle. Even then, there is a right of redemption in which relatives of the owner/seller have the right to swoop in before the jubilee and forcibly re-buy the land from the purchasers. This applies to both Jewish and Gentile purchasers. “If your kinsman is in straits and has to sell part of his holding, his nearest redeemer shall come and redeem what his kinsman has sold…he shall compute the years since its sale, refund the difference to the purchaser…If he lacks sufficient means to recover it, what he sold shall remain with the purchaser until the jubilee; in the jubilee year it shall be released, and he shall return to his holding.” (Leviticus 25.25-28)

The same principle holds in regard to debt slavery. In Biblical days, in lieu of institutions like loan companies or credit cards, individuals unable to pay their debts could “sell themselves” into temporary servitude. It was not exactly slavery: “If your kinsman, being in straits, comes under your authority…do not subject him to the treatment of a slave.” The Torah explains a historical and theological reason: “For they are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt; they may not give themselves over into (permanent) servitude.” (Leviticus 25.42) Note the word for the person in straits: kinsman. Inasmuch as all the Israelites were redeemed by God from slavery in Egypt, any debt slavery must be temporary—only until the jubilee year—and involve kind, respectful treatment. And, as in the case of real estate transaction, Israelites under debt slavery to Gentiles can be redeemed by an Israelite relative. The Gentile must be fairly paid, but the law of redemption applies to all owners of debt slavery. “You shall have one standard of justice for stranger and citizen alike; for I the Lord am your God.” (Leviticus 24.22)

However, in one rather shocking passage, there seems to be a very different standard. While Israelites can never be permanently enslaved,  Gentiles can be subject to chattel slavery. “The male and female slaves you are permitted to own must come from the nations round about you; from them you may acquire male and female slaves. You may also buy them from among the children of aliens resident among you…these shall become your property: you may keep them as a possession for your children after you, for them to inherit as property for all time. Such you may treat as slaves. But as for your Israelite kinsmen, no one shall rule ruthlessly over the other.” (Leviticus 25.44-46)

What do we do with such verses? While one can see a perverse logic in it—given that these Gentiles were not part of the covenant community freed from Egyptian slavery, the very idea of human chattel is anathema to anyone who reads the Exodus narrative seriously. It violates any number of Biblical principles about justice and human dignity. What do we do with it?!

When confronted with an offensive or morally unacceptable Biblical passage, our Tradition has developed a number of strategies. Sometimes, the Rabbis add on so many qualifications that the rule is effectively nullified: this passage (which we find offensive) did not refer to all Gentiles, but just to the enemies of our people whom God expelled from the Land; no one in that category exists today. Sometimes, the Tradition “walks back” such passages—neglecting a direct disavowal, but dismissing the rule with remarks like, But we do not do that anymore. Thus ancient laws that contradict God’s principles are de facto rejected. Then, of course, there is the modern approach in which we admit that our ancestors were not immune to the barbarity of the world around them—that such passages reflect time-bound and culture-bound attitudes that we reject today. Thanks be to God that our moral sensibilities have improved over time.

A final thought: It is interesting to consider our American quest to form a holy and righteous society. Operating under the First Amendment’s prohibition of government “establishing religion,” we balance the religious sensibilities of many different groups as we try to cobble together a values-oriented society. It is quite a challenge, but one well worth the effort.

Those Who Are Holy...

April 30th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week’s Torah portion, Kedoshim, begins with a particularly inspirational charge:
“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.”
Holiness / Kedushah is a very noble aspiration, but its exact definition is a bit amorphous. Is God talking about righteousness? Or is it more a matter of honesty? Or charity? Or respectfulness or respectability? It is the kind of term that has inspired many Midrashim and sermons over the years—perhaps because the term is more elevated and ethereal than specific. We are called to a higher role in the world, to aspire to a nobility of character and action.

Part of that nobility involves a powerful attraction to the Presence of God. In his definition of Religion, the philosopher William James speaks of the human response to “the more,” an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence. There is, in some human beings, an intense attraction to the Divine—a desire to draw closer and understand and develop a relationship. It is a yearning experienced by many and one that is expressed in a prayer in the Evening Service:
Atah kadosh, v’Shim’cha kadosh, uk’doshim bechol yom yehal’lucha, Selah!
You are holy, and Your Name is holy, and those who are holy declare Your holiness every day.
There are those of us who want—nay, yearn—to be among those holy ones who declare God’s holiness every day.

This sensibility is reminiscent of the charge God gives to the Israelites at Mount Sinai, just before speaking the Ten Commandments. As we read in Exodus 19,
“You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”
While very inspiring, it cannot be a literal command: throughout Exodus and Leviticus, God is very clear that the various priestly duties are only to be carried out by the Kohanim (Priests) and Levites—and not by the general population. How, then, are we to understand these very general, probably metaphorical, exhortations?  

In understanding the religious development from Biblical Judaism to Rabbinic/Talmudic Judaism—a process that originated around 200 BCE in the Second Temple Period and continued to around 200 CE with the compilation of the Mishna, the historian Ellis Rivkin sees these metaphors as a modus operindi. While certain duties were reserved for the Levites and the Kohanim (Priests), the Pharisees/Rabbis responded to the yearning of average Israelites to be active participants in declaring the holiness of God and crafted new practices. In the Temple religion, the bulk of the religion was performed by the Priests and Levites, while average Israelites merely supported the Temple worship with occasional sacrifices and attendance. In Pharisaic/Rabbinic/Talmudic Judaism, however, we find a holy lifestyle enabling regular Jews to be among those who proclaim God’s holiness every day. As one can see in the texts of the Mishna, many of these “holinesses” were adapted from the rules for the priests.

This week’s Torah portion, Emor, give us several examples. The first is in Leviticus 21.5. Though obviously sad when close family members pass away, the priests are not supposed to do what were apparently ancient mourning practices: “They shall not shave smooth any part of their heads, or cut the side-growth of their beards, or make gashes in their flesh. They shall be holy to their God and not profane (de-holy) the Name of their God; for they offer the Lord’s offerings by fire, the food of their God, and so must be holy.” This particular requirement for priests evolved into a custom for all Israelites—and not just in times of mourning. It is seen today in the payot/payos and beards that ultra-Orthodox Jews wear as a sign of holiness.

Another example are the various purity/impurity regulations for working priests. In Leviticus 22.3-7, we learn that priests who have recently had sexual relations are prohibited from officiating in the Temple until they complete a period of purification. Though the ritual reading of the Torah Scroll is never mentioned in the Torah itself, this ritual purity for the Temple service was transposed to the synagogue’s public Torah reading: Orthodox Jews who have had recent sexual relations are prohibited from reading from the Torah or even blessing the Torah until they have completed a period of purification.  

Even more significantly, the Rabbis took a verse in that same paragraph (Leviticus 22.8), which prohibits priests from eating trayfe, and transposed it to all Jews, moving kosher-slaughtered animals from strictly a priestly and worship issue to that of all food for all Jews. “…the sacred donations are his food (the priest’s); he shall not eat anything that died or was torn by beasts (t’rayfah).”  

As Dr. Rivkin explains in A Hidden Revolution: The Pharisee’s Search for the Kingdom Within, the ancient Rabbis were scholars and pietists seeking an enhanced sense of holiness. Using the metaphorical passages from Exodus 19, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” and Leviticus 19, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” the Pharisees/Rabbis found a theme and crafted Jewish observances that could make each Jew feel a special closeness to God—a participatory relationship with the Divine.

While we date this particular innovation and enhancement of our religion to around 200 BCE, there are hints that this yearning to be especially close to God has more ancient roots. As we shall soon read in the second portion of Numbers, there existed in Torah times a mysterious institution where individual Jews, both male and female, could dedicate themselves for special holy activities. They were called Nazirites, and we have very limited information about what they did and why they did it. All we know are the rules for declaring their temporary status as Nazirites, the prohibition of cutting their hair or consuming any wine or grapes during their terms, and the rituals for concluding their times as Nazirites. We do not know what they did while Nazirites, but we do know that, during their terms, they were considered “holy to the Lord” (Numbers 6.8).

Religion is understood and experienced in many ways. Among them is the apperception of the Divine and the yearning to be closer and live in relationship with It. To these spiritually motivated individuals, our Tradition offers opportunities for holiness—for connecting to God.
Atah kadosh, v’Shim’cha kadosh, uk’doshim bechol yom yehal’lucha, Selah!
You are holy, and Your Name is holy, and those who are holy declare Your holiness every day.

How We Can Be Like God

April 23rd: Acharay Mot and Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, we have one of the most important and most mysterious mitzvot in the Torah: “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” (Leviticus 19.2) It is a very inspiring verse, but the exact details of what we are supposed to do are hard to figure. We all know what the word holy means—until we try to define it.

Some would say the word means religious, and it is certainly used that way, but the specifics of religiosity vary widely. Some would say the word means good, but there are lots of definitions of goodness—and lots of differing opinions about what is good. Some suggest that it means sacred, but that is just using a synonym from the Latin word for holy.

The earliest use of the word kadosh / holy comes from texts talking about marriage—that, in marriage, the bride and groom set each other apart as special from all the other people in the world. So, perhaps set apart or special is the way to understand kedushah / holiness. But, the words special or set apart are particularly non-specific. None of these terms are specific enough to tell us exactly what God wants.

Some commentators see the verses following the “you shall be holy” mitzvah as an operating definition: revere our parents, observe the Sabbath, take religious rituals seriously, be generous to the poor, be honest and do not steal or defraud, etc., culminating with verse 18 which commands us, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  Scholars even call this chapter The Holiness Code because it lists the ways God expects humans to behave.

In a conceptual sense, one could thus see kedushah / holiness as the process of drawing from within that part of us which is b’tzelem Elohim, the image of God, and bringing it forth into human actions. Since we are being asked to be like God—“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy,” we can emulate behavior that God models: feeding the hungry, healing the sick, doing justice, etc.

The modern mystic, Rabbi Marcia Prager of Philadelphia, offers a very interesting possibility about what God wants. Rabbi Prager takes the understanding of kadosh / holy as different / set apart and magnifies it exponentially. When it says that God is kadosh, it must mean that God is more different than anything else in creation. Being infinite is one aspect of God’s profound specialness, but Rabbi Prager suggests another. Everything else in existence is either present or not present in any particular spot. Putting aside the conundrums of quantum physics, presence is a Yes or No quality. I am here; I am not there. You are where you are; you are probably not—given the pandemic—where I am. God, on the other hand is utterly different from anything else in the universe in that God is both present and not present in every location.

While we may think about God’s omnipresence as being consistent, the fact is that God can be ignored. It is possible for human beings, despite God’s theoretical presence everywhere, to  ignore God’s presence and do remarkably ungodly things. Though we think of God as being omnipotent (all powerful), the fact is that God is dependent upon people drawing upon the godliness available within and bringing it forth into the world. In other words, we are a necessary part of God’s manifestation in the world, and Rabbi Prager sees this as God’s holiness. God is both present and not present in every place at every moment; God is both possible and block-able, and we are being asked to bring God into the world. “The Lord spoke unto Moses saying: Speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God, am holy.”

The People That Walked in Darkness Have Seen a Great Light

April 16th: Tazria, Metzora, and Yom Ha’atzma’ut
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is perhaps the yuckiest Torah portion, the one that deals with hideous skin conditions on our bodies and mildew infestations in our homes. As one can imagine, the fear surrounding such afflictions made those suffering from them pariahs. Indeed, part of the priestly procedure was to determine whether the problem was infectious or not. Upon that determination entire families’ fates hung. Could the afflicted hope for healing? Could the afflicted re-enter the family and community? While films such as Ben Hur dramatize the plight of lepers in ancient times, leper colonies persisted until modern times. There were two in the United States, one in Molokai, Hawaii and another in Carville, Louisiana. The Louisiana colony did not close until 1999, and, though no longer legally quarantined, the Hawaii colony still has some residents.

The Torah portion’s therapeutic procedures—both medical and spiritual—represent pathways to return from a kind of living death to full participation in life. Is this not an image which resonates today? Whether recovering from cancer or some other serious disease, the healing process represents a kind of T’chiyat Metim, a “Resurrection of the Dead.” Thus is there a lively conversation when questions arise about the second paragraph of the Amidah—the prayer that praises God Who M’chayeh Hametim/Re-enlivens the dead. While most read the prayer as praying for the Messianic resurrection of the dead, some read the phrase metaphorically as praise to God for the healing power that can bring us back to life—physically, psychologically, socially, and spiritually.

Another kind of healing power is celebrated this week: Saturday is Yom Ha’atzma’ut, Israel Independence Day. Think for a moment about the dramatic ups and down of the last few centuries of Jewish life. In Isaiah’s words: “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. On those who dwelt in a land of gloom has brightness dawned.” (Isaiah 9.1-2) Or, as Ezekiel describes it, God can take a valley full of dry bones and bring them back to life! God said to Ezekiel, “O mortal, these bones are the whole House of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up, our hope is gone; we are doomed.’ Prophesy, therefore, and say to them: ‘Thus said the Lord God: I am going to open your graves and lift you out of the graves, O My people, and bring you to the land of Israel. You shall know, My people, that I am the Lord, when I have opened your graves and lifted you out of your graves. I will put My breath into you, and you shall live again, and I will set you upon your own soil.’” (37.11-14)

Though we generally focus on the practicalities of current day Zionism—its politics, its relationship with the many Arab polities, and its internal religious dynamics, sometimes it is good to step back and reflect on the miraculous rebirth of the Jewish people. “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

In so many ways, the spiritual energy that fills the world can bring healing. Our Tradition speaks of this healing as both miraculous and practical. God provides the possibilities, and we do our part, channeling divine energy into Tikkun Olam, the Healing of both the Divine and the World. Thus did Ezekiel prophesy: “Oh dry bones, hear the word of the Lord…Who will cause breath to enter you so you may live again!” (37.4-5)

Disparate Messages and the Wisdom We Seek

April 9th: Shemini and Yom Hashoa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Balance in life is often found in a creative tension, and such tension is certainly on display in our Torah portion this week. In Leviticus 10, we find a tragic scene where Aaron’s two older sons die while performing a sacrificial service. “Now Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the Lord alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died before the Lord.”

They obviously do something wrong, but the text is rather ambiguous about exactly what it is. Is it simply that they go outside of the instructions? When we discussed this passage in Teen Torah, one of our students suggested that, since there are no witnesses—other than the deceased Nadab and Abihu, no one could report what exactly they do wrong. This is an excellent point, but we still wonder. One would think that the Torah would want to be specific and thus warn future priests what not to do, but we are left with a purposely ambiguous warning not to get creative with God’s instructions. Personal expression is part of life, but there are times when the prescribed details are literally a matter of life and death. This is Tension #1.

Tension #2 comes in the difficult situation of Aaron and his family. While obviously heartbroken, Aaron is prohibited from the rituals of mourning. “Moses said to Aaron and his (remaining) sons, Eleazar and Ithamar, ‘Do not bare your heads and do not rend your clothes…but your kinsmen, all the house of Israel, shall mourn the burning that the Lord has wrought. Do not go outside the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, lest you die, for the Lord’s anointing oil is upon you.’” (Leviticus 10.6-7) They must remain on duty. How many of us have experienced this kind of tension—caught between professional or leadership responsibilities and our personal or family concerns?

Tension #3 comes in our understanding of the deaths of Nadab and Abihu. It seems pretty clear that the young men do something wrong and are punished. However, there are those who wonder if that is indeed the case. What if theirs is a spiritual and ritual perfection—that they achieve a perfect connection with God and are simply absorbed into Infinity? In our earthly plane, we think in terms of this world, but, in God’s view, the real world is Olam Haba (The World to Come)—and Nadab and Abihu complete all the work and development assigned to them for this world: they reach human perfection and culminate their Earthly experience.

This kind of reinterpretation of earthly tragedies is a theme in some Hassidic stories. When a young person dies—or when a young couple is murdered during a pogrom at their wedding, some Hassidic rabbis speak of a kind of reincarnation. We are put on this earth to accomplish a specific number of things. If we finish them in our lives, then, when we die, we die—and enter Olam Haba. However, if we do not accomplish our assigned tasks, we are reborn and given opportunities to get them done. And, if we get them done—for example, if the young people had done everything else except get married, then there is no need for us to continue living. God absorbs us into Olam Haba; we are complete. Some Hassidic teachers speak of this kind of reincarnation happening up to three or four times. There is, in short, a tension between the allure of both this world and the World to Come.

 
This Hassidic notion of reincarnation inspires a curious theory about the victims of the Holocaust—the horrible Shoah / Catastrophe that we commemorate this week. Some have connected the large number of gerim/ converts over the last half century to the millions of Jewish people who were murdered by the Nazis and their collaborators. Since these people died before their time—with their souls’ work being incomplete, there were not enough Jewish families for these Jewish souls to be reborn. The result was that many Jewish souls were born into non-Jewish families and made the spiritual journey to return to Judaism. One cannot prove such a notion, but it does resonate with the sense reported by many gerim that they have always felt Jewish. Many report an affinity to Jews and Jewish culture that far predated their formal decision to convert. And, this possibility parallels the ancient Midrash which teaches that all Jewish souls—of all time—were standing together at Mount Sinai and hearing the voice of the Eternal One.

Our Tradition has been crafted from moments of both incredible brightness and utter darkness, and this is our Tension #4. We mourn the horrors that too many of us have suffered, while we also remember moments when God has broken through. How can we face the tragedies of life while remaining hopeful and prayerful and productive? That is the wisdom breathed into us by the All Knowing and Compassionate One: the possibilities of God are always present. Present in This World; present in Olam Haba. Present for us.

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.