Social Justice and the Torah

January 7th: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As we begin our study of Exodus, a number of social justice concerns present themselves. The overarching theme of the book is that of national liberation—liberation from unjust enslavement and oppression and the establishment of a society that is both just and caring. Over the next weeks of Torah study, we shall find social justice imperatives and teachings over and over again.

We begin with Parshat Bo, in which the conflict between God’s Will (“Let My people go!”) and Pharaoh’s (“Who is the Lord that I should heed Him and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord, nor will I let Israel go!”) is in full swing. Pharaoh is clearly cast as the “bad guy,” but there is one disturbing twist: God has “hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers…” (Exodus 10.1) We assume that moral/immoral actors have choices, that their choices are freely made, and that moral responsibility comes from these choices. However, if God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, then how can it be fair to exact punishment? What if Pharaoh were to change his mind and decide to free the Hebrews? Would God allow this to happen?

As one can imagine, a Tradition so focused on morality and holiness could never let this issue remain unaddressed, and Jewish thinkers have wrestled with it for centuries. There are several explanations, but the one that makes the most sense to me is embedded right there in the passage: “I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your children’s children how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.” (Exodus 10.1-2)

There was a time over hundreds of years when Pharaoh and his ancestors were moral agents and had plenty of time for repentance. Now, however, that time is over; there are no more second chances. Now is the punishment phase, and God’s hardening of Pharaoh’s heart and the plagues and humiliation of Egypt are the prices to be paid for the unrepented sins of enslaving and oppressing the Hebrews. Pharaoh and Egypt are no longer moral deciders; they have become object lessons for other moral deciders to consider.

For 400 years, Pharaoh and his ancestors have been oppressors. For 400 years, they have treated their subjects with cruelty and a lack of respect. For 400 years, they have resisted and refused every opportunity to rectify their mistakes and repent for their sins. There is always a reason to put off improvements and resist changes. Change can be difficult. Change can be expensive. But, there is a limit, and sins and oppression are cumulative—expanding and growing more profound as the years of evil or neglect continue.

Are there any problems like this in our lives? There are probably quite a few, but today I would like to look at the conundrum of immigration reform.

For many decades now, the economic flow of immigration has not been adequately handled by governmental systems, and the results involve millions of people considered “illegal.” They are undocumented, but they are here and working and participating. Many have been here for years, raising American children. This is not a problem that will go away. It is not even a problem we want to go away. Sending them back would be terribly disruptive on both the human and the economic levels: American industries and society have come to depend upon these millions of undocumented/illegal immigrants. As human beings, they deserve respect, but their in-between status (economically needed but legally undocumented) results in insecurity and cruelty. As citizens of the United States, we need to manage our country, but we also need to look at the realities—economic, societal, cultural, and moral—of our reality. We need to reform our bureaucratic system to find a resolution. Letting it continue will do no one any good and will continue to inflict unnecessary stress on millions of fellow human beings.

This is a problem where everyone already knows the eventual solution. As it was voiced by President George W. Bush, some kind of legal accommodation/forgiveness has to be structured for the undocumented immigrants, and our government needs to regain control of our borders. Those focused on penalties for breaking the immigration laws need to keep in mind our profound economic need for immigrant labor and treat them as welcome helpers—not as criminal usurpers. Those focused on completely open borders need to calm down and recognize the bureaucratic necessity of knowing who is here—who needs to pay taxes and who gets to vote, etc. Letting this situation fester does no one any good.

The historian Ellis Rivkin used to comment on the inherent lack of anti-Semitism at the core of Christianity. Clearly, there has been plenty of anti-Semitism among Christians, but Rivkin maintained that Christianity at its core is not an anti-Jewish religion. His proof is the absence of any concentrated effort across Christendom to rid the world of Jews. Whenever one Christian tyrant would rise and attack the Jews of his country or region, other Christian leaders would invite the Jews to come and find refuge. As bad as it has been in many places over many years, Christianity has never united in the goal of getting rid of the Jews.

Similarly, though we hear all kinds of anti-immigrant rhetoric, note the absence of any wide-spread and systematic efforts to drive out the undocumented. We could regard this as a kind of moral index for America, but I suspect the real reason is economic. Too many people would be hurt by the mass expulsion of illegal workers from the building trades, the dairy and meatpacking industries, restaurants, domestic help, and child-care. And so the rhetoric continues, and nothing really happens. Nothing happens in terms of resolving the crisis, but, in the lives of the undocumented, there is insecurity, danger, exploitation, and a profound lack of respect. This is a festering moral mess, and real suffering occurs.

While these workers did immigrate without proper legal procedures, it was economic factors that brought them here and that keep them here. They needed work, and we needed their labor—and focusing on anything other than regularizing these human beings is a distraction and for no one’s benefit. We can focus on the “breaking of the law,” but, after this many decades and this many millions of illegal immigrants, the fact is that “the law” is broken. Now, the question is: How shall we fix it?

We need to insist that our legislators fix the system and fix it now. Our hesitation and inattention have created a moral outrage, and we need to heal this open wound in our social covenant.

Tzimtzum: A Lesson to Learn, Now or Later

December 17th: Vayechi
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our portion begins with the words “Vayechi Ya’akov: And Jacob lived for seventeen years in the land of Egypt” (Genesis 47.28), but it is really about our ancestor’s final days. He blesses his grandsons, Ephraim and Manasseh, and implores Joseph to carry his body back to the Land of Israel. He wants to be buried with his family at the Cave of Machpelah near Hebron. He also calls all of his sons to his bedside for some final words.

Often known as his blessing, it is a combination of character analysis and prophecy. In fact, Jacob begins with this in mind: “Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come. Assemble and hearken, O sons of Jacob; Hearken to Israel your father.” (Genesis 49.1-2) As he progresses with the poem, Jacob/Israel notes characteristics of each son and what he anticipates in terms of the son’s/tribe’s future. Generally, good behavior portends a good future. Bad behavior will beget problems down the road.

In considering this deathbed dynamic, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner once quipped, “Someone who makes deathbed demands does not understand the point of dying.” The point of dying, as he would put it, is that we are no longer active players. Yes, we do live on in the influence which our lives and deeds inspire. Yes, we are remembered—hopefully as a blessing, but the fact is that, when we die, our turn at life is over. Now, it is the turn of others.

In the Kabbalah, we are taught that God once inhabited all of existence—everything, everywhere. There was nothing that was not God. In order to make room for the creation, God withdrew from part of the universe—shrinking Itself in what the Kabbalah terms Tzimtzum. God was still enormous to an ultimate magnitude, but there was then some room for creation and for us and our free choices. In addition to giving our independent existence a chance, God’s Tzimtzum also models a kind of holy behavior: withdrawing from some aspect of existence to give someone else a chance.

It is like parents withdrawing from total authority in the family and giving children room to think and choose and act. There may be mistakes, but, without autonomy, there is no growth or maturity. It is the same with employers who give the workers some latitude in doing their work—in using their training and insights and wisdom to figure out solutions.

One way to look at the death of Jacob—and every other human death—is that it is the ultimate Tzimtzum: leaving the world (and our affairs) to others. Our turn is over. It is their turn.

Of course, no one wants to give up. Like we read in our prayer in the Yom Kippur Yizkor service, “Like a child falling asleep over a bed full of toys, we loosen our grip on earthly possessions only when death overtakes us.” Death is not something we want, but when it happens—and may that be at a ripe old age (Jacob was 147),  there comes a time to let everything go. And trust.

Jacob is at that point, reluctant to give up his leadership, but facing the inevitability of being gathered to his people, and he chooses to speak these last words to his sons. Though described as “what will befall you in days to come,” much of what he has to say involves his observations—and his evaluations of their characters and their past behavior. Can such evaluations be helpful?

As the recipient of many evaluative statements over the years, I must admit that some are more helpful than others. Sometimes, critiques just seem mean: random shots meant to injure rather than help. Other times, they fall on deaf ears—that is, regardless of their intention, I do not see their relevance or applicability; they do not resonate. However, sometimes, these critiques are amazingly helpful. I recall one—at a rabbinical meeting where I made a very cynical comment. One of the older rabbis—who had known me since I was a teenager and apparently had watched me grow and develop over the years—called me down: “That is not the David Ostrich I’ve known all these years. The David Ostrich I know is kinder, more hopeful, and more  constructive.” The comments were not easy to hear, and they stung. My immediate impulse was anger and resentment. Who is this guy to attack me? But, then I answered my own question. He is a guy who knows me and has had hopes for me and has been well acquainted with my thinking and actions. He is precisely the kind of guy to offer an evaluation!

So back to Jacob’s evaluations of his sons. Perhaps Jacob understands Rabbi Kushner’s point—that dying means giving up one’s turn and letting the next generation give it a try. Perhaps the “prophecies” are less instructions trying to restrict his sons’ action than evaluative observations—urging them to make the most of their opportunities. One hopes Jacob approaches his sons with fondness and hope—that the relationships he has with his sons and his perception of what they can hear will make the communication effective.

Every decision of the new generation may not be a good one—just as every decision made by Jacob was not perfect! Nonetheless, Tzimtzum calls on Jacob to trust his sons to plot their own course. And, there is trust in God: God who keeps the human endeavor moving forward, Who helps us recover from missteps, and Who guides us through the messes we invariably make.

A final observation: I think it is a mistake for one generation to think that its challenges and its choices are more important than those of other generations. We may feel the urgency of our decisions, but let us not indulge in the fantasy that we are somehow more important. If we are links in a chain, then each link is important and worthy of respect and trust. The eternal chain depends on every single one. Tzimtzum, humility, and trust: these can lead us to God.

Trying to Understand the Past

December 10th: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In a few weeks, we shall read the ominous words, “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them…’ So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11)

This is so different from the wonderful greeting we get in this week’s Torah portion! “Pharoah said to Joseph, ‘As regards your father and your brothers who have come to you, the land of Egypt is open before you: settle your father and your brothers in the best part of the land; let them stay in the region of Goshen.’” (Genesis 47.5-6)

What happens between Genesis 47 and Exodus 1?

One of the interesting things about antiquity is that evidence—textual or archeological—can be both abundant and limited, leaving lots of room for ambiguity and interpretation. For a modern example, consider the American Civil War. There is a lot of evidence, but we do not know everything—leading to a multitude of different takes and interpretations: Why did the North fight? Why did the South fight? Why did the various soldiers fight? And, in a question that recently had a monument in Washington, D.C. removed, were the African slaves freed by Lincoln and other white people, or did the African slaves participate in their own liberation?

There can also be significance in the absence of evidence. A recent article in the The Smithsonian magazine reports on an interesting controversy at the archeological excavations in Timna, in the Arava desert in the south of Israel. In a place that seems to be the site of a sophisticated ancient copper mining operation, there is a surprising lack of archeological evidence of who did the mining. Archeology usually focusses on buildings and other physical artifacts, but there are no buildings. Does this mean that no one lived there—or does it mean that the inhabitants lived in non-permanent dwellings? The current thinking is that a very sophisticated society (based on evidence in the mines) lived there in tents and therefore did not leave the kinds of city ruins upon which archeology so depends. In other words, the lack of evidence may suggest a different take on the story.

In the case of ancient Egypt and the Israelites—and what happened to turn a great relationship into an oppressive one, the key may be in the continuing applicability of the term “the Egyptians.” While someone ruled Egypt, the ruling parties or ethnic groups were not the same over the whole history of “Ancient Egypt.” In addition to “local” power politics, there was an invasion of people from Anatolia (modern day Turkey) back in the Second Millennium BCE. These Hyksos swept down through Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and the Sinai, leaving interesting architectural artifacts as they eventually took over Egypt. Then, a few centuries later, they seem to have been expelled, and Egypt was ruled by a different group of “Egyptians.” Many historians think that both the welcoming of foreigners at one time and the oppression of foreigners at a later time are part and parcel of this larger story of the Hyksos in Egypt.

Another angle of the Joseph story involves a massive societal reorganization that is described in Genesis. First, let us recall how Joseph comes to his high position. Pharaoh has two disturbing dreams which none of his advisers can interpret. Joseph is called from prison and asked by Pharoah to explain the dreams’ meanings. “I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.” However, Joseph draws an important distinction. “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.” (Genesis 41.15-16) So, speaking God’s message, Joseph explains the dreams: a fourteen-year situation is approaching—with seven years of plenty and seven years of famine. Joseph suggests that Pharoah use this knowledge to plan and deal with both the blessing and the curse. Pharaoh likes what Joseph says and sees in him an excellent administrator. “‘Could we find another like him, a man in whom is the spirit of God?” So, Pharaoh appoints Joseph as head of the entire royal court. Further, “See, I put you in charge of all the land of Egypt.’ And removing his signet ring from his hand, Pharaoh put it on Joseph’s hand….thus he placed him over all the land of Egypt.” (Genesis 41.38-43)

During the seven years of plenty, Joseph supervises a great collection of grain. Then, when the seven years of famine strike, Joseph dispenses the grain—but at a price, and the coffers of the Egyptian monarchy are swelled. When the people’s money runs out, “…all the Egyptians came to Joseph and said, ‘Give us bread, lest we die before your very eyes; for the money is gone!’” So, Josephs accepts their livestock in payment for the foodstuffs. Then, when the livestock runs out, the people offer all that they have left. “Take us and our land in exchange for bread, and we with our land will be serfs to Pharaoh; provide the seed, that we may live and not die, and that the land may not become a waste.’ So Joseph gained possession of all the farmland of Egypt for Pharaoh, every Egyptian having sold his field because the famine was too much for them; thus the land passed over to Pharaoh.”  (Genesis 47.13-22) The rest of the chapter describes a massive population relocation—with people moving off their farms and into labor pools to work Pharaoh’s land.

In other words, in the face of this major economic crisis, Joseph and Pharaoh effect a major change in the Egyptian social and agricultural structure. This too must be seen as part of the story of the Hyksos dominion of Egypt.

How all these factors mixed and how this dynamic set the stage for the dramatic change of fortune for the Israelites provide fertile ground for theories and doctoral dissertations. As I said before, there is both evidence and lack of evidence—with enough ambiguity for many, many interpretations.

While the historical story is thus relatively malleable, the religious approach has been remarkably stable. In all of this drama—both family and geopolitically, God is present. God is aware of how we react to the stimuli of our lives and times, and God is with us in weathering the difficulties. God is always present, as well, in inspiring us to find purpose, goodness, and holiness. As Joseph will explain to his brothers in next week’s Torah portion, “Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good…” (Genesis 50.20) We may not understand God’s ways or be privy to God’s timing, but we are taught to keep God in our thinking all the time. God is with us, and God has hopes for the ways we respond.

Potiphar’s Wife, Robert Bly, ‘Unorthodox,’ and Ineptitude

December 3rd: Mikketz and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In last week’s Torah portion, we read about Joseph’s encounter with his employer’s wife. Joseph is serving as a slave in the house of Potiphar, and, through his own diligence and the favor of God, “the blessing of the Lord was upon everything Potiphar owned…He left all that he had in Joseph’s hands and, with him there, he paid attention to nothing save the food that he ate. Now Joseph was well built and handsome. After a time, Potiphar’s wife cast her eyes upon Joseph and said, “Lie with me.’ But he refused…” (Genesis 39)

He refuses and explains his two reasons. First, it would be a betrayal of his master’s trust. Second, it would be a sin against God. Mrs. Potiphar is not persuaded and accuses Joseph of attempted rape. She is believed by her husband, and Joseph is thrown into jail.

The Torah tells the story as though Potiphar’s wife is a predator. Privileged, with power, she is not to be refused. This is certainly possible, but it is also possible that there was a mutual attraction and some flirting. When the power dynamic is vastly uneven, romantic possibilities can be fraught with complexity and misunderstanding. There is also the possibility that Joseph is at first receptive to her advances, but at the last minute realizes the sins and halts the affair.

There are many stories told about sexual predation—and tragically this is too often true. But, sometimes, the culprit in romantic disasters is nothing more than misunderstanding—or ineptitude.

Take the story in the Netflix series, Unorthodox, where a young woman breaks free from Satmar Hassidism and an unfulfilling marriage. Pushed into an arranged marriage, the young woman and her husband experience “problems in bed.” She has some physical issues, and he is not sensitive or helpful. As the story is told, he is a real problem. But, we should ask, where would a young ultra-Orthodox man get the training or experience to be what his wife needs? She is not the only neophyte in the relationship. Haredi boys do not date or discuss these subjects and get as little information as their wives. For most in the Haredi environment, relationships develop and, with or without happiness, procreation takes place. But, when problems occur, the resources and sensibilities to remedy them are extremely limited. In other words, the young husband may not be the bad guy. He may just be inexperienced, unprepared, and inept.

Enter Robert Bly, the poet and guiding voice of the “Men’s Movement” of the 1980s and 1990s. Mr. Bly, who passed away last week, believed that modern men are emotionally stunted because the skills of how to be a mature man have not been passed down or prized in modern society. His work is both complicated and controversial, but there is much sense in it. The insights are not meant to excuse bad behavior in men but to help men exert responsible and creative stewardship over their animalistic sides, learning how to balance the animal and the angelic.

Rabbi Rami Shapiro did some interesting work on this notion, seeing this conflict between the animal and the civilized in the story of Jacob and Esau. Could every man have both an Esau side and a Jacob side—and must these two innate proclivities wrestle in order for menstchlikeit (full humanity) to be achieved?

I participated in a “men’s discussion group” back in the 1990s, and it was very interesting how these mature and successful men still grappled with a host of competing masculine ideals and definitions of success. While detractors of the Men’s Movement spoke of foolishness (men beating drums in the woods) or wimpiness (grown men whining and weeping), my limited experience was quite mature, realistic, and poignant. Which, among the many models of male success, should a man choose and upon whose insistence? How does one achieve success or confidence in the many and varied realms of life—adjudicating the possibilities of male strength, restraint, courage, kindness, judgment, weakness, and accomplishment?

Joseph in the Bible is certainly challenged in a number of different realms. As a boy, he is the favorite son, coddled and spoiled by his elderly, detached, and grieving father. Oblivious to—or in spite of—his brothers’ jealousy, he seeks continued approval from his father by tattling on his brothers. He prances around in his special clothes (Midrash), refusing to take on the responsibilities of adulthood. Though he cannot control his dreams, he insists on sharing them and lording his visions over his brothers. He suffers kidnapping and slavery and is tempted by his master’s wife. He is imprisoned and abandoned by his friends. Finally, he is raised to a high and powerful office, but he still harbors emotional distress—a turmoil that comes to the surface when his unknowing brothers appear before him to procure food during the famine.

At each step along the way, he is challenged mightily. What should he be or do? Should he be a warrior, or a scholar, or a political manipulator, or a devoted son who—as soon as he gets power and status in Egypt—goes to visit his beloved Father? Does he manage his own family better than Jacob manages his? Does he succeed in Egypt because he is obsequious or because he is clever or because he is a long-term thinker who works with Pharaoh in a mature manner? How does Joseph—at each step along his complicated path—choose virtues and aspire to success? What does he do right, and what does he do wrong?

One senses a complexity within this ancestor—a complexity that is endemic in human personality and experience. He embodies the challenges we all face: managing our diverse inclinations and role models in a variety of situations. While his father wrestles, Joseph juggles.

We all come into this world inept, and we continue to be inept throughout. Those moments and occasions when we manage to succeed are to be prized, and those moments when our natural ineptitude predominates are to be endured and hopefully corrected.

The Sins of Onan

November 26th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is one of the Bible lessons they don’t teach you in Sunday School. In Genesis 38, we read a very disturbing story about Judah, son of Jacob and namesake of all us Jews. He marries a woman named Shua, and they have three children: Er, Onan, and Shelah. When Er grows up, he marries a woman named Tamar, but, before they can have any children, Er dies. The Torah does not explain what happens; it just says, “But Er, Judah’s first-born was displeasing to the Lord, and the Lord took his life.” (Genesis 38.7) This explanation may be a matter of post hoc, ergo propter hoc reasoning—seeing a result and assuming the reason for it. Why else would a young man die? God must have had a good reason. This is disturbing theology even before we get to the rest of the story.

Er’s widow, Tamar, is then plunged into a very awkward ancient custom. When a married man dies without children, his brother is supposed to father a child with the widow—and the child is considered the dead brother’s progeny. This is called levirate marriage or the levirate obligation. When it comes time for Onan to do his brotherly duty, things get complicated. “Judah said to Onan, ‘Join with your brother’s wife and do your duty by her as a brother-in-law, and provide offspring for your brother.’ But Onan, knowing that the seed would not count as his, let it go to waste (spilt it on the ground) whenever he joined with his brother’s wife, so as not to provide offspring for his brother. What he did was displeasing to the Lord, and God took his life also.” (Genesis 38.8-10)

At this point, Shelah is too young for the levirate obligation, so Tamar returns to her family, thinking that she will wait for him to grow up. Judah, however, determines that Tamar is a danger to his family, and he seeks to disassociate from her—sort of “forgetting” about her and Shelah’s obligation to her (and to Er).

Time passes, and even though Shelah grows up, Tamar is never contacted. She then takes matters into her own hands. Hearing that Judah is traveling near her family’s home, she disguises herself as a sacred prostitute (associated with a pagan shrine) and entices Judah to lie with her. When she gets pregnant and Judah hears about it, he suddenly feels a proprietary interest in her and wants her executed for adultery. Fortunately for her, she has Judah’s seal and cord in her possession, and before her execution, she proclaims that she is with child by the owner of these tokens. Judah realizes his sin and says, “She is more in the right than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah.” (Genesis 38.26) She is brought back into the family, bears twins Perez and Zerah, but she and Judah are not intimate again.

What a mess!

There are several ways of understanding the levirate marriage. Some think it is designed to give the widow a place of respect in the family. In a society where a woman’s only significance is as a wife or a mother, having a child garners this settled position and prevents her from being cast out. Others think the custom may be related to Biblical thinking about the afterlife. Though Sheol, the Bible’s explanation of where dead people “live,” is not a place of reward or punishment, there is a notion that the dead are aware of their descendants and can root for them. Providing the widow with a child provides the dead brother with someone to watch and support from Sheol. This explains Judah’s phrasing of the instruction to Onan (and perhaps Tamar): “Join with your brother’s wife and do your duty by her as a brother-in-law, and provide offspring for your brother.” Another possible reason for the levirate obligation is to dissuade brothers from fratricide—killing a brother to inherit his share of the estate. As hideous as this seems, there have been cultures in which brothers killed brothers for tribal/imperial leadership and possessions. If, however, the dead brother’s share would pass to “his son,” then such a terrible option would be less of a temptation.

We then get to the question of Onan’s sin. What exactly does he do wrong? There are several possibilities—and perhaps this multiplicity of sins is what makes the punishment so severe. First, he refuses to provide his brother with offspring. Second, he refuses to help his sister-in-law gain the status necessary for a respectable life. Third is Onan’s callous disregard for Tamar’s intimate sensibility—making her suffer the humiliation of sex with a man she does not love and then preventing her from using the encounter for pregnancy. Notice the habitual nature of his disrespect. He spills his seed upon the ground “whenever he joined with his brother’s wife.” It is not a single incident, but a regular practice.

It says in the Talmud that “God counts the tears of women.” Despite the power that men have in Biblical and Talmudic Law, this teaching reminds men that women’s feelings matter—and that part of the religious life is being considerate and respectful to women.

Despite these other offenses, the focus of traditional commentaries has been on the physical “spilling of his seed”—the deposit of semen in any place other than a woman’s reproductive system. Thus traditional religions have used Onan’s terrible punishment to prohibit male masturbation and—in more modern times—barrier method contraception. The Roman Catholic Church has even carried this grave concern to the opposite of contraception and sees in Onan’s sin reason to prohibit in vitro fertilization—or even testing of semen for potency. The problem, as the Church sees it, is in any production of or collection of semen other than its “natural” context.

In Judaism, there is a different judgment. The mitzvah of procreation is deemed more important than the prohibition of “spilling seed,” and thus collection of semen for testing or fertility techniques is allowed. And, the two mitzvot of pikuach nefesh (saving a life) and of sexual gratification (for both wives and husbands) are deemed more important than the prohibition of “spilling seed, and thus Halachah allows barrier contraception when a pregnancy would be deleterious to the wife’s health.

As with all Biblical stories, there are multiple interpretive possibilities, and it is always interesting how different readers in different contexts draw their conclusions.

A Major Misunderstanding

November 19th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion begins with a monumental misunderstanding. Jacob is on his way home to the Land of Israel and sends messengers ahead to let Esau know he is coming. “The messengers returned to Jacob, saying, ‘We came to your brother Esau; he himself is coming to meet you, and there are four hundred men with him.’ Jacob was greatly frightened; in his anxiety, he divided the people with him and the flocks and herds and camels, into two camps, thinking, ‘If Esau comes to the one camp and attacks it, the other camp may yet escape.’” (Genesis 32.7-9) The reason for Jacob’s fear is understandable. The brothers parted on very bad terms—with Esau threatening to kill Jacob because of the stolen blessing incident. (Genesis 27.41) This is why Rebekah suggests a trip up to Haran to visit the family. Jacob has now been gone over twenty years, and we do not know if there has been any contact between Jacob and his parents and brother—or if Esau is still furious.

As it turns out, Esau has cooled down. He has grown and become successful and powerful, and he is no longer intent on murdering his brother. In fact, he is coming to greet Jacob with open arms. Jacob may have reason to suspect Esau, but the fact is that Esau has no ill intentions. The threat is all in Jacob’s head.

When I read this story, I think about the term “micro-aggression,” a term that assumes ill-intent—even if it is not present. Those identified as “aggressors” are often surprised that a comment or term is received as insulting or demeaning, and they are also often surprised at the ferocity of the response—both by the person who perceives the insult and those in society who have decided to be the arbiters of such micro-aggressions. Are these terms or comments a priori demeaning, or is it a matter of the listener’s mood or current opinions?

Following the story of Jacob and Esau, is the insult or danger really there, or is it all in the listener’s head? And, if it is all in the listener’s head, how can the perceived insult be addressed without oppressing the innocent speaker?

There has been a recent trend for scholars or journalists to research the origins of a term or ceremony and discover its hidden racist or derogatory roots. Though there may not be a current consensus about the “real meaning” of a term, the researcher seeks to inform everyone of their hidden racism and thus ban the term. A case in point is the term “cake-walk.” Some have traced this term back to slavery days when African slaves would be required to compete in elaborate dance contests to win a cake. Since the white people would watch and be entertained, we are counseled that any modern uses of the term are inherently or at least historically racist and should be discontinued. This is quite curious to me because, whatever the researcher’s understanding of the origins, the term has evolved and developed and is frequently used by African Americans who understand the term differently. Two examples: the acclaimed trumpeter Wynton Marsalis—a significant figure in Black culture—has included in his sets of classic jazz Sidney Bechet’s 1925 “Cake Walkin’ Babies From Home.” It is a cute song—with great opportunities for jazz improvisation, and, since Marsalis does not usually include a vocalist in his band, all the players—most of whom are African American—join in the fun and sing the vocals in unison. Are they “micro-aggressing?”

Another example is from the work of perhaps the most significant African American classical composer, William Grant Still. In his 1940 ballet, Miss Sally’s Party, the final and climactic movement is called “The Cake Walk Contest.” The party is hosted and attended by African Americans, and a contest involving fancy dancing is part of the fun. Whatever the origins of the term “cake walk,” it has evolved beyond its original context of oppression and evolved into a term for fun or frivolity—and is used by perfectly respectable Black people.

There is also the matter of individuals changing their opinions and sensitivities. In a recent interview on Here and Now (NPR and WBUR), Chef Bryant Terry, a food historian and celebrator of the African American culinary tradition, discusses his changing attitudes about watermelon. When he was growing up, “his family talked about watermelon as a sacred fruit that helped newly freed Africans to reach financial stability. But for a long time, he refused to eat watermelon because of the associated racist stereotypes about Black Americans.” He did not want to buy into or reproduce racial stereotypes that were detrimental to his people. However, after some time, he changed his mind and started enjoying watermelon again. As he explains, not eating watermelon was “what I needed to protect myself at that time,” but getting over that hump and really embracing it reflected “my own ability to grow and to live my life without concern for the white gaze. If I like watermelon, I'm going to eat watermelon and I don't care what anybody says about it.”

Is the problem in a racially meaningful food or ceremony or term inherent, or is the problem in the mind and current sensitivity of the listener? To be sure, there are insults that are lobbed as emotional grenades, but, then again, there are many terms which have evolved and no longer mean what a historian declares them to mean permanently and forever. Esau could have been coming for blood, but, as the story unfolds, the fear and danger are all in Jacob’s mind. As Dr. Freud is reputed to have said, “Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”

As we try to establish a more just culture—with due regard for everyone, we are beset with changeable opinions, sensitivities, and attitudes. And we never know at what point in a person’s developing attitudes a comment will be considered problematic or not. That is why a more judicious approach might be to treat perceived insults (“micro-aggressions”) the way the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission treats off-color jokes in the workplace. While some people find them amusing, and others find them extremely offensive, there is no way to set a standard by which such jokes are judged a priori offensive. It is a matter of individual perception. So, if a person in the workplace finds such jokes offensive, he/she should notify the office comedians—and supervisors—and go on record as requesting that such jokes not be told in their presence. Then, if such a joke is told around them, it can be construed as harassment. These rules call for communication rather than outrage and hostility—and give potential offenders a chance to be nice. Potentially weaponized situations can be humanized.

 When Jacob’s fear and panic come face to face with a gracious and welcoming Esau, Jacob declares, “Seeing your face is like seeing the face of God, and you have received me favorably.” (Genesis 33.10). When Jacob sees the humanity and Divinity in his brother, the family bond is restored.

Taking Our Places With the Angels

November 12th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, we read about Jacob’s first encounter with angels. On the road to visit his family up in Haran (Syria)—so Esau can cool down, he sets up camp and sleeps. “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down on it.” (Genesis 28.12) When mal’achim / angels are sent out by God to perform their various errands and duties, this, it seems, is one of their places of transit. Inadvertently—or by hashgachah peratit, Divine Providence, Jacob finds himself at a portal to the Divine. Though we are taught that God is everywhere, certain places seem to be closer to God. As he says, “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I, I did not know it…How awesome is this place! This is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven!” (Genesis 28.16-17)

Yes, more than the mal’achim, the angelic representatives and agents of God, God is there, too, and the Lord personally makes a covenant with Jacob. “I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants…” (Genesis 28.13-14) Jacob and his future descendants are to be representatives and agents of God—just like the angels.

This sense of angelic sensibility can be described by an interesting ambiguity at the beginning of the last verse. Just before God speaks, the text says that “the Lord nitzav alav. A colloquial translation is that “the Lord was standing beside him,” but the literal translation of the word alav is on, on top of. So, is God next to Jacob, or is God on top of Jacob?

A similar but slightly amusing question comes when this word, alav is used in the Talmudic instructions for Gerut/Conversion. The officiant is instructed to be in the mikvah and stand alav the convert. Does this mean that the officiating Rabbi should be standing on the Convert’s back, holding him down in the water? Certainly not! Water safety and prudence suggest that the standing next to usage is meant by the Talmud—and probably also by the Biblical narrator.

Nonetheless, the thought that God is literally on or on top of Jacob can be psychologically and spiritually instructive. When someone is on a task, he/she is focused on it. When someone feels that another is on him/her, there is a feeling of attention being paid. Whether for good (protection) or for bad (waiting for a misstep), the consciousness of being watched can be palpable. I also think of the old Southern expression, like white on rice, suggesting a presence that is much more than coverage. The observer’s presence can be so on top of someone that it becomes part of the observed’s identity.

If we read the passage literally—that God is on Jacob—like white on rice, perhaps this could be a way of describing what some modern mystics call God Consciousness—an attitude in which one is intently and continually aware of God’s Presence. This is a goal of Kabbalistic thinking and practice, and Kabbalists have developed many techniques for inculcating this kind of awareness. One popular method is to meditate on the Shiviti, a spiritual formulation that begins with “Shiviti Adonai l’negdi tamid / I have set the Lord always before me,” from Psalm 16.8. Whatever life brings, let me look for God’s Presence and God’s possibilities. Whether for a blessing or a difficulty, how can I find a reaction or response that God-inspired—godly? 

We could also approach such a God Consciousness by hearkening back to the story of Creation. When God mysteriously says, “Let us make the human in our image”(Genesis 1.26), among the possibilities for God’s audience are the angels. In other words, God is speaking about putting angelic possibilities in these new human creatures. Like the angels ascending and descending the stairway in Jacob’s dream, we are created to help do God’s work in the world—spreading the blessings of heaven to all the earth. And, there is more. According to the Rabbis who crafted our traditional prayers, we are also given the opportunity to join the angles in their heavenly work.

The next time you are in synagogue for a morning service, pay attention to the Kedushah, the third benediction of the Amidah. In it, the Rabbis construct from three Biblical passages a scene of a heavenly “pep rally”—an eternal assembly praising God. They begin with Isaiah (6.3) and his dream in which the Seraphim (six winged angels) sing out, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts; the fullness of the world is God’s glory.” They then turn to Ezekiel (3.12) and his vision of a roaring assembly of Ofanim and Chayot Hakodesh (flaming wheels and multi-eyed Holy Beasts) who sing, “Blessed is God’s glory in every place!” Then, they bring in the human element, adding the Psalmist’s hope (146.10) that every human soul will join in the praise of God, “The Lord shall reign forever, your God, O Zion, from generation to generation, Halleluyah!” We are all being invited, as it were, to join the angelic chorus, shouting forth an awareness of God’s glory, wisdom, beneficence, and guidance.

The Rabbis conclude Kedushah with our agreement to accept the invitation: “L’dor vador naggid god’lecha! / To all generations, we will make known Your greatness, and to all eternity proclaim Your holiness. Your praise, O God, shall never depart from our lips!” This is our pledge to join in and take our places with the angels.

Rethinking an Old and Well-Remembered Story

November 5th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, I referenced the work of the Biblical Scholar, Carol Meyers of Duke University. Part of her work involves seeking the hidden/unrecorded significance and agency of women in Biblical times. In one very interesting article, she accomplishes this by reframing our modern thinking. While many of us may think that the preparation of food is something relegated to those with lesser significance, Meyers makes the point that this task is among the most important. Remembering that our ancestors lived with what we might call “food insecurity,” the members of the family or tribe entrusted with the preservation, storage, allocation, and preparation of food had perhaps the greatest responsibility. In subsistence agrarian settings, the grain harvested in the Fall must last until the next Fall. Eating too much, or letting it spoil, or allowing mice to eat it can prove to be fatal for the family. Likewise, cooking. If one of us spoils a cake, we simply get another bag of flour and another dozen eggs and try again. Not so the ancients whose supply of food was quite limited—and who did not live ten minutes from a supermarket with full shelves. In addition to matters of taste, there was the real challenge of adequate nutrition, and whoever was given this responsibility would have had high status.

In other words, the understanding of women’s social inferiority may need to be mitigated by an awareness of the ways that power was granted and exercised in family, village, and society. Though the written records focus on the status and power of men, it is worth wondering about the way that women participated in the ancient flow of power.

Female agency certainly seems to be at play in this week’s Torah portion. While Isaac seems intent on giving his Patriarchal blessing to Esau, Rebekah thinks that the leadership should go instead to Jacob. Who is in charge? On one level, Isaac is the man and is thus in charge—in which case, Rebekah’s rebellious actions need justification. This seems to be the goal of many Midrashim which “find” in the text hints that Esau is bloodthirsty, impious, and impulsive, and that Jacob is pious, studious, and extremely righteous. Due to Isaac’s failure to understand his sons, Rebekah is forced—for the sake of God’s mission—to intervene and manipulate Isaac’s power. While these Midrashim justify Jacob’s choice as leader, they also justify Rebekah breaking the rules and subverting her lord and husband’s will.

On another level, however, why should not Rebekah have a say in the future of Judaism? She is the mother of both young men, having raised them and seen how they developed. She is a Matriarch and is in just as strong a position to evaluate her sons’ abilities and proclivities as their father—especially since Isaac seems to be experiencing visual and cognitive degeneration. Though he is the one who must ritually/officially give the blessing, she seizes the responsibility of making sure that the leadership is entrusted to the son with the better leadership potential.

From the profound to the comedic, this Biblical story reminds me of the scene in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, where the main character’s mother is explaining female agency in a male-dominated tradition. Toula Portokalos, the daughter complains, “Ma, Dad is so stubborn. What he says goes. ‘The man is the head of the house!’” Her mother, Maria Portokalos, then explains, “Let me tell you something, Toula. The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.” In our Biblical story, Isaac might be “in charge,” but Rebekah has a mind and a variety of techniques to wield in effecting her opinions.

A third way to view this story is less conflictual—at least in terms of the marital dynamic. What if this were not a struggle between Isaac and Rebekah, but rather a strategically orchestrated and mutual plan? The story seems to present the idea that Isaac is fooled by Rebekah’s and Jacob’s chicanery, but there are hints that he is not. When Jacob shows up, all adorned in Esau’s clothing and goat skins on his arms, presenting Isaac with goat disguised as venison, Isaac is surprised at the speediness of the hunt. “How did you succeed so quickly, my son?” Jacob’s response, according to the Midrash, is a dead giveaway: “Because the Lord your God granted me good fortune.” (Genesis 27.20) Esau would never give God the credit for a speedy hunt. He would have bragged about his great skill, and Isaac would have known this about his son. Then is the more obvious tell: Isaac recognizes Jacob’s voice! “The voice is the voice of Jacob, yet the hands are the hands of Esau.” (Genesis 27.22) Then there is a bit of confusion in the text. The Torah says that Isaac “did not recognize him, because his hands were hairy like those of his brother Esau,” but this is unbelievable. Think about it. Is Esau really as hairy as a goat? I have not done an extensive scientific study of human hairiness, but I have seen lots of hairy people—and no one has ever come close to the hairiness of goats. I cannot imagine our shepherd ancestor Isaac being fooled by the goat skins. There is also the matter of a game-lover like Isaac thinking that pastured goat tastes just like wild venison. He would know the difference and would not be fooled. In other words, a case can be built on the notion that Isaac knows whom he is blessing.

Perhaps, then, what we have is a plan shared by Isaac and Rebekah—a plan contrived to explain why they were breaking precedent and awarding the leadership to the “younger” son. There is also the possibility that they are fearful of an angry and violent Esau who will not simply accept their decision. Given that Isaac is infirm—visually impaired and on his death bed (see verses 2-4 of the chapter), he is at Esau’s mercy, and Rebekah is vulnerable because she feels the need to stay near her ailing husband. Only Jacob is in a position to flee the wrath of Esau and then return later. A plan is then hatched: they pretend that Jacob fools old blind Isaac and receives the leadership blessing—and then Jacob can visit the family in Syria until Esau cools down.

Family stories are often messy, and everyone is not always happy. May we manage the many and competing issues in our own families—giving respect and agency to all members and trying to be understanding when things do not go our way.  

What We Can Learn From Ignorance

October 29th: Chayeh Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes information shows us how little we know. We get a tidbit and, upon reflection, realize that we have opened a window into a whole realm of ignorance. A case in point comes in an almost forgettable paragraph in this week’s Torah portion. After the elaborate stories of Sarah’s death and burial and the acquisition of Rebekah as a wife for Isaac, we are told about Abraham’s additional wives and children.
“Abraham took another wife, whose name was Keturah. She bore him Zimran, Jokshan, Medan, Midian, Ishbak, and Shuah. Jokshan begot Sheba and Dedan. The descendants of Dedan were the Asshurim, the Letushim, and the Leummin. The descendants of Midian were Ephah, Epher, Enoch, Abida, and Eldaah. All these were descendants of Keturah. Abraham willed all that he owned to Isaac, but to Abraham’s sons by concubines Abraham gave gifts while he was still living, and he sent them away from his son Isaac eastward to the land of the East.” (Genesis 25.1-6)

There were, apparently, whole swaths of Abraham’s life unrecorded in the Torah. We know nothing about his first 75 years (before God told him Lech Lecha), and all we know about the next hundred years are contained in a dozen or so stories. In other words, a lot about Abraham’s life is unknown to us. This does not mean that we cannot have an understanding of Abraham or an appreciation of him. As with every other person we know, what we know is inevitably limited, and the fact that there are mysteries should inspire with humility. We can have relationships, but we must not think that our limited knowledge grants us any kind of control. Is this not the same as our knowledge of and relationship with God? Though God is infinite and ultimately unknowable, we can nonetheless have a meaningful relationship with the Divine; we just need to approach It with humility and a sense of awe. Whatever we think, God is greater and more complex—both immanent (Elohaynu) and transcendent (Adonai).

We should also realize that the stories in the Bible are there for a reason. Someone—either God or human authors or editors—chose the stories to include and the stories that remained “on the cutting room floor.” What was included are there to present certain ideas, principles, and sensibilities. They are the messages and lessons of the Bible.

There is also this to consider. The fact that a large realm of Biblical life is not recorded does not mean it did not happen. Just because women, for example, are not featured as important actors in most Biblical stories does not mean that they were not integral parts of Biblical life. An example comes in next week’s Torah portion when Rebekah takes leadership in the family and instructs Jacob to pose as Esau and steal the blessing intended for her larger and hairier son. Another recorded example would be in Numbers 20 where Miriam dies, and Moses’ and Aaron’s leadership falters. Could Miriam have been an important part of the social network of ancient Israelite society—with such importance that her absence brings disaster? Though there are only a few recorded exceptions, it stands to reason that women, by strength of character and family and community agency, would have been just as important as men—though the male-written records generally ignore them. For some more insights to this dynamic, I suggest the work of Biblical archeologist and historian Carol Meyers of Duke University. She reads the Bible very carefully, looking for hints of female agency and power—and she finds them.

This kind of thinking is the basis of The Red Tent, a wonderful book by Anita Diamant. Picking up on a few Genesis passages about Leah, Rachel, and Dinah, she imagines the life of the women in Patriarchal times. Though not historical, it is very realistic and believable—a modern Midrash that reminds us of the significant but unrecorded lives of our Matriarchs.

For a modern example of this kind of hidden female agency, there a story told about the famous anthropologist Margaret Mead. She was once part of a team studying a primitive tribe, and, one day, all the men in the village began excitedly preparing for an important ritual. As they walked off for the ceremony, all the anthropologists grabbed their notebooks and eagerly followed. The male villagers, however, stopped and forbade Dr. Mead from accompanying them. As a woman, she was not allowed at the important ritual. Though she tried to explain that her role was that of an anthropologist—and not a female, they would not relent, and she was left frustrated in the village with the women. To her surprise, however, as soon as the men were out of sight, the female villagers began scurrying around and getting ready for something big. When Dr. Mead inquired what was happening, the women explained that the men’s ritual was just a bunch of foolishness. The real ritual was what the women would do, and they proceeded with their own ritual to propitiate the gods and bring about the blessings the village needed. Thinking she was left out, she got a front-row seat to a ritual unknown to the men—and that would not have been part of any history the men would have transmitted.

Let us not be fooled by the incompleteness of historical sources. They are, to be sure, all that we have, but let us realize their limitations and not be constrained thereby.

 
One final insight from our lack of knowledge. The heroes of our Tradition were probably not heroic and successful every step of the way. As human beings, they probably had both good days and bad, and there were no doubt times when they succumbed to selfishness, cowardice, immorality, or lethargy. Why would they be any different? But, to their credit, there were also days when they responded with nobility and righteousness and holiness. These are the examples presented by the Biblical Author/authors—examples preserved for us. Even though our lives are incomplete and flawed, we can nonetheless rise to the occasion and bring goodness and holiness into the world.

Wife or Sister?

October 22nd: Vayera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Amidst the many and faith-defining stories of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs, Genesis also gives us three very curious and rather repetitive stories. One was last week, in Lech Lecha (Genesis 12.10-20); the second is this week, in Vayera (Genesis 20.1-18); and the third will come in two weeks, in Toldot (Genesis 26.1-16).

In each, the Patriarch journeys to a new place and is worried that the locals will kill him to take his beautiful wife. This happens when Abram and Sarai visit Egypt (in Lech Lecha), when Abraham and Sarah visit Gerar (in Vayera), and when Isaac and Rebekah visit Gerar of the Philistines (in Toldot). To avert this danger, they concoct a ruse: the wife will pretend that she is his sister.

In the first two cases, the local ruler—Pharaoh in Egypt and Abimelech of Gerar—is struck by Sarah’s beauty and takes her into his harem. In the third case, all the Philistines in Gerar are attracted to Rebekah. However, before anyone can cohabit with her, the truth comes out. In the first two cases, God visits some kind of plague on the leaders, and, in the third case, Isaac and Rebekah are a little too affectionate in public and raise suspicions.

The local ruler confronts the Patriarch. “Why did you do this?!” The Patriarch then explains that he was unsure whether the local inhabitants were God-fearing, and that this unusual strategy was for protection. The local ruler then returns the wife and favors the Patriarch with gifts and business connections. Finally, the Patriarch and Matriarch depart much wealthier than when they arrived. Very similar stories, three times.

 Among the lessons we can derive from these stories are:

(1)  Apparently, this survival strategy was taught to Isaac by his parents. It worked twice for them, and they recommended it. Then, it worked for Isaac and Rebekah.

(2)  The Patriarchal families’ faith in God was mitigated by their fear of unknown people. Inasmuch as God protected Sarah twice and then Rebekah from the advances of men other than their husbands, one might wonder why God would not have protected Abraham and Isaac from murderous wife-stealers. The Patriarch’s faith in God was great, but they had human doubts and fears as well. This reminds us that, despite our own doubts and foibles, we too can achieve spiritual significance.

(3)  God is quite inventive in dispensing punishment. The nature of the plague in Egypt is unspecified, but, in Gerar, the plague involved the reproductive systems. The Torah only says that, after Abimelech returned Sarah to Abraham, “Abraham then prayed to God and God healed Abimelech and his wife and his slave girls so that they bore children; for the Lord had closed fast every womb of the household of Abimelech because of Sarah, the wife of Abraham.” (Genesis 20.17-18) However, the Midrash speculates that the infertility was more male-oriented—that God had rendered Abimelech impotent so he could not commit adultery with Sarah. This certainly got his attention!

(4)  The Halachah was not operative yet: in Vayera, Abraham explains that the “she is my sister” story is not a complete lie: “Besides, she is in truth my sister, my father’s daughter though not my mother’s; and she became my wife. So when God made me wander from my father’s house, I said to her, ‘Let this be the kindness that you shall do me: whatever place we come to, say there of me: He is my brother.’”  (Genesis 20.12-13)  When the Torah was given at Mt. Sinai around 1200 BCE, this consanguineous relationship was prohibited, but 800 years before that, it was apparently not a problem.

(5)  There are God-fearing people outside of the Hebrew tribe. Pharaoh and Abimelech claim that they would never have killed Abraham or Isaac to get to their beautiful wives—that they adhered to basic morality. Further, when God speaks to them about Sarah’s marital status, both listen to the word of God. It is also important to note that God’s communication is not limited to the founder of Judaism: God speaks to these non-Hebrews—indicating a Divine interest in more than just the Hebrews. Indeed, our special role in the world is not just for our own internal perfection. God’s mission for us is to teach the whole world and bring blessings upon them. As God explains earlier in the Torah portion, “Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him. I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right…” (Genesis 18.18-19) God is the God of all humanity—and all the universe!

(6)  Finally, Sarai/Sarah and Rebekah were beautiful and fetching—a gift they bequeathed to all of the Jewish girls and women who follow them. Moreover, Sarah’s beauty was so great that, even in her seventies and eighties, she attracted the amorous attention of both Pharaoh and Abimelech. It seems clear: the beauty of Jewish women is a Torah fact!

Why Abram?

October 15th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the great mysteries of the Torah is why God chooses Abram to start the religion that eventually becomes known as Judaism. The text tells us nothing. In the closing paragraph of Parshat No’ach (Genesis 11.27-32), we are only told that Terach fathers three sons, Abram, Nahor, and Haran, that Abram gets married to Sarai, and that the family moves from Ur of the Chaldeans (the port at the north end of the Persian Gulf) up the Tigre-Euphrates Rivers Valley to Syria (Haran). Their intention is to continue their migration to Canaan, but they settle in Haran and Terach dies there. That’s it. There is nothing to explain anything about Abram’s character or accomplishments or how he somehow merits being put in such a significant position.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, God says to Abram,
“Lech lecha: Go forth from your native land
And from your father’s house
To the land that I will show you.
I will make of you a great nation,
And I will bless you;
I will make your name great,
And you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you;
And all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”
(Genesis 12.1-3)

Perhaps this mystery should be no more curious than a thousand others. God seldom explains the reasons for Divine decisions, and we are not really in a position to understand. Is not God on a much, much higher level than humans? As God explains to Job, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Do you know who fixed its dimensions or who measured it with a line…? (Job 38, 39, and 40; the answer goes on for three chapters!)

On the other hand, it seems that the Rabbis have a great desire to pattern themselves after spiritual masters—and therefore they need to know what it is about Abram that attracts God’s particular attention and trust. One way to figure this out is to go to the future and work backwards. Looking at Abram/Abraham’s life and actions after Lech Lecha can show us qualities which God could know ahead of time: great faith and compassion, spiritual enthusiasm and obedience, and generosity and courage. Perhaps God sees these virtues and realizes that Abram is the man to start the new religion?

Another avenue to understanding is to imagine Abram’s formative theological thinking. Born into a world of polytheism and idolatry, the Midrash speculates that Abram figures out the singularity of the Creative Force on his own. In one, Abram is traveling through the desert and camps at night on a ridge overlooking a city. Noticing the city’s illuminated and organized street grid, it occurs to him that such a well-ordered city could not have happened without a plan and a planner. And, if a city’s organization reflects a singular plan, then how much the more so would the interlocking complexity of the world also reflect a singular Creative Force. In other words, despite what he had been taught as a child, Abram realizes that there is only One God. It is at this point that God recognizes Abram’s unique spiritual insights and says, “Lech lecha…” 

Another Midrash is equally insightful but a bit more entertaining. In this one, Abram’s father, Terach, is in the idol business. He has a shop that sells idols to all the polytheistic idolaters. One day, Terach has some errands to run and asks young Abram to watch the shop. Abram agrees, but, when Terach returns, the shop is in shambles: the idols are strewn all over the place and broken in pieces. “Abram, what happened?!” Terach cries out. Abram then tells the tragic story. “You remember that big idol that was over in the corner? Well, he decided that all of the little idols should bow down to him, and they refused. He got so angry that he took a stick and broke them all. Then I got angry at him and knocked him off his pedestal and broke him.” Terach is incredulous. “But, Abram, that is impossible. Everyone knows that the idols are just wood and stone; they cannot do anything!” “Exactly,” replied Abram. “Then why do we worship them?!” As with the previous Midrash, God sees Abram’s religious understanding and realizes that he is the one to start the new religion. “Lech lecha…”

Then, there is a possible explanation inspired by the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Writing about the similar mystery in God’s choice of Moses (also not explained in the Torah), Ms. Browning writes:
“Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes—
The rest sit around and pluck blackberries.”
(Aurora Leigh, 86)
Perhaps the call of God is spoken to every human and continually. Abram’s (and Moses’) uniqueness lies in the spiritual ability to perceive the Divine invitation.

Similarly, there is this more egalitarian possibility. Perhaps Abram’s unique qualifying characteristic lies not in his preparation or ability but rather in his response. All are called, but only some respond. Rather than searching for intellectual gifts or lifestyle habits, perhaps the answer is no more than that Abram responds when God invites and commands.

Translating this insight to our situation, perhaps it is not a matter of preparing for the great call from God but simply responding to the Torah that God places in our midst. We are all called, and we are all invited, and we can all respond. God is continually saying, “Lech lecha: Go, get thee up…and become a blessing.” The call is not restricted to Abram or Sarah. It is spoken to us all. Remember: pursuing both God and godliness is our family tradition.

Tapping the Mind of God

October 8th: Noach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur Morning D’var Torah.

There is a notion—in both Jewish Tradition and ancient Greek legend, that all the knowledge we ever learn is actually already in our heads—that we already sort of know it, and that learning is actually remembering. There is even a Midrash about souls in heaven learning everything in the Torah before being put into human bodies at birth. Just before we are born, however, an angel presses an indentation on our upper lips and makes us forget everything we have learned. That is why babies cry when they are first born; we are grief-stricken at all the Torah we have lost.

These thoughts seem attempts to explain why things we learn often seem particularly familiar—as though they were lurking in the corners of our minds all along.

 Add to this the insight from Ecclesiastes (1.9),
“Only that shall happen which has happened, only that occur which has occurred;
there is nothing new under the sun!”

When one considers the infinity of God—the true infinity, it follows that all possibilities are included in the limitless potential of Creation. If something happens or if wisdom is discovered, it is something that existed in possibility all along.

This is not to downplay the brilliance of authors or artists or scholars but just to observe the fact that whatever they compose or discover was, all along, composable or discoverable. The answer was there along along, just waiting for them to see it. Indeed, one often hears such an insight expressed by composers or artists. Rather than actually creating their art, they feel mere channels for its flow into the world.

This kind of thinking led my mentor, Dr. Ellis Rivkin, late of the Hebrew Union College, to speak of all intellectual growth and creativity as tapping the Mind of God. Our blessed situation is that we can gain access to the infinity of God’s mind and access some of the precious Divine Wisdom.

So, with this dynamic in mind, let us consider the poetic and pious words of a very familiar prayer, Ahavah Rabba, the second prayer after the Bar’chu, the one that immediately precedes Sh’ma in the morning service.

 Here is the text which you may follow on page 81 of our Machzor:
With a great love have You loved us, O Lord our God, and with enormous and overflowing
compassion have You cared for us.
It begins with the acknowledgment that God loves us and shows us love. It also speaks of the overwhelmingness of God’s blessings to us.

We then get to the prayer’s theme of how God shows that love.
For the sake of our ancestors, who trusted in You and to whom You taught
the laws of life, may You also grace and teach us.
There is a tradition—between our God and our families—of instruction in חֻקֵּי חַיִּים / the laws of life, the information necessary for living in a meaningful way. One could even say that teaching and learning are the ways that our relationship with the Divine takes place:
O compassionate One, have compassion upon us and help our minds to know, understand, listen carefully, learn, teach, guard, observe, and lovingly maintain all the words and teachings of Your Torah.
We are not just talking about book learning; we are talking about encountering Divine Wisdom at every level.

The next passage is often chanted in a very popular musical setting by Reb Shlomo Carlebach:
Enlighten our eyes with Your Torah; cause our hearts to cleave to Your mitzvot;
unite our hearts and minds to love and revere Your Name.
We are speaking to an even deeper involvement, one in which contact with God affects and improves our humanity.

We then sing of faith:
We shall never be shamed because we trust in Your great, holy, and awesome Name,
and we rejoice and find happiness in Your salvation.
It is a hallmark of our faith that our relationship with God is ultimately trustworthy, and we are urged to invest ourselves in this certain and secure and eternal connection.

Finally, we are reminded that our participation in God’s Wisdom—in tapping the Mind of God—helps not only us but also the Divine Itself.
For You are God Who brings deliverance and Who chose us,
drawing us near to Your great Name in utter truth
so that we may give thanks to You and unite You in love.
Our role is to actualize God in the world—to be a channel for God’s wisdom and godliness, and, in doing so, we can actually help לְיַחֶדְךָ בְּאַהֲבָה  /unite God in love, that is, fix the divisions in the cosmos.

Learning and intellectual activity are second nature to us. We are curious and analytical and thrilled when we find clarity or understanding or profundity. What we may not realize, however, is that our minds are an access point to the Infinite, and that thinking is a way of participating in the Divine.

 We celebrate this dynamic—this blessed process—in our tradition of Torah and in our sacred rituals: they are at the heart of our relationship with the Holy and Infinite One.
We praise You, O Lord our God, Who imparts of Your wisdom to flesh and blood,
Who lovingly teaches Torah to Israel, and
Who gives special wisdom to those who live in reverence.

Race, Israel, and Sukkot

October 1st: End of Sukkot, Simchat Torah, and Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich  

Much of our legal and moral thinking revolves around classifying situations or phenomena. We see something to eat and want to say a blessing, but Vas ist dos? What exactly is this piece of food? Is it a vegetable, פְּרִי הָאֲדָמָה, “fruit of the earth?” Or, is it פְּרִי הָעֵץ, “fruit of the tree?”  When we open up our prayer books, do we pray the morning service, the afternoon service, or the evening service? We need to determine the time of day. When we are counting a minyan, who are these people in attendance? Are they Jews or Gentiles, and are they over the age of thirteen? All are welcome, but only the adult Jews comprise the minyan. We need to know what we are beholding.

When we think about the continuing conflict between Israel and its Arab neighbors, our opinions generally depend on what we think we see. Vas ist dos? Is the Modern State of Israel as Zionism understands it, an ancient people returning to its ancestral land? Or, is it as the Arabs understand it, Jews stealing Arab land?

As the thinking on race has developed over the last few decades, there has been a great emphasis on determining the whiteness or non-whiteness of groups—whiteness being equivalent to evil and non-whiteness being equivalent to innocent victimhood. This has been particularly delicate when conflicting parties are both non-white. In such cases, determining which non-white is to be deemed white and therefore evil, and which non-white is to be deemed non-white and therefore innocent is very important. This distinction was at play a number of years ago in the narrative of the tragic death of Trayvon Martin in Florida. Among the many issues in the public telling of the story, the ethnicity of the shooter, George Zimmerman, seemed to be important. Though Peruvian—and therefore Hispanic, i.e., non-white, many observers felt the need to classify him as “white Hispanic,” that is, more white than Hispanic.

This focus on color as well as ethnicity was also part of the public discussion of the recently released film In the Heights. Though the film (and the very popular stage musical) focused on Hispanics (Dominicans in the Washington Heights neighborhood of New York City), criticism descended because of the absence of Black Dominicans. Even though one of the main characters is Black, apparently he was not a Black Dominican and therefore not representative of the true multi-racial nature of the community.  

A similar distinction within the Hispanic/Latin community can be seen in the news coverage when Justice Sonia Sotomayor ascended to the Supreme Court and was declared the first Hispanic Supreme Court Justice. Those familiar with Jewish history were surprised because we always thought that Justice Benjamin Cardozo (who served on the High Court from 1932-1938) was Hispanic. He was not a poor Hispanic nor the child of immigrants, and the discrimination his family suffered was at the hands of other Hispanics—the Christian authorities in 15th Century in Portugal and Spain, but his family certainly identified as Sephardic Jews and were part of a historic New York Hispanic/Latino/Jewish community. (For details, see The Grandees by Stephen Birmingham, 1971). So, in the parsing of racial/ethnic identities, did his Jewishness somehow negate his Latinness? Did his family’s longtime American residence (from the 1600’s) make him white and therefore non-Latin? His story is clearly different from Justice Sotomayor’s, but it is curious to me how the words Hispanic and Latin are defined and used.

In any event, recent decades have seen a re-rhetorization of the Arab position on Israel. Instead of characterizing the conflict as between Jews and Arabs, the Jews are cast as white European colonizers, and the Arabs are cast as non-white/indigenous victims. This rhetoric is very powerful, and it has convinced many people—including many in the Progressive Caucus of the Democratic Party. They feel the need to call out white oppression wherever it rears its ugly head, and, since Israel is white, they see it as evil—something to be stopped.

The irony of this characterization is that Jews have traditionally been considered non-white (not part of the majority and privileged culture): Jews have experienced racial, religious, and cultural oppression under Roman, Christian, and Muslim regimes for some 2000 years! (That was certainly the experience of Justice Cardozo’s family!) As one astonished observer quipped: The Jews are the only people who were brown when they left Israel, and white when they came back. Did we Jews change, or did the rhetoric change?

In Canada, this Jews are white categorization has been challenged by a Canadian Indian activist, Ryan Bellerose, a member of the Metis nation in Alberta. The Metis nation is recognized by the Canadian government as one of the country’s official aboriginal peoples, and Mr. Bellerose sees the Jewish situation as parallel to that of aboriginal peoples everywhere. He observes that Indigenous Identity is based on five pillars: land, language, culture, blood, and spirituality. Though the ravages of time may have removed some of these pillars, they remain as part of the tribal identity and are held up as aspirations for tribal renewal.

For example, Cherokee removed from their native lands in the Southeast nonetheless maintain their tribal identity in exile in Oklahoma. Similarly, though the gene pool of “pure” Sioux blood has been mixed with other groups’ genetic material, tribes can nonetheless maintain enough of their ethnicity to have a real tribal identity. Though some native languages have been lost, many remain, and many can be reclaimed. And, though aboriginal spirituality may have changed or been influenced by other spiritual approaches, clear connections and a sense of continuity with ancient forms can nonetheless be maintained.

Mr. Bellerose sees these kinds of dynamics of aboriginal identity as exceedingly similar to the processes of Jewish Identity.

He makes the point that Jews are the indigenous people of Eretz Yisrael, and our links to the land run deep. He even brings in a Sukkot connection. Indigenous Canadians have as one of their rites a sacred Medicine Wheel in which four plants—Tobacco, Sage, Sweet Grass, and Cedar—are put together and waved in the four directions to symbolize the Creator’s Presence throughout the land.  We, the indigenous people of Eretz Yisrael, have our Arba Minim, the four native Israeli species which we celebrate on Sukkot: the Lulav/Palm, the Arava/Willow, the Hadas/Myrtle, and the Etrog/Citron. We hold them together and wave them proudly in six directions, connecting the Creator to earth.

The five pillars of our tribal Eretz Yisrael indigeneity were greatly challenged when we were exiled by Babylon in 586 BCE and later by Rome in 70 CE, but we kept them close. Though we learned to speak other languages, we always kept Hebrew in our spiritual and legal settings. Though we encountered many other ethnicities and races, we kept our sense of kinship—actively congregating and expressing our group identity as Am Yisrael, the Jewish People. Non-Jews might have married in or converted in, but this non-Jewish genetic input did not dissipate our sense of peoplehood. Indeed, these newcomers were welcomed in and made part of us—becoming, in the parlance of Native American culture, blood brothers/sisters. We were and remain a people, Am Yisrael.  

Many indigenous people see the Jewish story—the Zionist story—as a miracle of indigenous and tribal rebirth. We, the true Indigenous of Eretz Yisrael, revived our language, retook our lands, continued our culture, expanded our tribal family, and express our spirituality daily. We are examples—both in the Diaspora and in Eretz Yisrael—for other oppressed and exiled peoples: Native American Indians, Tibetan Buddhists, even Africans.

As Rabbi Leigh Lerner of Montreal, Quebec, writes, “Let’s change the conversation about Israel. The question is not whether Israel is a blessing to humanity – high tech, green, medically and agriculturally miraculous. No, today’s battle is to show that we are above all Indigenous.” While we may choose to live in North America—away from our native lands, we nonetheless relate on deep and tribal levels to Eretz Yisrael and its people. “To say we are colonists is an attempt to destroy Am Yisrael once again.”

There is much to discuss and perhaps criticize about the Modern State of Israel and its policies. Our hopes for peace for our Israeli brothers and sisters should be combined with hope for peace and justice for the Arab peoples who, since the mid-1960s, have taken the name Palestinians. Even though their claim of indigeneity is refuted by the massive Arab population movement into Israel in the early 1900s, they are nonetheless human beings and deserve to be treated fairly. The complexities of a modern state in a difficult neighborhood are challenging indeed. However, the bulk of the anti-Israel and anti-Jewish rhetoric these days is much more existential, declaring that Israelis are outsiders, colonizers and settlers, who are displacing aboriginal peoples. The problem with analogies is that they are not always accurate. Casting the dynamics of Zionism as identical to White oppression in South Africa or North America is much more a rhetorical position than a real, historically accurate description. Vas ist dos? It is a mischaracterization.

The Jews are the indigenous inhabitants of Eretz Yisrael, with bona fides going back 2500 or 3000 or 4000 years. Let’s not allow unscrupulous and unlearned haters to twist this discussion and manipulate good hearted people. If one believes in indigenous rights and the autonomy of traditional tribal groups—in the returning of aboriginal peoples to their native lands with their original and ancient national autonomy, then supporting Israel is the right thing to do.

Our God and God of Our Fathers and Mothers

September 24th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre D’var Torah.

As much as we Jews are individuals living in our own times and places, we also know that we are part of a long and continuing historical tradition, a sacred process in which we are the heirs of the ancients and the progenitors of Judaism’s future. There are many expressions of this sense of tradition, but we need go no further than the opening words of our Amidah. We praise God Who is: “Our God and God of our Fathers and Mothers.”

The relationship we have with the Eternal One is both individual and communal, both modern and generational. Moreover, we are directed to consider the particular relationships our forebears had with our Creator. “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob; God of Sarah, God of Rebekah, God of Rachel, and God of Leah.”

It has been asked why we say “God of” before each name. It is not like there are many gods—a different one for Abraham and a different one for Isaac, etc. So, why do we not say,
“God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel and Leah?”
The reason is that each Matriarch and each Patriarch came to his or her own personal understanding of God and developed his or her own relationship with God.

The same can be said of our relationships with God; though there are certainly communal commonalities, each one of us sees God through our unique set of eyes and relates to God in our own ways. Some of our non-Jewish neighbors speak of a personal God, and we can agree. God has always had a personal relationship with each and every Jew—seeing each of us as an individual and precious child. This is the Jewish Tradition.

When we pray the Amidah, we are focusing on God, but what if we turn the camera around and consider God’s view of our developing family? Think of God noticing the generational line from Abraham and Sarah to Isaac and Rebekah, and then to Jacob and Leah and Rachel. While having an individual relationship with each Matriarch and Patriarch, God also must have had a sense of how the line is doing. God loves the line—loves the family, but God is also aware and evaluative about how the family is doing at any point in time.

It is in some ways how sports fans love a team and then follow the team over the years, remembering the years that were good and those that were not so great. Some of you may remember the 1982 and the 1986 Penn State Nittany Lions who won the national championship and also the 1984 Nittany Lions who went 6-5, losing to Alabama, Notre Dame, and Pittsburgh. Fans loved the team regardless, but there is always an awareness of how the team is doing. Could God be looking at us the same way?

I can imagine God looking at us on Yom Kippur and thinking, “I wonder how the Jews will do this year.”

There is a tendency to see the Patriarchs and Matriarchs as continually and consistently heroic—that every year was a saintly one for them. Even in cases where a one of them seems to falter, the Rabbis of the Midrash recast the story to show that our ancestor is right and holy at every step along the way. Jacob is perhaps the best example for he seems, at first look, to have some major behavioral flaws. He stingily demands Esau’s birthright in exchange for some lentil stew, and, in a more dramatic and morally felonious incident, tricks his old blind father and steals Esau’s blessing. The Rabbis of the Midrash, however, cannot imagine a Patriarch or Matriarch ever behaving in a less than holy and proper manner, so they invent an evil characterization for Esau and cast Rebekah and Jacob as saving the Jewish people from him.

While this always a hero approach increases the stature of our ancient forebears, something about it does not ring true. Is it reasonable to think that the Patriarchs and Matriarchs were always right, always in control, and always on moral high ground? For building myths, this may work, but, for presenting humans with whom we can relate, some commentators see a greater value in contemplating the struggles of our ancestors as they went through the same competing priorities and temptations that we experience. Are they heroic because everything they did was right? Or, are they heroic because, in the messiness and frustration of life, they were able to muster nobility and morality some of the time, perhaps growing as people and improving?

Let’s go back to our example of Jacob, an ancestor whom we can well view as a work in progress. As a youngster and a young adult, Jacob thinks he can get by on fast talking— finagling his way into Esau’s birthright and blessing. There is even a passage where he tries to finagle God. In Genesis 28, when Jacob beholds the ladder between Heaven and Earth, God appears and promises Jacob a great life. Jacob sort of accepts God’s largesse but with conditions: “If God remains with me, if God protects me on this journey... giving me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and if I return safe to my father’s house, then I’ll accept the Lord as my God.” That’s chutzpah! That’s impudence. It may not be admirable, but it is Jacob, an insecure, fast-talking kid who has some growing-up to do. He thinks he can get by on his wits until he meets his Uncle Laban, a master at the craft of finagling, and, boy, does Jacob pay the price. He is married to the wrong sister. He is cheated of his labor and livestock. He tries to steal away with his wives and children, but Laban catches them, and, in a conflict over stolen idols, Jacob inadvertently curses his beloved Rachel and brings about her death. Of Jacob, one could say that One who lives by the finagle gets finagled by a better finagler.

It is only after these many experiences that Jacob seems to outgrow his fast-talking ways and heel-grabbing to become Israel, one who can hold his own with God and with other human beings. His Patriarchal status is not automatic, nor does it come at birth. Jacob is a heel-grabber, but Israel is a Patriarch: after much trial and error and growth, he attains the wisdom and foresight to lead the tribe.

As an example to us, this can be both instructive and hopeful. When we look into our lives, opening our eyes to both our strengths and our weaknesses, we have the chance to grow and improve. This is certainly the hope of God Who, we are assured, is interested in us and yearning for us to become better. As Ezekiel (18.23) reminds us: “This is Your glory: You are slow to anger, ready to forgive. It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their ways and live.” This is God’s perspective, watching the family progress or not, watching the tribe progress or not, watching each of us—year by year—progress or not.

And, year by year, God hopes that we will approach these holy days with the desire for introspection and improvement. Imagine being God and watching all the Jews stand before the Ark on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Though Abraham and Sarah probably had different ceremonies, the idea would have been the same: standing in the Divine Presence, beating their breasts with their ancient equivalent of  עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ / For the sin which we have committed against You and אָבִֽינוּ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ, they would have looked inside and prayed for improvement. It has been many years, now, but God keeps watching us come forward prayerfully and think thoughts of תְּשׁוּבָה / repentance. From God’s perspective, it is a matter of loving and long-term attention.

 When we say in our prayer, וְזוֹכֵר חַסְדֵי אָבוֹת וְאִמָּהוֹת, that God remembers the good deeds of our ancestors, it is a realistic memory: Sometimes Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, Leah, and Rachel were able to rise to the spiritual and moral occasion and live up to their godly potentials. Other times, they were fully human, which is a nice way of saying that they succumbed to selfishness, impatience, petty jealousy, gossip, etc. This is all our heritage—and our possibility.

The Sefat Emet, Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, used to teach that each character and incident in the Scripture represents a  possibility for us. We have the opportunity to be Pharaoh or Moses, Goliath or David, Jezebel or Miriam. The possibilities for heroism or villainy are ever-present, and the choices lie before us over and over again. Just because we chose to be a Pharaoh or Amalek or Delilah last time, we are not fated to make the same choice this time. This time, we could choose a better path—the path of a Nathan or a Joshua or a Deborah or a Sarah on those days where they achieved a kind of moral immortality.

When we think about the long line of  Jews who have come before us—from the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of yore to the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of our own families and congregations, they represent our continuing relationship with the God of all the world.  Within the jumbled possibilities of their humanity, they worked on themselves. Through the ups and downs of their very human lives, they found opportunities to respond to the Divine Presence with goodness and kindness and righteousness and holiness—and they are standing with us tonight as we contemplate these blessed possibilities for ourselves.

Imperfection and Forgiveness

September 17th: Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Rabbi’s D’var Torah for Rosh Hashanah Morning

Very few of us have been exposed to the judgement of media or social media—especially on a large scale, but those who have often describe the experience as horrible. Everything one has ever said and every moment one has ever lived and every inopportune photograph are suddenly on display and subject to comment, ridicule, outrage, and judgment.

It sort of sounds like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. As we read in our Machzor,
“Are not all things known to You, both the mysteries of eternity and the dark secrets of all that live? You search the inmost chambers of the heart, and probe the deep recesses of the soul. Nothing is concealed from Your sight.” As we know, from many years of reading the prayerbook, God knows everything about us, and God judges us exactingly.

The difference between Rosh Hashanah and social media, of course, is the perspective and quality of the judges.

Those who proffer opinions on media and social media have a variety of agendas—from political to personal to pathological, and their opinions are generally based on limited information. Think of the opinions we all have on the various stories that appear before us—Simone Biles, Brexit, the Eviction Moratorium, Critical Race Theory, the NCAA—and how  our limited knowledge does not affect our ability to form these opinions. Then, think of how these opinions change as the stories proliferate and we learn more and hear other opinions. Our thought processes are subject to a thousand different and continuing inputs, and what we think about any given subject is inevitably going to change frequently. Now imagine publishing these furtive thoughts and adding to the cacophony of judgment. It is not a pretty sight.

One of my favorite examples of a changing story revolves around the tragic drug overdose death of actor Heath Ledger. He died, and an enterprising reporter’s research yielded the fact that Mr. Ledger’s address was the same as Mary-Kate Olsen—one of the Olsen twins. Immediately stories arose about a secret relationship and the role Ms. Olsen might have played in the tragedy of Mr. Ledger’s death. This side of the story took on a life of its own until someone figured out that the “same address” was one of those New York apartment buildings with hundreds of apartments and thousands of residents. It was just sloppy journalism—which is a sin in and of itself, but too frequently nefarious motivations spur the stories and conjectures and implications of what is no less than high tech gossip.

Another example came when Breitbart News published a video-clip of an African American official in the US Agriculture Department speaking about an encounter she had with some racists. Some people whom she knew to be racist—and who had actually persecuted her family—came to her for governmental assistance. She spoke about getting revenge and denying their request. Well, you can imagine the furor this created, and the outrage shot right up to the White House: President Obama fired the official immediately. Come to find out, however, after a little more reporting, that the remarks of the African American Agriculture official were taken out of context. In her speech, after confessing her initial evil inclination, she talked about how her religiously based morality made her resist the temptation to persecute them. She overcame her personal and vengeful feelings and did the right thing, treating them with the courtesy they deserved under the law—and that was her duty. The brouhaha continued for a few days, and she was reinstated, redeemed from malicious film-editing and high-tech gossip.

One hopes for a more judicious attitude from God. Indeed, our Tradition makes a point of describing the Lord’s attitude as utterly just and utterly merciful. God is certainly aware of our foibles, failures, and profound imperfections—and God is often disappointed in us. However, God approaches us with understanding, compassion, and love—working with us and begging us to do better. Listen to the words of Ezekiel (18.23) as he describes God’s judicatory orientation:
“This is Your glory: You are slow to anger, ready to forgive. It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their ways and live.”
The Machzor then adds, “Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.” 

This is the unrelenting message of the Scripture, and it is accentuated in that most classic of Yom Kippur lessons, the Book of Jonah. After getting his little attitude adjustment in the belly of the fish, Jonah invests himself and his prophetic reputation in the certainty of God’s awesome punishment. He is looking forward to a bloodbath. Thus, when the king and people and even animals of Nineveh repent—and God accepts their repentance, Jonah is grief-stricken and disgusted with God: “O Lord! Isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled beforehand to Tarshish. For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment. Please, Lord, take my life, for I would rather die than live.”

Jonah refuses to extend the same compassion and forgiveness that God gives to him and continues his complaint about God’s compassion and forgiveness. Finally God explains to us what Jonah refuses to see: I care about Nineveh, that great city, and its more than 120,000 people who are still in need of moral education. I even care about the animals! God cares about them as God cares about us.

It may not seem particularly profound to suggest that the God of the Universe is more thorough and judicious than the Twitterverse. What is profound, however, at least to me, is the question of what kind of judging model do I want to follow? Do I follow God’s example, or do I follow the shallow, sanctimonious, arbitrary, anonymous, and far-too-often mean-spirited digital monster known as social media?

Think about it: even those of us who do not immerse ourselves in FaceBook and Twitter and all of the other universes of opinion cannot escape the stories and discussions. Whether the subject is a political leader or a celebrity or just a random citizen who happens to be involved in something unusual, the judgments of strangers come hard and fast. The stories are originally told because they are interesting, but they are often retold in ways designed to seize our attention and provoke feelings of disgust or outrage. Realizing that there are real people at the origins of these salacious tales, perhaps it would be judicious to take a moment and try to see through the shallowness or slanted presentation or meanness of the stories before we join in the judging.

We may not be “influencers” or public personalities with large followings, but our reactions are the basis of the propagation of these stories, and, as anyone who has been the subject or victim of these stories can tell you, this stuff can hurt. It can be humiliating and devastating, and, at a certain level, impossible to deflect or defend. The grammar school adage may say that “words can never hurt you,” but, that is often not the case. When the hearers of gossip join in and add to the criticism and hating, words can hurt very deeply. I believe that we all play roles in the propagation or lack of propagation of gossip: our acquiescence or refusal to participate can make a lot of difference.

It can also be a matter of self-purification. What does it do to our souls when we join in mean-spirited attitudes, judging and hating and piling on? By putting our energy into lashon hara, the evil tongue, we turn ourselves into vessels of maliciousness and hate. Even if we never speak or tweet or post our comments, our spirits and sensibilities are defiled by such ungodly thinking. Let us pray for forgiveness and repentance.

I am not suggesting that people are without imperfections—that there are not people out there who do dishonest or illegal or corrupt things. Is not the message of Rosh Hashanah that we are all guilty of sin? My thought, however, is that we should approach the reports we hear about other people’s behavior the way God approaches the imperfections in our lives. Does a misstep or misdeed render the sinner worthless? Does a case of stupidity or insensitivity or youthful foolishness signal the complete irretrievability of someone being considered for employment or political office? Is an embarrassing detail from the past indicative of a secret and nefarious agenda, or is it something that the candidate regrets and for which he or she has sought repentance? Remember, repentance—teshuvah—is the name of the game.
וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹֽעַ הַגְּזֵרָה
Repentance, prayer, and charity: these return us to God.

My thought is that we should try harder to follow God’s example—seeing both the good and the bad, praising the good, calling out the bad, and working with the sinner to return to godliness.

 בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, חוֹנֵן הַדָּעַת, הָרוֹצֶה בִּתְשׁוּבָה
חַנוּן הַמַּרְבֶּה לִסְלֹֽחַ
We praise You, O Lord, Who graces us with knowledge, Who desires our repentance,
and Who graciously abounds in forgiveness.

May we remember how God thinks of us, and, when we think of others, may we emulate God’s justice and compassion.

The Necessity of Jewish Power

September 10th: Shabbat Teshuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
Erev Rosh Hashanah D’var Torah:

Welcome to the annual meeting of the Jewish People! I’m going to do something this evening that I have never done before: read someone else’s essay as my High Holy Day D’var Torah. Bret Stephens is a columnist for the New York Times who has recently taken the role of  Editor-in-Chief of a new Jewish magazine, Sapir: A Journal of Jewish Conversations. I recently read his lead essay, The Necessity of Jewish Power, in the second issue of the journal, and it is so good that I just have to read it to you. There are some slight abbreviations, but this is Mr. Stephens’ message, and it provides us with some profound thoughts on this important day.

The relationship of the Jewish people to power is complicated, to say the least. We are terrified by its absence, uneasy in its possession, conflicted about its use. We are accused by those who hate us of having it in inexhaustible abundance — and we are haunted by the fear that what power we do have could dry up like a puddle in summer. Historically, most civilizations have hungered for power, gloried in it, and vanished in its absence. Jewish civilization, by contrast, never had much power even in its ancient sovereign days—and then somehow endured for nearly two millennia without any power at all. Even now, Jews are at least as concerned about abusing power as we are about squandering it.

These ambivalent attitudes regarding power are not just defining aspects of Jewish identity. They are also, in many ways, ennobling ones. For much of the world, power is a simple idea: The more of it, the better. For Jews, power has always been a difficult idea. Judaism is perhaps the first and arguably the finest sustained attempt to subordinate power to morality—to insist that right makes might, rather than the other way around. From the time of the prophets, Jews have made the critique of power a canonical aspect of our tradition. The quintessential Jewish prophet, Nathan, is the one who rebukes the quintessential Jewish king, David.

As in the Bible, so, too, more recently. Jews were among the founders of the many peace movements, from the German Peace movement in the 19th Century, to the 20th Century’s anti-nuclear movement, Amnesty International, Greenpeace, and Human Rights Watch. These Jewish founders all had in common a shared horror at the abuse of power and a conviction that those abuses could be curbed by arousing public conscience. They were, in their way, latter-day prophets, secular in their religious observance but spiritually rooted in Jewish ethics, history, and sensibility.

Yet it’s also impossible not to take note of two facts, one tragic, the other ironic. The tragedy is that none of these groups have made a decisive impact. The politicians and generals who took Germany to war in 1914 were not hampered by their domestic peace movement. The nuclear powers have rarely done more than pay lip service to the “No Nukes” activists. And Bashar al-Assad is neither shamed nor deterred by outraged press releases from human-rights groups. The gap between conscience and action remains as wide today as it was at the dawn of the human-rights and international-law movement.

The irony is that many of the organizations and institutions founded by Jews have dedicated themselves with curious intensity to attacking Jewish power. In April 2021, Human Rights Watch issued a report accusing Israel of practicing apartheid. The antinuclear movement often makes a fetish of a “nuclear-free Middle East,” an ill-disguised euphemism for wanting to strip the Jewish state of its insurance policy against a second Holocaust.

There has always been an allure to powerlessness. It means freedom from the personal and political burdens of responsibility, the moral dilemmas of choice. In an age in which victimhood is often conflated with virtue, it has social cachet. To be powerless is to be pure. To be pure is to be innocent. But innocence comes at a price, one that has been particularly terrible for Jews. Nineteen centuries of expulsions, ostracism, massacres, blood libels, torture, and systemic discrimination led to Zionism, which was, very simply, a movement for sovereign Jewish power in the Land of Israel. Had that demand been met a decade sooner, it might have prevented or mitigated the horrors of the Holocaust. That the State of Israel was born, raised, and remains under fire isn’t a sign of the failure of Zionism. It’s a reminder of its necessity.

What passes for Jewish “power” in the West—wealth, influence, and institutional position based on individual merit — isn’t really power at all. It is status, and it requires the acquiescence of a non-Jewish majority. Jewish status also offers diminishing returns in an era of diminishing trust in institutions and growing hostility to wealth, influence, and the very concept of individual merit. Success is a double-edged sword when “privilege,” no matter how fairly it was earned, becomes a synonym for evil. Jewish status can be revoked at any moment, for any reason. It is a sandcastle built at the water’s edge.

Some may find it improbable that it could ever be taken away again, at least in the United States, but history shows us many other Jewish communities who were robbed of their place in countries in which they thought of themselves as safe. In recent years, has not Jewish life in Europe started to feel intolerable?

As for the U.S., think back to May of this year, to the responses of many to the fighting between Israel and Hamas. It wasn’t just that Jews were being hunted and assaulted in Times Square or West Hollywood. This had happened before, in Pittsburgh and Poway and Jersey City and Monsey, in ways that were far worse. The horror lay in the fact that so few of America’s institutional leaders — the same university presidents, civic leaders, and CEOs who have been nothing if not outspoken in their denunciations of racism, sexism, transphobia, Islamophobia, anti-Asian hate, and so on — could bring themselves to condemn this rampaging anti-Jewish violence, and even then, only in the most cautious of terms.

Jewish security in the West has always rested on a set of social values and assumptions that are now being systematically undermined — on the right, through increasing hostility to the ideal of an open society; on the left, through increasing hostility to the ideal of an open mind. On both sides, too, there is a turn to conspiracy thinking, a suspicion of success, a vituperative hostility toward elites, a fetishization of racial identity, and a worldview that sees life as a battle between the virtuous and the wicked. Whenever illiberalism overtakes politics, including democratic politics, the results never augur well for Jews.

For decades, the core Jewish critique of Israel has been that a Jewish state is not safe enough for the Jews—that it too small and weak; that it has no oil or water; that it is boycotted by its neighbors; that its religious and ethnic tribalism makes unity, strength, and survival impossible.

More recently, the critique has changed: Israel is too strong for its own good — and for the good of the Jewish soul. Some American Jews on the ideological left feel ashamed of Israel: ashamed that it hasn’t created a Palestinian state, that it continues to build settlements, that it uses what they see as excessive military force against its enemies, that it fails to empathize enough with Palestinian suffering, that it has forged strong ties with morally unsavory foreign actors, and so on. Many of these Jewish critics wear this shame as if their own moral reputations and personal well-being rested on it. Implicitly, they buy into the antisemitic slander that every Jew is on the hook for the misbehavior — real or perceived — of any Jew.

As with Mark Twain, reports of Israel’s impending demise have so far been greatly exaggerated. But the critique of Israeli strength deserves a closer look on two grounds, one factual, the other philosophical.

The factual question is whether Israel is really abusing its power. “Abuse” is a subjective term—with many factors to weigh on whether the use of force is excessive. Are there plausible alternatives to using force? Is it restrained by considerations of domestic law and respect for innocent life? Is it proportionate to its objective, and is the objective worth the cost? How would other states, including other democracies, respond in similar situations — that is, if rockets fired by a terrorist group began raining down by the thousands on their own cities and towns?

What there is no doubt about is that Israel is using far less power than it has. Israel’s military would have no trouble inflicting vastly greater damage in Gaza and retaking the Strip in its entirety. Similarly, if Israel wanted to expel the Palestinians—much as the United States did to Native Americans, Poland and Czechoslovakia to ethnic Germans, India to Muslims, Pakistan to Hindus, and Turkey to Greeks, it could easily have done so as well. But Israel doesn’t, because it tries, not always successfully, to live by the idea that there are moral limits to the use of force. The only territory that Israel has actually ethnically cleansed is Gaza. In 2005, Israel forcibly removed all of Gaza’s Jewish population.

And then there is the philosophical question: Is strength more corrupting than powerlessness? Lord Acton may have observed that power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely, but does this mean that the reverse is also true — that powerlessness tends to ennoble and absolute powerlessness is positively saintly?

Powerlessness can be corrupting, too, when ordinary people choose self-abasement, or cowardice, or faithlessness, or dishonesty, or silence, all for the sake of simply being left alone and alive. The moral life, for people and nations alike, requires the possibility of meaningful choice. That, in turn, requires power, including sovereign power. Israel exists so that a Chosen People can exercise the full meaning of chosenness by also being a choosing people.

Power does not have to be an obstacle to a moral life. It can be a basis for it.

A basis is not a guarantee. But part of the measure of how much Israel has enriched Jewish life is that it has allowed Jews to explore questions of power and morality from the standpoint of practice, not critique; to understand the dilemmas of politics, foreign relations, warfare, welfare, and similar subjects through experience rather than observation. Above all, it raises the possibility that a Jewish state might pioneer a Jewish way of practicing statecraft and peoplehood that is distinct from, and potentially better than, the way statecraft and peoplehood are practiced elsewhere. A Jewish state may have at least as much to teach as it yet has to learn.

In December 1941, on a beach on the Latvian coast called Skede, German soldiers and their local henchmen murdered 2,749 Jewish women and children, stripping them to their underclothes and shooting them in groups of 10 over three days of methodical slaughter.

 Among those victims were three members of my extended family, Haya Westerman and her sisters, Becka and Ethel. Shortly before she was murdered, Haya told an acquaintance, “If you meet any of my children, tell them I was not afraid. Tell them to continue living knowing that I was not afraid.”

 That acquaintance survived and did, in fact, meet Haya’s daughter, Raya Mazin, to whom she told the story of her mother’s final days. The daughter lived for many years in Israel, and, when her time came at age 96, she, too, died unafraid. But, unlike her mother, Raya Mazin died knowing that, thanks to Jewish power, there is a Jewish future — a future in which what happened on that beach 80 years ago will never happen again.

"The Life and the Length of Our Days"

September 3rd: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, poetry is evocative, and other times it can obscure. Sometimes, it can do both and give us an example of the multivalent meanings in Torah.  

The phrase in question is,

כִּי הוּא חַיֶּיךָ וְאֹרֶךְ יָמֶיךָ
“Ki hu chayecha v’orech yamecha.”

Older translations render it literally: “your life and the length of your days.” The King James Version sees God as the subject: “He is thy life and the length of thy days,” whereas the Jewish Publication Society 1917 edition sees a godly life/the mitzvot as the subject: “That is thy life and the length of thy days.”

This poetic Hebrew phrase comes from our Torah portion this week, Deuteronomy 30.19-20, but the New Jewish Publication Society version (1962 and 1967) gives it a much more practical translation:
“I call heaven and earth to witness this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—that you and your descendants would live—by loving the Lord your God, heeding the Divine commands, and holding fast to God. Ki hu chayecha v’orech yamecha.  For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure upon the soil that the Lord swore to your ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give to them.”  

The passage is speaking of the covenantal relationship which is a frequent theme in Deuteronomy: Obedience to the Divine Will results in earthly success and blessings, whereas disobedience results in all kinds of calamities. The phrase in question is simply a reminder of these consequences. When you follow the rules, “You shall thereby have life and long endure…”

Life and prosperity are clearly important, and, to this extent, the reminder is much appreciated. However, there is something deeper in the older translation—a deeper meaning to a contractual phrase. When we speak of Torah (a godly life and cleaving to God through the mitzvot) as “the life and the length of our days,” we reference meaningfulness in life, a realm explored and developed in Rabbinic Judaism. Yes, we want life, but we also want a sense of connection to God, a spiritual sense of purpose and love.

Thus it should be no surprise that our contractual phrase from Deuteronomy finds its way into a Rabbinic prayer that combines Torah and love—or, rather, that sees Torah as God’s loving gift to us:
“With eternal love do You love Your people Israel. Torah and mitzvot, laws and precepts have You taught us. Therefore, O Lord our God, when we lie down and when we rise up, we shall meditate on Your laws and rejoice in the words of Your Torah and mitzvot forever. They are the life and the length of our days, and we will think about them both day and night. May Your love never leave us.”
(Ahavat Olam, second benediction of the Shema and Its Blessings, Evening Service)

This sensibility of Torah being the essence of our lives is the point of an ancient story about Rabbi Akiva. During the years of the Hadrianic Persecutions (132-135 CE), the Romans forbade teaching Torah. “One day, the apostate Pappos ben Yehuda encountered Rabbi Akiva—who was convening assemblies in public and engaging in Torah study. Pappos said to him, Akiva, are you not afraid of the Roman Empire? Rabbi Akiva answered him with a parable: To what can this be compared? It is like a fox walking along a riverbank when he sees fish gathering and fleeing from place to place. The fox said to them: From what are you fleeing? They said to him: We are fleeing the nets that people cast upon us. He said to them: If you come up onto dry land, we can reside together just as my ancestors resided with your ancestors? The fish said to him: You are the one of whom they say, he is the cleverest of animals. But you are not clever; you are a fool. If we are afraid in the water, our natural habitat which gives us life, then we will be more in danger in a habitat that causes our death. So too, we Jews. We sit and engage in Torah study, about which it is written, “For that is your life and the length of your days.” We fear the empire to this extent: if we proceed to sit idle from Torah study—its abandonment being a habitat that will cause our death, all the morso will we fear the Roman Empire.” (Talmud, Berachot 61b)  

 Whether we study Torah frequently or only on occasion, we always have the opportunity to connect with the Holy One when we engage in leaning and living the mitzvot. As we read:

הֵם חַיֵּֽינוּ וְאֹֽרֶךְ יָמֵֽינוּ
“The words of Torah are the life and the length of our days.”

Prayers Lovingly Crafted

August 27th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Most of us are acquainted with the following excerpt from the Passover Seder: “Rabban Gamliel used to say: Whoever does not explain these three things at Passover has not fulfilled the obligation to celebrate: the Pesach Lamb, the unleavened bread, and the bitter herbs.” (Mishna Pesachim 10.5) In the Seder, it reminds us of the rules and introduces the last few rituals before the meal is served. We contemplate the lamb shank bone; we contemplate, bless, and eat the matzah and maror. However what we might not realize is that this teaching from Rabban Gamliel represents his position in an ongoing discussion/debate about how the ritual of the Seder was to be designed.

Here is a passage from the Mishna in which the debating positions are more obvious: “After they have mixed him his first cup (of wine), the School of Shammai say: Say the Blessing first over the day and then the blessing over the wine. And the School of Hillel say: Say the Blessing first over the wine and then the Blessing over the day.” (Pesachim 10.2) They are debating the order in which the Kiddush is said. Do you say “Boray p’ri hagaffen / Who creates the fruit of the vine” before saying “M’kadesh Yisrael v’hazmanim / Who sanctifies Israel and the festivals,” or vice versa? Someone had to decide, and this passage reflects two positions in the discussion.

One of my favorite debates regards one’s posture while reciting the Shema. “The School of Shammai say: In the evening all should recline when they recite the Shema, but in the morning, they should stand up, for it is written (Deuteronomy 6.7), And when thou liest down and when thou risest up.  But the School of Hillel say: They may recite it everyone in his own way, for it is written, and when thou walkest by the way.  Why then is it written, And when thou liest down and when thou risest up?  It means the time when people usually lie down and the time when they usually rise up. Rabbi Tarphon said: I was once on a journey and I reclined to recite the Shema in accordance with the words of the School of Shammai, and so put myself in jeopardy by reason of robbers. They said to him: You deserved what befell you in that you transgressed the words of the School of Hillel. (Mishna Berachot 1.3)

My point is that all of the rituals we know had to be invented or crafted by someone—and this process usually involved extensive discussions, often over generations. How will services be organized? What subjects will be covered in various prayers? Which words will express the prayerful thoughts? And, if there are several variations in the Tradition, which should a particular community follow?

The Rabbinic teaching—still believed by the Orthodox—is that the exact wording of the Shemonah Esreh (Amidah) was revealed by God to the Anshay K’neset Hag’dolah, the Men of the Great Assembly, several centuries BCE, and that any deviation from this authorized text will negate the efficacy of the prayer. Of course, this belief flies in the face of Talmudic evidence which clearly shows how the prayer service and the wording of individual prayers are the results of a lengthy evolutionary development. Additionally, one can see multiple variations as one travels around and prays with Orthodox, Sephardic, and Hassidic groups. For example, in Nusach Sepharad, the Mourner’s Kaddish in Nusach Sepharad has a few extra words (compared to the standard Ashkenazic version), and Ayn Kelohaynu has different last verses in Sephardic versus Ashkenazi prayer books. The many Sages of many generations prayed the words and innovated and worked on the words and prayers—all to the end of supporting the spiritual processes that connect the Jewish people with the Divine.

It is this context that I approach the opening chapter of this week’s Torah portion. The sedra begins with instructions for an ancient ritual: what to say and do when bringing offerings before the Lord. My suggestion is that we read it in a spiritual way, thinking about the way this ritual worked for our ancient ancestors. How did it help them understand God, and how did it help them express their own spiritual sensibilities?
“When you enter the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish the Divine Name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, ‘I acknowledge this day before the Lord your God that I have entered the land that the Lord swore to our ancestors to assign us.’

The priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of the Lord your God. You shall then recite as follows before the Lord your God: ‘My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me…

 Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You promised to our ancestors.’” (Deuteronomy 26.1-15)

Just as our ancestors approached God in these ritual processes, may we find ways to encounter the Divine with our own spiritual and liturgical techniques. As we enter the most intense time of our Jewish year and prepare to use our lovingly crafted liturgical tools, let us invest ourselves in the possibilities of uniting with the Holy One of Israel.

Working With the Law to Make it Just

August 20th: Ki Tetzei
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, focusing on the passage, “You shall appoint for yourself judges,” I wrote about the ways that laws should fit the mores and sensibilities of a community. Sometimes, this means adjusting the laws. Throughout the Talmud, one can see a continually adjusting approach as the various generations of Rabbis observe the interactions between laws and life.

One very interesting situation has its basis in this week’s portion. In Deuteronomy 23.3, we read about illegitimate children, mamzerim: “No one misbegotten (mamzer) shall be admitted into the congregation of the Lord; none of his descendants, even in the tenth generation, shall be admitted into the congregation of the Lord.”

This seems like a rather harsh statute, and it raised/raises a number of questions. First, what is a mamzer? Though many of us may be acquainted with the term as an insult, its historical definition is a bit elusive. Often translated “bastard” or “illegitimate child,” it can be confused with the Western/Christian understanding of illegitimacy. In Christianity, any child born to a set of parents who were unmarried was considered illegitimate. In Biblical Judaism, this was not the case. Though marriage certainly took place in Biblical Hebrew and Israelite religion, there are no rules as to what made it official or legal. The Bible simply refers to a man taking/acquiring a woman. Sometimes, the woman acquired had status as a wife. Sometimes, she had a lower status and was a kind of servant wife or concubine. Then, there were situations where a child was born after a fleeting encounter—as with Judah and his disguised, widowed daughter-in-law Tamar (Genesis 38). In all these cases, the marital status of the couple seemed to have had no bearing on the legitimacy of the child.  

Though the Hebrew word in the passage is mamzer, the translators of the New Jewish Publication Society translators render the word misbegotten and add the following footnote: “Meaning of Hebrew mamzer uncertain; in Jewish law, the offspring of adultery or incest between Jews.” In other words, they are not sure of the Biblical meaning, but, in an effort to render the passage meaningful to modern readers, they move on to the definition determined by the Rabbis post-Biblically—in the Talmud. There, in addition to the category of incest (defined in the Torah as a number of prohibited relationships between relatives), the Rabbis seem to focus on the possession/ownership of a married woman’s reproductive system: it belongs to her husband, and, if it is employed by anyone other than her husband, the resulting child is a mamzer. If a woman is unmarried, then the mamzer rule does not apply. If the man is married but the woman is not, then the mamzer rule does not apply.

I realize that this sensibility runs counter to our modern understanding of personhood and individual identity and autonomy. I am just trying to explain these ancient sensibilities—while we all celebrate the progress we have made!

Another question regards the meaning of the phrase, “admitted into the congregation of the Lord.” This does not seem to have anything to do with Jewish Identity. Rather, it involves the ritual of entering the courtyard of the Mishkan—or, later, the Temple. There were many people who were part of the community but whose ritual status prevented them from worshipping in the sacred precincts. Our verse is preceded and followed by prohibitions of categories of other people who are ritually unacceptable: men with crushed testes or who had been sexually mutilated, and men and women descended from Ammonites and Moabites.

Nothing suggests that these ritually unfit people were banned from the community in general; rather they were just excluded from the sacred precincts. There is also the famous case of a Moabite becoming quite important in Jewish Tradition. Ruth, the archetypal convert, was a Moabite. When she refused to leave her mother-in-law Naomi and returned with her to Bethlehem, they were able to participate in communal activities. Moreover, she ended up marrying her deceased husband’s cousin, Boaz, and their union produced Obed—who fathered Jesse, who fathered David HaMelech, the most important king of our Tradition. Thus this prohibition seems to have been nuanced both Biblically and in later generations.

Another “nuance” in the Law came during the First Century CE. The Romans were very harsh rulers, utilizing what they called Pax Romana, the Roman Peace: If you behaved, everything was peaceful. If you misbehaved, the Romans would kill you, and then things would be peaceful. This was a very hard time for the Jews in the Land of Israel, and one of the very brutal techniques the Romans used was rape. Thousands of Jewish women were raped by Roman soldiers. In addition to the personal trauma, there were often children born of these violent encounters, and the Rabbis had to figure out the legal status of these children. The basic approach was to say that, if it was possible that the woman got pregnant with her husband, then the Halacha would assume as much. Some Rabbis even amended the laws of nature to suggest that pregnancy could last for many more than nine months. One suspects they knew the biology but worked the system to keep these children out of the category of mamzer. Some scholars think that this crisis might have been the catalyst for changing the Halacha on Jewish status. In Biblical times, Jewish identity was based on a child’s father; in the Rabbinic period, we have matrilineal descent: any child born of a Jewish mother is Jewish.

As for actual adultery, there is one additional question. Since mamzerim can only marry mamzerim, and their children are perpetually considered mamzerim as well, why did there not develop a caste of mamzerim among the Jewish people? It was a category from which one could never escape. One possible answer is that no one in the Jewish people ever committed adultery—or that adulterous unions never resulted in any children. Another possible answer is that mamzerim simply left the community and lived as non-Jews. However, given a continually adapting Halacha—one working on the intersection between Law and Life, there is another possible answer. Some Rabbinic passages suggest that Jews with problematic backgrounds simply move far away and never reveal their origins. Without any knowledge of the mamzerut, they would be accepted in the distant Jewish communities and live their lives without the stain of their parents’ indiscretions.

Regardless of the circumstances of relationships that resulted in mamzerim, the one thing we can say for sure is that the children are not to blame. Thus Halacha worked with a law intended to scare people away from adultery and shielded innocent children from that law’s harsh consequences.

Appointing Judges for Ourselves

August 13th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, seemingly benign passages or words in the Torah can hold deeper wisdom. Take, for example, the opening verses in this week’s Sedra:
“You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for brides blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20)

Usually, when I read this paragraph, I sort of skip the first sentence as simply a prologue and jump to the part about not judging unfairly and not taking bribes, landing full footed on the phrase, Justice, justice shall you pursue.” This is the most important part of the passage, and yet, there is also something in the prologue that is worth considering on its own. What we translate as “You shall appoint” has an interesting construction in the Hebrew. “Titen-lecha,” literally give to/for yourself, suggests a process whereby the community does the appointing itself and for its own benefit. As opposed to the many prescriptions given by God—who is a prophet, who is a priest, who gets to participate in worship rituals and when, the instruction here calls for the Israelites as a body to appoint judges and to do so in a way that reflects their own interests and values. This is not talking about slanting the justice system to benefit anyone in particular but rather speaking to the importance of a justice system that reflects communal values and mores.

What we have here is an early instance of combining legal principles with the community context in which the principles are to be applied. Such a combination or synthesis is not always easy. There can be tension between laws and the ways things are done in a particular place—especially if the laws come from a larger or far-away governmental entity. This tension can be seen in American history in the various “States’ Rights” controversies as well as in the Supreme Court’s rulings on the definition of “obscenity” (national standard or contemporary community standards?). One can also sense this kind of thinking in the doctrine of stare decisis where the stability of customary interpretations and the ways things have been done are seen as valuable and worth preserving, even if there are legal objections—which, after all, are subject to individual judicial opinion and the latest fashions in interpretation.

This dynamic between competing value systems is addressed in the Talmudic principle of dina malchuta dina—that the law of the state is Halachically incumbent on Jews. While Halachah (Jewish Law) is certainly the basis of Jewish life, and while there are situations in which Jews are expected to deviate from secular laws, the presumption is that Jews will follow the local or national laws: that is the default position. (By the way, this Rabbinic principle is also referenced in the Christian Bible, in Matthew 22.21, Mark 12.17, and Luke 20.25, where Jesus says: “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.” )

An attempt to resolve the tension between high-level rulings (which, as stated above, are always subject to the latest interpretation) and the way things are done can be found in the Jewish legal concept of minchag hamakom: the custom of a locality has an integrity and validity all its own—regardless of what an outside authority may decree is the proper way. For example, though we are no longer dependent on mountain-top signal fires announcing the New Moon in Jerusalem to Babylonia, the custom of observing two days of Biblical holidays has its own integrity and is to be continued. Or, even if one could identify a Talmudic passage or Rabbinic ruling specifying the proper size of a Kiddush cup, cups used in families or villages for generations have a validity of their own—even if they differ from the size the legal authority instructs.  

In other words, the judges are to apply the rules to the community, making it fit into the context of the community in which they are judging. “You should appoint judges for yourselves.”

 
There is also a personal application. Compare this Deuteronomy passage to the proverb in Pirke Avot 1.6, where Joshua ben Perachiah teaches: “Make for yourself a teacher. (Aseh l’cha rav).” He does not tell us to find a teacher but rather to put effort into developing a relationship in which we can learn from a teacher. This does not mean that the teacher is off the hook in terms of techniques and efforts. There are plenty of other Pirke Avot proverbs telling the teachers about their responsibilities. However, this proverb speaks to the work students often need to do to learn how to learn from a particular teacher.

Applying this Pirke Avot thinking to the Deuteronomy passage about appointing judges “lecha / for yourself” leads me to consider how I look for and work on relationships in which I get feedback. Whose opinions do I trust? Upon what bases do I accept other people’s evaluations or reactions to me? Of course, we cannot be dependent upon the opinions of everyone we meet, but there are some people whose insights are valuable—whose vision of us is true. They are, in a sense, the judges we appoint for ourselves.

As we begin the self-evaluations of this season of Teshuvah / Repentance, let us pay attention to the voices—both internal and external—which help us identity both our strengths and our weaknesses, both our good deeds and our moral failures. There is, presumably, much about which we should feel pride, and there is, most assuredly, much for which we should repent.