Reaching For and Wrestling With Heaven

December 9th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Tradition teaches that the three daily services—Shacharit (Morning), Minchah (Afternoon), and Ma’ariv (Evening)—were each invented by one of the Patriarchs. The textual evidence for Abraham and Shacharit comes from the story of Akedat Yitzchak: “Vayashkem Avraham baboker. And Abraham got up early in the morning.” (Genesis 22.3) Though his activities involve saddling his donkey and assembling the necessities for the sacrifice up on Mount Moriah, they are considered devotional—since he is preparing for worship. 

The textual evidence for Isaac and Minchah is not quite as vague. “Vayetze Yitzchak lasu’ach basadeh lifnot arev. Isaac went out meditating in the field just before evening.” (Genesis 24.63) The exact meaning of the Hebrew word lasu’ach is unclear, with some understanding it as walking and others reading it as meditating. By the way, this is how Rebekah first sees Isaac—as she arrives from Mesopotamia to her new life in Canaan. 

Jacob’s evening creative worship can be seen in two incidents. The first comes in last week’s portion when Jacob dreams about the ladder between heaven and earth. “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. And the Lord was standing beside him.” (Genesis 28.12-13) Since the goal of prayer is to engage in a relationship with God, that evening’s event certainly qualifies as prayerful. As Jacob himself gushes when he awakes, “How awesome is this place! It is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven!” (Genesis 28.17)  

The second nighttime encounter with God comes this week in Jacob’s mysterious wrestling match. He is camping alone, “and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn.” (Genesis 32.25). When Jacob asks the “man’s” name, no answer is given. Rather, the “man” asks Jacob his name and then gives him a new one: “Your name shall no more be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32.29) This encounter with the Divine prompts Jacob/Israel to rename the place: “Peniel, meaning I have seen a divine being face to face, yet my life has been spared.” Again, at night, Jacob experiences the holy.  

As one can tell from the tangential quality of the “evidence,” the authorship of liturgical materials seems a far cry from these spiritual experiences—the attributions seemingly more legendary than historical. Similarly legendary is the teaching that the exact words of the Shemonah Esreh (weekday Amidah) were revealed to the Anshay K’nesset Hag’dolah, the Rabbis of the Great Assembly around 200 BCE. Such a teaching is used to prohibit any tampering with the text of the Amidah’s prayers. If the original were revealed by God and is the exact formula required to open the Gates of Heaven, changing words could impede the connection. The fact that Ashkenazim and Sephardim AND Chassidim—and various ethnic communities within these larger demographic categories—have variations in their liturgies are not part of the legend. The wide embrace of traditionalism is both charming and restrictive.  

The restrictiveness of Tradition is oppressive when we face resistance for needed improvements, and the charm comes when we find meaning in carrying on the wisdom and devotion of our ancestors. That, to me, is the appeal of the tradition about Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob inventing the three daily services. Though Shacharit and Minchah may be more historically traced back the formalized and scheduled worship of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem—and though Ma’ariv seems to be more a Rabbinic innovation, there is a spiritual truth for us in this notion of devotional antiquity and continuity. The record speaks of our ancient ancestors communing with the Almighty, and that same sense of closeness and holiness is a goal for us as well.  

It is interesting how different people regard and experience worship services. Some of us are like Abraham and approach worship with energy and vigor—attending to every linguistic, theological, and choreographic detail. Others of us are more like Isaac and approach worship meditatively—feeling the spirituality around us more than the words on the page. Others of us are more like Jacob/Israel the wrestler—struggling with the concepts and words and pondering the many questions we Jews have been asking for a long, long time.  

Jewish worship is, in many ways, a multi-generational conversation with the Divine. Though the years have rolled by, the aspiration for holiness continues. Joining with our fellow Israelites both ancient and modern, we sing with the Psalmist (150.6):
“Kol han’shamah t’hallel Yah! Halleluyah! Let every soul praise the Lord. Hallelujah!” 

Minhag Hamakom?

December 2nd: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the intra-family drama of this week’s Torah portion, most of us focus our attention on poor Leah and poor Jacob who are involuntarily married to each other. Jacob is in love with Leah’s sister, Rachel, and has worked for their father, Laban, for seven years to “earn” Rachel’s hand. At the last minute, Laban has Leah dressed in the (face-covering) wedding clothing, and Jacob does not find out he has married the wrong sister until it is too late. The situation is “resolved” when Laban agrees that, for an additional seven years of labor, Jacob can also marry Rachel.  

I say “resolved” because, while the Jacob and Rachel love story continues, there is never any real resolution for Leah. She is a perpetual victim who never has the full love of her husband. This is an example of “the sins of the father” inflicting themselves on future generations. One hopes that our Mother Leah found fulfillment in the love of her children—and perhaps in her place in the tribe. We just know that her romantic life was sabotaged from the very beginning. 

Focusing on Leah, Rachel, and Jacob, I find myself skipping over Laban—a Biblical character known for his dishonesty. In one Midrash, even his hospitality is treated as suspect. When we read in Genesis 29.13, “…Laban ran to meet Jacob, and embraced him and kissed him…,” the Rabbis explain that Laban was actually frisking Jacob to see if he had any valuables—and that the “kiss” was Laban sticking his tongue into Jacob’s mouth to see if he had any hidden jewels! He is known as bad actor but generally tossed aside to pay attention to the drama of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel’s household. 

However, there is something especially insidious about the way Laban “explains” his deception.
“It came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah (that Jacob had married!); and he said to Laban, what is this that you have done to me? Did I not serve with you for Rachel? Why then have you deceived me? And Laban said, It is not the practice in our place to marry off the younger before the older.” (Genesis 2.25-26) He acts as though his dishonesty is just a local custom that the “outsider” does not know. So focused is Jacob on his love for Rachel—and the mistaken wedding to Leah—that he does not call out Laban. He grasps for whatever “solution” is available. However, this claim of “local custom” is highly suspect. 

Note firstly that Jacob is not really a foreigner. He is a Laban’s nephew, the daughter of Laban’s sister, Rebekah. She raised him and presumably educated him in the various customs and mores of Western Mesopotamia. Does not Laban speak of their common bonds? “You are truly my bone and flesh… my kinsman.” (Genesis 29.15-16)  Add to this the fact that Jacob has lived in Laban’s house and worked for him for seven years—all in anticipation of marrying Rachel. One would think that local mores would have had a chance to reveal themselves. 

Wherever one goes, there are, of course, local ways of doing things. The Rabbis accord them with profound respect and often consider the minhag hamakom—local mores and customs—as authoritative as Halachah. However, it is possible to use local uniqueness as a kind of weapon—marginalizing newcomers or mislabeling personal preference as established precedent.  

The role of telling a newcomer local history gives the teller great power. Individuals or groups can be identified as important or tangential, as heroes or villains. Tellers of history should be careful, however, as the perceptions they shape can help or harm both individuals and community. Additionally, a misrepresentation revealed can do great damage to the tellers’ reputation. Since local stories are told by many people, a newcomer who finds that he/she has been misinformed cannot help but re-evaluate their previous sources.  

It is also quite possible to overstate the uniqueness of a place or group. Every place is unique, but we share much of the human situation with others. Take my experience among the Reform Jews of the South. I was raised among French/German/Alsatian Jews who immigrated to the United States in the mid-late 1800’s, and this same demographic populated the congregations I served in Mississippi, Arkansas, Alabama, Georgia, and Florida. Though each person in each congregation is unique, I found remarkable similarities in terms of Jewish backgrounds, attitudes, sensitivities, experiences, and customs. Indeed, these kinds of similarities lead to the bonds of sympathy and empathy which allow and enhance human relationships. The commonality of our human and Jewish experiences is striking. There are uniquely local mores and stories, but there are some things essentially human and essentially Jewish that bind us all together.  

Let me conclude with a slightly amusing anecdote about “local” ways. Shortly after I arrived in State College, our congregation suffered the loss of a long-time and beloved member, Peter Lang. I never had the pleasure of knowing Peter, but I was at his funeral and his shivah. When I arrived for the Saturday night shivah, there were lots of people present, but they were not yet ready for the service. Penn State was playing Michigan, and everyone was glued to the televisions. The game was fierce and going into overtime—and the mourners wanted to defer their prayers until after the game. A few people were concerned that I would not understand—that, as a newcomer, I would not understand the local devotion to Penn State football, and they tried to soothe my anticipated disapproval. Little did they understand that, though a “foreigner,” I was not ignorant of football frenzy. Football was big in my hometown, and I married into a rabid LSU family from Baton Rouge. More than that, in my very first congregational experience—in Greenwood, Mississippi, my home-hospitality host got so excited watching his beloved Mississippi State Bulldogs beat Notre Dame that he had to spend four days in the hospital, hooked up to heart monitors but incredibly happy. So, did I understand delaying Peter’s shiva minyan? Of course I did. The mourners clearly loved Peter, and they clearly loved their football team. Delaying the service was a ubiquitous experience.

Back to the Torah: Laban’s attempt to disarm Jacob from his very legitimate objection is both dishonest and absurd. Marrying off Leah is not the local custom, but rather one more example of Laban’s dishonest and destructive ways. He is, among many other sins, committing the transgression later forbidden twice in Exodus (22.20 and 23.9): “Do not oppress the stranger.” Yes, things vary from place to place, but human decency, honesty, kindness, and compassion should be practiced and respected in every place. In every place.

Rebekah, Our Mother: A Life of Blessing

November 25th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

What is our goal in life? What are our hopes for our children?  There are lots of blessings for which we pray, but the word happiness can summarize them all. We want to be happy, and we wish it on those we love. (Think of the many times parents say to children, “I just want you to be happy.”) It is a ubiquitous hope, but it may not be as inclusive or expansive as we think. 

One might think that the Patriarchs and Matriarchs were happy. How grand it must be to be one of God’s elected! Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, and Jacob, Rachel, and Leah were gifted with a destiny of holiness and greatness, and we look back on the endeavor they founded—our Jewish people—with admiration and appreciation for their faith and resolve. But were they happy?   

The Torah does not really speak much about happiness. It does not rule it out or blame people for seeking it. However, the lessons of the Torah teach faith and principle and persistence. These are the words that characterize the lives of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs. 

An example is Rebekah. She is a woman of great faith and resourcefulness. In last week’s Torah portion, we see her extend great hospitality to a wayfarer (who turns out to be the servant of her Uncle Abraham). She offers him water, waters his camels, and then invites them all to the family camp to spend the night. This kind of hospitality is most commendable, but the Midrash concocts a scenario in which she does all this—as well as consenting to marry Isaac—when she is just three years old. She is a determined young woman who is full of faith and who believes in the destiny that God has set before her.  

However, her life is not easy—and, whatever happiness she may find, there are moments of difficulty and the opposite of happiness. Her destiny takes her far away from home and family and friends. She and her husband experience infertility for some twenty years: “Isaac was forty years old when he took Rebekah for his wife…and Isaac prayed to the Lord for his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord granted his prayer, and Rebekah his wife conceived….and Isaac was sixty years old when she bore the twins.” (Genesis 25.20-26) 

When she finally gets pregnant, she has a very hard time: “The children struggled together inside her and she said, ‘If this be so, why am I thus?’ And she went to inquire of the Lord.” 

God’s answer is helpful, but it does not bring happiness. Rather, it foretells a lifetime of conflict between the brothers. “The Lord said to her, ‘Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples shall be separated from your bowels; and the one people shall be stronger than the other people; and the elder shall serve the younger.’” (Genesis 25.22-23) 

Though the sibling difficulties are prophesied by the Lord, Rebekah and Isaac are drawn into the fray. “And Isaac loved Esau, because he ate of his venison; but Rebekah loved Jacob.” (Genesis 25.28) 

When Esau grows up, his marriages bring more conflict to the family: “Esau was forty years old when he married Judith the daughter of Beeri the Hittite, and Bashemath the daughter of Elon the Hittite; And they made life bitter for Isaac and for Rebekah.” (Genesis 26.34-35) 

And, there is the general question of Isaac’s ability or lack thereof. In Genesis 27, we are told about Isaac being “old, and his eyes were dim,” but there is a surprising lack of information about Isaac doing much of anything in his younger years. Compared to his father Abraham and his son Jacob, Isaac does not seem to be much of an active force in the world. He is traumatized as a child up on Mount Moriah. His wife is chosen by a family servant. He likes one son because of venison, but he does not seem to have much of a relationship with either of his boys. One thing we know is that he “meditates alone in the fields.” (Genesis 24.63) Perhaps he is a bit of a spiritual luftmensch—someone not particularly adept at the practicalities of life. Perhaps he carries life-long scars from his traumatic almost sacrifice. Perhaps there are other impairments. The point is that Isaac may not be the strong and resourceful Patriarch; he even chooses the wrong son to ordain as his spiritual successor—necessitating Rebekah’s clandestine corrective measures! The burden of the family, the tribe, and even the developing religion seem to rest upon Rebekah’s shoulders—and she carries the weight of the Tradition, making the future possible. She is a pivotal figure in our religious history, but the words that describe this Matriarch’s life may be other than happiness. The values that our Mother Rebekah exemplifies are purpose, strength, resourcefulness, and faith. Her life was most certainly a blessing.

Fast forward some four thousand years to the modern television drama Fargo which combines the Jewish sensibilities of the Coen Brothers with the hardy stoicism and purpose of archetypal Minnesota. Though many of the characters in the drama are evil or foolish or both, there are some genuine heroes, and one of them is State Trooper Lou Solverson. In the finale of Season Two, he muses about the incredible efforts some devote to protecting and caring for their families—often sacrificing themselves. He refers to a man who died this way and says to the widow, “Your husband. He said he was gonna protect his family—no matter what. And I acted like I didn’t understand, but I do. It’s the rock we all push, men. We call it our burden, but it’s really our privilege.”  

I believe that this is as true for women as it is for men. And I believe that there are many among us who know the burden and the privilege of pushing this rock—or carrying this load. Some of us are privileged to have strength and fortitude. Some of us need assistance. And, even the strong must occasionally be carried. We are all children of Rebekah. 

We pray for happiness. We pray for smooth roads and fair skies. But given the nature of the world, we must also pray for strength and courage and purpose and faith. In so many ways, these are the qualities that make happiness possible.

Helicopter Parenting in the Torah?

November 18th: Chayeh Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Sometimes, the Torah seems very ancient and far away. Other times, it is very current and applicable to our lives. In this week’s Torah portion, we have a case of what could be called a “helicopter parent.” When Abraham decides that it is time for Isaac to get married, he proceeds to make arrangements without Isaac’s participation or even agreement.  

Abraham’s concerns are twofold. If he lets Isaac choose a local wife, she will not be “Jewish,” and Isaac could be drawn into the local pagan and (presumably) immoral culture. Abraham believes that his family’s relationship with God requires maintaining a holy separation from local “non-Jewish ways.” If, however, Isaac is allowed to go back to Abraham’s ancestral land, then there is a chance that he will stay, adopt Mesopotamian paganism and polytheism, and abandon the One God. Abraham therefore gives his head servant the mission of finding a wife for Isaac—and he imposes two conditions.
(1)  The wife shall not be local: “Swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and the God of the earth, that you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell.” (Genesis 24.3)
(2)  The wife shall come from Mesopotamia, but only the servant shall travel there to choose her. Isaac must stay in Canaan; Isaac must not go to Mesopotamia! “On no account shall you take my son back there!” (Genesis 24.4-6)   

Abraham has faith that God will bring this plan to fruition, as he explains to his servant: “The Lord, the God of heaven, Who took me from my father’s house and from my native land, who promised me on oath, saying ‘I will assign this land to your offspring’—He will send His angel before you, and you will get a wife for my son from there.” (Genesis 24.7)   

Where is Isaac while his Dad makes all these arrangements? Does Abraham overstep his bounds, or could there be another more legitimate reason? The Torah does not explain the situation, but there are some possible clues. Isaac could be overwhelmed with grief at his mother’s death. The Midrash suggests that he might have been away from home when Sarah dies. Sarah has the gift of prophecy, and, when she has a vision of her husband standing over their beloved son with a slaughtering knife, she immediately drops dead—and a temporarily relieved Isaac comes home to a deceased Mother. Another Midrash suggests that Isaac might be away “at school,” studying Torah at the Academy of Shem and Eber in Jerusalem. If he feels guilty for being away from his mother—and is thus emotionally impaired, or if he is in a very spiritual state of mind from his religious studies—and is thus uninterested in romance, perhaps Abraham feels the need to arrange the marriage and not wait for Isaac’s interest to develop.  

There is also the possibility that Isaac is somehow impaired and unable to get a wife for himself. One clue is the trauma of almost being sacrificed by his father. Some read the story and see Isaac as a faithful servant of God who acquiesces to God’s command, but one could see Isaac as a vulnerable child, victimized and traumatized by his father’s blind zeal. In other words, we could be looking at an ancient case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and a consequently disabled Patriarch. Remember the hint in next week’s Torah portion, where Isaac is described as feeble—blind and unable to tell one son from the other. Is this a disability that comes later in life, or does his impairment date to his childhood? 

Of course, there is also the possibility that we are reading too much into the story—that this is just the way things were done back then. Parents arranged marriages for their children, and children lived in the family compound until their parents died—then becoming the leaders of the tribe themselves. Abraham could simply be following social mores and fulfilling his parental responsibilities.  

When it comes to Rebekah, we have a very different description of independence. When she meets Abraham’s servant at the community well, she is self-possessed enough to invite him to her family’s compound. The Midrash enhances this notion of her unusual maturity by concocting a scenario where she is only three years old! Already, she has the strength, piety, and good sense to be a Matriarch! When she assents to the marriage and agrees to leave immediately, we see the balaboosta that Isaac needs in his life. She is the one to carry and drive the family’s holy destiny. 

The art of raising children brings all sorts of challenges and advice. Among the choices parents face is the tension between keeping children safe and encouraging independence and self-reliance. Given a sense of increased danger in the world, many parents exercise more supervision that was typical fifty or a hundred years ago. Think of little Laura Ingalls (Melissa Gilbert) walking several miles from her Little House on the Prairie to school—often all by herself. For many modern children, this is as far from reality as is conceivable. What are parents to do when their children can face both physical and psychic danger (bullying, hostility, discrimination)? Everyone deserves a safe and affirming place in which to grow, learn, and play, but who should be fighting children’s battles, themselves or their parents and teachers? 

Is it possible for children to be protected too much? Could over-protection inhibit a young person’s resilience and ability to encounter difficulties? In the recent issue of Sapir Journal, Lenore Skenazy wonders about children who have been so protected from anything disagreeable that they, as young adults and college students, feel endangered by the presence of different opinions. Is a different or objectionable opinion really an assault? Does it require organizational protection? Is the inability to hear and respond to opposing viewpoints a result of life-long protection by helicopter parents and teachers? Does such protective hovering create an imposed intellectual disability that impedes the learning process and one’s functioning in a democratic society where there are lots of different opinions? Protection is clearly important, but how much is too much? 

As in many Biblical tales, we can read our own agendas and opinions onto this ancient story of parental involvement in a child’s life. Does Abraham overstep his rightful parental authority in taking over Isaac’s love life? Or, is such action required and appropriate? How much help does Isaac need? At what point does too much help impede Isaac’s ability to live independently and fulfill his potential? In other words, would less help from his father be helpful? There is a lot to think about in this ancient story, and there is a lot to think about as we continue the story in our own times.

Abraham, The Man of Faith

November 11th: Vayera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As I wrote last week, our Tradition reads the Torah more as a document of faith than history and thus sees Abraham’s story as primarily one of faith and piety. Accordingly, the Midrash often enhances the story and “reveals” some interesting details. For example, did you know that Abraham and Sarah are prolific missionaries? According to the Midrash, they spread their new faith all over Mesopotamia. Since the dominant religions are pagan and polytheistic, their proselytizing is not without controversy. In one of the more famous Midrashic legends, Abram’s father owns an idol shop, and Abram tries to instruct his father about the One God by breaking the idols and claiming that they broke each other. When word of his blasphemy reaches King Nimrod, Abram is thrown into a fiery furnace. This is “supported” by the mention last week of King Amraphel of Shinar. Shinar, as we know from the story of the Tower of Babel, is the region around Babylon, and Amraphel is identified as the famous King Nimrod. This insight is gained from a close examination of his name. Amar means said in Hebrew, and phel means fall in Hebrew (nafal). In other words, Amraphel says that Abram should be thrown into the fiery furnace for his preaching. Of course, with God’s help, Abram survives the ordeal and emerges unscathed. Faith in God is very powerful.  

Another support for the legend of Abraham’s and Sarah’s conversionary efforts in Mesopotamia comes in a cryptic line in Lech Lecha. Shortly after God instructs, “Lech Lecha: Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you,” we read about Abram’s obedience: “Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother’s son Lot and all the wealth that they had amassed and the persons that they had acquired in Haran, and they set out for the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 12.11-5) The phrase that got the Rabbis’ attention was “the persons that they had acquired in Haran” because the Hebrew literally says, “the souls that they made in Haran.” Modern translators understand that the Hebrew word asah/made can also be used for other sensibilities—that it refers to the servants and retainers that became part of Abram and Sarai’s camp or tribe. However, the literal sense of the word begs for a deeper meaning, and the Rabbis explain as follows. Abram and Sarai were great missionaries who brought the truth about the One God to Mesopotamia, and they converted many people to their new religion. When one converts, it is as though he/she is reborn, so the Torah is “explaining” that these new converts were essentially made/remade by Abram and Sarai’s teaching.  

The agenda of the Tradition is to accentuate Abraham’s spiritual strength and piety. It is the role the Tradition wishes to model.  

As we continue through Abraham’s spiritual and prophetic career, we see a succession of spiritual challenges—or, as the Tradition sees it, a number of tests of his faith and piety. The ultimate test, Akedat Yitzchak (the Binding of Isaac) concludes our Torah portion, but Tradition holds that there are actually ten tests administered by God to Abraham: “With ten trials was Abraham our father, may he rest in peace, tried, and he withstood them all.” (Pirke Avot 5.3).  

Though Pirke Avot states this teaching, it is curious that the ten tests are not identified—thus leaving it to subsequent commentators to tell us what they are.   

The Rambam (Moses Maimonides), for example, lists these ten:
(1)  God instructs Abram to leave his homeland and move to Canaan.
(2)  When he arrives in Canaan, there is a famine, and he must deal with it.
(3)  The Egyptians seize Sarai and bring her to Pharaoh’s harem.
(4)  Abram fights in the War of the Four Kings versus the Five Kings and rescues Lot.
(5)  Childless with Sarai, Abram cohabits with Hagar to fulfill God’s plan and have a son.
(6)  God instructs Abram to circumcise himself.
(7)  King Abimelech of Gerar seizes Sarah, intending her to be his wife.
(8)  God (agreeing with Sarah) instructs Abraham to send away Hagar.
(9)  This means that Abraham is estranged from his son Ishmael.
(10)  God instructs Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. 

Rabbi Ovadiah of Bertinoro, on the other hand, identifies these as Abraham’s ten tests:
(1)  Abram is thrown into a fiery furnace by Nimrod/Amraphel.
(2)  God instructs Abram to leave his homeland and move to Canaan.
(3)  When he arrives in Canaan, there is a famine, and Abram must deal with it.
(4)  The Egyptians seize Sarah and bring her to Pharaoh’s harem.
(5)  Abram fights in the War of the Four Kings versus the Five Kings and rescues Lot.
(6)  Abram is told that his children will be strangers and slaves in a foreign land.
(7)  God instructs Abram to circumcise himself.
(8)  King Abimelech of Gerar seizes Sarah, intending her to be his wife.
(9)  God (agreeing with Sarah) instructs Abraham to send away Hagar and Ishmael.
(10)  God instructs Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. 

There are other compilations by other commentators, which suggests that each scholar read the Torah and Midrash and came up with his own “top ten.” Nevertheless, notice how each is portrayed as a test of faith—faith being the key ingredient in Abraham’s greatness. Again, that is the trait that the Tradition hopes to inculcate in his many descendants.   

Though Akedat Yitzchak is the most dramatic of the tests, there is one moment back in Chapter 15 (verse 6) that paints the relationship of faith and faithfulness between Abraham and God. In this encounter, God is speaking about Abram’s future progeny that will be as numerous as the stars in the heaven. Abram, however, brings us a sore subject: I am over ninety years old and am childless and have no heir. How can this promise come true? God assures him once again, and Abram believes. “And because Abram put his trust in the Lord, the Lord reckoned it to his merit.”  

The Torah can be read in many ways, but the Tradition has come to see Abram/Abraham as a hero of faith and piety. The hope is that we can carry on these qualities—and thus receive and continue his spiritual legacy.

Military Strength or Spiritual?

November 4th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though “The War of the Four Kings Against the Five Kings” (Genesis 14) was a major event for those involved, it has always been a curious sidebar in the spiritual saga of our Father Abraham.  

Abram gets involved when his nephew Lot is kidnapped. Lot has been living in the Dead Sea region, in Sodom, and that region’s five kingdoms are invaded by four kings from the North. When Lot is kidnapped, Abram musters 318 of his men to pursue the fives kings and rescue his nephew. 

This twenty-four-verse story is not particularly religious. God does not command anything to Abram, and God does no miracles. It is a secular and military story. The only religious detail is the aftermath: While returning home with lots of plunder, Abram visits a place of religious pilgrimage. “King Melchizedek of Salem brought out bread and wine; he was a priest of God Most High. He blessed him, saying, ‘Blessed be Abram of God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth. And blessed be God Most High, Who has delivered your foes into your hand.’ And Abram gave him a tenth of everything.” (Genesis 14.18-20)  

Since the Torah is a document of faith—and not really a history, the Tradition senses a need to enhance the story with more spirituality. The Midrash begins by focusing on this cryptic passage about the Priest Melchizedek. Looking carefully at the Genesis genealogies, the Rabbis discover that this Melchizedek is none other than Shem, one of Noah’s sons. (If you live to be six hundred years old, you are around for many succeeding generations.) Further, Salem is none other than Jerusalem. As the Midrash explains, Shem and his great-grandson Eber run a religious center there in Jerusalem, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob all visit there for religious instruction and observance. How could one possibly be a Patriarch without studying at a Yeshivah?! 

We are still, however, left with a military story with very little religious substance. Enter Gematria—the art of assigning numerical values to Hebrew letters and from them finding hidden meanings. 

Let us look at the text: “When Abram heard that his kinsman had been taken captive, he mustered his retainers, born into his household, numbering three hundred and eighteen, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. At night, he and his servants deployed against them and defeated them; and he pursued them as far as Damascus.” (Genesis 14.14-15)  

It seems a simple description of a military campaign, but someone schooled in Gematria noticed that 318 is  the numerical value for Eliezer, Abram’s most trusted servant. (See Genesis 15.2): אֱלִיעֶזֶר
Alef is 1, Lamed is 30, Yod is 10, Ayin is 70, Zayin is 7, and Resh is 200. The lesson or hidden meaning is that Abram does not need 318 troops to defeat the Four Kings. He is such a master of faith, he just needs one soldier, his faithful servant Eliezer, to defeat his enemies! 

But, there is more: another Gematria student noticed another meaning of 318. It is the numerical value of the Hebrew word si’ach / converse or speak.  שִׂיחַ
Sin is 300, Yod is 10, and Chet is 8.  Gematria thus teaches that Abram does not really need to fight physically. All he does to defeat his enemies is to speak God’s Holy Name!    

Why would such a claim be made? It is clearly absurd—and counter to the meaning of the text. And yet, one can see in this miracle interpretation an indication of the Rabbinic approach to Jewish survival. After the twin debacles of the Jewish Rebellion (66-73 CE, when Jerusalem and the Temple were destroyed by the Romans) and the Bar Kochba Rebellion (132-136 CE, which saw Rome destroy not only the Jewish army but also many of the great Rabbis), the surviving Rabbis made a deliberate decision to eschew physical and military resistance.

They reasoned that the Jewish people could never compete militarily with powers such as Rome—that armed resistance could never succeed and would just invoke more brutal oppression and persecution. Their strategy was to encourage a different kind of strength: a spiritual strength based on faith and piety and the hope of God’s eternal love. It was completely different from the Biblical approach—where faith in God brought military victory—and is vastly different from our modern Jewish fighters who brought to life the State of Israel and defend it. The Rabbinic hope and strategy was to lay low and endure whatever came, hoping that faith and piety would allow a “She’arit Yisrael, a Remnant of Israel,” to survive for the Messianic future. This approach may seem strange to us, but it was the survival strategy that kept our religious community alive for some 1800 years and engendered one of the world’s great spiritual traditions. As Historian Ellis Rivkin used to explain, given that earthly victory over our enemies was impossible, Rabbinic Judaism moved away from the Biblical ideal of an earthly Jewish kingdom to a spiritual quest for “God’s Kingdom within.” 

In such a worldview, Abram’s military prowess is irrelevant, but Abram/Abraham as a giant of faith—who could simply speak the Divine Name and conquer enemies—is a much better example.

Another place one can see this transition is in the development of Chanukah. Whereas the story began as a military victory of the Maccabees over the Greek Syrians (165 BCE), the Rabbis of the Talmud (Second and Third Century CE) subsumed the military story in the story of the miracle of the oil. From the Biblical notion of God-supported military strength, the Talmud transitioned us to a more spiritual dimension. Then, in the 1800s, we began to change back with the Jewish Self-Defense Movement—and this, of course, set the stage for and inspired Zionism.

When commentators use Gematria to suggest that Abram, accompanied by a single servant and speaking the Divine Name, was as powerful as an army of 318 soldiers, they are encouraging their people to be spiritually strong—to ground themselves in faith and piety and observance. It is very different from our modern worldview, but it was a meaningful and successful spiritual approach to the centuries our people suffered unrelenting oppression. It is a monument to Jewish adaptability and creativity—and, as we face our own struggles in life, perhaps there are lessons we too can learn about spiritual strength and hope.

The Way of Ritual

October 28th: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre D’var Torah:

When I was growing up, both of my parents were very involved in our local synagogue. Among other duties, my Dad was the choir director, and we all attended services pretty much every week. As a result, I always thought of myself as very aware of the service and its components and spiritual dynamics. I knew what was going on. And so, I was both surprised and a bit outraged when a professor at Rabbinical School said the following about the holiest part of the High Holy Day service—indeed, the holiest moment of the Jewish year. He said, “The words of Kol Nidre have very little to do with the way people experience it. In some ways, the words do not matter at all.”

The teacher was Dr. Alvin Reines, and his explanation rankled me, but I kept my ears and my mind open--and learned something. He said that the wording of the Kol Nidre is a dry legal formulation—not a particularly stirring composition--that asks that unfulfilled vows be nullified. Though the traditional Aramaic text does not speak about intentions and legitimate reasons for not fulfilling vows, most translations are more subjective than literal and add phrases to this effect. However, Dr. Reines observed, worshippers add other sensibilities to the spiritual moment, transcending the legality and creating a significant and awe-filled experience. In other words, a lot more than the words is going on.

Think about your own Kol Nidre sensibilities. We all rise. In non-COVID times, we remove the Torah Scrolls from the Ark. We chant the text three times in a time-honored and emotionally intense tune. We sing along—pronouncing the mystical words. We sense in them a sacred gathering in which the entire People of Israel—throughout the world and throughout all time—stands before our Creator, coming clean and begging for forgiveness. Our minds go in all sorts of directions. Some of us think about the places and times where our ancestors were forced to make vows of allegiance to other gods—vows they did not mean in their hearts and for which they repented at Kol Nidre. Others think of the persecutions our people experienced--the discrimination, the persecution, all kinds of attacks, and our martyrs. Some of us think more presently of the opportunities we have squandered—opportunities for goodness and charity and moral stature. Whether we focus on tragedies of our people or on the sense of coming before God or on the transgenerational gathering of our people or on the indefinable connection to our faith and our families, Kol Nidre is a profoundly expansive moment—a very holy moment.  

As I wrestled with the professor’s reasoning, I remembered a curious custom in a number of Reform Temples, when the chant is preceded or followed by an instrumental rendering of the tune. Often done on cello or violin, many worshippers find this non-verbal Kol Nidre as meaningful as the chant. In other words, as Dr. Reines argued, there is a lot more to Kol Nidre than the legal proceeding; in fact, for many, the words were almost beside the point. He was not insulting the Kol Nidre moment; rather, he was explaining the mysterious and captivating dynamic of all rituals. 

Consider the Shema. It is ostensibly a theological statement—that there is only One God, but there are also mystical sensibilities. Though different aspects of God, ה' and אלהינו are nonetheless parts of One God—ה' being the infinite and transcendent aspect of the Divine, and אלהינו being the immanent, knowable aspect of the Divine. But, think of all else the Shema can mean when Jews recite it. There is the history of the statement—that the words were first voiced by Moses as a reminder of our essential identity and mission. Though not exactly Biblical, the Cecil B. DeMille film of the Exodus has Moses/Charlton Heston standing in front of the assembled Hebrews and pronouncing these words as they begin their march out of Egypt. שמע ישראל “Hear, O Israel: Listen, everyone, this is the most important truth we have; it defines our identity and our purpose!”  Following the legend of Rabbi Akiva’s martyrdom, Tradition teaches that these words are the last we should speak as we leave this world. In many ways, the passage is a watchword, a self-identification on a level of profound meaningfulness. Even for people who understand the Hebrew, reciting Shema can be a prayerful experience that far transcends the definitions and grammar and even theology. There is an energy when we say these words, and we can sense it even if we may have difficulty describing the experience. 

Another multivalent ritual is the mitzvah of the Tzitzit, the fringes on the Tallit. The purpose of the Tzitzit is to remind us of all the mitzvot of the Lord and also our tendency to go astray. With these reminders on our clothing, we are bidden to seek a life of holiness, וִהְיִיתֶם קְדֹשִים לֵאלֹֽהֵיכֶֽם, but there is more. In the modern Jewish world, young people receive their Tallitot at Bar/Bat Mitzvah, and all the associations of family and heritage are woven into the emotional fabric. Often times, the Tallit is given by a beloved relative—or is inherited from a beloved ancestor, and the love and heritage enhance the spiritual and emotional significance of this ritual clothing far beyond its textbook meaning. The Tallit is also a sign of leadership: even at evening services where the Tallit is not worn by worshippers, Tradition calls for the leader to wear it as a sign of his/her sacred responsibility. In the ultra-Orthodox world, young men wear the Tzitzit undershirt from their toddler days on, but they receive a Tallit on their wedding day. For them, it signifies a new step in maturity and the new family they are creating. And, for all Tallit wearers, there is the spiritual world that the shawl can represent: when we wrap ourselves in the Tallit, we are creating our own personal Tabernacle of holiness—into which we invite the Divine Presence.  

We could consider other rituals—like eating apples and honey on Rosh Hashanah, fasting on Yom Kippur, lighting the Chanukah Candles, making noise at Purim, and going through the Haggadah at our Passover Seders; for each one, we could reflect upon the official messages AND on the additional enhancements our tradition and experience bestow upon them. 

Another one of my teachers, Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, used to reflect on religious rituals and how they are “peak experiences domesticated.” There have been moments in our sacred history that have been astounding or inspiring or tragic in profound ways, and we seek through ritual to relive or appreciate these special times. Like watching video memories of family events, we are transported back in time to these special moments, and the energies of the occasions are rekindled. We recall the event, but the real rekindling is of the emotions and relationships represented in those events. Above and beyond the procedural details and choreography, rituals can be powerful instruments for emotional and spiritual truths, reminders of the principles and relationships that matter on the deepest of levels.  

Kol Nidre, like all of the Holy Day imagery and prayers and sensibilities, is an opening for important truths—about God, about the human endeavor, about our souls. Presenting us with the imagery of appearing  before the judgment throne of the Lord, it is in many ways like appearing before a deeply insightful mirror. What are we? What have we become? What opportunities have we taken? What opportunities have we let slip by? How have we conducted our families and business associations and communities? How have we been blessings, and where do we need some improvement? 

My hope is that we enter fully into the rich and profound imagery of our spiritual moments, paying attention to the values and relationships they represent and taking advantage of the correction and inspiration they afford. We are partners with the Divine in the great and continuing work of Creation, and the point of the Holy Days is to remind us all of our mission and its importance— and of the sacred assembly of which we are all a part. Let us, with every ritual step, behold our sacred partners and be re-energized in our holy work.

The Torah and Detectives

October 21st: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Back in Shoftim (Deuteronomy 16), we considered the Torah’s advice and standards for justice in the courtroom. “Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof. Justice, justice shall you pursue,” is the mitzvah to which everyone involved in the administration of justice should aspire. It is at the heart of our Tradition’s wisdom.  

However, the pursuit of justice involves not only judges and attorneys. As a modern Sage says (frequently!), the police are also involved. “In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police who investigate crime, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders.” Do the police have a Torah connection? 

One could trace the Torah’s interest in crime detection to this week’s Torah portion—though there is not much of a mystery. Brothers Cain and Abel both bring offerings to God, but only Abel’s offering is accepted. We do not know what the problem is with Cain’s offering; in fact, we do not actually know if the sacrifice is the problem. All we know is that “The Lord has respect for Abel and his offering, but, for Cain and his offering, God did not have respect. And Cain was very angry and his countenance fell.” (Genesis 4.4-5) The Tradition offers several possibilities for the nature of the problem, but that is almost not the point. The real problem is that Cain begins to project his disappointment and anger with God at his brother. God warns him in one of the most universal pieces of advice every spoken: “Why are you angry? Why is your countenance fallen? If you do well, shall you not be accepted? And if you do not do well, sin couches at the door. And to you shall be sin’s desire. And yet, you can rule over it.” (Genesis 4.7) 

The advice fails to alter Cain’s urge, and he murders his brother Abel. What follows is an early interrogation: “The Lord said to Cain, ‘Where is Abel your brother?’ And he said, ‘I know not.  What, am I my brother’s keeper?’ And God said, ‘What have you done? The voice of your brother’s blood cries to Me from the ground!” (Genesis 4.9-10) Of course, with God, there are no mysteries. It is more a matter of the Lord trying to guide us humans through the vagaries of free-will—and sometimes watching us fail.  

In the more human realm of solving crimes, one could look later in the Torah, in Exodus 2 where the word somehow gets out that Moses has killed an Egyptian taskmaster. “When Moses was grown, he went out to his brothers and looked on their burdens. He spied an Egyptian beating a Hebrew, one of his brothers. He looked this way and that way, and when he saw that there was no one, he slew the Egyptian and hid him in the sand. When he went out a second day, behold, two men of the Hebrews struggled together, and Moses said to the one who did the wrong, ‘Why do you strike your fellow?’ And he said, ‘Who made you a prince and a judge over us? Do you intend to kill me, as you killed the Egyptian?’ And Moses feared, and said, ‘Certainly this thing is known.’” (Exodus 2.11-14) The Hebrews now know—and later Pharaoh. It is time for Moses to flee Egypt for Midian. 

Later in the Torah, in Deuteronomy 21, we get a little closer to crime detection: “If someone slain is found lying…in the open, the identity of the slayer not being known,” the Torah seeks to assign jurisdiction—finding the closest city to the crime scene and making sure that the leaders of the city do their due diligence in investigating the crime. We do not have any advice about what we now call Forensic Science, but the Torah does seem to assume investigative techniques and insists that the authorities pursue them and figure out what happened.  

Throughout all of these passages—and several more in the Torah and lots in the Talmud, the emphasis is on justice: believable witnesses and evidence and fair judgment. “Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof. Justice, justice shall you pursue.” 

At every step, there is a tension between justice for the victim and justice for the accused. Crimes need to be investigated and responsibility assessed, but inexactitude of judgment is not okay with God. The Lord expects justice in every case! Hence the need for accuracy in crime detection. 

Ever since Edgar Allan Poe invented the detective mystery, the genre has grown and achieved great popularity. Why are we so captivated by such tales? And, why are so many of us captivated by that sub-genre of detective mysteries that involve the clergy doubling as detectives? There is the very successful series by Harry Kemelman in which Rabbi David Small attends to his congregation and also solves crimes (Friday The Rabbi Slept Late, Saturday The Rabbi Went Hungry, etc.). Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose features Brother William of Baskerville, a monk and expert detective. Historian Edith Mary Pargeter (OBC BEM) assumed the nom de plume Ellis Peters for her series about Brother Cadfael, a retired soldier from the Crusades who “takes the cowl” as a Benedictine monk and solves mysteries in mediaeval England. Her book series was turned into a BBC/PBS series starring Derek Jacobi and stimulating the tourist trade in modern Shrewsbury, England. Speaking of the BBC and PBS, we also have The Father Brown Mysteries and Grantchester in which clergymen spend an inordinate amount of time helping the local constabulary. There is even an anthology of Jewish detective stories. Edited by Rabbi Lawrence Raphael and Joel Siegel, Modern Midrash: An Anthology of Jewish Mystery & Detective Fiction offers us many examples and challenge our minds and Jewish sensibilities.  

And, in a new development, WPSU has just begun a new religious murder mystery series—spun off from a character in the Father Brown Mysteries. Sister Boniface is a nun in the 1960s who is a member of St. Vincent’s Convent in the fictional town of Great Slaughter in the Cotswolds. She attends to her religious duties and makes wine—and, by the way, has a Ph.D. in Forensic Science. Should any mysterious deaths occur, she is available to assist the local police. 

What is it about the clergy and the investigation of murders? Why do so many of us love to see the interaction of religion and crime? Could it be that religion qua religion is daunting and other-worldly, while religious practitioners coming face to face with life-or-death situations makes faith somehow more pertinent?  

Being Good or Doing Good?

October 14th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur Morning D’var Torah.

There’s an old saying that goes, “Jews are like everybody else, only moreso.” We could apply this to guilt. Everyone experiences guilt—and some are quite adept at getting other people to feel guilty, but we Jews are masters of this game. We’ve even invented a season of guilt—and the holiest day of our year, Yom Kippur, is ostensibly a festival of guilt.

The same can be said of arguing. Everyone loves to argue, but we Jews have raised the art and practice of arguing to sacramental status. While the ancient Rabbis cautioned us against  מחלוקת שלא לשם שמיים/ an argument that is not for the sake of heaven, that did not stop them or us. We love to discuss and argue and pit our thinking against all comers. It is a foundational element of our intellectual tradition.

The ancient Rabbis even imagined the Angels in Heaven arguing. Remember the verse in Genesis 1 when God says, “Let us make the human in our image.” In response to the question of to whom God is speaking, the Midrash suggests that is the angelic assembly. God discusses the possible creation of humans with the angels, and they all get into a furious argument. Some anticipate the wonders of love, cooperation, holiness, and righteousness, and they heartily endorse God’s idea. Others foresee the cruelty, oppression, immorality, and degradation that all too often spring from the human heart, and they counsel God to abandon this flawed proposal. The argument goes on and on and on. Finally, God slips out the back door of the council chambers and goes and creates the human being. Returning, God says to the angels, “You can stop arguing. I’ve already created the human being. Now, it’s a matter of the choices they’ll make—how they will handle their existence.”

This angelic debate is akin to one in which we humans love to engage. Are people basically good or basically evil? This is one of those discussions that can go on long into the night in dorm rooms, living rooms, and bars. It is amenable to insights from psychology, sociology, anthropology, biochemistry, and theology. It is among the most fecund of subjects, and it is not new. Even the Lord God seems to be of two minds on the subject. In Genesis Chapter 1, God looks at all that has been created—including humans—and gives the seal of Divine approval. “And God saw everything that had been made, and, behold, it was very good.” (Genesis 1.31).

However, in Genesis Chapter 8, after the debacle of human society that ends in the Great Flood, God reflects on human nature and sighs to Noah: “The devising of the human heart is evil from childhood on.”

So, what is it? Are we basically good, or are we basically bad? Believing that everything in the Torah is God’s wisdom, the ancient Rabbis resolved this apparent contradiction as follows: we are neither intrinsically good nor intrinsically evil. What we have is the potential for both good and evil—and we need to learn to choose wisely. The Rabbis see human nature as a balance between two competing impulses, Yetzer Tov, the Good Inclination, and Yetzer HaRa, the Evil Inclination. The two are ever-present as soon as we reach moral consciousness, and they compete for our attention and acquiescence.

How do we negotiate this competition? Some counsel focusing our efforts on good things—so much so that the Evil Inclination has no openings into our attention. Think of nothing but Scripture and mitzvot and thus be protected. One can see this approach on busses in Israel where some passengers keep their noses in the Book of Psalms lest their attention be diverted to less-than-holy possibilities.

Others counsel developing a sense of discipline where one simply denies Yetzer HaRa. Strength and moral resolve can, if we have iron wills, resist temptation. And, there are a number of protection Psalms to keep us on the straight and narrow.

Then, there is the possibility of taking the power of the Evil Inclination and channeling it into good purposes. If I have a desire to be famous, let me fulfill my ego seeking fame for good things. If I want to have my name on a building, make it a building dedicated to health care, research, or education. If I have an overwhelming desire to be rich, let me share that wealth with the needy and downtrodden. The Yetzer HaRa is powerful, but it can be directed and put to good use.

And, of course, there is the lesson of our season of repentance. When the Evil Inclination gets the best of us, when we fail to respond to our Good Inclination, God is always available for our teshuvah—for our repentance and atonement. Ezekiel the Prophet (18.23) reminds us, “This is Your glory, O God: 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.” And, the Machzor assures us, “Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.  וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹֽעַ הַגְּזֵרָה. Repentance, prayer, and charity: these return us to God.”

In other words, it is not a matter of being innately good or bad; the challenge for human beings involves making good choices. Every single day, we are presented with opportunities for choosing Yetzer Tov or Yetzer HaRa. Every single day, God implores us, as in the Torah portion today (Deuteronomy 30):
הַחַיִּים וְהַמָּוֶת נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַבְּרָכָה וְהַקְּלָלָה וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ:
“I set before you life and death, blessing and curse; choose life, that you and your descendants may live...” 

Let me conclude with an unexpected text. In the MCU, the Marvel Cinematic Universe, there is a new show that has proved delightful. Based on a Marvel comic book, Ms. Marvel tells the story of Kamala Khan, a teenage superhero who is a Muslim girl living in Jersey City. She and her family and friends are very Muslim and very American, and the show presents a very sympathetic and normalized vision of the Muslim American experience. Among the characters in the story is the local Imam, Sheikh Abdullah, a friendly, calm, and wise presence in the lives of his congregants. At one juncture, Kamala is struggling with her abilities, her mission, and whether she is good at heart. She presents her quandary to Sheikh Abdullah, and he gives her this answer: “Good is not what you are. Good is what you do.” 

It is a great proverb—and one that I immediately knew had to go into a High Holy Day sermon. However, I was hoping that it had a more glorious origin than that Marvel screenplay—perhaps a Zen Monk or a Hassid from the Carpathian Mountains. I would have been fine with a Native American Shaman or even a New Age Guru. So, I looked it up and was immediately disappointed. According to the Internet, it comes from The Twilight Series—the one about vampires and werewolves and humans all falling in love with each other—by author Stephenie Meyer. Another search brought me back to Ms. Marvel comic book. The author, G. Willow Wilson, had apparently included this proverb—Good is not what you are; good is what you do— in Volume One. Ms. Wilson is a Muslim American writer who attributes the proverb to an unspecified Koranic source she heard from her father. The Internet’s version of her recollection of her father’s teaching sounds suspiciously like passages from the Rabbis in Midrash Rabba—at which point I remembered that all the great faith traditions share insights. We borrow from each other, sharing the wisdom that the Divine bestows upon all humans.  

So, I conclude as I began. We Jews are just like everyone else; only moreso. When we gather on Yom Kippur to reflect on our moral standing—our successes and failures, our strengths and weaknesses, our goodness and our evil, let us remember God’s love for us and God’s hope for us. It is not a matter of being good; it is a matter of doing good. 

Boneh V'rachamav Yerushalayim: Building Jerusalem with Compassion

October 7th: Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning D’var Torah,

We are presented today with one of the hardest choices a human has ever faced. Out of nowhere, God instructs Abraham to kill his son. To kill! His son! One could argue that God’s instruction—וְהַֽעֲלֵ֤הוּ שָׁם֙ לְעֹלָ֔ה  , to lift him up as a sacrifice—is more purposeful, more righteous or holy, but the words do not dress up the horrible choice forced on Abraham. 

There have been many debates on what Abraham did and what he should have done. There have been various opinions about what God really had in mind. For today, however, let us just think about the fact that our Rosh Hashanah liturgy celebrates this holy day with an impossible, mind-breaking and soul-breaking story. Whatever Abraham chooses or should chose, there is no right answer. Abraham’s choice is a paradox, a conundrum, an unanswerable question. What we have here conceptually is an intellectual whetstone on which Jews have been sharpening our minds for hundreds and hundreds of years. 

Perhaps the deeper lesson of Akedat Yitzchak is that life sometimes presents us with impossible situations—situations with no right or good answers, but situations which must nonetheless be navigated as best we can.  

This dynamic could describe many modern issues, but the one foremost on my mind is that of the continuing and continuingly impossible מצב / matzav’/situation, the conflict between Israel and its neighbors. I do not think that I am alone in my perpetual distress at this difficult and perplexing situation. 

I am distressed at the slowness of progress toward peace.  

I am distressed at the suffering of far too many Israelis who are subject to terror--and whose children must serve in war zones. 

I am also distressed at the suffering of Palestinians whose leadership keeps putting them in the line of fire—who spend money on futile military efforts while ignoring economic and humanitarian improvements. I am incensed every time I hear a reporter or commentator acting as though the Israelis alone are responsible for the misery of Gaza and the West Bank. 

I am distressed at the temporary demise of the political Left in Israel: with the never-ending threat of rockets and terrorists incursions and stabbings, many Israelis have been persuaded that peace is not a present possibility. Thus have so many new centrist and right-of-center parties come into being and taken the leadership. Though many Israelis long for peace and a good life for Palestinians, it is as though peace is not even on the agenda. 

I am distressed at the unfair blaming of Israel and the ignorance-based analysis one sees and hears in media and on campus. I am disgusted by news reports and op-eds that somehow do not see a problem with missile attacks, or terrorist attacks, or dropping incendiary devices on Israeli crops—as though attacks against Jews are somehow not a problem. 

I am distressed that false analogies about racism and colonialism and “indigeneity” are foisted onto a situation that is vastly different from other world and historical conflicts. I am distressed at the ahistorical pontificating of people who should know better—who don’t look back beyond 100 years to see that the Muslim and Arab world has been colonizing Israel for centuries, and that the vast majority of Palestinians are colonists from Egypt and Syria and Lebanon, people who only came to Eretz Yisrael after Zionist Jews brought the moribund land back to life. One has higher hopes for our supposed intellectual leaders, but all too often, willed-ignorance is pushed through and illiberal thought is demanded as the price of admission into academic respectability.  

I am also distressed at how so much of what we read and hear is based on poor reporting—on seeking extreme voices that reinforce preconceived notions and keep the conflict popping.  

I am distressed that many, many efforts toward peace and cooperation between Jews and Arabs are not better known. And, I am distressed that Arabs and Muslims who do engage in peaceful pursuits with Jews are threatened and worse.  

There is an interesting phrase in Birkat Hamazon, the traditional blessing after meals, which speaks of a kind of conditional messianism. It praises God Who בונה ברחמיו ירושלים “Builds Jerusalem with compassion.” 

We can, of course, read the verse as thanking God for the exceeding compassion evidenced in the rebuilding of our ancient holy city.  But, we could also read the verse as speaking of רחמיו / godly compassion as a necessary component in Jerusalem’s rebuilding. If we are to participate in the messianic dream of rebuilding Jerusalem, בונה ברחמיו ירושלים , a main ingredient, a major building block must be compassion. 

Fortunately, this is an approach understood by many on all sides of the conflict. All over the Land of Israel, there are individuals and community organizations dedicated to developing relationships and bringing peace. There are Jewish, Muslim, and Christian dialogues--in which religious and civic leaders model and lead encounters of mutual respect and cooperation. There are neighborhood get-togethers, book clubs, charitable endeavors, and shared commercial endeavors. There are many restaurants where Jews and Arabs eat together, shopping centers and grocery stores where they share the aisles, neighborhoods and towns where they live together. There are outreach efforts between Jewish villages and Arab villages. There are athletic and cultural connections in every corner of the land.  

Thus do I arrive at my first lesson for today: The dreams of peace are not dead. Though the leaders of Hamas and Hezbollah manipulate hate—and though many Israelis cannot see beyond this murderous opposition, there is human-to-human compassion and neighborliness in the Land of Israel. Psalm 122 speaks of Jerusalem as two cities  יְרוּשָׁלַם הַבְּנוּיָה כְּעִיר שֶׁחֻבְּרָה־לָּהּ יַחְדָּו: two cities that can hopefully be united as one. One Jerusalem is in heaven and is the perfect example of righteousness and holiness. The other is on earth and requires effort to make it better. There are thousands of Jews, Muslims, and Christians committed to practical messianism and working toward this unification—when the earthly Jerusalem will approach the Jerusalem in heaven. 

My second lesson is more difficult—and brings us back to the impossibility of Abraham’s situation. In many of our minds, there is an intellectual impatience. We want to figure things out, fix them, and then move on. Unsolvable problems test our patience and can get us angry. Indeed, we can respond emotionally and act out at those immersed in these problems, blaming them for the intractability of their situations. This is a departure from reasonable thinking—a sin—that is devoutly to be avoided. Some problems are not amenable to easy solutions—or to solutions on our timetable. Some actors really are too far apart to bring together. Some situations are simply impossible, and we need to negotiate through the difficulties as best we can. 

May peace come soon to Eretz Yisrael and all the world. But, in the meantime, keeping the people safe and fed and employed may be the best that is possible. It is certainly better than the alternative. Let us keep our dreams of peace alive, but let us not abandon the dreams because they are currently beyond the horizon.
ברוך אתה ה' בונה ברחמיו ירושלים
“Blessed is the Lord, Who with compassion rebuilds Jerusalem.”

The Persistence of Divine Love

September 30th: Shabbat Teshuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah D’var Torah.

In the ritual of putting on Tefillin, as you wrap the leather strap as a sign around your arm, it is traditional to recite a verse from Psalm 145--familiar to many of us as part of Ashray:
“You open Your hand to satisfy every living thing.”  

Sometimes, when I recite this verse, I think of it in terms of God’s hand. The verse prays that the God will open the Divine Hand and bestow upon us the blessings we need.
”Please open Your Hand to satisfy our needs.”

 Other times, I think of Rabbi Shefa Gold’s interpretative translation--that turns the verse into a yearning for the ability to be grateful:
“You open Your Hand; I open my heart to this abundance,
And all life, all will is satisfied.” 

Sometimes, at moments of dissatisfaction--of personal troubles and distress, the prayer becomes more intense--more a sermon to myself.
“Please, O Lord, help me to look beyond my difficulties and perceive the good things in my life. Help me please not to be overwhelmed with the imperfections which plague me.” 

Recently the verse took a different turn. I was in the hospital after my knee replacement, confined to bed and with an IV line in my hand. When I began my morning prayers and started to wrap my Tefillin’s leather strap around my arm, I realized that my normal wrap would not work properly. I would have to work around the IV, and the wrapping pattern would not be quite right. So, when I prayed, “You open Your hand to satisfy every living thing,” a little inner voice provided a kind of commentary: “I guess, O Lord, today You might have to be satisfied with my less than idea Tefillin technique. I’ll do the best I can, but please accept my adapted devotion.” 

Then, to my surprise, there was a response. It could have been my inner sarcasm or perhaps my conscience, or it could have been what the ancient Rabbis called a Bat Kol, a voice from heaven. In any event, the inner voice said, “David, God has long  been accustomed to being satisfied with less than the ideal from you. This is nothing new.” 

I do not think that I am unusual in this regard. God is accustomed to all of our inadequacies—loving and gracing us despite them. This does not mean that our sins are okay. God still hopes that we will repent and improve, but our Tradition is clear: God’s love is embracing and overflowing. As the Psalmist declares: “Give thanks to the Lord Who is good; Whose lovingkindness is eternal!” 

This dynamic of tolerance and hope is expressed in a number of places in our Scripture and liturgy. 

We can begin with the Tzitzit paragraph of our Shema. Remember the purpose of the Tzitzit: “They shall be tzitzit for you so that when you look at them, you will remember all the mitzvot of the Lord and do them—so you will not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you used to go wantonly astray.” The Torah assumes that we all have baggage--indiscretions and mistakes and moral failures. We all have them, but God is hopeful that our sins, misdeeds, and transgressions will be object lessons in what not to do again--that they will inspire us to improve. 

There is also this passage from the Yom Kippur liturgy that speaks of God’s relentless tolerance, love, and hope for us. God is described as “the Ruler Whose forgiving love annuls our trespasses and the trespasses of the House of Israel year after year after year...”
It is a continual process--one in which we and God are engaged every single day. Life is hard, and temptation is tempting. We are created with great potential but with significant weaknesses and short-sightedness. God understands us because God created us, and God does not expect perfection. What God hopes for is improvement and better choices; God knows that they are within our power.  

There is also this passage from Un’taneh Tokef. Lest we think that God is not paying close attention, we are reminded: “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.”
There is no hiding from God--and God’s hopes for us. God knows us intimately, deeply, and God has an appreciation for all of the challenges we face and all the little victories we manage to achieve. God’s appreciation for us is profound--and so, therefore, is God’s pride, disappointment, and hope. God is with us in every moment. 

The lessons of the High Holy Days are twofold. God loves us and will forgive us, but God also hopes for our repentance--for our improvement. Like a parent loving a child, God wants the best for us, and God prays that we will do better.
We are Your people; You are our Ruler.
We are Your children; You are our Parent.
We are Your possession; You are our Portion.
We are Your flock; You are our Shepherd.
We are Your vineyard; You are our Keeper.
We are Your beloved; You are our Friend. 

See You in Shul, Soon!

September 23rd: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though Parshat Nitzavim describes an ancient covenant-entering ceremony, it also seems to anticipate the High Holy Days—and our annual Jewish meeting.
“You stand this day, all of you, before the LORD your God—your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water-drawer— to enter into the covenant of the LORD your God, which the LORD your God is concluding with you this day…” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11)
Some 3300 years later, we who are already part of the covenant participate in something essentially Jewish by simply showing up and re-constituting the covenant community.  

Thus it is that the text continues with a kind of psychic and emotional truth:
“I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Lord your God and with those who are not with us here this day.” (Deuteronomy 29.13-14) When we gather at shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, it is as though every Jew in the world and in history is present—even the ones who may not be in attendance. 

Of course, one of the principles of Jewish life is that community does not mean unanimity. Each person has his/her own opinions, and our Tradition has learned that this can be a positive. Given that each individual’s perspective and wisdom is limited, our experience has been that the accumulation and aggregation of many different Jewish opinions gives our religion a remarkable resiliency and reach. Through many voices—each attempting to express the infinite—our holy congregation approaches and often finds wisdom. 

This is one way to understand a passage that comes later in the Torah portion: “Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.” (Deuteronomy 30.11-14)

The usual understanding of this verse is that the LORD is telling us that the conditions of this covenant are doable. (God could be anticipating the Nike commercial: “Just do it!”)  However, this passage could be telling us that the covenant needs our input to make it doable—that we need to live it and adapt it and personalize the covenant until it is practical and meaningful. This Covenant which the Torah characterizes as “the life and the length of our days” (Deuteronomy 30.20) turns out to be the relationship we have with God—the religious, moral, social, and civic teachings that we have formulated in response to the Divine Presence. We gather in sacred community to reflect upon God’s Presence in our lives and how our lives reflect our holy context. The hope is that we can improve both our understanding and our behavior. Only in the Presence of the Most Holy and our sacred community can this important work be done.

See you in Shul!

Appreciating A Promise Fulfilled

September 16th: Ki Tavo 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

How does one introduce oneself? How is one’s story told? Whether in a biography, a job resume, a college application, or even an obituary, it is an interesting exercise summarizing the important events or qualities or relationships in someone’s life—and then leaving out the rest. Each and every life has hundreds and thousands of details, but which ones should be chosen for a particular context? 

The ancient Levites must have addressed this question when they put together the thanksgiving ritual described in this week’s Torah portion. Note how each Israelite is instructed to tell his story:
“My father was a wandering Aramean who went down to Egypt and lived there--small in number, but there our family grew, and we became a great people, an enormous tribe. The Egyptians oppressed us and treated us badly, imposing harsh labor on us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our voices and saw our suffering and our misery and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm, with amazing power and with wonders and miracles. Then the Lord brought us to this place and gave us this Land, the Land flowing with milk and honey. Now behold, I have brought the first of the produce of the Land that You, O Lord our God, have given me.”  (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

It is a moving story—an important story that hits the highlights, but think of the many parts of our sacred history that are left out. All the stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are subsumed in the phrase, “My father was a wandering Aramean who went down to Egypt…” The story of the Exodus from Egypt gets good attention, but quite a bit less than the fifteen chapters the Torah gives it. There is no mention of the Ten Commandments, or the elaborate Levitical system of ritual purity and atonement from sin. or the wandering in the desert for forty years. And, there is no mention of the moral laws like Leviticus 19’s: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” It is a less-than-complete statement of spiritual identification.  

The fact that this recitation is part of a ritual may be one reason for the short form.
“When you come into the Land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance and a possession, and you dwell in it, you shall take of the first and best of all the produce of the land that you harvest from the Land that the Lord your God is giving you, and you shall place it in a basket and travel to the place where the Lord your God chooses for the Divine Name to dwell. You shall go into the priest who is on duty at that time and say unto him: ‘I declare today to the Lord your God that I have entered the Land that the Lord promised to my ancestors, to give us.’ Then the priest shall  take the basket from your hands and lift it up before the altar of the Lord your God. Then you shall recite….”  (Deuteronomy 26.1-4) 

Perhaps it is like the shortened history we have in Avot v’Imahot in the Amidah. We praise the Lord Who is also the God of our ancestors—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah, but we leave out most of the people in our family chain of tradition. Since the point of the prayer is to praise God, our liturgists found it expeditious to summarize.  

Perhaps the point is obvious: We select and edit information to fit various contexts and formats. Since this harvest appreciation prayer is to be recited individually by every single Israelite presenting his first fruits, a more a complete sacred history would simply take too long. And yet, in this brief format, only certain facts are included—and thus it is fitting to consider their message. 

Though there is much for which we should thank God (think Dayenu from the Passover Seder!), here the focus is on God’s promise of the “Land flowing with milk and honey.” Worshippers are instructed to thank God for all their blessings and for the fact that God followed through on the promise. We started with nothing. We sank into slavery and degradation. Then God saved us and gave us everything. This prayer expresses a profound sense of appreciation. As the prayer book puts it, “na’eh l’hodot / it is supremely appropriate to give thanks!”  

Today we often hear the word “privilege” in a political context, but it can also speak to a deeper truth. We are the recipients of blessings which we did not bring about ourselves. Our ancestors and families, the founders of our country and the people who built it and defended it, the founders and sages of our religion, and the wisdom and contributions of civilization in general are all our benefactors. We who are privileged in these many ways should feel a deep sense of thankfulness. We should also feel a strong sense of responsibility to pass the blessings along. 

This ethical sentiment is expressed in a passage in the old Union Prayer Book—one so powerful that I included in our Siddur B’rit Shalom:
“How much we owe to the labors of our brothers and sisters! Day by day they dig far away from the sun that we may be warm, enlist in outposts of peril that we may be secure, and brave the terrors of the unknown for truths that shed light on our way. Numberless gifts have been laid in our cradles as our birthright. Let us then, O Lord, be just and great-hearted in our dealings with others, sharing with them the fruit of our common labor, acknowledging before You that we are but stewards of whatever we possess. Help us to be among those who are willing to sacrifice that others may not hunger, who dare to be bearers of light in the dark loneliness of stricken lives, who struggle and even bleed for the triumph of righteousness. So may we be co-workers with You in the building of Your kingdom, which has been our vision and goal through the ages.” (Central Conference of American Rabbis, 1940, page 45, slightly adapted) 

Do Not Pray for an Easy Life; Pray to be Strong

September 9th: Ki Tetzei
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The thing that always strikes me about Ki Tetzei is that it does not paint an idyllic picture. “When you go forth to war against your enemies…” is speaking about unfortunate circumstances, situations which may be necessary but are certainly not ideal. While our Tradition understands that wars must be fought, armed conflict is never a good option. Though our Tradition bids us to prepare ourselves militarily and to be able to protect ourselves, we are not urged to be a warlike people. While our military is to be supported and our soldiers appreciated, the ideal our Tradition holds aloft is that of peace, tranquility, and prosperity. As King Solomon counsels in Proverbs (12.20), “Unto the counselors of peace there is joy.” 

The nature and dynamics of our vision of peace is sketched in a very famous passage from the Prophet Micah (4.1-5). Notice how he combines godly influence with peace and religious tolerance: “It shall come to pass, in the end of days, that the Mountain of the Lord’s House shall be exalted above the hills. The nations shall flow unto it, and many peoples shall say: Come ye, and let us go up to the Mountain of the Lord, to the House of the God of Jacob. God will teach us holy ways—that we may walk in holy paths. For out of Zion shall go forth the Torah, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. God shall judge between many peoples and shall decide concerning far away nations; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, nor shall they study war anymore. But they shall sit everyone under their vines and fig trees, and none shall make them afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken it. All the peoples shall walk in the name of their gods, while we walk in the Name of the Lord our God forever and ever. 

While the Prophet hopes for a time when implements of war—and “studying” how to use them—will no longer be necessary, he does not preach pacifism. Human history has always involved conflicts in which survival meant defending oneself and one’s tribe. Indeed much of the wisdom of Ki Tetzei and other passages in the Torah involves how we can behave both strategically and morally—how we can bring a moral perspective to intense and brutal conflict. 

An example of this balance is the word shalom. Shalom means peace, and, as such, it is used for Hello and Goodbye. However, the root of the Hebrew word approaches the concept of completeness. Kaddish Shalem is the whole/complete Kaddish. When one pays a bill, the term is l’shalem, to complete/balance the exchange. In its expansive form, shalom speaks of well-being and preparedness. As much as we want to live relaxed, we also want to be able to respond well to the challenges that may arise. Like the proverb says, “Do not pray for an easy life; pray to be strong.” Or, as the Psalmist (29.11) explains, “Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo vashalom. The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord blesses our people with peace.”  

The less-than-ideal situations in Ki Tetzei remind us of the strength and determination that life requires—of knowing how to take care of ourselves both strategically and morally. Whether we are sitting under our vines and fig trees or struggling furiously, God offers us guidance and support. 

Justice, Justice

September 2nd: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Every once in a while, one of “our” judges makes the news. I will be reading the paper, and all of a sudden, there is a judge I know making the ruling on a big case. Sometimes it is Renee Cohn Jubelirer, President Judge of the Pennsylvania Commonwealth Court, who makes rulings and dispenses justice on the state level. Other times, it is Brian Marshall of the Centre County Court of Common Pleas, handling cases on the more local level. I say “our” in an expansive sense for they are both members of our congregational family and ours as citizens of the Commonwealth.

They are what the Torah portion this week describes in Deuteronomy 16.18-20: “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 bribes 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.” 

Though an ancient instruction, these words remain crucial today. Our judges are appointed by us—either through elections or by elected officials, and they are enjoined to deal with the many matters that come before them “with due justice...without partiality.” “ 

Though we only occasionally read their names in the paper, our judges work every day—pursuing justice in cases both big and small. Though only some of their decisions are newsworthy, every single one of their cases is important. This is the message of the Holy Yehudi, Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Rabinowicz of Peshischa, who looked at our Torah portion and focused on the repetition of the word Tzedek / justice in verse 20. “Why does the Torah double the words in, ‘Justice, justice shall you pursue?’ To teach us that “we ought to follow justice with justice, and not with unrighteousness.” In other words, one case of justice is not enough. Justice must be done over and over and over again. This is the continuing mission of the court, to dispense justice for every person and in every case.  

One of the issues that must certainly arise for judges is when the litigants in a case are not strangers. Though there are cases where a judge should recuse him/herself, the fact is that, in a small town—or in the upper reaches of state government—the people who appear before judges may very well be known to them. They could be social, political, or business contacts, or they could just be well-known enough to present a sense of positive or negative familiarity. This is a time when the discipline of the law is vitally important—when the judge focuses solely on the facts of the case and law and not on non-relevant factors. Justice demands no less. 

A Biblical example of this challenge can be found in Leviticus 19.15: “You shall do no unrighteousness in judgment; you shall not respect the person of the poor, nor honor the person of the mighty; but in righteousness shall you judge your neighbor.” First, notice how the Torah understands that judges judge their neighbors. Though familiarity may be inevitable, fairness is still the goal. Second, notice how the Torah seems to give us a problematic instruction. “Do not respect the person of the poor?!” Are we not commanded to be helpful to the poor and widow and orphan and stranger? Is the Torah changing its tune?

No. The Torah is delineating two different spheres in which different standards apply. Help for the poor is paramount, but NOT in the courtroom. In the courtroom, justice is the priority. If a poor person is in the wrong, he/she should be judged as wrong. Just as it would be unfair to automatically favor a wealthy or mighty person, it would be unfair to automatically favor a poor person. In the courtroom, justice must prevail. After the court is adjourned, however, and the judge returns to a civilian status, that is when the mitzvot of Tzedakah come into play, and the judge—as are all other children of God—commanded to give charity. The judge must bifurcate her/his responsibilities—in the courtroom as a judge, and outside of the courtroom as a citizen.  

The work of our judges is complex and challenging, and we should appreciate all who work in this important and holy endeavor. Elected or appointed, they are our judges, through whom we as a community follow the mitzvah: “Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof. Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

Is Korach Treated Fairly?

July 1st: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

For fans of Moses, the story of Korach is a vindication—an example of God’s extreme support for those doing the work of the Divine. For those looking at the story more objectively, the episode can be quite disturbing.  

Korach, you may remember, is a cousin of Moses. Their fathers, Izhar and Amram, are brothers and grandchildren of Levi. In Numbers 16, Korach bands together with some 250 disgruntled Israelites and launches a rebellion against Moses. The details of their complaints are unclear, but they are generally unhappy with Moses’ and Aaron’s elevated positions. “You have gone too far! For all of the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourself above the Lord’s congregation?!” (Numbers 16.3) 

Moses is hurt by this personal attack, and he responds by reminding the rebels that Aaron and he are not in charge. God is in charge. This important fact is accentuated as the story continues with a kind of priestly challenge. If Korach and his band offer sacrifices of incense, will God accept them? The answer is a decided No, and God is tempted to destroy the whole Israelite community because of Korach’s effrontery. Moses and Aaron defend the community, falling on their faces and importuning God, “O God, Source of the breath of all flesh! When one man sins, will You be wrathful with the whole community?!” (Numbers 16.22) So God instructs everyone to move away from Korach and his followers. Most of the people follow the Lord’s order (warning!), but some stay with the rebels.  

Then, God gets downright “Old Testament” on the rebels. “The ground under Korach and his followers burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, with all that belonged to them; the earth closed over them, and they vanished from the midst of the congregation.” (Numbers 16.31-33)

 (I have serious theological objections to the term “going Old Testament” and am generally offended by its use. However, it can be quite the dramatic turn of phrase.)

As I said, the details of Korach and Company’s complaints are not specified in the text, and this leads many of us to wonder whether Korach is treated fairly. What is the problem with challenging authority? Why does God get involved in a human conflict? Why does God come down so hard on Korach and his followers? Why are their families and children included in the punishment?  

This story is particularly difficult for those in their teenage years. As teenagers seek to understand reality—a world that, due to their increased brain power and experience, gets larger every day, they often question assumptions and authority. This is a normal and appropriate part of their learning process. So, when a famous figure is shut down for questioning authority, many find Korach’s plight personally challenging. When Abraham argues with God about Sodom and Gomorrah—“Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly,” he is praised. (Genesis 18) Why then is Korach’s argument so unacceptable? Would not a more appropriate response be to explain God’s reasoning—or to let him learn from his mistakes? (If teenagers’ challenges to authority and convention were punished with death, few of us would survive until our twenties.)  

Balance this ambiguity in the story with the unequivocal message that Korach and his followers are devastatingly wrong, and we are face to face with the Rabbinic dilemma. In the absence of a textual explanation, the Rabbis are left searching for Korach’s sin. 

The best the Tradition can figure is that there is a big problem with Korach’s motivations. He does not object—as Abraham does in re Sodom and Gomorrah—on the basis of a righteous principle. Rather, the Rabbis infer, he is jealous of Moses and Aaron and selfishly wants their power and status. His motivation is, in the Rabbinic parlance, Lo Leshem Shamayim / Not for the Sake of Heaven. As the Talmud explains, “Every dispute that is for the Sake of Heaven will in the end endure; but one that is not for the Sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the Sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the Sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korach and all his congregation.” (Pirke Avot 5.17) 

This notion of conflicts being Leshem Shamayim / For the Sake of Heaven or not is, admittedly, a hard quantity to parse. So often, those who take an intense stance couch their ferocity in the importance of their principles. Are they sincere about these principles—or are they using the principles for more nefarious purposes? Are they well-informed, or are they responding from ignorance and superstition? Are their sources of information trustworthy and sincere?  

And, what about us? Are we sincere and well-informed and depending on sources that are trustworthy and sincere? 

In so many ways, the Rabbinic teaching about a Mach’lochet Leshem Shamayim / Controversy for the Sake of Heaven is a direction for introspection and self-evaluation. We may try to judge others, but we never really know what is in the heart of another—or lurking behind it. Sometimes our judgement is accurate, and our trust is well-placed; other times, we are played. Some people deserve the benefit of the doubt; others use our trusting natures (gullibility?) to continue the con. 

Ultimately, the only heart anyone of us can know is our own. We must look inside and ascertain the sincerity and truth of our beliefs. Are our causes and the way we pursue them Leshem Shamayim / For the Sake of Heaven or not? Are we bringing forth the purity of godliness, or are we allowing ourselves to be diverted by greed and less noble motivations? 

As for Korach and his guilt, we are left with no more information than the ancient Rabbis, and thus perhaps we can understand their reasoning. We may not know what is truly in Korach’s heart, but God does. God knows the workings of our inner hearts, and God’s judgment, we trust, is fair, just, and true.

What "They" Think of Us, and What We Think of Ourselves

June 24th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Haftarah portion (a selection from the Prophets) is always linked to the Torah portion—though sometimes the connection is obscure or tangential. Not so this week! Here, we have two very similar situations, spaced some forty years apart. In the Torah portion, Moses sends forth twelve spies to reconnoiter the land. “Go up there into the Negev and the hill country, and see what kind of country it is. Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many? Is the country in which they dwell good or bad? Are the towns in which they dwell open or fortified? Is the soil rich or poor? Is it wooded or not?” (Numbers 13.17-20) 

Forty years later, in the Book of Joshua, the Israelites again send spies to scout out the land. This time, there are only two spies, and the scope is more limited. “Go, reconnoiter the region of Jericho” (Joshua 2.1)—Jericho being the first target of the Israelite conquest. 

In Numbers, the spies sent by Moses return with mixed reports. Joshua and Caleb are enthusiastic about God’s mission. Caleb says, “Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it.” The other ten are not so optimistic. “We cannot attack that people, for it is stronger than we…The country that we traveled and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people we saw in it are men of great size…and we felt like grasshoppers compared to them; they must have thought so, too!” (Numbers 13.31-33) 

Even though the Israelites are commanded by the Lord to take possession of the Land—as part of God’s decision to take it away from the Canaanites because of their sins, the people believe the negative reports of the ten spies and start complaining. “If only we had died in the land of Egypt, or if only that we might die in the wilderness! Why is the Lord taking us to that land to fall by the sword?!...Let us head back to Egypt.”  (Numbers 14.2-4) 

The Torah presents God’s response as a punishment. If the Israelites will not follow God’s commands, then they must wander in the wilderness for forty years. After this generation dies, perhaps their children can do the Lord’s work and take possession of the Promised Land. 

Some commentators, however, see it more as a realization by the Divine that this generation is just not up to the task. Fine, I’ll take care of you here in the desert; then we’ll see if your children are capable of My holy work. 

Some forty years later, Joshua is now the leader of Israel, and the two spies he sends to Jericho find themselves in an interesting situation—one in which a non-Jew in Jericho turns against her people and supports the Israelites. 

When the two spies enter Jericho, they go first to a brothel. Are they going for the regular customer service, or is it a place of privacy and perhaps a place to find out important intelligence? Perhaps it is like the old Long Branch Saloon in Gunsmoke. In addition to whatever services might be offered upstairs, there is a bar and gaming tables downstairs, and travelers and locals gather and relax and talk.

Some patrons apparently sense danger in the Israelites, and they report them to the local authorities. Meanwhile, the Israelite spies have made the acquaintance of the proprietor of the establishment, Rahab the zonah/harlot. When the authorities come for the spies, Rahab hides them and gives the Jerichoan soldiers false information, sending them off on a wild goose chase. Why? Why would Rahab turn against her own city and help the soon-to-invade Israelites? I can see two reasons, one socio-political and the other theological. 

Prostitutes are at the low end of the socio-economic ladder and are not treated with respect. We do not know about the ancient world, but modern knowledge suggests that this is not a profession chosen for anything other than desperation. One would imagine that life or the culture or the powers-that-be in Jericho have not been kind to Rahab and her family, and she has been reduced to this degrading and dangerous work. So, when one is looking around for loyal defenders of Jericho—individuals for whom Jericho is worth saving, one can easily understand why Rahab would not be in their company. Besides, she sees the approaching Israelites as the next ruling power. “I know that the Lord has given the country to you, because dread of you has fallen upon us, and all the inhabitants of the land are quaking before you. For we have heard how the Lord dried up the waters of the Red Sea for you when you left Egypt, and what you did to Sihon and Og, the two Amorite kings across the Jordan, whom you doomed. When we heard about this, we lost heart, and no man had any more spirit left because of you…” (Joshua 2.9-11) Since the Jerichoans have not been particularly loyal to Rahab, why would she be loyal to them? She goes with the power. 

She may also have a theological reason, as she explains to the Israelite spies: “…for the Lord your God is the only God in the heaven above and on earth below.” (Joshua 2.11) This statement is pretty much a quotation from Moses (Deuteronomy 4.39), and Tradition sees it as a realization that Jericho’s religion is wrong. Rahab wants to convert to Judaism and worship the One God. Indeed, some Midrashim say that she marries Joshua and is the ancestress of many of Israel’s great prophets—and King David! 

In the Christian tradition, Rahab is considered an ancestress of Joseph, the “father” of Jesus—and is one of several examples of lowly-esteemed women whose repentance and faith make them exemplars of virtue.  

A final thought. As much as we believe in our faith and sing its praises, there is something particularly gratifying when a non-Jew acknowledges the truth or wisdom of Judaism. So, when Rahab quotes Moses and declares, “The Lord your God is the only God in the heaven above and on earth below,” we feel affirmed and respected. The theological truth realized by this non-Jewish woman is particularly persuasive. If the Gentiles can see this truth, shouldn’t we?!

Wanting to Draw Close to the Lord

June 17th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most confusing terms in the Torah is chatat /  “sin offering.” It sounds like a sacrifice one would bring to atone for a sin, but that is not the case at all. It is required in situations that are not the result of wrongdoing but that leave the worshipper in a state of spiritual weakness, a time a sin would be particularly dangerous. When are chatat offerings required? After childbirth, or menstrual cycles, or ejaculations, or contact with the dead. These experiences are not sinful. Menstrual periods are part and parcel of the God-created female body. Ejaculation and childbirth are part and parcel of the first mitzvah in the Torah, “be fruitful and multiply.” (Genesis 1.28) When it comes to attending the dead, that is a mitzvah too. Why, then, would such circumstances require a “sin offering?” 

Rabbi Herbert Chanan Brichto, late of the Hebrew Union College, used to explain this as a concern about over-exposure to the life-force. We are bidden lehak’riv, to come close ritually to God and thus absorb God’s energy, but some activities of life leave us with ample dosing—and we should not allow ourselves to overdose. So, when we already have been exposed—and are thus in a vulnerable state, the Torah calls for us to wait for a while, bathe, and then wait until the evening before we offer a chatat / a “sin” offering to protect us from any danger while we are in our exposed/vulnerable situation. Then, once we are ritually cleansed, we can resume our participation in the sacrificial rituals.  

This issue comes up in this week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha. It has been a year since the Exodus from Egypt which means that it is time for the “first” Passover observance—the first ritual remembrance of the actual Passover back in Egypt. In Numbers 9, we read: “The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, on the first new moon of the second year following the Exodus from the Land of Egypt, saying: ‘Let the Israelite people offer the Passover sacrifice at its set time. You shall offer it on the fourteenth day of this month, at twilight, at its set time; you shall offer it in accordance with all its rules and rites.’”  

Moses tells the people the Lord’s instructions, and the people obey. “Just as the Lord had commanded Moses, so the Israelites did.”  

However, some of the Israelites are in a state of ritual impurity and do not participate. “But there were some men who were unclean by reason of a corpse and could not offer the Passover sacrifice on that day.” The rules forbid their participation. Some of us would figure we are “off the hook” and do not “have to” offer the sacrifice, but these men feel left out; they want to participate. “Appearing that same day before Moses and Aaron, those men said to them, ‘Unclean though we are by reason of a corpse, why must we be debarred from presenting the Lord’s offering at its set time with the rest of the Israelites?’”  

Realizing that the men’s case is good—but that the rules have no remedy, Moses asks the men to wait while he consults God. God then responds with what we would call some holy practicality: “When any of you or your descendants are defiled by a corpse or are on a long journey (and cannot offer the Passover sacrifice at the proper time and place), they may offer it in the second month, on the fourteenth day of the month, at twilight. They shall eat it with unleavened bread and bitter herbs.” Thus do we have at God’s instruction Pesach Sheni / a second Pesach where people legitimately unable to participate in the regular Passover have a chance to show their appreciation to God and to draw close to the Divine Presence a month later.  

I see two main lessons in this Bible story. 

First, we have God modeling a practical spirituality in which the Halacha takes into account the legitimate realities and complexities of life. This is not an isolated example. When someone cannot afford the standard sacrifice of a lamb, God is understanding and allows a turtledove. When Israelites live far away from the Tabernacle or Temple, God allows them to sell their offering (lamb, bull, grain, etc.) and then travel with the money and buy replacement animals and grain in Jerusalem. Such a pattern of practicality is present in the Bible, and it continues in the Mishnah and Talmud—in hundreds of places. Perhaps the most dramatic is the Rabbi’s decision after the Temple is destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Without the possibility of sacrificial offerings, how could/should Jews pray? Consulting the Prophets, the Rabbis reason that God wants piety and obedience much more than lambs and grain, and they substitute (temporarily) the prayer service in place of the sacrificial service. Thus does our Amidah take the place of the ancient sacrifices—until God determines it is time for the Temple to be rebuilt. The point of religion is to infuse/suffuse life with holiness; thus it needs to be expressed in the practical realities of God’s world. 

Second, we are reminded that drawing close to God through ritual is a good thing, a spiritually and emotionally pleasurable thing, something that we should want. These men who are unclean because of a corpse could just figure they are relieved of their obligation, but they do not see it only as an obligation. To them, participating in the ritual worship of God is something that they want to do—something that they will miss with regret. Theirs is an attitude for us to consider.  

In many of the mitzvot—among them the Passover rules, there is a penalty phrase that talks about someone who breaks the rules being “cut off from the people,” in Hebrew, karet. While history shows us examples of individuals who have been expelled from the tribe or Jewish community, the modern reality is more personal and autonomous. When we desist from Jewishness or Jewish ways, we cut ourselves off from the people. It is not necessarily a matter of official membership; rather it is the choice we make about being Jewish or ignoring our Judaism. These ancient Israelites see the value of being part of Judaism’s spiritual community, and they actively seek ways to participate.

Making Room in Ourselves for God

June 10th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to the very famous Priestly Benediction, Numbers 6 (Parshat Naso) includes the rules for the ancient and curious custom of the Nazarite. “Nazarite-ship” was a special holy status that one could adopt and practice for various periods of time—the length to be determined when one took the vow. We do not know why people chose to be Nazarites, and we do not know what they did while they were Nazarites. We just know that the rules prohibited them from drinking wine, eating grapes, or cutting their hair. And, we know the ceremony for the end of one’s term as a Nazarite. It included bringing sacrifices and cutting one’s hair—and then burning the consecrated hair on the altar. 

As I said, being a Nazirite was a voluntary obligation and for a limited time. There is, however, one example in the Bible of a person who was assigned the Nazarite status before his birth and with the term running for his entire life. Samson, whose birth story is told in this week’s Haftarah, is known for his great strength, long hair, and poor romantic choices, but his origin story involves a Heavenly directive. His parents live in Tzor’ah (near the modern city of Bet Shemesh), and the couple suffers from infertility. Whereas many Biblical stories tell about a couple praying for fertility, this story just mentions the problem. Then, suddenly, and out of nowhere, an angel appears to the wife. “You are barren and have borne no children, but shall conceive and bear a son. Now be careful not to drink wine or other intoxicant, or to eat anything unclean. For you are going to conceive and bear a son; let no razor touch his head, for the boy is to be a Nazirite to God from the womb on. He shall be the first to deliver Israel from the Philistines.” (Judges 13.3-5) 

When the woman reports this surprising encounter to her husband, he does not quite believe her, and he prays for another visit from the angel. The angel returns and re-explains the situation, but the man still does not understand what is happening. Thinking that the visitor is a prophet and not an angel, he offers him hospitality. The angel’s response is interesting. “The angel of the Lord said to Manoah, ‘If you detain me, I shall not eat your food; and if you present a burnt offering, offer it to the Lord’…Manoah said to the angel, ‘What is your name? We should like to honor you when your words come true.’ The angle said to him, ‘You must not ask for my name; it is unknowable.’” (Numbers 13.16-18) 

Notice the absence of ego in the angel, eschewing hospitality and even thanks. This is an important characteristic in Jewish Angelology—that m’lachim/angels are not beings independent from God. According to the Tradition, they have no names, no egos, and limited lifespans—just for the duration of their errands. This is in contradistinction to other religions’ tales of angels who are filled with ego and who sometimes even rebel against God. The Jewish understanding of angels is that they are agents/extensions of the One God—as waves are part of the sea. 

If we humans were to take the angels as examples to follow, we might think about giving ourselves over to God and God’s influence. We are certainly created to be our own selves, but we can go astray when we let our egos dominate or subdue our noble impulses. We are capable of muting the Divine that we carry inside. 

In this regard, Reb Israel, the Baal Shem Tov, remarked that “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.” In similar fashion, the modern Rabbi Rami M. Shapiro explains that true prayer involves emptying one of oneself and thus leaving room for God. We see an example of this self-emptying in the story of Joseph. When Pharaoh calls on Joseph to interpret his dreams, he says, “’Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.’ Joseph answered Pharoah, saying, ‘Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.’” (Genesis 41.15-16) Though Joseph starts out with less than an ideal character, he has apparently grown in maturity and spiritual wisdom. He is not the interpreter; he is merely a vessel for God’s wisdom.  

In addition to his Nazirite status, Samson is also blessed with incredible strength, and he finds purpose for this strength as he saves the Israelites from the Philistines. However, when he lets his ego and self-gratification become his main focus, he falls into disaster. He fails to see Delilah’s deceptions, and he loses everything. Only when he subsumes himself in his mission does he regain his strength and purpose and gain one final victory over the Philistines. His self-sacrifice not something we are taught to emulate, but the lesson of an unrestrained ego is an important one for us to remember. We find our greatest significance when we—like the angels—allow ourselves to be vessels/vehicles for God’s blessings. 

This does not mean eschewing any personal enjoyment or satisfaction. As Hillel counsels, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?!” God wants us to enjoy our lives. However, lives filled with nothing but selfish pursuits lose significance. “But, if I am only for myself, what am I?!”  (Mishnah Avot 1.15) Something of our value is based on how much we devote ourselves to others. 

We have the ability to open ourselves to the influence of the Divine and to be m’lachim/angels, bringing God’s blessings to all the earth. Whether with physical strength or intellect or spiritual determination, we can be God’s Hands in the world.  

“May the Lord bless you and protect you.
May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious unto you.
May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace.”  (Numbers 6.24-26) 

Our Gift and Our Purpose

 June 3rd/4th/5th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This weekend, we celebrate Shavuot, the holiday where we commemorate Matan Torah, the Giving of the Torah. According to Exodus, the Ten Commandments are given some fifty days after the Children of Israel depart Egypt, reminding us that both events are part of a single process. We are brought forth to freedom for a purpose—to comprise and live in holy community. The Torah represents the idea that God has preferences for the ways humans live our lives. 

The Midrash on Shir Hashirim (The Song of Songs) puts the story into a more romantic, fairy-tale kind of paradigm. Israel enslaved in Egypt is a damsel in distress, and God rescues her/us and brings us to Mount Sinai to marry us.
“I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,
As we browse among the lilies…”   (Song of Songs 2.16)

“Who is she that comes up from the desert…
In clouds of myrrh and frankincense?
Leaning upon her beloved?”  (Song of Songs 3.6)

“You have captured  My heart, My own, My bride!
You have captured My heart with one glance of your eyes,
With one coil of your necklace.
How sweet is your love, My own, My bride?”  (Song of Songs 4.9-10) 

This message of love is accentuated in the difficult tale of Hosea—whose story is the weekly Haftarah portion. Comparing his own marital difficulties to the stresses between God and Israel, Hosea implores his unfaithful wife to return to him. The analogue is the unfaithfulness of Israel who is attracted both to idolatry and the immorality of their times. Hosea the Prophet sees a similarity in his situation and God’s, and his message is that God is lovingly waiting for us, if we but only return to our Divine union. This drama is summarized and remembered daily in the traditional Tefillin ritual: as the worshipper wraps the Tefillin strap around a finger, the verses from Hosea bind us to God and God to us:
“I will betroth you forever:
I will betroth you with righteousness and with justice,
With goodness and with mercy.
I will betroth you with faithfulness.
And you shall know the Lord.” (Hosea 2.21-22) 

In many ways, the Exodus is a story of God doing something for us. We are passive participants in God’s great campaign against Egypt and its tyranny. At Sinai, however, we are given an opportunity to be active partners with the Lord. A window to the Infinite is opened for us, and that which shines through shows how we can bring God into the world. Though God created the world, God is not always welcome here. Torah invites us to play a role in God’s long-term project of filling the world. As we read in Zechariah,
“The Lord shall be Ruler over all the earth.
In that day, there shall be One Lord with one Name.”  (Zechariah 14.9)
Or, as I like to translate it:
“The Lord’s influence shall hold sway over all the earth.
On that day, the Lord shall be One and God’s Name shall be One.” 

When we were and are given Torah, we are provided with an opportunity to open ourselves to God and to the possibilities of godliness. Thus can we fill ourselves with holy purpose and usher God into the world.
“Baruch Shem kevod malchuto le’olam va’ed uv’chol makom.
Blessed be the Name of God’s glorious kingdom forever and ever and in every place.”