Preparing Spiritually for Passover

March 18th:  Vayakhel/Pekuday and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to the regular weekly Torah portion—which completes the Book of Exodus, our sacred calendar also calls upon us to prepare for Passover. Thus do we also reread the original instructions for Passover (from Exodus 12). These instructions are well known and often recited, but, this year, I learned something new. As the ancient sage, Ben Bag Bag, said: “Turn it over and over again,  for everything is there (in the Torah). And look deeply into it; And become gray and old therein; And do not move away from it, for you have no better portion than it.” (Pirke Avot 5.22) 

We know about the instruction: “All the assembled congregation of the Israelites shall slaughter the lamb at twilight. They shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they are to eat it.” (Exodus 12.6-7) 

And we know the purpose: “For that night, I will go through the land of Egypt and strike down every first-born in the land of Egypt, both human and beast and I will mete out punishments to all the gods of Egypt, I the Lord. And the blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, so that no plague will destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12.12-13)  

If I had ever been asked where on the doorposts and lintels they painted the blood, the answer would have been pretty obvious: the outside. How else could the Angel of Death know which houses to Pass Over? However, as I recently learned, several commentators insist that the blood was painted on the inside of the doors. 

They reread the above passage and notice the clause, “the blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you.” For YOU! I always figured that the “for you” means “for the benefit of you Israelites.” However, the Mechilta and Rashi say that the blood is to be on the inside so the Israelites can see it. Ibn Ezra explains that this placement is to prevent panic among the Israelites when they hear the cries of pain and grief from their Egyptian neighbors. They can look at the blood and remember God’s promise and protection. 

The first nine plagues are meant to show God’s power to Pharaoh and the Egyptians. This one’s audience is also Israel. As we read earlier: “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your sons’ sons how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My sins among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.’” (Exodus 10.1-2) 

Another distinction of Plague #10 is that the Israelites themselves participate in it. If they do not kill the lamb and paint their doorposts—and roast the lamb over fire and eat it with matzah and bitter herbs, then they are not included in the salvation.  

This notion of participatory miracles and salvation is an important theme for the Rabbis. As appreciative as they are for miracles, there is also the realization that miracles are few and far between. If we do nothing but sit around and wait for God to solve our problems, many would not be solved. This double-sided view of miracles—hoping for and believing in them, but not wanting to ignore the human role in solving our own problems—is reflected in a Midrash that we have in our prayer books (page 38):
“When the Israelites stood on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, terrified at the onrushing chariots, Moses lifted up his rod to divide the waters, but nothing happened. Nothing happened because Moses and the Israelites were waiting on God for the miracle. Then Nachshon, an Israelite filled with faith and bravery, jumped into the water and started walking. ‘By our faith shall these waters be divided,’ he shouted, and everyone followed him in. When all the people were in the sea—with the water up to their noses—only then did the sea part, and the Children of Israel could walk through on dry land.” (Talmud Sotah 37a and Bemidbar Rabbah 13.7)

By the way, this Rabbinic notion that God helps those who help themselves is not only a Jewish insight. Many ancient cultures shared this insight—though the ancient Greek version was phrased in polytheistic terms the gods help those who help themselves. So when Benjamin Franklin put it in Poor Richard’s Almanac, he was quoting from the ubiquitous wisdom to which all humanity has access.

The Hebrews & Slavery, Part II

February 24th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we wrestled with the fact that, though holy and morally significant, our ancient texts are not always up to the standards we consider moral today. The subject arose from the various kinds of slavery allowed/prescribed in the Bible. In the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20), slaves are mentioned twice. In the Remember the Sabbath commandment (#4), slaves are among those who are to rest on the seventh day. In the Do Not Covet commandment (#10), slaves are among our neighbors’ “possessions” we are not supposed to covet. In Exodus 21, we learn about the various rules for debt slavery and women sold into marriages. There are later Torah passages about third-party injuries to slaves, the obligatory redemption of Hebrew slaves owned by Gentiles, and the fact that Hebrews are allowed to own Gentiles as slaves permanently.   

In other words, despite the dramatic and morally powerful release of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, slavery was a practice allowed and regulated (though possibly mitigated) by the Torah and Talmud. What are we to make of this grievous unjustness?! 

As I explained last week, though we can see many profound teachings in the Torah, it is a document that reflects its time and place and the social mores of the people involved. So many of the principles that emerge from the Torah were in a more primitive form—beginning as seedlings and taking centuries to grow into the great moral standards we cherish today.  

I also mentioned the possibility of incremental improvement—that given firmly entrenched social mores, progressive moral forces are often limited in how much improvement they can muster. Is total liberation the only acceptable solution, or are small improvements worthwhile? 

Though our faith believes in an All-Powerful Deity—Adon Olam!, the Tradition seems very aware of the limitations of human thinking and human society. Take the Creation stories in Genesis 1 and 2. Neither comports with modern science, but does that make them false or rather over-simplified summaries suitable for ancient shepherds unacquainted with astrophysics? A similar ancient accommodation is the Temple cult in which the Lord God is worshipped with animal sacrifices. The Prophets and Psalmists are quite clear that God needs neither meat nor blood, and, as Isaiah notes (40.16), if God did need such things, the Divine appetite could never be sated with the resources available to us. “Lebanon is not fuel enough, nor all its beasts enough for sacrifice.” What God wants—according to many Prophets and Psalmists—is our attention, our piety, and our moral obedience. Why would God establish the sacrificial cult—the preparation of which begins in this week’s Torah portion? “Let them build for me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8) Rabbi Moses Maimonides explains that sacrificing animals is what the ancients understood as religion, and God wanted to give them religious practices they would recognize as such—making sure, of course, that these Hebrew sacrificial services were dedicated to the One God. Now, some 2000 years after the destruction of the Temple and the sacrificial cult, most modern Jews feel fine about prayers instead of animal sacrifices. The ancients got close to God using spiritual tools suitable for their time and culture, and we can get just as close to God, accessing the Divine in ways that better fit our modern spirits. Same God; same Judaism; same goals; just different Jewish techniques.

One of the problems with ancient texts is that some people read them literally and use them to justify less-than-honorable actions. This can be seen in the various Bible-based justifications for the chattel slavery practiced in the Americas up until the Civil War. “Since the Bible allows Hebrews to own non-Hebrew slaves in perpetuity,” so the logic goes, “Then it is okay for Whites to own non-Whites as slaves in perpetuity.”  Some people read the Bible this way, while others read it as a demand for freedom and human liberation. Thus were religionists sharply divided in their approaches to slavery and abolition—a split found in both Judaism and Christianity. As you may know, one of the most prominent defenders of the Confederacy was the Jewish Judah P. Benjamin, who served as U.S. Senator from Louisiana before secession and later as Vice-President (and other cabinet positions) in the Confederacy.  

Several years ago, our congregation was treated to a reading of a play by our own Gil Aberg. Gil, a longtime and beloved member who passed away last year, wrote the play about a fictional Passover Seder in England. The hosts are the Rothschild family, and one of the guests is Judah P. Benjamin, importuning the wealthy Rothschilds to give financial assistance to the struggling Confederacy. That his appeal takes place at a Seder makes the whole situation terribly ironic. One minute, they decry slavery in Egypt. The next minute, he defends slavery in America. It is quite a play, pulling the audience into the conflict of Biblical principles and self-interested interpretations. I would love to get a copy of the play and have it presented again.  

There is also the moral quandary—one that is quite personal for me—of Jews serving in the Confederate Army. Jews were a very small percentage of the Southern population and an even smaller percentage of those who owed slaves, but the fact is that Jews participated in pretty much every aspect of life in the ante-bellum American South. Thus did my great-great grandfather, Joseph Greenwald, find himself serving in the Confederate Army. To my knowledge, neither he nor his brother nor his wife’s parents were slave-owners, but these German immigrants felt the need to join in the effort to “defend the South.” One explanation is that they were “48ers,” refugees from the failed German Revolution of 1848 who had fled by the thousands to the United States. These former revolutionaries were regarded with suspicion by more established Americans and thus worked very hard to fit in and be accepted. This relative insecurity and the pressure to “be a real American” led many 48ers—both Gentile and Jewish, both in the North and in the South—to join the armies and fight for their new countries.  

We may look askance at such “fitting in” behaviors—especially in the pro-slavery South, but I think they point to the problems individuals face when they search for survival strategies in less than perfect places. How much do you give in to local attitudes and mores? How negotiable are your faith’s moral or ritual principles? When faced with social or legal injustice, what are your options? Is change possible, and how much should you risk for such change? We like to think that we are all heroic and would always stand up to oppression, but, when real evil is deeply entrenched, what are our realistic possibilities, and what risks are worth taking?  

Our Tradition represents the voices of real people facing real challenges in a variety of times and places. We do not need to agree with their responses, but we can study their lives and try to learn.

The Hebrews & Slavery, Part I

February 17th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I had a bit of an awkward moment a few weeks ago as I was teaching the Ten Commandments in Religious School. Instead of providing my own translation of the Hebrew, I read aloud the translation in Etz Hayim, the Torah and Commentary volume we have in the sanctuary. The problem was the translation of Commandment #10. “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house: you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male or female slave, or his ox or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor’s.” (Exodus 20.14) I am not complaining about the scholarship of the 1999 Jewish Publication Society translation, but rendering the Hebrew words avdo and amato as male and female slaves and not as servants presents pedagogical difficulties. The Ten Commandments is our formative ethical text, and we had slaves?! 

There is sort of an explanation, but it is complicated. The Bible describes several different kinds of slavery. First is corvee labor, the slavery suffered by the Israelites in Egypt. It is a form of servitude where the government forces residents to labor on public works projects. During the annual Nile floods, the arable land was flooded, and farmers were drafted by the government to build temples, royal tombs, and “store cities” like Pithom and Rameses (mentioned in Exodus 1.11). Just as we may not care for taxes, our ancient shepherding ancestors did not cotton to forced labor, and they cried out to the Lord. By the way, King Solomon forced the same kind of corvee labor on his Israelite subjects in building the Temple in Jerusalem and his more elaborate palace. The resulting resentment is reflected in a number of anti-Solomon passages in the Bible.  

A second kind of slavery, debt slavery, is discussed in this week’s Torah portion: “When you acquire a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years; in the seventh year he shall go free, without payment.” When an Israelite borrowed money and could not repay the loan, the borrower could “sell himself” into debt slavery for the time necessary for repayment. In exchange for the labor during this period, the employer had responsibilities in re room, board, just treatment, etc. There was a six-year limit: no matter how much was owed, six years of labor was the maximum. 

There were some complications that strike us as difficult or unjust: “If the slave came single, he shall leave single; if he had a wife, he wife shall leave with him. If his master gave him a wife, and she has borne children, the wife and the children shall belong to the master, and the slave shall leave alone.” (Exodus 21.3-6) 

There is also the interesting possibility of the slave deciding that life in the master’s house is better than being out in the world. “If the slave declares, ‘I love my master, and my wife and children; I do not wish to go free,’ his master shall take him before God. He shall be brought to the door or the doorpost, and his master shall pierce his ear with an awl; and he shall remain his slave for life.” (Exodus 21.5-6) 

A third kind of slavery is chattel slavery in which some humans permanently own other human beings. The Bible does not allow permanent ownership of Hebrews by Hebrews—and it makes arrangements for Hebrews to redeem enslaved Hebrews from non-Hebrews, but it does allow Hebrews to own non-Hebrews. Hmmm.  

Fourth, there is the matter of young women being sold by their parents into marriage. In such situations, the Torah tries to be careful about sexual propriety and good faith. “When a man sells his daughter as a slave, she shall not be freed as male slave are. If she proves to be displeasing to her master, who designated her for himself, he must let her be redeemed; he shall not have the right to sell her to outsiders, since he broke faith with her. And, if he designated her for his son, he shall deal with her as is the practice with free maidens. If he marries another, he must not withhold from this one her food, her clothing, or her conjugal rights. If he fails her in these three ways, she shall go free, without payment.” (Exodus 21.7-11) 

If we want to see our modern values reflected in the Bible, we are sometimes disappointed. While many of the principles of modern ethics are seeds or seedlings in the Bible, the fact is that ancient societal mores were very different. We like to think of our religion (and our God!) as progressive and just and totally respectful of all human beings, but some of the practices or attitudes of our ancient ancestors can be, frankly, embarrassing in our modern eyes. What are we to make of ancient customs and laws that are so stunningly unjust? 

For one thing, we should realize and celebrate the growth and development of human thinking. The ancients had many brilliant ideas and noble aspirations, but many of our modern sensibilities have taken centuries to develop—and were hard-fought at every step of the way. Conventional thinking about who is a proper/true/full and autonomous human being and what are acceptable human activities have changed significantly, and they continue to grow in our own day. Let us not forget the real tragedies of people persecuted in previous generations because of narrow thinking—and how much better things are today. 

A second consideration is the necessity of incremental progress, fairness, and respect. In a world where societal strictures are very firm, is it possible to lessen the oppression of some people, or to help them in less than complete ways? An example is in our Torah portion. In a world where women were sold into marriages, the Torah sought to give them a higher status than regular slaves who could be bought and sold at will. Prohibiting masters from trading in sexually-used slave women was better than the alternative. Establishing basic rights of food, clothing, and affection were better than the alternative. Later, in Talmudic times, the Rabbis established the Ketubah, a legal document guaranteeing rights and property for married women. Though men had the power in divorce proceedings, the Ketubah pre-nuptial agreement meant that, should a woman be divorced, she would go forth propertied and able to support herself. It is clearly not the complete equality that we demand today, but, in a world of lesser possibilities, our religion sought to work toward justice and compassion.  

We can still wonder how recently released Hebrew slaves could have kept slaves of their own. We can still regret the limitations on freedom and fairness that plagued our ancient ancestors—and that limited their thinking. And, we can give thanks that things have improved. As Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. observed, “…the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” We wish things would improve quicker, and we mourn for those who have suffered waiting for the justice and compassion they deserve, but patience is often a necessary partner of persistence. There is a better way, and we should answer the call to help find it.

Preparing to Encounter the Holy One

February 10th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion concludes the story of the Exodus with the Revelation at Mount Sinai. In our traditional understanding, freeing the Hebrews from Egypt is not just a liberation; it is a  liberation for a purpose, and that purpose is an ongoing relationship with the One God. As it is explained in Exodus 19.6: “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” 

As far back as Rabbi Akiva in the Second Century, mystics have imagined Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, in romantic terms. Israel is a maiden imprisoned by an evil king, and the Lord whisks her away and brings her to desert to marry her. “Arise, my darling, my fair one, and come away.” (Song of Songs 2.10) Who is this coming up from the desert, all perfumed with myrrh and frankincense? (Song of Songs 3.6)  God rescues us brings us to Mount Sinai so we can “get married.” Thus do the Ten Commandments represent our “wedding vows,” as we officially begin our lives together. 

As with most weddings, the emotions are heightened. “As morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the shofar; and all the people who were in the camp trembled. Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain.” (Exodus 19.16-17) 

Before this, however, the people are told to prepare for their Divine encounter. “The Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to the people and warn them to stay pure today and tomorrow. Let them wash their clothes. Let them be ready for the third day; for on the third day the Lord will come down, in the sight of all the people, on Mount Sinai.’” (Exodus 19.10-11) 

There are instances in the Bible when God appears to people suddenly and without any human preparation, but there are also cases where individuals need to ready themselves for the spiritual encounter. In the story of Moses and the Burning Bush, the Lord does not speak until Moses turns aside from his shepherding to inspect the miracle. For the original Passover night, the people need to prepare: choosing their lambs, painting the doorposts with blood, and eating the roasted meat with matzah and bitter herbs. Without our participation/preparation, the salvation does not take place. This seems to be the case at Mount Sinai as well. The people need to get ready for the Revelation.  

This is not unusual, as we often need to get ourselves ready. Whether it is warm-up exercises before sports, warm-up comedians before live television shows, aperitifs and appetizers before fancy meals, or pep-rallies before football games, we like to get our moods and bodies prepared so we can get the most out of our experiences. How much the more so would we need to get ourselves ready before hearing the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai?

Growing up, I always figured that our worship begins at the beginning—at the opening hymn. Thus it came as a surprise to learn that the official beginning of the service is Barchu / the “Call to Worship” which comes later. Everything before that—the songs, hymns, Psalms, and prayers—are all designed to warm-up our concentration and focus, our kavannah. Thus, when the prayer leader instructs us to “Bar’chu et Adonai ham’vorach. / Praise the Lord Who is deserving of praise,” we answer by expressing our readiness: “Baruch Adonai ham’vorach le’olam va’ed! / Yes, we praise the Lord, Who is deserving of praise forever and ever!” Now that our minds and souls are ready, we can begin our prayers in earnest.  

It is certainly possible to pray without knowing the service’s spiritual process, but, to me, understanding the method and process has always enhanced my prayer experience. Remember the basic plan: 

(1)  The first part of the service, what I like to call “the Kavannah Exercises,” are to get us in a prayerful mood.

(2)  The Shema and Its Blessings (from Bar’chu up until the Amidah) are for us to contemplate the attributes of the God to Whom we shall pray.

(3)  The Amidah/Tefilah is the main prayer, the prayer that takes the place of the ancient sacrifices. In the Rabbinic mindset, it is the most important part of the service, and we are urged to be ready and in the proper state of mind. As the Mishna teaches: “One should not stand up to say Tefilah except in a reverent state of mind. The pious men of old used to wait an hour before praying in order that they might direct their thoughts to God.” (Berachot 5.1)

(4)  The Torah Service offers us another avenue to our relationship with the Divine. When we study the Lord’s word, we are brought into proximity with God and godliness. This is the point of Rabbi Chananya ben Teradion when he says: “When two sit together and words of Torah are [spoken] between them, then the Shechinah / God’s Presence abides among them.” (Pirke Avot 3.2)

(5)  With Alaynu and our closing prayers, we complete the mood, summarizing the themes and purposes of our worship—and remembering the continuity and eternality of our relationship with God.

The whole point of this spiritual process is to open our minds and hearts to the Divine—making room for God in our thinking and in our possibilities. As Rabban Gamliel understood it, the purpose is to “Aseh r’tzono kir’tzon’cha, Align your will with God’s Will.” (Pirke Avot 2.4) The Baal Shem Tov saw it in terms of making sure that we leave room in our lives for God: “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves”— a sentiment echoed by the modern Rabbi Rami Shapiro who invites us to “empty some of our egos in order to make room for God.” 

At Mount Sinai, before meeting God, we were instructed, “Be ready.” May we remember this when next we gather to encounter the Lord.

Our Many Voices of Wisdom

February 3rd: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The problem with Biblical literalists is that the Bible is not internally consistent. There are a variety of opinions on most subjects, and pretty much any position can be supported or denied with a chosen quotation. Is killing wrong? Sometimes yes; sometimes no. Is idolatry okay? Usually not, but sometimes sort of okay. Is only kosher food allowed? Sometimes yes, and sometimes no. What about the priesthood: who should be the priests? Some passages insist on just the descendants of Aaron; other passages assign the holy task to the whole tribe of Levi. 

The Biblical text is full of koshis—anomalies, contradictions, or mysterious omissions, and a lot of Rabbinic effort goes into adjudicating the competing points of view and resolving the myriad contradictions. As a result, Judaism is better seen as a chorus of earnest voices rather than a single-minded set of dicta. The Tradition is self-aware of this dynamic and gives voice to its reality in a number of stories. Among them is about the ongoing debate between Bet Hillel and Bet Shammai—the schools of thought that followed the teachings of the sages Hillel and Shammai. The Midrash goes like this: “For three years, the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai argued. One said, 'The halakha is according to us,' and the other said, 'The halakha is according to us.' Finally, a heavenly voice spoke: ‘These and these are both the words of the living God…’” (Talmud Eruvim 13b.10-11) 

(This same kind of adjudicating can be seen in the centuries of work of Christianity’s Church Fathers and in the subsequent tradition of Canon Law. There is a lot of work to be done in wresting religious dogma and doctrine from the many views found in ancient texts.) 

This dynamic of multiple voices in a chorus is important to remember when one studies this week’s Torah portion. In one of the most dramatic passages in the whole Bible, the Lord splits the Red Sea so that the Children of Israel can walk through it on dry land. When the Egyptians follow them in murderously, they are swallowed by the sea and perish. That is in Exodus Chapter 14. Then, in Chapter 15, we have Shirat Hayam, The Song of the Sea, a poem which recounts the miraculous event and praises God as a “mighty man of war.”
“I will sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously; Horse and drive He has hurled into the sea. The Lord is my strength and my song; He is become my deliverance…the Lord, the Warrior—Lord is His name… In Your great triumph You break Your opponents; You send forth Your fury, it consumes them like straw!” (Exodus 15.1-3, ) 

Some of us may not be comfortable with such a bloodthirsty God. We may prefer to think of God in more loving terms, or in less anthropomorphic terms. Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan was among those who think of God as more a force in the universe rather than a giant personage. And, for those who sense in the Divine a conscious and approachable spiritual personality, the notion of murder and mayhem executed by God may not seem right—or worship-able. What does the Bible say? What does Judaism say about this? The answer is that there are many different human impressions of God, and both the Bible and subsequent Judaism are full of these different understandings.  

In the case of our rather savage song, we must remember the savagery of the situation—and the enemy: “I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my desire shall have its fill of them. I will bare my sword—my hand shall subdue them!” (Exodus 15.) Had the Lord not saved us there at the Red Sea, imagine the brutality of the massacre of our ancestors! Facing certain death, our people found themselves, all of a sudden, on the other side of the sea and safe—with the people who had murder on their minds floating dead in the water. Is this the time for a tranquil meditation on the vagaries of life, or is this the time for releasing the fear and anxiety with screams and songs and dance? Is this ancient song a philosophical treatise, or is it a celebration of narrowly escaping the jaws of death? Does this reflect the totality of God, or does it reflect what the singers have just experienced? I think that this view of God’s participation in the world is one of many different voices in the Bible and Jewish thinking about the ineffable and inspiring Presence we call God. This is one voice in the Jewish chorus. 

This, by the way, brings up a pet peeve of mine about Christian mischaracterization of the Hebrew Bible. I do not know who originated this notion, but it is not uncommon to hear that, “The God of the Old Testament is angry and vengeful, while the God of the New Testament is kind and loving.” Such an interpretation is not born out in any way. Yes, there are moments of anger and violence in the Hebrew Bible, but there are also examples of Divine compassion and loving. Does not the Psalmist speak often about “Ki le’olam chasdo / that God’s lovingkindness is eternal!?” And, if one looks at the whole Christian Bible, it becomes quite apparent that, along with “turn the other cheek” and examples of Jesus’ kindness and love, there are also passages speaking about eternal pain and suffering for those who do not accept “the truth.” Fiery lakes in Hell are not exactly warm and cuddly or loving. The fact is that God is described in all kinds of terms in both the Jewish and the Christian Bibles, and trying to categorize either one as univocal is remarkably inaccurate. It gets us back to the problem of fundamentalists choosing a few passages as the totality of the Bible’s view of anything. 

An example of our chorus of views comes in the Midrash about the angels and Shirat Hayam. According to the story, the angels hear Moses and the men praising God, and they join in the song with great enthusiasm. Rather than appreciating their participation, the Lord shushes the angelic chorus with, “How can you sing while My children are floating dead on the water?!”  

Notice how the Midrash does not have God shushing the Israelites. The Holy One, it seems, is of two minds, caught between celebration and grief, between justice and compassion. On the one hand, the Egyptians are murderous and evil and deserve judgment. On the other hand, they are errant children of the Most High who could have/should have chosen a more moral path. Justice and sadness and anger and regret are all emotions that the Rabbis intuit on God’s behalf, and this ambivalence projected onto the Divine reflects the many thoughts that arise in such intense and difficult situations.  

Life is never simple, and one-liners seldom do justice to the complexity of human experience. One of the most wonderful aspects of our Tradition is that we approach every subject with both idealism and practicality, with both judgment and compassion, and with both truth and understanding. Our chorus of thoughtful voices is a hallmark of our people’s wisdom, and it is worthy of both respect and celebration.

Moses and Aaron: Speaking Truth to Power?

January 27th: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I have always been intrigued by the expression “speaking truth to power,” and I wonder how our Torah portion may offer some insights for modern practitioners. As we begin, God instructs Moses and Aaron to “Go to Pharaoh,” and they do. “Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and said to him, ‘Thus says the Lord, the God of the Hebrews, “How long will you refuse to humble yourself before Me? Let My people go so that they may worship Me.”’” (Exodus 10.1 and 10.3) 

On the one hand, this is clearly speaking truth to power. Moses is a foreign shepherd with little or no status. Other than memories of childhood, all he has in Egypt is a criminal record. When he and his brother demand major economic changes from one of the most powerful rulers on earth, one can imagine Pharaoh thinking that this former Egyptian is a fool. On the other hand, this is not at all about speaking truth to power. With God’s accompanying Presence, Moses and Aaron are speaking truth and power to a far lesser power. As God says to Moses, “You shall soon see what I will do to Pharaoh: he shall let them go because of a greater might; indeed, because of a greater might he shall drive them from his land.” (Exodus 6.1)

In our day, speaking truth to power is often just speaking. It could involve courage for someone to stand on the courthouse steps—or at the Allen Street gates—and, armed only with a moral truth, proclaim a message for all to hear. It may be brave, but is it effective? 

Public witnessing can be found in many cultures throughout history. The novelist James Clavell writes of such practices in his stories of Samurai Japan. In Shogun, in one case of a moral outrage, a high-status Samurai woman publicly performs seppuku (ritual suicide) with the purpose of “calling  out” the wrong-doers and invoking public approbation. It was in this spirit, back in the 1960s, that a number of Buddhist monks self-immolated as protests against war. Sacrificing oneself for the moral message certainly hopes to be persuasive. 

One can see similar thinking in regard to martyrdom in Rabbinic Judaism and early Christianity. That someone would be willing to sacrifice him/herself L’shem Shamayim / For the Sake of Heaven is seen as meritorious. However, martyrdom and such public witnessing is ultimately an act from weakness or desperation. Though we have inspiring stories about Rabbi Akiva and other martyrs, one figures that these brave souls would have preferred to continue living and teaching. It is just that they were out of options. 

To the extent that their martyrdom “speaks” to believers, then the message gets through. However, how do we know when speaking truth to power is communicative and when it is merely an act of self-indulgence? 

Aristotle, the ancient philosopher and “Father of Rhetoric,” defines rhetoric as “finding, in a given situation, the available means of persuasion.” In other words, the point of a communication should be to persuade the other of one’s opinion. Self-expression—like standing on a soapbox in Hyde Park—can be quite fulfilling, but I wonder how effective it is in terms of solving problems or improving the world. 

Let us get back to Moses and Aaron, standing nervously before Pharaoh. There as God’s agents, what is their plan and purpose? At its most simple level, their purpose is to free the Children of Israel from Egyptian slavery—and this will eventually happen. However, God’s plan is more expansive and more communicative, as the Torah explains:  “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your sons’ sons how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My sins among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.’” (Exodus 10.1-2) 

God could just whisk the Hebrews out of Egypt, but God is after something bigger: persuading the Israelites, the Egyptians, and everyone else in the world that God is in charge—that God’s is the moral standard to which humans are called. In the Divine estimation, merely rescuing Israel will not be persuasive enough. Thus the Lord determines to make an object lesson out of Pharaoh and Egypt. Though Egypt is considered the most powerful kingdom in the world, God will make a mockery of it. Though Pharaoh is considered (and considers himself) a god, the real God will show that the Egyptian king cannot even control himself. The earthly king is manipulated and humiliated by the Great King, and the message is sent out to the world. 

Does God’s rhetorical strategy work? According to the Psalmist, even the topography gets the message. That is why,
“The sea saw it and fled; the River Jordan turned backwards.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.” (Psalm 114)
The Lord’s power is so amazing that the
“Earth trembles at the Presence of the Lord, at the Presence of the God of Jacob!”

Earlier in the story, when Pharaoh orders the midwives to the Hebrews to kill all the boys as they are being birthed, Shiphrah’s and Pu’ah’s strategy is not to speak truth to power. What good would a verbal protest do? Instead, they are courageously practical. “The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.” (Exodus 1.17) When Pharaoh demands to know why the boys are still alive, the midwives dissemble: “Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women: they are vigorous. Before the midwife can come to them, they have already given birth.” (Exodus 1.19)  

Moral certitude is certainly a virtue, but it is seldom enough. The goodness of God needs to be brought to fruition—and thus Tikkun Olam requires strategy and practical application. When we pray, in the Kaddish, “V’yam’lich mal’chutay / May God’s influence reign,” our words are about more than speaking. We are praying about doing God’s work in the world so that God’s reign will truly prevail.

Learning to “See” the Lord

January 20th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

How personally do we take the Torah? While many commentators urge us to see ourselves in the possibilities of the Biblical narrative, are some scenarios just beyond our scope? An example would be Moses’ relationship with God. Is this something we can anticipate, or is it sui generis? The same can be asked about the special role Moses plays in the lives of both Hebrews and Egyptians.  

We begin with God’s revelation to Moses.
“Now Moses, tending the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian, drove the flock into the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame,  yet the bush was not consumed. Moses said, ‘I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?’ When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: ‘Moses! Moses!’ He answered, ‘Here I am.’ And God said, ‘Do not come closer. Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground. I am,’ God said, ‘the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God.” (Exodus 3.1-6) 

As we identify with Moses—much as we might identify with the hero of any story we read, what would it take for us to have a similar closeness to God? Some Commentators note that Moses “turns aside” from his shepherding to inspect the burning bush, and thus they conclude that he must have an interest in spiritual  phenomena. Indeed, they speculate, this is the reason God decided to assign the Exodus mission to him: “When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush.” Does this mean that all people interested in spirituality or spiritual phenomena can expect a call from the Lord? 

According to Tradition, the answer is negative because revelation ceased around 500 BCE. God put everything necessary for us to know in the Torah—both the Written Torah (Bible) and the Oral Torah (Talmud). Since then, rather than wait for instructions from Divine revelation, we receive instructions from God by studying the Torah and commentaries.  

On the other hand, many spiritual seekers speak of accessing the Divine in mystical practice and awareness. There are countless descriptions and prescriptions, but one insight that always strikes me in that of the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Aurora Leigh:
Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every bush afire with God;
but only he who sees takes off his shoes—
the rest sit around and pluck blackberries.
In other words, it may not be a matter of waiting for or hoping for God’s booming voice but rather learning to perceive the Presence of God in the world around us. There are also activities—holy behaviors—with which we can encounter the Divine. Picking up on the passage in Exodus 34 in which Moses “sees God’s back” and a poem by the mediaeval philosopher Judah HaLevi, the rabbis who compiled and composed the Reform Movement’s The Union Prayer Book (1940), presented the following re-imagining of revelation and living in response to God’s Presence (slightly adapted):
“O Lord, how can we know You? Where can we find You? You are as close to us as breathing and yet are farther than the farthermost star. You are as mysterious as the vast solitudes of the night and yet are as familiar as the light of the sun. To the seer of old You did say: You cannot see My Face, but I will make all My Goodness pass before You. Even so does Your Goodness pass before us in the realm of nature and in the varied experiences of our lives.” 

“When justice burns like a flaming fire within us, when love evokes willing sacrifice from us, when, to the last full measure of selfless devotion, we proclaim our belief in the ultimate triumph of truth and righteousness, do we not bow down before the vision of Your Goodness? You live in our hearts, as You pervade the world, and we through righteousness behold Your Presence.” 

This notion of being close to God when we do justice fits very well into the story of Moses. After explaining the plan for the Exodus, God summarizes with,
“You shall bring forth the Israelites from the Land of Egypt, troop by troop.” (Exodus 6.26)
Moses, however, balks because he cannot imagine fulfilling the role of both leader and spokesman.
“I am of impeded speech; how then should Pharaoh heed me!” (Exodus 6.30)
God responds to his hesitation with this curiously phrased description of Moses’ role.
“The Lord replied to Moses, ‘N’taticha Elohim l’Far’oh. See I place you in the role of God to Pharaoh, with your brother Aaron as your prophet.’” (Exodus 7.1)
I do not think that God is elevating Moses to the Divine level. Rather, Moses is being promoted in the Divine-Human “chain of command” to a position superior to that of Pharaoh. The King of Egypt thinks that he is in control of morality, but God is here—represented by Moses and Aaron—to show him that God is the One in control. This word, Elohim / God is used later in the Bible in reference to judges. They are not gods but rather functionaries in God’s system of justice, carrying out the instructions and righteousness of the Lord. In other words, for both Moses and those in authority, there is an association with the Divine—a closeness—that comes with doing God’s work in the world.  

While we may not be fortunate enough to hear God’s booming voice, we can gain access to the Divine Presence. When we study Torah, we cleave to the Divine—drawing ourselves closer to the attributes God embodies and teaches. When we live lives of piety, we open our souls to the Spiritual Presence and fill ourselves with it. And, when we carry out the righteousness and justice and lovingkindness and compassion of God, we embody and channel God’s Presence and Love to the world. We can be God’s manifestations. 

As the Torah concludes (Deuteronomy 34),
“Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Lord singled out, face to face…” However, there are nonetheless significant ways that Moses models possibilities for us all. We too can draw close to God, and we can bring God into the world.

Let Us Not Lose Hope

January 13th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

A short supply of historical knowledge is more than just a pedantic concern. It can skew our thinking about our lives and bring about needless despondency. An example is the recent and persistent chorus about things being worse than they used to be. Our time is certainly unique—as have been all periods of history, but are our problems really the worst? 

There is no doubt that we face real problems. The tragedies and calamities that humanity faces are dire and in many ways existentially challenging. However, it does not take a lot of historical knowledge to realize that humanity has been facing these kinds of difficulties for a long, long, long time. Take the Hebrews’ experience in Egypt. In Genesis, we are welcomed into Egypt by Pharaoh, and we find a tranquil place of refuge from the famine. However, after a few centuries, Egypt gets a “new king…who did not know Joseph,” and the Hebrews’ Egyptian experience turns into a nightmare:
“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise in the event of war they may join our enemies in fighting against us and rise up from the ground.’” So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor; and they built store cities for Pharoah: Pithom and Rameses.” (Exodus 1.8-11) 

Pretty soon, things get even worse as Pharaoh orders the Hebrew midwives to kill all the infant boys as they are being born. When the God-fearing midwives refuse, Pharaoh orders his people to seek out and murder all the Hebrew boys. “Every boy you shall throw into the Nile…” 

One can make a list of our oppressors: Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Seleucids, and Romans in the ancient world, Crusaders and Inquisitors in the medieval world, and Cossacks, Nazis, Soviets, and terrorists in the modern world. However, we are not alone in our victimization. Many other ethnic and religious groups have suffered the plague of intolerance and violence. Hate and oppression are not new phenomena.  

In recent years, many of us have learned about the shameful history of race massacres in early 20th Century America. The destruction of Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street” is just one example of mobs attacking Black neighborhoods and bringing hate, destruction, and death. Such terrible incidents are reminiscent of pogroms against Jews in Russia, the Turkish genocide against the Armenians, the Japanese “Rape” of Nanking, Idi Amin’s massacres of Ugandan Christians, and Myanmar’s Buddhist massacres of the Rohingya Muslims. However, things are different today. When the protests exploded after the public murder of George Floyd, the demonstrations were not met by White mobs and pogroms against Black neighborhoods. As despicable as it is to gerrymander and decrease the political power of minority groups, people of color in the United States can vote and hold office. As obnoxious as it is to prohibit volunteers bringing water to voters as they wait in long Georgia lines, those sweaty citizens can vote. There are real problems in our democracy, and we have a lot of improving to do, but anyone who says that “nothing has changed” or that “things are worse now” is not paying attention. 

The same can be said for political divisions and political anger. Think back to the draft riots during the Civil War. Idealists in the North believed that the Southern insurgency needed to be stopped, but lots of the potential soldiers did not want to be the ones to fight the war. Of course, the Civil War itself is a pretty good example of terrible conflict within our country. Jumping forward, do not forget the violence and lack of trust which typified the early labor movement as workers pitted themselves against the Robber Barons and “Big Business.” Do not forget the foment of the Depression Era—with demagogues like Huey P. Long, Theodore Bilbo, and Father Charles Coughlin attracting large crowds and threatening democracy. Do not forget Senator Joe McCarthy’s “anti-Communist” crusade, the Civil Rights Movement, or the Anti-War Movement. Political fury is not a new historical phenomenon.  

We humans have been fighting for fairness and tolerance and peace for a long, long time, and, though the challenges continue, we should realize that we have had some noticeable successes. While there is something in the human heart which is tempted to the Sitra Achra /  the Dark or Impure Side, there is also something in the human heart which inclines to the Sitra d’Kedushah / the Side of Holiness and Good. Temptation tempts, our wills are weak, and the struggle for goodness and justice is continually necessary. The Bible’s “Golden Rule” and the similar teachings in religions all over the world were not given out of context. “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19.18) was included because we need the reminder. 

The message of Exodus is particularly relevant. People will do evil, but God does not approve. In fact, God works through both miracles and human angels to make things right. God is the power through which humans understand goodness, fairness, and peace—and through which they work to achieve these blessed states. This, in the theology of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, is salvation, and this is the challenge for every generation. 

I believe that we can face the dangers and tragedies of our time without losing hope. The challenges are great. The evil and injustice we face are real. The tragedies of our lives are terrible. But the formulas for bringing goodness into the world have been with us for thousands of years. God is with us in our struggles, and we can be angels.

Divine Providence Then and Now

December 23rd: Mikketz and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the midst of last week’s description of dysfunction in the family of our ancestor Jacob/Israel, there is a rather cryptic detail. After the description of Joseph and his dreams—and his lording over his brothers in re his dreams, we read: “So his brothers were wrought up with him, but his father kept the matter in mind.” (Genesis 37.11) The Hebrew says that Jacob shamar et hadavar, that he guarded or observed the matter. A part of me cries out, “Why do you sit there thinking when you could be doing something?! You are the Patriarch. You’re the head of the family. Why are you sitting there, paralyzed and inactive when great danger awaits Joseph?!” Could it be that Jacob is ambivalent—perhaps losing his edge as a family leader? 

Or could there be something deeper at play? Though the complexity of life and God’s plans should be obvious, sometimes we need reminding of all the layers that may be involved. As the Psalmist says of God, “How great are your works, O Lord, how very subtle your designs! A brutish man cannot know, and fool cannot understand…” (Psalm 92.7) The narrative seems to be speaking only of Joseph and Jacob and the family drama, but let us not forget God—Who presumably is the One sending the dreams to Joseph. 

Perhaps Jacob is starting to realize that this is more than family drama—that perhaps God is effecting a multi-layered plan. Among other clues, note the next paragraph. When Joseph is sent by his father to see how the brothers and the flocks are doing, the Torah identifies the Patriarch as Israel—whereas he has been identified as Jacob in the preceding passage. Could referring to him as Israel indicate that his guarding of the matter is part of his prophetic mode? Perhaps the father does nothing in re the family conflict but proceeds with God’s plan to get Joseph down to Egypt for his important work there.  

Throughout the story, God is constantly playing a role. God gives Joseph the initial dreams about his future grandeur. In the Egyptian prison, God sends dreams to Pharaoh’s butler and baker—and gives Joseph the ability to interpret them correctly. Then, in this week’s portion, God sends Pharaoh dreams and Joseph the ability to interpret them. Here is the exchange between Pharaoh and Joseph in this regard: “Pharaoh said to Joseph, ‘I have had a dream, but no one can interpret it. Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.’ Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, ‘Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.’” (Genesis 41.15-16) 

When Joseph explains the coming years of plenty and famine, he is clear that God is behind everything: “Pharaoh’s dreams are one and the same: God has told Pharaoh what He is about to do…as for Pharaoh having the same dream twice, it means that the matter has been determined by God, and that God will soon carry it out.” (Genesis 41.25-32) 

To complete this message, the Torah reminds us once again in the last paragraphs of Genesis. After Jacob’s death, Joseph’s brothers come to him and throw themselves at his mercy. They are worried that, with their father now dead, their powerful brother will exact his long-awaited revenge. “But Joseph said to them, ‘Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” (Genesis 50.26) 

In other words, whatever the brothers intend, whatever Jacob intends—from favoring Joseph and then doing nothing when the family dynamic gets ugly, whatever Potiphar and his wife intend, all of this is God’s plan to put someone in place to save Egypt and the many people who depend on Egyptian grain. “How great are your works, O Lord, how very subtle your designs! A brutish man cannot know, and fool cannot understand…” (Psalm 92.7) I guess you can count me among the brutes who does not see the subtly and complexity of God’s work in the world. It is hard to expand our vision wide enough to understand the Infinite. 

Can we understand the Chanukah story in a similar depth? On the surface, it seems a straightforward Jewish struggle with the tidal wave of Hellenism that brought both material blessings and stifling cultural homogeneity. The wonders of the Greek world were open to Jews if we would just give up our devotion to the One God. The High Priestly Family was so mesmerized with Hellenism that they were unable or unwilling to defend Judaism when the Seleucid regime got violent. It fell to an out-of-power priestly family—led by Mattathias and his son Judah—to mount a rebellion against the Hellenists and expel them from the Temple and Jerusalem. Lacking enough popular support, Judah and his brothers turned to the scholar class, a group called the Pharisees who sought a separate-from-Hellenism lifestyle, one that was strictly Jewish. These Pharisees—also known as Rabbis—joined the rebellion and brought their formidable popular support. The result was that the newly installed Hasmonean (Maccabean) High Priest allowed himself to be guided by Rabbinic interpretation, and a new and improved form of Judaism became dominant. It is the form of Judaism that has persisted until today and drives our “traditional” approach to God and life and holiness. 

How does God effect reform and improvement of religion? How does God encourage humans to enhance their devotion and understanding of the Divine? In times of revelation, prophets could be addressed directly, but, in post-revelation times (post 500 BCE), perhaps God had to proceed more subtly. And militant Hellenists, courageous Maccabees, and scholarly Rabbinic pietists could all have been a part of God’s plan.  

It is awe-inspiring to consider the many ways that God affects us and works through us. We aspire to be angels—doing the work of God in the world, but our work may be on more levels than we realize. 

On Chanukah, let us give thanks to God for the courage, persistence, and creative ingenuity that have been placed in our hearts and souls. Come, let us continue to bring God into the world.

The Places of our Sojourning

December 16th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Some commentaries focus on the first word in this week’s portion, Vayeshev, which means dwelled or was settled: “Now Jacob dwelled in the land where his fathers had sojourned, the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 37.1) They suggest that the problems in Jacob’s life come because he is dwelling on the past—or not making progress. His family falls into disfunction with his blatant favoring of Joseph (giving him a “coat of many colors”), and the result is Joseph being sold/kidnapped into slavery in Egypt—and Jacob being told he is dead! Judah’s two sons, Er and Onan, die mysteriously, and the dynamics of levirate marriage result in a family scandal. In Egypt, Joseph is falsely accused of rape and imprisoned. The problem, these commentators note, is that Jacob stops making progress in life. When he stops moving forward, troubles arrive. 

This is a decent point—though perhaps it is more for us than for Jacob. Our ancestor is beset by tzuris / problems throughout his life and wherever he goes. When he is at home as a young man, he and Esau have lots of conflicts. When he leaves home to visit the family in Syria, he is hoodwinked by his Uncle Laban and caught in a tense and conflictual marriage. When he moves back to Canaan, his daughter Dinah is raped by a local tribal leader, and Simon and Levi massacre that whole tribe. Whether stationary or moving, Jacob faces many troubles.  

There is, however, another possible focus for that opening verse; we could look at where Jacob dwells. “…Jacob dwelled in the land where his fathers had sojourned, the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 37.1) Jacob’s life and activities occur in particular contexts—in the various places where he lives. Much of life depends on the places in which we find ourselves.  

The matter of our location has been a constant concern in Jewish life. We were strangers in the Land of Egypt—and much of what happened there was a result of our outlander status. Later, we were in our own land, and our responsibilities and challenges were based on our new context. Many of the 613 mitzvot in the Torah are only applicable in the Land of Israel—and many are applicable only when the Temple of the Lord is in operation. Centuries later, when our people were inhabitants of Muslim Lands, things were much different than for our ancestors living in Christian lands. As historian Ellis Rivkin used to teach, the form of national government affected our Jewish intra-group governing. In Muslim Lands, there was usually an international regime—like a Caliph in Baghdad—ruling over wide swaths of territory. Mirroring this dynamic, the Jews in Muslim Lands invested trust in a few international Halachic authorities like Moses Maimonides. In Christian Europe, on the other hand, the governmental units were much smaller—kingdoms, duchies, principalities, and in each Christian region, a local rabbi was considered the authority. As a result, different kinds of Halachic texts proliferated in Europe as opposed to the Muslim world. The comparative uniformity of Halachah in the Muslim world is reflected in the great codes—compiled by scholars such as Isaac Alfasi, Jacob ben Asher, Moses Maimonides, and Joseph Caro. In Europe, the commentary approach of Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac) was more helpful for the local rabbis charged with determining their own local Halachic decisions.  

The security of our people rested, of course, on who was in charge of any given place at any given time. As the Crusaders were terrorizing and murdering Jews in one place, Christian kings and bishops just a few hundred miles away were welcoming Jews and making them an important part of society. A recent article in Science Magazine, describing DNA evidence in a recently discovered Jewish cemetery in Erfurt, Germany, explains how Jews were welcomed there and integrated into the community at one point, but then a few hundred years later, were massacred. Then, a number of years later, Jews were welcomed back. Where and when we live can make all the difference in the world.  

Zionism, of course, is all about this question. Are Jews safer in a Jewish country, or is it better in a non-Jewish country that treats its Jews well? And, how long-term and trustworthy is a non-Jewish country’s kindness toward Jews? If Israel were a place of tranquility and security, the answer might be obvious, but dangers surround our Israeli friends and relatives. Or, is the Jewishness of the country more important than the danger. As Joseph Trumpeldor said as he died defending the Yishuv in Israel, “It is good to die for our country!”  

What about Jewish culture? Is Jewish culture stronger in a Jewish country? Perhaps, but we have done very well in the USA. Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, founder of the American Jewish Archives, used to teach that the quality of a Jewish civilization is based on factors such as (1) freedom to practice Judaism, (2) social, economic, and cultural integration in general society, (3) economic prosperity, (4) contribution to secular culture and scholarship, (5) production of Jewish culture and scholarship, and (6) participation in charitable endeavors both Jewish and secular. He used to explain that these are the reasons the Golden Age of Spain (900-1200 CE) was so great—and then say that, based on these factors, it was the second best time for Jews in history. The best time? Our American Jewish Civilization! Where we live makes a lot of difference. 

Of course, Jewish life in America has its own problems—and this time of year is always a challenge. Amidst the cultural tidal wave of Christmastime, how do we Jews stand steady? How do we appreciate the cultural joy and charity that surrounds us and stay true to our religion? There are so many instances of religious challenges—from Christmas carols in school to inquisitions by kindly strangers in grocery store checkout lines, from Christmas decorations in public places to choosing a holiday greeting. We are not being oppressed or persecuted, but we modern American Jews do feel real cultural pressure at this time of year. We feel the need to stand out from our surroundings and stand up for our Jewish Identities. We live and respond in the places of our sojourning. 

The point is that our ideal life must be constructed within the possibilities and limitations of the places in which we dwell. We bring our principles and practices and do our best to live Jewishly in our far-flung habitations, and we have done pretty well, toting our “portable homeland” with us around the globe. However, the homes and communities we have crafted have always been dependent in large part upon the places of our sojourning. All of these are part of God’s world, and all are ready for the godliness our Torah commands us to bring forth.

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.”