Isn't It a Little Early for Yom Kippur?

September 8th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Did you know that Reform and traditional Machzorim/High Holy Day prayer books have different Torah portions for Yom Kippur? Our more traditional Mahzor Hadash (black) has the atonement rituals of the ancient High Priest (Leviticus 16)—with the “scapegoat” ceremony as its dramatic climax. Two goats are brought before the High Priest, and lots are cast to decide the fate of each. One goat is chosen for sacrifice on the altar, and the other has the sins of Israel “put on his head” by the High Priest. With these sins, the second goat is sent out into the wilderness—l’Azazel, to Azazel.  

The traditional afternoon portion is a list of prohibited sexual practices and relationships (Leviticus 18). The sexual urge is powerful, and the Rabbis who assigned the Torah portions apparently felt that people need warnings on days they take God and Judaism most seriously.  

Contrast these with the Reform Movement’s Yom Kippur portions. In the afternoon, we read the “Holiness Code” from Leviticus 19. Beginning with, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” the passage continues with a list of ritual and ethical ways to live a holy life—its ethical climax reminding us, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  While the traditional approach is to warn people of prohibited behaviors, the Reformers decided to encourage commanded behaviors and the spiritual goal of holiness.  

Reform replaced the morning passage about priestly rituals with a description of a different kind of ceremony—one set in the wilderness before the Israelites enter the Promised Land.
“You are standing here this day, all of you, before the Lord your God; your tribal captains, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and the stranger who is in your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water; that you should enter into covenant with the Lord your God, and join in an oath which the Lord your God makes with you this day.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11)
The emphasis is on one’s membership in a holy community. We enter into a covenant with the Lord God, and this relationship—both with God and with the other members of the covenantal  community—calls for us to behave with righteousness and reverence.  

The Reform Machzor then jumps a chapter to Deuteronomy 30.11-30 in which we are reminded that godliness is doable—within our reach—and that choosing the path that God sets in front of us brings blessings. “Choose life that you and your descendants shall live!”  

Though these Deuteronomy passages are soon to be read on Yom Kippur, they are also read in this week’s Torah portion, Nitzavim.  

I do not know why the early Reformers made the changes, but I can see a logic in their decisions. As important as the ancient rites of purification and atonement were—and as important as the priesthood was in the ancient Temple, Judaism has progressed beyond this kind of religion. Righteousness is still important, and immorality is still sinful, but Judaism has developed other ways to acknowledge our sins and reach atonement with God.  

For us, teshuvah/repentance is not achieved with sacrificial rites or goats. Our atonement involves four steps: (1) we acknowledge our sins before God and resolve not to repeat them, (2) we go to the people we have wronged and ask for their forgiveness, (3) we try to correct or make up for the damage we have done, and (4) we do general acts of good deeds so as to increase the goodness in the world. If we go about this teshuvah sincerely, we are taught that God forgives us. If we repent, we can be forgiven and begin the new year with a clean slate. 

As for the covenant ceremony, I see in it an awareness of the realities of modern life. Though many are born into Jewish families, the act of being Jewish—participating in Jewish life and thinking in Jewish terms—is a choice we make over and over again throughout our lives. We live in a world of religious and affiliational autonomy; entering and remaining in the covenantal community involves continual affirmation. We are always, as it were, entering the covenant and always, as it were, choosing the Jewish path to godliness.

Over the years, there has been an interesting conversation about the place of gerim/converts in Judaism. The Halachic position is that, once a person converts, she/he is a full Jew. They should not even be referred to as gerim anymore. In fact, the ancient Tractate Gerim (4.1) warns us against reminding a convert of his/her non-Jewish past and uses the colorful phrase, “Do not remind them of the pig flesh between their teeth.” That being said, some moderns are concerned with converts’ lack of childhood and ancestral Jewish experiences and want to assist them in feeling at home in Jewish life. In order to help, we need a word to identify their situation and plan programs. In this spirit, some may still refer to converts as such, but others are unhappy with the word convert because of the way it was originally understood in Latin and early Christianity. To replace it, Reform Judaism came up with a new term, Jews by Choice, and it has been used extensively for some forty years. It is a bit of a mouthful, but it does speak of former non-Jews choosing the Jewish path. On the other hand, are not all Jews who participate in Judaism and Jewishness choosing to do so?  

When I look at the people involved in Jewish life—religiously, culturally, and philanthropically, I see people who choose to be Jewish and to do Jewish things. Whether or not they were born Jewish, they are attracted to something in our covenant community and choose to be part of it. In other words, we are all Jews by Choice—a fact that makes the Deuteronomy Covenant Ceremony a profound symbol of our religious and cultural identity and a statement to be declared on our most holy of days. “We are all here this day to enter into covenant with the Lord our God.”

Who We Are, and What That Means

September 1st: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion begins with a ritual of thanksgiving. After giving a basket filled with the first fruits of our harvest to the priest, “You shall recite as follows before the Lord your God: My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, an outstretched arm, and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Therefore, I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

The appreciation is profound and should be instructive to us: the good things in our lives are the result of many blessings, and it is na’eh l’hodot, fitting to give thanks. However, why would we need to identify ourselves before the Lord? As the statement itself acknowledges, God has been with us all along and certainly knows who we are. Perhaps the hope is that we listen to the words we speak and remember who we are and what we represent.  

So often, the way we see ourselves—or the way others see us—affect the dynamic of our presence. When we visit a friend’s place of business, are we present as customers or as friends? When we come to synagogue, are we present as worshippers or as visitors? When we go to a party, are we present as guests or as workers?  

Years ago, I remember a friend of mine returning angrily from a student pulpit in the South. “They told me to come to the back door,” he fumed, thinking that this instruction relegated him to the rank of a servant. “No, no,” I practically shouted. Translating for my Northern friend, “In the South, telling someone to come to the back door is a high compliment. It means that they are family. Only strangers come to the front door.” How he was identified made a difference.  

In the modern world, much is made of the identity of Zionists—and the implications that flow from it. Zionism itself began as an identity question. While Jews had lived in Europe since the days of the Roman Empire, the creation of nationalism in the 1800s put us in an awkward position. Nationalism claimed that the people within particular governmental units (nation states) were somehow linked biologically to the land on which they sojourned. This organic connection was reflected in language and culture and a racial/ethnic esprit des corps and was distinct from the organic connections other nationalities had with the places they lived. Thus relatively new nations—like Germany—were said to be populated by Germans. These were not just the people who happened to live in what was formerly known as the Holy Roman Empire and whose former duchies and kingdoms had been subsumed by the new country of Germany. Rather, they were seen as people born of the German land and thus racially and culturally connected to that land. The same thinking swept through other nations: Italy, France, Spain, Poland, etc.  

Though Jews had been segregated and marginalized for centuries, the 1700s and early 1800s had seen the Enlightenment and the Emancipation and the gradual acceptance of Jews as full citizens of the countries they inhabited and defended. We thought our many years of oppression were coming to an end, but Nationalism threatened our efforts to belong. Many nationalists claimed that our ancient Middle Eastern origins disqualified us from these nationalist identities—these mystical, born-of-the-land racial, ethnic, and cultural constructs. We might live in Germany, but we are not Germans because we did not arise from “German ground.” We might live in France, but we are not truly French because we did not arise from “French ground.” Even after hundreds of years as residents of these “nations,” we could never belong because we were foreigners. For Theodor Herzl, Zionism emerged from the nightmarish awareness that Europeans would never accept Jews as Europeans—that since we were being defined as a non-European and foreign nationality, we needed a Jewish Nationalism—something he named Zionism. 

As it turns out, this anti-Jewish nationalistic ruminating led to the modern term for Jew-Hatred, Anti-Semitism. In 1862, German writer Wilhelm Marr (1819-1904) created his League of Anti-Semites to make the point that Jews are not Europeans. They are Semites, people of the Levant and definitely not Europeans. Jewish influence was bad for Germany because it was Levantine/ “Oriental”/Middle Eastern as opposed to the “European-ness” that Aryan Germany needed. 

Compare this to the modern anti-Israel claims that Jews are European colonizers stealing land from the Indigenous Arab inhabitants. One can counter that the vast majority of Israel/Palestine’s Arab inhabitants are themselves colonizers/immigrants from other parts of the Arab world—a case in point being Yasser Arafat who was born in Egypt, but the point is that such self-identity or imposed identity is closely linked to legitimacy and rights.  

There are obviously serious aspects of this dynamic, but let me conclude with a joke. There was once a man walking down the street in a small Pennsylvania town. Everything was tranquil until he saw a shocking sight. A vicious dog had bitten a child on the shoulder and wouldn’t let go. The child was obviously distraught and in real danger, so the pedestrian ran up and tried  to pry the dog’s jaws from the child. It was a real struggle, but finally the man managed to break the dog’s jaws, saving the child but killing the dog. A crowd had gathered and cheered the heroic man. Soon, a newspaper reporter ran up to the scene and started interviewing the hero. The reporter said, “I can just see the headline: Local Man Saves Child.” The hero hesitated and then corrected the reporter. “I’m not local. I’ve visiting from out of town.” “No problem,” said the reporter, “The headline can read, “Brave Pennsylvanian Saves Child.” Again the hero hesitated. “I’m not from Pennsylvania.” Undeterred, the reporter said, “No problem, we can run: Great American Rescues Local Child!” Again the hero interrupted him. “I’m not from the U.S. I’m visiting from Canada.” The reporter and the crowd got very silent, very quickly. The next day, the headline of the newspaper proclaimed, “Foreign Murderer Slays Local Dog.” 

Identity grounds us and gives us purpose, but it can also be abused and manipulated for nefarious purposes. Let us think carefully about who we are and what we represent. Let us also be open-minded and open-hearted as we encounter God’s other children. 

God's Power...and Peace

August 25th: Ki Tetzay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Ellis Rivkin, one of my favorite professors at the Hebrew Union College, used to raise eyebrows when he would declare that he is a fundamentalist—believing everything in the Bible literally. In a place founded on Die Wissenschaft des Judentums, the Science of Judaism, and subsequently a champion of The Documentary Hypothesis and other interpretations that speak against fundamentalism and literalism, his comment was always provocative. That is, until he would add, “Since the Bible has so many different and conflicting opinions, I can believe whatever I want and always find some Biblical passages to support me.”

A similar message—though less eyebrow raising—has been constant at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem, where I have been studying for the past several years. There, they put it this way: The Torah, as well as the rest of the Bible, and the Talmud present a chorus of voices, representing many diverse views about God, Jewish ritual, morality, the Jewish people, etc. Our Tradition reflects a continuing conversation over the things in life that matter the most, and, over the centuries, many wise people have contributed to our tribal deliberations. 

I think of this dynamic when I read this week’s Torah portion, Ki Tetzay, and its opening words, “When you go forth to war…” (Deuteronomy 21.10) In a Tradition that prizes peace and tranquility—and justice and kindness, what’s with the “war talk?” 

Consider just a few of our peace scriptures:
“Hineh mah-tov umah-na’im shevet achim gam-yachad.
Behold, how good and pleasant it is when people dwell together (in peace).” (Psalms 133.1) 

“And they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.
But they shall sit, everyone, under their vines or fig trees, and none shall make them afraid.”   (Micah 4.3-4) 

“The wolf shall dwell with the lamb, the leopard lie down with the kid;
The calf, the beast of prey, and the fatling together, with a little boy to herd them.
The cow and the bear shall graze, their young shall lie down together;
And the lion, like the ox, shall eat straw.
A baby shall play over a viper’s hole, and an infant pass his hand over an adder’s den.
In all of My sacred mount, nothing evil or vile shall be done;
For the land shall be filled with devotion to the Lord as water covers the sea.”  (Isaiah 11.6-9) 

The Prophets and Psalmists hold up these idyllic visions and desire them earnestly. However, as a colleague once quipped, “The lion lying down next to the lamb gets to decide how long he wants to be a vegetarian.” There are times when peace is not possible—when the lion changes his diet, and as much as we look forward to better times—peaceful and tolerant times, there are enemies out there, and self-defense is necessary. 

In Ki Tetzay, we are plunged immediately into the barbarism and unholiness of war. The trauma of battle, the anticipation of what losing will mean, and the adrenal intensity of killing can turn even the most civilized people into scary creatures—and the Torah attempts to give guidance and moral moderation for those extraordinary moments.  

The passage that begins the portion is particularly difficult because its subject is battlefield rape, and the alternative suggestion—the “better” plan—is essentially postponement. A cooling-down period and marriage (without the possibility of divorce) may be better than the horror of the battlefield, but the captive woman’s lot is far from ideal—far from what we hope for our mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters. We shudder at the inclusion of such barbarity in our Torah, and yet, the Torah does not only deal with idyllic and pastoral scenes—or with people whose lives are easy. For far too many people both Jewish and Gentile, life is difficult and filled with dangers and abuse. In such situations, prayers and visions take a markedly realistic and practical tone. 

As much as we shudder at such a plight for our enemies, we fear even more what could happen to us. And so, we prepare for war and learn to defend ourselves. It will be wonderful when we can beat our swords and spears into farm tools, but, in the meantime, we need sharp swords and the skills to use them. As Hillel reminds us, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” (Avot 1.15) 

I am not a warlike person. I did not have to serve in the military, and I have no idea how I would have coped—or how they would have assigned me. And yet, in my own unmilitary, unwarlike, unaggressive, and weak sensibility, I am profoundly appreciative of those strong and brave people who defend me and my loved ones. Appreciation and thankfulness is a mitzvah. 

In Psalm 29, the subject is God’s power. God’s voice thunders, overwhelms the mighty waters. It breaks the cedars of Lebanon and kindles flames of fire. It is majestic and ever-present, bringing both destruction and creation—convulsing the wilderness and helping deer give birth. God’s glory is made known in every bit of Creation, and we pray for some of that power to be shared with us.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten. Adonai yivarech et amo vashalom.
When the Lord gives our people strength, the Lord allows us the blessing of peace.” 

Making Tough Decisions……Or Not

August 18th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

 The instructions that begin our Torah portion seem straightforward:
“You shall appoint judges and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the pleas of the just. Justice, just shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20) 

Be fair. Be honest. Judge with justice. It seems simple, but human situations can get quite complex, and judges can find themselves having to choose among lesser evils or lesser injustices.  

A famous Talmudic story illustrates such complexity, and the law at its center comes just a few verses after the famous, “Justice, justice…” In Deuteronomy 17.1, we read; “You shall not sacrifice to the Lord your God an ox or a sheep that has any defect, for that is abhorrent to the Lord your God.”  

A note before the story. Some translations render “mum kol d’var ra” as “any defect,” and others render it “any defect of a serious kind.” How bad must an imperfection be for it to be considered a defect? This becomes important in the story. 

Here’s the story, from Talmud Gitten 55b and 56a, based on the Sefaria translation by Educator David Schwartz:
The Gemara explains: Jerusalem was destroyed on account of Kamtza and bar Kamtza. There was a certain man whose friend was named Kamtza and whose enemy was named bar Kamtza. That man once made a large feast and said to his servant: Go bring me my friend Kamtza. The servant went and mistakenly brought him his enemy bar Kamtza. The man who was hosting the feast came and found bar Kamtza at the table. The host said to bar Kamtza. You are my enemy. What are you doing here? Arise and leave. Bar Kamtza said to him: Since I have already come, let me stay and I will give you money for whatever I eat and drink. Just do not embarrass me by sending me out. The host said to him: No, you must leave. Bar Kamtza said to him: I will give you money for half of the feast; just do not send me away. The host said to him: No, you must leave. Bar Kamtza then said to him: I will give you money for the entire feast; just let me stay. The host said to him: No, you must leave. Finally, the host took bar Kamtza by his arm, stood him up, and took him out.

An advice columnist might have a lot to say about this situation, and, as we shall soon read, the ancient version of moral and etiquette arbiters, the Sages/Rabbis, are present and apparently do not intervene.  

After having been cast out from the feast, bar Kamtza said to himself: Since the Sages were sitting there and did not protest the actions of the host, although they saw how he humiliated me, they must approve of what he did. I will therefore go and inform against them to the king. He went and said to the emperor: The Jews have rebelled against you. The emperor said to him: Who says that this is the case? Bar Kamtza said to him: Go and test them; send them an offering to be brought in honor of the government and see whether they will sacrifice it. The emperor sent with him a choice three-year-old calf. While bar Kamtza was coming with the calf to the Temple, he made a blemish on the calf’s upper lip (and some say he made the blemish on its eyelids), a place where according to us, i.e., Halachah, it is a defect, but according to them, gentile rules for their offerings, it is not a defect. Therefore, when bar Kamtza brought the animal to the Temple, the priests would not sacrifice it on the altar since it was blemished/defective, but they also could not explain this satisfactorily to the gentile authorities, who did not consider it to be blemished/defective.

One wonders what Dear Abby or Miss Manners would advise. Something about communication? In any event, the Sages—legal experts to whom the Priests turn for tough questions—are thrown into a logical cauldron.

The blemish notwithstanding, the Sages thought to sacrifice the animal as an offering due to the imperative to maintain peace with the government. Rabbi Zechariah ben Avkolas said to them: If the priests do that, people will say that blemished animals may be sacrificed as offerings on the altar. The Sages said: If we do not sacrifice it, then we must prevent bar Kamtza from reporting this to the emperor. The Sages thought to kill him so that he would not go and speak against them. Rabbi Zechariah said to them: If you kill him, people will say that one who makes a blemish on sacrificial animals is to be killed. As a result, they did nothing, bar Kamtza’s slander was accepted by the authorities, and consequently the war between the Jews and the Romans began. Rabbi Yoḥanan says: The excessive humility of Rabbi Zechariah ben Avkolas destroyed our Temple, burned our Sanctuary, and exiled us from our land.

There are so many missteps in this tragedy that one yearns to start over. I want to focus on the final sentence however, for it speaks to the dynamics in which judges often find themselves. Humility is generally considered a good trait. We certainly read that Moses was the most humble of men (Numbers 12.3), and that is considered a wonderful thing. However, when the Gemara speaks of Rabbi Zechariah’s “excessive humility,” I think they are speaking euphemistically about him being weak and afraid to make the hard decision necessary in this messy case. There are times when any and every course of action leads to problematic consequences. Doing nothing, however, disallows any kind of guidance. Leadership requires courage and foresight so that the lesser of evils or injustices can be chosen. Will criticism come afterwards? Probably, but it is better than the catastrophe that Rabbi Zechariah’s paralysis brings to our people.  

May we keep our eyes open to the consequences of our actions and may our hearts open to everyone our decisions affect. May we also have courage and strength—and bear the noble burden of responsibility.

Trying to Herd Cats: Autonomy and Religion

August 11th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In much of Deuteronomy, one sees an effort to control an independent group of people. Though we think of the Israelites as a unified people—standing obediently at Mount Sinai, moving around the desert in formation, listening as Moses relates the latest instructions from the Lord, many Biblical stories speak of the difficulties of getting everyone “on the same page at the same time.” There is even an acknowledgment of this in our Torah portion this week. In Deuteronomy 12.8, we read about the hope that, in the Promised Land, “You shall not act at all as we now act here, every man as he pleases…”  

Among the concerns is where sacrificial worship takes place. In pre-Egypt days, it had apparently been a family affair, with the tribe gathering wherever they happened to be—or at special sites known for their holiness. The Authors of Deuteronomy, however, are intent on Temple worship only. The book is clearly Temple-oriented, having been “found” on the Temple grounds during a renovation during the reign of King Josiah (620 BCE). Since it is set in Moses’ time—several hundred years before Solomon builds the Temple in Jerusalem, the text is not specific about where this centralized worship will take place. Instead, it uses a vague and variable expression: “the place where the Lord has chosen to establish His Name.” While wandering in the wilderness, the people worship at the Mishkan/Tabernacle in the center of their camp. Once they enter the Promised Land and disperse to their various tribal holdings, the Mishkan is located in several places over the years. Deuteronomy insists that the Israelites make the pilgrimage to wherever the Mishkan and Ark of the Covenant are located—and that only there can the Lord be properly worshipped. 

This was not an easy “sell;” the local or regional worship sites—called bamot /high places—remained popular for centuries. The fact that the Bible is full of diatribes against these local shrines means that they persisted long after the Temple was built. Many of the prophets identify the bamot as places of idolatry or polytheism, but this could simply be their anger talking. What if the people just wanted to continue the religious practices of their pre-Egypt ancestors, worshipping the One God at places special to their families? Was this a “religious” problem, or an “organized religion” problem? 

Another possibility is that these holy places were multi-religious—that people from different religions worshipped at the bamot, with each group worshipping their own gods. For the prophets, this non-Jewish worship might have tainted the whole place. Could proximity to pagan worship create or encourage religious “contagion?” Could co-existence and respect soon bleed into syncretism and Israelites joining in with the pagan and idolatrous religions? There are extensive chapters—among them the entire Book of Hosea—which compare the bamot to places of adultery and disloyalty to God. We, who live in a world where other religions exercise enormous cultural and political sway, know of the dangers of creeping syncretism. Walking the line between respect for other religions and disloyalty to our own can be challenging. 

This brings to mind the current phenomenon of multi-faith prayer spaces in airports or hospitals. Equipped with prayer materials and ritual objects for a variety of religions, they offer spiritual opportunities to anyone who needs prayer. I have had very positive experiences in such places—saying my morning prayers with Tallit and Tefillin while a Muslim softly chants verses from the Koran and a Catholic prays the Rosary. To me, the spirituality was wonderfully palpable as different people pursued their paths to the One God. However, some Orthodox Jewish authorities prohibit praying there for fear that the other faiths will distract from Jewish worship—and possibly include Jews in non-Jewish rites. Is it mutual respect and appreciation or syncretism? 

Or could the Prophetic/Priestly (and Orthodox Rabbinic) objection be more a matter of control? Not being present up on the bamot (or in the multi-faith chapel), the authorities have no way of knowing whether the Israelite worshippers are remaining true to our religion.  

Speaking of control, consider this passage, also from this week’s Torah portion:
“When the Lord enlarges your territory, as He has promised you, and you say, ‘I shall eat some meat,’ for you have the urge to eat meat, you may eat meat whenever you wish. If the place where the Lord has chosen to establish His name is too far from you, you may slaughter any of the cattle or sheep that the Lord gives you, as I have instructed you; and you may eat to your heart’s content in your settlements. Eat it, however, as the gazelle and the deer are eaten: the unclean may eat it together with the clean. Be sure that you do not partake of the blood; for the blood is the life and you must not consume the life with the flesh. You must not partake of it; you must pour it out on the ground like water…” (Deuteronomy 12.20-25) 

Why would shepherds and herders need God’s permission to eat meat? They would not. What we seem to have here is a priestly attempt to exert control over their far-flung “subjects” and distinguish between slaughtering animals for meat and slaughtering animals for sacrificial worship. When the text specifies, “eat the meat as the gazelle and the deer are eaten,” it is speaking of the way non-sacrificial animals are eaten. Deer and gazelles are “kosher,” but, in the whole Book of Leviticus, the only animals mentioned for sacrifice are sheep, goats, cattle, and turtledoves. Another indication is the phrase, “the unclean may eat it together with the clean.” Tameh/unclean and tahor/clean are ritual terms. People in a state of uncleanness are not allowed to participate in worship until they go through a spiritual purification process. Allowing them to eat slaughtered meat while tameh/unclean means that this meat-eating is not a worship ceremony. A third distinguishing element is in the reminder about not eating blood—a custom that eventually becomes a pillar of Kashrut. This blood is simply to be poured onto the ground—as opposed to the blood in sacrificial worship being splashed on the altar. The authorities could not stop people from eating meat, but they could try to draw a line between regular consumption of animals and the special rituals reserved for “the place where the Lord has chosen to establish His name.”

To me, the comment about “You shall not act at all as we now act here, every man as he pleases…” is akin to closing the barn door after the horses have escaped. The autonomy of individual Israelites and their families has probably been ubiquitous and continual—with the authorities trying persistently to rein in and control their population. For all of the advantages of independence, society and organizations depend on a certain amount of control or at least a sense of common behaviors. As we, who are also blessed with autonomy, try to maintain our communities, how much autonomy should we exercise, and how much should we curtail for the sake of the community?

Unexpected Lessons from The Golden Calf Incident

August 4th: Eikev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is an interesting pattern in religion where current challenges are addressed in rewritten or re-interpreted ancient texts. One example is an Orthodox Rabbi’s explanation that Korah and his rebellion were the Reform Judaism of their day. Another is a billboard proclaiming that Jesus was a vegan. Actually, examples abound in the case of Jesus, with this First-Century Jew being claimed by all sorts of post-Biblical causes: religious war, peace movements, segregation, de-segregation, organized labor, socialism, feminism, helping the poor, blaming the poor, etc.

The problem is that most religions have not had new revelations for over a thousand years, and moderns seeking “Scriptural authenticity” can be tempted to transpose their current concerns onto ancient narratives. Thus do the Muslim Salafists (ISIS) see their modern struggle to conquer Mecca and control Islam as a return to “the original meaning of the Kor’an.” In a similar “historical” claim, I have heard a Unitarian Minister suggest that his faith—formed from the Puritan and Congregationalist traditions of New England—actually goes back to the early Church Fathers, some 1800 years earlier. And, in a much more dramatic creative vein did Joseph Smith create in the 1800s a completely new Christianity, basing it on a set of ancient golden tablets that only he saw and that only he could read.

Some scholars see a similar kind of revisioning/revisionism at play in the Torah itself. Back in June, when we studied the episode of Korach and his rebellion, I mentioned the curiosity of a group of Levites called The Sons of Korach, to whom are attributed a number of Psalms. The Book of Psalms was composed and chanted many centuries after the original Korach buried that name in eternal disgrace, so how/why would a Levitical clan keep such a disreputable name? Could it not be, as some scholars have suggested, that the ancient story of rebellion and Divine Wrath was created many centuries later and inserted into the ancient Torah to “explain” why one Levitical group was left out of the leadership?

A similar theory approaches a passage in this week’s Torah portion. In Chapter 9, Moses reviews the Revelation at Mount Sinai AND the scandal of the Golden Calf. “At the end of those forty days and forty nights, the Lord gave me the two tablets of stone, the Tables of the Covenant. And the Lord said to me, ‘Hurry, go down from here at once, for the people whom you brought out of Egypt have acted wickedly; they have been quick to stray from the path that I enjoined upon them; they have made themselves a molten image.’ The Lord further said to me, ‘I see that this is a stiffnecked people. Let Me alone and I will destroy them and blot out their name from under heaven, and I will make you a nation far more numerous than they.’

I started down the mountain, a mountain ablaze with fire, the two Tablets of the Covenant in my two hands. I saw how you had sinned against the Lord your God; you had made yourselves a molten calf; you had been quick to stray from the path that the Lord had enjoined upon you. Thereupon I gripped the two tablets and flung them away with both my hands, smashing them before your eyes…”  (Deuteronomy 9.11-17)

The usual lesson is that our ancient ancestors—as are we—are remarkably apt to fall into sin. Even after all the wonders of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, the ancient Hebrews demonstrate the all-too-human moral weakness that is often our downfall. The lesson is true—perennially true, and so we seldom question the story.

However, if we were to question the story, we might state the obvious: There is no way they would really resort to idolatry right under Mount Sinai. For goodness sakes, they had just heard the Voice of God thunder, “You shall not make for yourself a sculptured image, any likeness of what is in the heavens above, or on the earth below, or in the waters below the earth. You shall not bow down to them or serve them!” (Deuteronomy 5.8-9) They would have still been very much in the mode/mood of holiness and obedience. Yes, sin is tempting, and humans are weak, but one would think that the Israelites would be inspired by or in fear of God for a little while. In other words, something about the story does not make sense.

It so happens that there was a golden calf in Jewish history. Actually, there were two of them, and they were part of a tribal breakaway some 300-400 years after the Revelation at Mount Sinai. When Solomon died, his son Rehoboam was unable to hold the kingdom together, and the northern Ten Tribes of Israel broke away under the leadership of Jeroboam, establishing a kingdom called Israel. The Southern Kingdom became known by the name Judah since it was the dominant tribe in the south. Judah had Jerusalem, home of the Temple of the Lord built by Solomon, and Jeroboam did not want his people to make the three yearly pilgrimages to Solomon’s Temple. So, to meet the Ten Tribe’s religious needs, Jeroboam built two temples, one at Dan and the other at Bethel, and he installed a golden calf in each.

Why the calves? Archeological evidence shows that many ancient Near Easter religions imagined their deities riding or sitting on animals. Some of these statues and illustrations show God (El) riding on a bull or calf. In other words, the golden calves were not for worship but rather to give God a place to sit. As it turns out, this was similar to the golden cheruvim (angels) on the Holy Ark in the Jerusalem Temple. As described in Exodus 25.17-22, these cherubim  provided a place for the Lord (YHVH)to rest when visiting the Tabernacle and the Israelites. So, though the golden calves in Bethel and Dan were not actually worshipped, one can well imagine the authorities in Judah accusing them of doing so—leading some scholars to suggest that Golden Calf story was created several hundred years later and inserted into the ancient tribal traditions that were later woven together into the Torah. Several hundred years ahead of time, the Children of Israel were warned against Jeroboam’s political and religious break with Jerusalem. It was an ancient solution to a modern problem.

Regardless of its origins, the Torah’s story of apostasy and reconciliation is nonetheless compelling. Whether within weeks or over years, religious inspiration inevitably fades. The visions and experiences we have of God’s Presence are often worn down by the pressures and demands of daily life. And there is temptation. Though we all try to walk the straight and narrow path, sin can appeal; temptation can tempt. We are all imperfect vessels, and the fact is that we need regular refueling of the spiritual. That is why God urges us to return to worship and reconciliation—to drag ourselves back from the wasteland of virtue-lessness and refill ourselves with awareness of the holy. Returning to God’s Presence, we can open our hearts to the Divine and find the holy potential God places within. The Golden Calf story reminds us that, when we deviate from the best that is in us, God is always ready to call us back—and always waiting for us with love.

Korach: Villain or Martyr to the Cause of Democracy?

June 23rd: Korach 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This may seem like a well-worn lesson from Civics Class, but there is an important difference between a democracy and a republic—a representative democracy. There is something simple and beautiful about a democracy, with everyone getting together and discussing the issues at hand and then voting. The majority rules. However, crowds can be swayed by a variety of factors—including impatience, prejudice, lack of information, short-sightedness, and panic, and these can result in democratic but bad decisions. A representative democracy—or one limited by constitutional strictures (like our Bill of Rights) aims to insulate the deliberative process from these kinds of bad thinking. While we, as veteran observers of our own republic, are aware of the many problems of our system, most of us can also see how a straight democracy would be much, much more prone to problems.  

The problem of unbridled democracy is front and center in this part of the Torah. Last week, when the twelve scouts report on their tour of the Promised Land, the fear of the ten pessimists leads to a wholesale panic among the people. The text does not describe a reasoned conversation, with the pros and cons of the Divine assignment being considered. Rather, we read about the “calumnies” of the ten spies spreading and the people responding with an emotional storm. It is not the kind of democratic discussion and vote that the myths of ancient Athens describe.  

This week, we have another almost-riot. Korach, a privileged member of the Tribe of Levi, gathers a band of 250 people, and they “combine against Moses and Aaron and say to them, ‘You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?!’” (Numbers 16.3) Is this an attempt at democracy and equality, or is this an armed rebellion? Unfortunately, this passage is extremely malleable, and Korach can be seen as either a villain or a hero. 

Tradition sees Korach as an evil and greedy man who wants to be in power. Like George Orwell’s Napolean the Pig, he phrases his power grab in democracy-talk, but his assembled mob is evidence of his true aim and his strong-arm tactics. Then, of course, there is the dramatic end of the story in which God’s judgment of Korach is pretty clear: “…the ground under them burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, with all that belonged to them the earth closed over them, and they vanished from the congregation.” (Numbers 16.31-33) The Bible sees Korach’s rebellion as not against Moses but against God. 

The other view is based on empathy for Korach and his democratic ambitions. For those who mistrust authority or institutions, they see someone who is merely questioning authority and demanding fairness and equality. They wonder whether the Biblical narration is slanted, that perhaps Korach does not assemble a mob—that he gathers mature and reputable people to try to get more equality in the Israelite society and religion. What if his democratic rhetoric is sincere—that he really wants to discuss the elitism of the current system? We have certainly seen corruption in places of power and how elitism betrays the promises of liberty. Is such a reading inappropriate just because the Torah’s writers include an improbable miracle story? 

This sympathetic approach is supported by a curious anomaly in the Bible. Though Korach is cast as a terrible villain, several Psalms are attributed to the “Sons of Korach,” a group of Levites or Priests who sang in the Temple. Why would the name of such a villain be continued? Some names are so disreputable that they are simply retired. In the 1800s and early 1900s, many Jewish men were given the name Adolf. However, at some point in the 1930s, their names morphed into substitutes like Arthur, and no more little Jewish babies were named Adolf anymore. If Korach is really such a villain, it is highly improbable that his name would endure so prominently in both Temple and Bible. So, perhaps the earthquake story is a later addition, used to keep a potential priestly group “in their place” as post Babylonian Exile Judaism was being put together. This Divine retribution story could “explain” why the Korach group of Levitical priests were excluded from the new priesthood. In other words, maybe the original story might have been much more an attempt to discuss egalitarian religious possibilities. 

It is hard for us to know what is really in Korach’s mind, but we can speak of more modern situations where democratic rhetoric incites mobs, leading to results that are very un-democratic. Our American Revolution could have gone the way of the disastrous French Revolution. We remember Sam Adams and his riotous gang in Boston as patriots, but the leadership that led (as opposed to incited) the Revolution and ultimately cobbled together our Constitution was much less hot-headed. They were inclined less to zealotry and more to deliberation and practical compromise.  

One can also point to the failure of democracy in the Arab Spring. Gathering a million people in Tahrir Square was very impressive, but it was hardly the setting for democratic decision making. It might have looked good to idealists, but the impracticability and confusion was so profound that the resulting tyranny of the Muslim Brotherhood and the eventual coup by the Egyptian military was inevitable. In almost every instance, poorly managed Arab Spring attempts at democracy have led to non-democratic authoritarianism and tyranny—and tragedy for millions of Arabs.  

On a smaller scale, one can consider public meetings where, for “democratic” reasons, everyone is welcome to speak "their truths.” It may be a wonderful exercise in self-expression, but such unmanaged gatherings seldom result in anything but talk, anger, and frustration. Channeling complaints or principles into action requires direction and management. It is not a matter of stifling opinion but of figuring out what to do with it. Is the goal of democracy self-indulgence, or is its best purpose effecting social good?  

It is hard to know exactly what happens in the Numbers story of Korach. The Bible clearly has a view, but those who question authority wonder if Korach and his followers are given a “bad rap.” Are they sincere democrats, or are they authoritarian rebels? Or does an unbridled protest lead to a mob and anarchy and the resulting violent resolution? If Korach and his followers are sincerely trying to bring more equality, I wonder how they might pursue their aspirations with more success.

Sending Us Forth To Change

June 16th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Two Torah portions have names in which God sends people forth, Lech Lecha in Genesis and this week’s portion, Shelach Lecha (Numbers 13-15). In Lech Lecha, God sends Abram and Sarai forth, “from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” (Genesis 12.1) There is no response, no discussion, no negotiating. Abram and Sarai do just as God commands and “go forth.”  

In Shelach Lecha, God commands Moses to send forth spies/scouts to reconnoiter the Promised Land: “Send men to scout the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelite people; send one man from each of their ancestral tribes, each one a chieftain among them.” (Numbers 13.2) The twelve men selected go forth on their mission, but, when they return, only two of the scouts, Joshua and Caleb, are enthusiastic: “Let us by all means go up, and we shall surely conquer the land.” (Numbers 13.30) The other ten scouts “spread calumnies among the Israelites about the land they had scouted, saying, ‘The county that we traversed and scouted is one that devours its settlers.’” (Numbers 13.32) The people believe the pessimistic ten and reject God’s mission.  

Why does one sending-forth work and the other fail? Perhaps the problem is in bringing the people into the discussion. Abram and Sarah are not asked to scout the land and then move there. They are just told to go. In Numbers, the scouts report their opinions to the whole Israelite people, and a discussion ensues. There is debate, and cynicism, anxiety, and panic seize the day. Another possible explanation could be the emotional state of the people chosen. Abram and Sarai are full of faith and ready for adventure, but the Israelites in the desert are still so traumatized by slavery—“their spirits crushed by the cruel bondage” (Exodus 6.9)—that embarking on God’s conquest is just too much. Or the difference in results could be a matter of the difference between the two missions. Abram and Sarai are just asked to dwell in the land (alongside the other inhabitants), while the Israelites are asked to conquer the Land and its fearsome peoples.  

Whatever the explanation, we are left with two attempts at change and two very different responses. Change is often difficult, and, when individuals, societies, or congregations attempt change, a number of factors affect the outcomes. My thoughts go to the changes in synagogue music in my career and lifetime—perhaps because Lech Lecha, the more successful sending forth, is the subject of one of Debbie Friedman’s most enduring compositions.

L’chi lach, to a land that I will show you.
Lech lecha, to a place you do not know.
L’chi lach, on your journey I will bless you.
And you shall be a blessing, l’chi lach.

 L’chi lach, and I shall make your name great.
Lech lecha, and all shall praise your name.
L’chi lach, to the place that I will show you.
L’sim’chat Chayim, l’chi lach.

And you shall be a blessing, l’chi lach. 

Younger readers may not realize this, but guitar-accompanied, folk-style synagogue music was a revolutionary thing back in the 1950s, 1960s, and even 1970s. Reform Temples had choirs accompanied by pipe organs, and traditional synagogues had a capella chanting. When non-religious folk music with guitars became very popular among young people after World War II and they expressed the desire to hear this kind of music in synagogue and church, the people in charge of worship were very, very resistant. In youth group settings, social justice songs had a kind of religious resonance—and, in Jewish circles, Israeli folk songs were popular, but there was no real religious music in the folk style, and many young people were frustrated. Eventually, composers wrote folk style music for worship, but the controversy went on for years. Eventually—in both Judaism and Christianity, religious music evolved, and Debbie Friedman was one of the people in Judaism who made these changes possible. She was one of the first song-leader/composers, and she succeeded in making folk/guitar music prayerful.  

She brought to her work formidable talent, determined Jewishness, and hard work. She also collaborated with some very talented writers, but there was something else that made her compositions so influential in effecting major changes in Jewish worship music. Consider these three characteristics of her work.

(1)  She combined the style and chord progressions of rock and folk music with Biblical and prayer book passages. Her songs felt very Jewish because they were very Jewish. In Debbie’s cool and fun songs, we were singing the Bible.

(2)  Many of her songs incorporated both Hebrew and English and in a very comfortable way. The Hebrew introduced English speakers to important phrases and terms and solidified the Jewishness of the song. The English allowed non-Hebrew speakers to know what the words meant: we could  understand the spiritual messages we were singing.

(3)  She encouraged female empowerment, but in a subtle, non-confrontational way. By simply adding the feminine L’chi Lach to the Torah’s masculine Lech Lecha, she seamlessly embraced every Jewish girl and woman, reminding everyone that God’s mission is for both males and females. There was no argument. No impassioned speech. She simply included Sarai in the charge to Abram. In Miriam’s Song, she took a Biblical verse about the women on the side of the men’s Song of the Sea and turned it into an equally exciting celebration. “And the women dancing with their timbrels followed Miriam as she sang her song…” No fuss, no muss. She just included the women of the Torah in the Torah, and every modern girl and woman knew that they are part of the Tradition too. I am not suggesting that arguments are unnecessary for change, but it strikes me how differently change goes when confrontation is not the first step. 

A talented and inspired composer, Debbie was also an agent of change. She helped us improve and enhance our spirituality—our kavannah, and I believe that her strategies helped immensely. As we work on all of our necessary changes, let us remember that change does not just happen. It requires strategy, patience, and awareness of the challenges we all have in adapting to new ways.  

Could God’s charge to Abram and Sarai go wrong? Perhaps, but they are brimming with enthusiasm and faith. Could God’s charge to the Israelites go better? Perhaps, but this could be a learning experience for the Lord: dealing with humans requires great patience. Could Debbie Friedman songs have helped? Who knows, but they would certainly have brought some grace, poetry, and delightful tunes to the process.

"Arise, O Lord, and Disperse Your Enemies!"

June 9th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A persistent theme in the Book of Numbers is our unhappiness with God and God’s plans. Though there were probably some non-dramatic moments in the forty years that the book covers, the text seems full of stories about conflicts. We do not like the food. We cannot find water. We do not want to conquer the Promised Land. Some do not like Moses and Aaron and want themselves to be the leaders. Some of our people are attracted to idolatry and pagan rites, and two of the tribes want to stay on the eastern side of the Jordan River.  

The problem this week is the food, God’s miraculous gift manna from heaven. “The riffraff in the midst of the Israelites felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna!’” (Numbers 11.4-6)  

It is very human to want variety, so the idea of eating the same thing for every single meal is terribly monotonous. However, the manna is free and delicious: “Now the manna was like coriander seed, and in color it was like bdellium. The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes. It tasted like rich cream.” (Numbers 11.78) The Midrash adds that it is miraculous—that it tastes like whatever the eater wants. Of course, this is a Rabbinic enhancement and not in the text itself.  

Meanwhile, notice how the Torah’s words draw a curious distinction between the instigators of the complaining and the general Israelite population. The word riffraff, in Hebrew “ha’saf’suf asher b’kirbo / the riffraff in their midst,” suggests that these complainers are somehow a foreign intrusion who turn our tranquil and appreciative ancestors into whining rebels.  

Some commentators explain that these outsiders are the Erev Rav, the Mixed Multitude of non-Hebrews who join us when we depart Egypt. They could be remnants of the Hyksos who invaded and then ruled Egypt for several centuries. They could be other conquered and enslaved peoples. They could be Egyptians who lose faith in the Pharaoh’s divinity. In some views of the Exodus, these additional refugees speak to the universal promise of God’s freedom, and they can even be considered among our first gerim / converts. Remember the covenant ceremony as described in Nitzavim: “You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God—your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp…to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11). They may not be born Hebrews, but they join our Israelite people and are welcomed into our covenant with God.  

On the other hand, some commentators jump to defend our ancestors by suggesting that it must be the non-Hebrews who cause all the trouble in the Torah: the Golden Calf, the constant complaining, the refusal to commit to the conquest, etc. Though God often calls us all “a stiff- necked people,” some commentators insist that our sainted ancestors are nothing but pious, obedient, and utterly without sin. If something goes wrong, it must be someone else’s fault.  

It is difficult to accept our own guilt or malfeasance—our own selfishness or lack of faith, but the fact is that we are often our own worst enemies. It is not a matter of labeling us as villains or consigning us to Hell. Rather, it is a matter of honestly looking at our difficulties and realizing the times when our actions or attitudes contribute to our troubles. Would that we could be honest and self-reflective. Would that we could stop our brains from persistently and obnoxiously trying to exonerate our foibles or missteps or sins. And, more importantly, would that we could resist the temptation to blame others.  

There are times when enemies surround us, when the actions of others cause danger or damage or worse. In such situations, it is prudent to identify the causes and figure out ways to elude them or defend against them. However, when we are the problem, it is manifestly unjust to try to foist our guilt upon others. We have certainly been the victims of such projecting, and we should be very reticent to repeat this kind of unrighteous behavior.  

Tradition seems both to sense this problem and provide a remedy. In the previous chapter, we read the words Moses declares as the Israelites lift the Ark of the Covenant and begin to move forward. “Arise, O Lord, and disperse Your enemies. May those who hate You flee before You!” (Number 10.35-36)  In the ancient movement of our multitudinous camp, this declaration is a warning to our foes. However, we no longer move the Holy Ark, and Tradition now calls for these words to be proclaimed in our worship service when we open the Ark for the Torah service. We say, “May Your enemies, O Lord, flee before You,” but who exactly are these enemies? Everyone in the synagogue is presumably a friend. Or are we? Though we aspire to be friends of God, are we not also in possession of evil possibilities? Are we not capable of selfishness and mean-spiritedness, of cynicism and impiety, of vulgarity and gossip and sin?  

Perhaps the enemies we hope to vanquish are our own evil inclinations, and we invoke God’s help in this continuous struggle. We can be the loyal children of God, but we can also be the riffraff in our midst. We can be the ones looking for holy possibilities, but we can also be plotting our own misadventures. The only way for us to choose the good is to acknowledge both our virtues and our sins. Honest self-reflection is the first step in fulfilling God’s hopes for us—that we will become blessings. “Arise, O Lord, and disperse Your enemies. May those who hate You flee before You!”

If I Were King...

June 2nd: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A few weeks ago, I mused about our American obsession with things British—from the Royal Family to the aristocracy and landed gentry. We even like their detectives and pastry chefs, and television programs from or about Britain glow in our living rooms continually. Imagining ourselves in their dramas, we often wonder how we would respond. 

If I were the master of Downton Abbey, how would I negotiate modernity? After the Great War decimated the servant class, and socialistic taxes and extravagance bankrupted our class, would I be the one to lose the family estate and position? Could I keep the legacy alive—and how?  

Or, if I were “downstairs,” how much of the tradition would I be willing to dedicate myself to maintaining? How much dignity or autonomy would I be willing to sacrifice so that the upstairs people could have their “important” and ostentatious lives? Would I find these traditions worthy of continuation? 

Similarly, if I were King George III, how high would I want to keep the walls of my castle? Would my democratic tendencies extend just to the highest of the aristocracy or to the population in general? Or, if I were King Charles III, would I feel silly with all the hoopla and expense, or would I find purpose in the monarchy—believing that the money and attention is well-spent for national pride and unity? Would I want to continue things as they have been, or would I emulate  less ostentatious monarchs around the world? Would I be the one who changes tradition? 

The question is not a new one—nor is it restricted to royalty. Religions often face possible changes, and a passage in this week’s Torah portion reminds us of one of Judaism’s greatest moments of transition. In Numbers 6 (verses 22-27), we have what is known as Hab’rachah  Ham’shuleshet / The Threefold Blessing or The Priestly Benediction:
“The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to Aaron and his sons: Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: May the Lord bless you and protect you! May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you! May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace! Thus they shall link My Name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them.”  

Most of us know this blessing as one with which parents bless their children on Shabbat—or with which the Rabbi blesses us at Brit Milah or Baby Naming, Consecration, Bar/Bat Mitzvah, Confirmation, Gerut, or Marriage. However, in Tradition—and as the text suggests, this blessing is to be said by the Kohanim, the Priests.  

The Torah does not identify the occasions on which The Threefold Blessing is to be asked, but the Talmud and subsequent Halachic texts put this blessing into the worship service—in the Amidah just before Sim Shalom. Many congregations have this prayer intoned by the Shaliach Tzibur (prayer leader)—with the congregation answering, Ken y’hi ratzon / May this be God’s Will. However, more traditional congregations bring the Kohanim up to the front of the sanctuary and have what is called Duchenen. The Kohanim remove their shoes, cover their heads and hands with their Tallesim, close their eyes, and make the priestly sign with their hands. The Shaliach Tzibur then begins to chant the words of the blessing, pausing after each word for the Kohanim to repeat the chanted word. It is a ritual moment of great significance—and one of the very few vestiges of the Priestly role that used to dominate Jewish worship. 

Everything changed in 70 CE when the Romans destroyed the Temple and Jerusalem. Without a Temple—and with rebuilding in another location strictly forbidden, there was no place for the Priests to officiate. Imagine being present with the surviving Rabbis in Yavneh when they discussed what to do in the aftermath of the Churban, the destruction. Under the leadership of Yochanan ben Zakkai, the Sages held the future of Judaism in their hands. How were Jews to worship the Lord and keep the covenant? Imagine the table where they pondered Judaism’s fate and the moment when one ancient scholar suggested that God would find prayers acceptable instead of the sacrifices commanded in the Torah. Imagine making the decision to basically junk the previous 1500-2000 years of Jewish worship and institute new ways. What must have begun as a controversial point of view turned out to be both necessary and brilliant, but let us think for a moment about the bravery or desperation or creativity that sparked such a notion. 

The Sages did not know that their new ways would develop into a magnificent spiritual system—one that has nurtured and enhanced our Jewish relationship with the Divine for millennia. They merely saw the necessity and began a process, crafting and re-crafting our Jewish worship service with faith, kavannah, and liturgical labor. Bearing the dual responsibility of revering Tradition and making the necessary changes, these ancient Sages fashioned new ways to keep Israel’s relationship with God healthy and thriving.  

Where they could, they maintained certain forms—keeping the thematic outline of the sacrificial service, but they wrought a major innovation by replacing the sacrifices with prayers. They also faced the consequent de-necessity of the Kohanim, the Priests who had lived with status and power for over a thousand years. In this new “prayer service,” the hereditary priesthood was no longer needed, and any Jew could lead the prayers. Though still respected, the sacred activities of the Kohanim and Levites were vastly reduced and mere tokens of their former roles. 

Though the Sages could bolster their decisions with a number of Scriptural passages, theirs must have been a great and gutsy change. We look back on it now as history, but, at the time, these innovations must have been earth-shaking. Faced with an old order that lay smoldering and in ruins, preserving the essence of our relationship with the Lord meant consigning some precious traditions to memory and legend. 

When we intone the Threefold Priestly Benediction, our primary focus should be, of course, on God’s Presence in our lives. However, we should also reflect on the adaptability that has enabled and enhanced our relationship with the Divine. God’s Face is ever turned to us, smiling and shining and calling us to bring holiness into the times and places we live.

Love and God and Guilt

May 26th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Jewish Tradition teaches that our relationship with God is filled with love—with ahavah. God’s love for us is described in many places in the Bible, and we pray about it in both the morning and the evening services (Ahavah Rabbah and Ahavat Olam). This imperative to love God is something we are supposed to consider every single day—“when we sit in our houses and when we walk by the way, when we lie down and when we rise up.” (Deuteronomy 6.7) Tradition has even imagined a kind of “soap opera” about our love. Though the Biblical Song of Songs speaks of a human love triangle—with a peasant maiden being wooed by both a king and a peasant lad, our mystics treat it as an allegory in which the maiden is Israel, and we are caught between our attraction to both the king (God) and the peasant lad (pagan religions). When the Biblical poet muses, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, as we luxuriate among the roses,” our mystics see it as love talk between God and Israel. When the king asks, “Who is this coming up from the desert, all perfumed with myrrh and frankincense?”, the mystics see it as God welcoming Israel, newly rescued from Egypt, as we enter our Chuppah at Mount Sinai. And, when God declares, “O, you have captured my heart, My own, My bride,” it means that God is deeply in love with us. 

The drama in Song of Songs includes attraction and devotion, doubt and frustration, estrangement and then loving reconciliation, and our mystics see these human emotions as reflections of the ups and downs of spirituality. Sometimes we feel very close to God and Jewish ways, and sometimes we feel less close. Sometimes there is passion, and sometimes there is distance. As we go through life, we find our religious sensibilities waxing and waning, and evolving.  

If we were to sing a love song to God, the sentiments could go in a number of directions. We could love intensely as in the Song of Songs: “Dodi li, va’ani lo ha’ro’eh, bashoshanim. / I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, as we luxuriate among the roses?”  Or we could choose a song like this one penned by Willie Nelson: “Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have. Maybe I didn’t treat you, quite as good as I should have, If I made you feel, oh, second best, Girl, I’m sorry I was blind. But you were always on my mind. You were always on my mind.” You were always on my mind, but…  

In every loving relationship, there are times when guilt enters the dynamic. Though we may feel a deep devotion to God, to Judaism, and to Jewish ways, we often find ourselves pulled in other directions. With the demands of jobs, families, friends, and social and civic obligations, we may often neglect our religion and find ourselves worried that we are inadequately Jewish. Often this guilt hits us when we are in religious situations: a holiday, a Bar/Bat Mitzvah, running into relatives: Are we being Jewish enough, or not? 

We Jews have an uncanny ability to feel guilt, but sometimes it may not be the correct response. What, among our religious decisions, are the proper grounds for guilt?  

Reform Judaism teaches that each of us has the right to negotiate our own covenant with God, determining what “dosage” of God/Judaism is right for our souls. If keeping kosher helps you in your sense of holiness, wonderful. If it does not, then there should be no guilt in not keeping kosher. If prayer and synagogue or Torah study are helpful to your relationship with the Divine, wonderful. But, if they do not help your soul, then you have the right to determine for yourself the best way to feed your Jewishness. This is not a matter of guilt for deviating from the prescribed way, but rather a matter of using your God-given autonomy to craft your own life. The only time guilt is appropriate is when we fall short of our own standards or expectations—when we fail to nurture our own souls. 

If we are happy with our freely chosen dosage of God and Judaism, then we should feel no guilt. We and God are good. If, on the other hand, we feel that our dosage is not nurturing or developing our souls, then we should endeavor to make changes. Guilt is only useful if it spurs us to reflection and a possible re-ordering of our priorities.  

Our Tradition teaches us that God loves each one of us individually and personally—that God created and is interested in each one of us. Though much of Judaism involves relating to God as a community, our individual relationships are also of extreme importance. God cares about us and wants each one of us to take care of our souls. We should think of tending to our religious sensibilities as self-care and recall Hillel’s ancient advice: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me…and if not now, when?” (Avot 1.14) 

Whether close or distant, whether passionate or more calm, each of us has a relationship with God. How much closeness is good? How much is too much? How much God-consciousness do our souls crave? What kinds of Jewishness will be helpful? Like all important relationships, the love and obligation we feel in regard to God and Judaism need to be managed and cultivated and appreciated.  

When and if we feel guilt, we should try to understand what lies beneath. Is it a sense of failure, or is it simply the awareness of different choices? Or, is it a sense of yearning for “more God?” Is it a matter of clarifying our principles, or is it time to re-evaluate our life choices and make changes for the better? During our Festival of Shavuot, when we remember and celebrate the wonder of Mount Sinai, let us remember that the thunder of God’s revelation vibrates individually and personally for every Jew. What does it say to you? How best should you craft your response?

Entering Stories That Are Not Exactly Our Own

May 19th: Bemidbar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

It is always interesting to me how we can be drawn into a story and recalibrate our thinking to fit with the characters’ values. We imagine ourselves as English aristocrats, as Mafia chieftains, as heroic spies, or as maverick fighter pilots. We enter these stories and imagine what we would do in their situations—accepting and adopting their rules and mores.  

This happens all the time when I watch movies, but it really struck home recently as our national attention was drawn to two British royal dramas—the actual coronation of King Charles III and the dramatic imagination of Queen Charlotte (the Netflix prequel to Bridgerton). I suspect that we are not unique in having dual thoughts on the subject: (1) we would never want to live in those ways, but (2) if we did, we have some ideas on how best to proceed. We “enter” those worlds and imagine how we would work within their rules, expectations, and possibilities. 

I have similar thoughts when I study this week’s Torah portion. After an extensive census of the Israelites and some genealogy of some prominent families, we read the instructions for packing up the Tabernacle’s holy furnishings and utensils. Remember, the Mishkan/Tent Temple is portable, and the Israelites carry it with them as they travel through the wilderness. The concern here involves the relative holiness of those who are allowed to touch or pack or carry the holy objects. The ancient priest-dominated sacrificial cult is exceedingly far from my experience as a Jew, and frankly it is something that does not appeal to me. Nonetheless, as I study the Torah, I find myself being drawn into its internal logic and taking on its proprieties. 

Though the whole tribe of Levi is holy, Aaron and his sons are the holiest. As the Kohanim/ priests, only they are allowed to touch the holy objects—both for ritual and for packing up. As for carrying, this holy honor is assigned to other and less holy Levites. “When Aaron and his sons have finished covering the sacred objects and all the furnishings of the sacred objects at the breaking of camp, only then shall the Kohathites come and lift them, so that they do not come in contact with the sacred objects and die. These things in the Tent of Meeting shall be the porterage of the Kohathites.” (Numbers 4.15)  

This is a strictly regimented caste system, with status and responsibility being based on lineage—and not on merit or religiosity. It is in marked distinction to other Bible stories that turn things upside down, with younger (and therefore “less important”) individuals proving themselves and becoming heroes. Look at Isaac instead of Ishmael, Jacob instead of Esau, and Joseph, David, and Solomon instead of their many older brothers. Whereas much of the Bible favors talent and faith over lineage, these Priestly passages stand firmly on ancestry-based power—and grate against our democratic and egalitarian sensibilities.  

Perhaps this is why many of us sympathize with Korah when he presents egalitarian aims for his rebellion (about which we’ll read in June). He gathers disgruntled Israelites and confronts Moses with, “All the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?!” (Numbers 16.3)  

Interestingly, Moses’ response is that Korah should be happy with his Levitical privilege. He is not a priest, but, as a Levite, he is higher than all the other Israelites. “Is it not enough for you that the God of Israel has set you apart from the community of Israel and given you access to Him, to perform the duties of the Lord’s Tabernacle and to minister to the community and serve them? Now that He has advanced you and all your fellow Levites with you, do you seek the priesthood too?!” (Numbers 16.8-10) 

The Torah has God coming to Moses’ and the Aaronide hierarchy’s rescue, and this leads the Commentaries to explain (post hoc ergo propter hoc) that Korah’s rhetoric is dishonest—that he is evil and just using the appeal of egalitarianism to seize power and prestige for himself. Like our feelings for George Orwell’s Napoleon the Pig (“All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.”), we rejoice in the downfall of the usurpers. Moses and Aaron and the true religion are maintained. 

See, it happened again. Though I am very glad that my Judaism is post-Biblical/Rabbinic—that we do not have a hereditary priesthood ministering to God and barbequing animals on my behalf, I can very easily get drawn into the story and defend the very system I am glad is not mine. I find myself in need of a reality check. 

The challenge for post-Biblical (post-Temple sacrificial cult) Jews has always been to apply filters to our ancient and sacred heritage. We read the stories and try to discern wisdom. We reflect upon our ancestral relationship with God and try to replicate something of the devotion and faith. We regard the cultural and cultic details with interest but with a learned distance, filtering out those things that are problematic and not spiritually necessary, and holding precious the principles and aspirations that are enduring and eternally helpful. The ancient Israelite religion is not ours, and I do not want to return to it. In Judaism, we have distilled those ancient religious sensibilities into something much better. 

Among our tools are allegory and metaphor—with some passages requiring them more than others. When the Torah tells us to “love our neighbors as ourselves,” (Leviticus 19.18) or “not to murder” (Exodus 20.13), we can buy into the ancient text unequivocally. However, when we read about the ancient sacrificial cult and its strictly hierarchical priesthood—as well as other passages which command misogyny and intolerance, it is time to pull out the metaphors and mystical interpretations that allow us to appreciate rather than obey, to be informed by rather than to be instructed.  

Part of our Jewish way involves looking to the past and revering both God and the continuing relationship our people have enjoyed with the Divine. We study and we reflect, but we also give thanks that Judaism has moved on, constructing a magnificent spiritual system where we encounter God not with animal sacrifices but with Torah, with prayer, and with deeds of lovingkindness.

Aspirations for Imperfect People

May 12th: Behar / Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I do not see a lot of Christian bumper stickers up here, but, in the South, they are quite popular. Some proclaim a preference for Biblical translations: “If it ain’t the King James, it ain’t the Bible.” Others ask for theological affirmations from other drivers: “Honk if you love Jesus.” Some anticipate a miraculous end of days, “Warning: In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned.” Some present a kind of defense for less-than-exemplary co-religionists: “Christians aren’t perfect; they’re just forgiven.” This last one seems particularly necessary when religious scandals hit the news. 

For every religious scandal, there are thousands of people in the pews shocked, disgusted, and truly embarrassed. Some are even left wondering about the validity of their religious path. While ostensibly putting their faith in God, they also develop a loyalty to God’s representatives. Whether God is worthy of their loyalty is a theological question, but whether their clergy or congregational officials are worthy of their trust is, unfortunately, sometimes a question for denominational tribunals or even the criminal justice system. 

This was shown in an interesting irony in the fall from grace of televangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. Law enforcement had no role in judging their promises of heaven in exchange for donations to their lavish lifestyle. However, when they double-sold timeshare units at their Christian resort, they were hauled before the earthly justice system. Similarly, the grandiose theological claims of Jimmy Swaggart were believed by some and doubted by others. However, when he was arrested more than once for soliciting prostitution, thousands of his followers were left bereft and in danger of spiritual dismay. When religious leaders falter and sin, what does it say about the religion they preach? 

(For a fascinating study of the interplay of religion and ego, see the recent film Honk for Jesus; Save Your Soul, starring Regina Hall and Sterling K. Brown. It is inaccurately billed as a mock-documentary comedy, but it is achingly serious. When people speak for God, how much is God, and how much is the ego of the preacher?) 

Consider the plight of our Roman Catholic friends who have been battered over and over again in recent decades by the revelation of clergy sexual abuse. It has certainly rocked the institution of the Church, but what about the faith itself? One of my friends is a devoted Catholic, and she has described the intense pain she has felt at this betrayal by too many priests. However, she still believes that the Church has a valid message and presents a true path to God. The Church is her church. While it desperately needs to purge itself of the evil and irresponsibility of some of its leaders, she, like millions of other struggling parishioners, remains a faithful Catholic. The sins of some do not represent or negate the true faith. 

Of course, we Jews are not immune from sins and indiscretions. We blanche every time a Jew’s sins make the news. From Baruch Goldstein to Ivan Boesky and Bernie Madoff and Aryeh Deri, we fervently hope that their shame will not have negative ramifications for the rest of Jewry. When one of us does well, we all feel pride. When one of us sins, we are all ashamed—and worried that it will be a shanda for the goyim (make us all look bad in front of the non-Jews). As the ancient Sages observe, “Israel is like a pile of nuts. If you take one from the pile, all of them collapse and roll onto one another.” (Midrash Rabba, Song of Songs 6.11)  

Do bad members of a group necessarily mean that the group is bad—or that their aspirations are worthless? Those of us who disbelieve a particular message may feel a kind of satisfaction when its overbearing adherents are revealed to be less than perfect. However, to be fair, the messages of religion are often more aspirational than factual. They represent methods to human betterment—methods that are necessary because we humans are inevitably imperfect.  

In the heat of debates over the comparative value of various religions or denominations, the imperfect members of that religion can be held up as examples of its inferiority. A bad priest means that Catholicism is wrong. A dishonest pastor means that Evangelical Christianity is wrong. A terrorist imam means that Islam is wrong. But what about us? Does a dishonest or murderous Jew mean that Judaism is wrong? There are those who take the sins of religionists as evidence of religion’s worthlessness—and, while we might smile inwardly when another religion comes off looking bad, how do we feel when it is our religion that is impugned by sin?  

In our weekly Torah portion, we read about the ancient Sabbatical and Jubilee Years. Every seven years, the land was to lie fallow and have an agricultural Sabbath. Every fifty years, the real estate market was to have a kind of Sabbath: all deals made in the previous forty-nine years were to be cancelled, and the land was to revert back to the families assigned to it by God and Moses. There is evidence that the Sabbatical year was actually observed—with the land lying fallow and debts being cancelled. However, there is some scholarly doubt as to whether the Jubilee year was ever actually observed. If it were not an observed custom, why would such an injunction be preserved in the Torah? Perhaps, rather than a serious commandment, it represented a kind of aspirational ideal—one of the Biblical author’s hope for a return to the simplicity of old and purer ways. 

In reading the Bible, it is necessary to distinguish between passages that are meant to be followed, and passages that represent idyllic visions. Will the lamb really lie down with the wolf? Will little children really play with poisonous snakes? (Isaiah 11.6-9) Will “the Mountain of the Lord’s House” really “be exalted above the hills—and the nations flow unto it and many peoples say, ‘Come ye, and let us go up to the Mountain of the Lord, to the House of the God of Jacob, where God will teach us holy ways so that we may walk in holy paths?’” (Isaiah 2.2-3 and Micah 4.1-2) Or are these aspirational and idyllic visions intended to inspire us to work with other religions and nations and bring blessings to the world? 

We are all sinners—each and every one of us, regardless of our chosen faith. We are all subject to temptation, and we all succumb from time to time. Our failings are not due to the inadequacies of our religions but rather to our own weakness, selfishness, short-sightedness, and self-pity. Too often, we misuse our religions in the pursuit of sin. It is deplorable and, yet we should not lose sight of the aspirational possibilities of religion. We can be called from On High. We can be inspired to righteousness and holy behavior. We can respond and improve and become better children of the Most High.

Perfect? No. Forgiven? Maybe. Improvable? Absolutely.

Being Acceptable Before the Lord

 May 5th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I would like to focus on three passages in this week’s Torah portion. The first provides a philosophical and aesthetic basis: “When you sacrifice a thanksgiving offering to the Lord, lir’tzon’chem tizbachu / sacrifice it so that it may be acceptable in your favor.” (Leviticus 22.29) The Hebrew word ratzon is usually translated as acceptable and is found in many places in our Tradition. The most famous example is at the end of Psalm 19: “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart l’ratzon be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.”  

The interesting and problematic thing about this word is that it is not very specific. Acceptable is a concept based on a variety of situations and cultural mores. An acceptable menu for a back yard barbeque is not the same as an acceptable menu for a formal banquet. Acceptable behavior for a raucous party is not the same as acceptable behavior for a worship service. Acceptable explanations for five-year olds are not the same as acceptable explanations for grown-ups. One could extend this to diverse cultural settings. While, in some cultures, a loud belch is a sign of appreciation for a delicious meal, such a response would not have been appreciated at my Mother’s table. 

It seems pretty obvious that we would want our worship to be acceptable to God, but exactly what does this mean? Fortunately, the Torah gives case-specific definitions: “The sacrifice shall be eaten on the same day; you shall not leave any of it until morning: I am the Lord.” This is for the zevach todah / the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For a different sacrifice, the zevah sh’lamim / sacrifice of well-being, the rules are a little looser: “It shall be eaten on the day you sacrifice it, or on the day following, but what is left by the third day must be consumed in fire.” (Leviticus 19.5-8) In both cases, however, the yuckiness of leftovers lessens the honor God feels in the sacred meal, and worshippers are warned lest they desecrate (lessen the sacredness of) their intimacy with the Lord.  

Acceptability is always a mixture of intention and form, and, if we really want a gesture or ritual to mean something to someone else, we need to pay attention. Just going through the motions does not accomplish the emotional or spiritual connection intended.  

Our second passage follows this theme, reminding us that the gifts we bring to God should be in good shape: “When a man offers, from the herd or the flock, a sacrifice…to be acceptable it must be without blemish; there must be no defect in it.” (Leviticus 22.21) A variety of physical imperfections for livestock are then delineated—the point being that giving something to God that would not fetch a good price in the market is not respectful. Farmers know the comparative values of perfect or imperfect livestock, and, as the Torah reminds us, God knows as well.  

What is disturbing is that this focus on physical perfection is carried over to the priesthood. In our third passage, Aaron is instructed: “No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be  qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too long, too short, or mutilated, or has a broken leg or a broken arm, or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes…” (Leviticus 21.16-20) These “imperfect” priestly descendants are allowed to eat the sacred meals—the priests’ share of the sacrifices being an important part of the priestly families’ income, but they cannot officiate in the Tabernacle or Temple. In the ancient mentality, this imperfection signals disrespect for God. It is not l’ratzon / acceptable. 

Hopefully, we are past this kind of thinking, and enlightened legislation like the Americans With Disabilities Act has hopefully cleared the way for “less than perfect” individuals to participate more fully in society. The past century has seen great strides in inclusion and accommodation for people with a variety of physical, intellectual, and emotional disabilities. Though these human beings may be limited in some ways, the challenge has been to find ways that they can function fully and constructively. As the specifics have been explored, it is remarkable how many disabilities seem to pale before the real work these formerly disenfranchised individuals can do. I  remember, in particular, a cashier at a Wal-Mart in Pensacola who had dwarfism. Her short stature made that work impossible—until the store provided a pedestal for her at the register, and she was able to work as well as any other cashier. The accommodation was remarkably small for the result, and these kinds of adjustments have given new life to thousands of disabled individuals in thousands of situations.  

Who knows whether God or the priesthood would have re-evaluated these ancient rules as time went by, but, when the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, the priesthood faded into inactivity, and such rules became irrelevant. The scholars who succeeded the ancient priests—the Rabbis—had no such limitations, and heredity and physical perfection ceased to be official factors in Jewish leadership.  

That does not, however, remove the biases that perhaps gave rise to those ancient prescriptions and which continue today. Is there not something in our souls which makes us think that “better” people are better at their tasks? Why have all of our U.S. Presidents been over six feet tall? Why was Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s disability hidden as much as possible? Why do we believe the testimonies and endorsements of famous and beautiful celebrities? Do successful athletes really know more about beer or trucks or sandwiches?  

This is not a new situation or realization—which is probably why the ancient sage Rabbi Judah HaNasi felt the need to give this famous counsel: “Al tis’takel b’kan’kan, elah bemah she’yesh bo. Do not look at the bottle but at what it contains: a new bottle may contain old wine, and an old bottle which may not even have new wine.” (Avot 4.20) 

We all know that this is true, but we somehow keep forgetting. We sacrifice our good judgment to fluff and pretty packaging, and we often pay the price. May we learn to look into the heart of things—into the internal truths which possess quality or truth or the lack thereof. Perhaps reminding ourselves of this ancient unfairness—of only allowing physically “perfect” priests to officiate—can help us in this process. God knows what is in every heart and mind, and God, I believe, is not deterred by what humans regard as imperfect. We are all—all of us!—created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, so let us look carefully.

Searching for God in the Torah

April 28th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As Charles Dickens once opined, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…” 

Sometimes the highs and lows of life—or wisdom—are remarkably proximate, and, as much as this might have been true in London and Paris of the late 18th Century, we can say the same for the disparities in our Torah portion.

Leviticus 19 begins with profundity, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” and continues with many examples of holy/godly behavior. We are urged to bring God’s standards to every aspect of our lives, and the culminating verse (19.18) summarizes this aspirational thinking: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  This is a pinnacle of Torah wisdom. 

The problem is that, in its furtherance of ideal behavior, the Biblical author continues with some ancient attitudes that grate against our modern sensibilities. In verse 19, we are prohibited from crossbreeding different breeds of cattle, crossbreeding various kinds of fruits or vegetables, or wearing cloth made from different kinds of fabrics. These hardly seem like moral issues. 

Then we are presented with stunning harshness in the gratuitous application of the death penalty. Who is to be executed? Those who engage in pagan religious rituals, or insult their parents, or commit adultery. I am not suggesting that these behaviors are okay but rather that other disciplines or punishments seem more appropriate.  

Some of the prohibitions in the latter half of Kedoshim are difficult to understand. Exactly what is the problem or fear in various spiritualist practices? In Leviticus 20.6 and 20.27, we are forbidden from “turning to ghosts and familiar spirits, and going astray after them.” Is the averah (sin) consulting the spirits of the departed—or turning those communications into idolatry or polytheism? One of the benefits of Modernity has been the expansion of our understanding of the spiritual energy that fills our world. We have also expanded our appreciation and tolerance of different religious paths. Are the ancient fears still valid, or are we looking at clannish or narrow-minded prejudice? 

And finally, there is a prohibition with which most of us strenuously disagree. In Leviticus 20.13, we are told that homosexual sex is abhorrent and should be punished with death. “If a man lies with a male as one lies with a woman, the two of them have done an abhorrent thing; they shall be put to death—their bloodguilt is upon them.” This has certainly been the belief of most people through most of history—and tragically these attitudes continue in much of the world today. However, modern psychological insights have blessed us with the realization that homosexuality is just a natural variation of human sexuality. LGBT+ individuals should be respected and included, and fortunately this is the case throughout Reform Judaism and other Liberal religious movements—and in some of the modern world.  

What do we do with such painful words in our sacred Torah? Other than being reminded that Tikkun Olam is not complete—that justice and righteousness and open-mindedness must still be pursued, I think that the answer lies in understanding more about the Bible. The Tanakh (Hebrew Scriptures) reflects ancient times and cultural mores and the best thinking of a variety of ancient authors and editors. Though the text purports to be a series of instructions from God, it is rather a chorus of different human opinions about what they think God wants. There is rarely unanimity, and the ancient diversity of opinions is matched by diverse responses in every age of Judaism, including our own. The challenge is ascertaining the spirit of the ancient revelation and filtering out biases or time-bound and culture-bound attitudes that detract from the essential goodness and profundity of God.  

Are mitzvot like “Love your neighbor as yourself” and “You shall not murder” good and true because they are in the Bible, or are they valid and valuable on their own? Indeed, is their inclusion in the Bible a testament to the fact that our ancestors associated such wisdom with God?  

Revering the Holy Scriptures is not a matter of taking everything literally—or anything literally. Regardless of what some people claim, literally no one is able to follow the whole Bible. Interpretation and filtering are inevitably necessary, and the religious life calls on us to read the ancient words carefully and to search in them for godliness.

Learning or Sabotaging Abundance?

April 21st: Tazria and Metzora
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the special Haftarah this week is for the New Moon, it also has an interesting connection to the theme of our Torah portions, Tazria and Metzora—possibly the “worst” Torah portions of the year. Their subjects? The diagnosis and treatment of leprosy and house mold, various bodily discharges, and the religious rituals surrounding these situations. These portions both call on all our analogy/ metaphor/allegory skills as we try to find modern meaning in these ancient instructions.  

Isaiah 66.1-24. Isaiah’s message speaks of a kind of moral rot that sin and depravity bring into human lives. Like mold that can render a good house uninhabitable, our sins can sabotage our happiness. Indeed, how can we expect to be close to God when we mix our religiosity with disrespect?
“As for those who slaughter oxen and slay humans,
Who sacrifice sheep and immolate dogs,
Who present as oblation the blood of swine,
Who offer incense and worship false gods—
Just as they have chosen their ways
And take pleasure in their abominations,
So will I choose to mock them,
To bring on them the very thing they dread…” (Isaiah 66.3-4) 

Isaiah’s read of our history is that the disasters experienced by ancient Judah and Israel are not by happenstance. Rather they are punishments meted out by God because of our immorality and idolatry. Just as our God of Justice plagued the ancient Egyptians because of their crimes and sins, so does the same God hold us responsible when we corrupt our lives. Justice and righteousness are incumbent upon every nation, and our only remediation is to repent—both individually and communally. 

Isaiah also counsels patience—that God’s forgiveness will come but it may take a while before the blessings become abundant again. 

I would like to pursue this metaphor of something rotting from within and apply it to the question of our abundance. I believe that a certain kind of economic thinking can rot our sense of abundance and bring  misery into our lives. The idea I am challenging is the one that says, If we are not winning, then we are losing. If we are not doing better than others, then we are unsuccessful. 

Part of this thinking comes from the competition upon which commerce is based. There are a limited number of cabbages, washing machines, or shirts that will be purchased, and merchants compete to sell theirs. However, when this competitive inclination is applied to our sense of abundance and happiness, we get into trouble. A case in point was reported last week. Whereas “the American Dream” has been, for many generations, that “children will do better than their parents,” this possibility seems to be waning. Statistics suggest that upward mobility is no longer a ubiquitous expectation, and, if this continues to be the case, is the American Dream dying? Or, as I suspect, is this thinking less than well-founded? Do we need to do “better than our parents” to succeed? 

I take these questions personally, because I am someone who chose a career in which I knew I would not make as much money as my parents. Was this therefore a poor career choice? Did my parents defeat me in a competition I was supposed to win? Or are there simply different income figures when one makes an unnecessary comparison? Is the point of income to win a competition or to provide for one’s needs and desires? Does one need to win a competition to win in life? 

A similar competitive analysis got a lot of attention back around a dozen years ago. The Great Recession of 2008 reduced the wages and retirement contributions of many young people, and, when pushed forward by economic modeling, these workers were projected to amass less wealth by the time they retire than the cohort that started their careers a decade earlier. Focusing on this disparity can bring about a lot of anxiety, frustration, and even nihilism. Unless we ask: How much is enough? If someone retires in 2050 with $2 million instead of $3 million—a possible disparity caused by the Great Recession, what would be the “abundance effect?” Will this earner have been able to purchase a home? Will he/she have been able to send their children to college? Will this citizen have been able to take vacations, drive reliable cars, and enjoy the various pleasures of life? Yes, but. Instead of vacationing in Aruba or Tahiti, they might have had to enjoy the beach on the Jersey Shore or the Outer Banks. Instead of living in a 3500 square foot house, they might have had to settle for one with only 2000 square feet. They might have had to endure with less, but could they have had enough? 

I am not talking about real poverty—or about the various social justice dimensions of income disparity. I am not talking about subsistence farmers or penniless immigrants trying to support their families. For so many of us—a few generations beyond that kind of economic desperation, the question is less about economic survival than about having enough to be comfortable. When we see everything in terms of a competition that we either win or lose, we bring misery to ourselves and miss the blessings we are given. We have, in other words, the ability to inculcate rot into the core of our abundance and to ruin our ability to appreciate. 

Our real concern should be developing the ability to be satisfied. We can be poor in the midst of plenty, or rich in relatively poor circumstances. We are not always in a race, a fight, or a competition. As we pray on Shabbat: “Sab’aynu mituvecha. Satisfy us with Your goodness.” May we, O Lord, learn to appreciate our blessings and to share them with others. 

An Ancient Tragedy Not to Repeat

April 14th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In Shemini, we usually find ourselves focusing on Leviticus 11 and the origins of our Jewish Dietary Laws. Starting modestly, Kashrut eventually develops into four main categories:
(1)  which animals are permitted to be eaten,
(2)  how the animals are to be slaughtered,
(3)  the separation of meat and dairy, and
(4)  the special Passover rules.

Only two of these categories (#1 and #4) are Biblical, and this week’s focus is on which animals are permitted for consumption. Mammals must have split hooves and chew the cud. Fish must have fins and scales. Insects must have “jointed legs above their feet for leaping upon the ground.” (Leviticus 11.21) And, while there are no characteristics identified for birds, there is a list of prohibited species. Thus does the formidable system of Kashrut begin.  

However, there is another passage which should draw our attention: the mysterious death of Aaron’s two sons. As you may remember, Aaron is appointed High Priest, and his four sons—Nadab, Abihu, Elazar, and Itamar—are appointed Priests to function alongside him in the Mishkan now, and eventually to replace him as Kohen.  

They are all ordained and trained as priests, but, shortly after the sacrificial rituals begin, a disaster occurs. “Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it, and they offered before the Lord aysh zarah / alien fire, which God had not instructed. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord.” (Leviticus 10.1-2) 

The text does not identify their mistake or explain what this “alien fire” is. Commentators are thus left to speculate on what could have possibly merited such a punishment. One theory is based on a passage immediately following the story. Editors could have placed it there on purpose, or its placement could have been arbitrary. “The Lord spoke to Aaron, saying, ‘Drink no wine or other intoxicant, you or your sons, when you enter the Tent of Meeting, that you may not die. This is a law for all time throughout the ages, for you must distinguish between the sacred and the profane, and between the unclean and the clean; and you must teach the Israelites all the laws which the Lord has imparted to them through Moses.’” (Leviticus 10.8-11)  

Is the averah (sin) of Nadab and Abihu drunkenness? Is it inebriation per se or is it the fact that they try to perform their sacred duties while drunk—approaching God without the proper kavannah (focus) and kavod (respect)? 

Lessons about the dangers of alcohol are not new, but they are always important. As wonderful as alcoholic beverages can be—tasting good and leaving us with a nice, relaxed feeling, there are also problems. Our motor skills are reduced, and our judgment is impaired. As nice as it is to self-medicate with alcohol, we still need our wits about us.  

Every once in a while, scientists and then journalists will weigh in on the health effects of alcohol, and lots of conversation (and controversy) is triggered. After hearing for years about how moderate amounts of alcohol are good for our us—along with the advice that a glass of red wine a day is good for heart health, many of us were shocked at a recent report that consuming alcohol in any amount reduces our lifespan. Given the great emphasis on alcoholic beverages in our society, this is not a mere scientific contemplation. It is for many a kind of existential crisis with emotional, psychological, and physical stakes.  

The Bible weighs in on the subject with a characteristic nuance. In Psalm 104.15, we celebrate God’s abundance that gives us “wine that cheers the hearts of humans.” But, in Proverbs, we are warned about drinking and making fools of ourselves. “Wine is a scoffer, strong drink a roisterer; one who is muddled by them will not grow wise.” (20.1) There is also “Get wisdom; lead your mind in a proper path. Do not be of those who guzzle wine…” (23.19).  

Most of us have had experiences when we have had too much to drink, and we have learned that managing our drinking is crucial if we want to avoid sabotaging careers or family relationships. How do we localize our drinking so that the effects of alcohol do not interfere with priorities? What kind of advice is helpful—so we know “how to drink” or “how to hold our liquor?”  

Among the theories about introducing young people to responsible drinking is a myth about why “Jews are not alcoholics.” The story goes that a little wine for Kiddush and Seder somehow prevents alcoholism, but this bubbe meise comes as quite a surprise to all the Jewish alcoholics. While there may be less of a genetic predeterminant for alcohol addiction among Jews (as opposed to other ethnic groups), the fact is that there are plenty of Jews who are subject to and who suffer from alcoholism. Repeating the myth about Jews not being vulnerable to this disease makes them feel double failures—first as alcoholics and second as Jews. (And, for what it’s worth, there is some evidence that Jews have a genetic predisposition to cocaine addiction...)   

The dichotomy between the joys of alcohol and the dangers of alcohol are one of the reasons it is hard to address this issue with teenagers and young adults. It is also difficult to warn them of dangers that so many adults so frequently flaunt. Whether it is driving “after only a few drinks” or beers or martinis at lunch, there is a lot of modeling of risky behavior.  

Getting back to our Torah portion, one may think that Nadab and Abihu are youngsters—upstarts without much life experience. However, their father’s younger brother (Moses) is eighty years old at the Exodus, and one can figure that Nadab and Abihu are well into adulthood—old enough to know better. Unless, of course, they are in the habit of thinking they can “handle it”—that their self-medication does not diminish their kavannah or their kavod.  

The Torah lesson in this portion is not new, but it is nonetheless very important. Alcoholic beverages dull our senses and our thinking abilities. They can be useful, but we need to be very careful with them. Remember what God tells Aaron: There are times when you must be able to distinguish between acceptable and unacceptable—aware enough both to follow the right path and to teach it.

Old Stories; New Twists

April 8th: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

As we pray through the Haggadah this week, many of us will greet the familiar passage about Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah and how he learned something new in his old age. “Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah said, "Behold I am like a man of seventy years, and I have never understood why the story of the Exodus from Egypt should be told at night until Ben Zoma explicated it. He quotes Deuteronomy 16:3, 'In order that you remember the day of your going out from the land of Egypt all the days of your life,' and explains as follows. If the Torah would have said merely 'the days of your life,' then we could conclude that the story should be told only in the daytime. However, the fact that the Torah says, 'all the days of your life' indicates that we should tell the story during the nights as well.” 

Though the main point is about when we should tell the story of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim / the Exodus from Egypt, I want to focus on Rabbi Elazar’s surprise at learning something new. He was the head rabbi of his generation—learned and insightful and powerful—and might have figured he knew everything. However, Ben Zoma’s deduction from a well-known text was something completely new, and Rabbi Elazar’s surprise learning can be an example for us all. Even in often repeated texts, we may see something we did not notice before, or hear a different perspective, or have had recent experiences that render us more responsive or aware.  

This was certainly my experience a few weeks ago in Israel. We were visiting Herodian, a man-made hill just outside of Bethlehem. The site was originally a summer palace for King Herod, but, late in life, he decided to cover the palace with dirt and have his tomb built there. The tomb itself was also buried, and the whole complex lay hidden for centuries—until recent decades of archeological excavations. It is a wonderful and eye-opening place for tourists to visit. 

However, there were some surprises. Some 130 years after Herod’s 4 BCE interment, the abandoned and buried palace complex was used as a hide-out by Jewish rebels in the Bar Kochba Rebellion (132-136 CE). Though all covered by dirt, inside was a warren of service tunnels, water cisterns, and drainage tunnels in addition to the various living and gathering spaces of the palace. From this secret lair, the rebels could mount their attacks and find refuge afterwards.  

Here is where a well-known Seder passage comes in. “While observing the Seder at B’nai B’rak, five ancient rabbis lingered all night long. Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Joshua, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, Rabbi Akiva, and Rabbi Tarfon were so intent on celebrating and discussing the story of the Exodus from Egypt that they were still talking about it when the sun began to rise. Their students had to interrupt them with, “Rabbis, it is time to recite the morning Shema!” 

I always figured that their scholastic and religious kavannah was so intense that they simply did not notice it getting light outside. However, our guide—quoting an insight of his study partner, wondered about their obliviousness. Did no one in the discussion see the dawn? Any veteran of “all-nighters” knows that, at some point, someone looks up and notices daybreak. What really happened? 

The Tradition tells us that these five rabbis were among the leaders of the Bar Kochba Rebellion, and the commentary has always been that the “Exodus from Egypt” they were discussing was really plans for the Rebellion against Rome. Our guide’s friend’s theory is that these rabbis were hiding underground—perhaps in a place like Herodian—and literally could not see the sun rising. Guards up on the hilltop saw the dawn and descended into the hiding place where they interrupted the meeting with, “Rabbis, it is time to recite the morning Shema!” 

As we were crawling through the narrow passages and learning about the rebels’ defensive strategies, another Talmudic passage came to light. This one is found in Sanhedrin 14a and Avodah Zarah 8b, but most know it from the Martyrology section on Yom Kippur afternoon. Despite the Roman prohibition of training and ordaining rabbis, Rabbi Judah ben Bava defied the order and ordained five into the rabbinate. When the Romans arrived to execute him and his students, he told the students to run away. He would stay and single-handedly stop the Romans. He said, “I am cast before them like a stone that cannot be overturned,” or, in other translations, “I will be like an immovable rock.”

How could one man stop the Roman soldiers? If the old rabbi and his students were in an underground hiding place like Herodian, here is what could have happened. The narrow, twisting, and dark tunnels would have been very difficult for the Roman soldiers to negotiate. They had their armor and weapons and a torch in one hand to see in the darkness, and they would have been forced to walk in single file. This meant that a single defender, hiding around a dark corner, could have easily taken out the lead soldier—whom the following soldiers would have to climb over. Then the defender could have easily taken out the next lead soldier and then the next and the next. Thus could the elderly Judah ben Bava have defended several narrow positions and let his students escape—even if eventually he were overcome.

Our religious texts usually focus on faith and courage, but our Tradition is also full of strategy and practicality—all necessary for our sacred survival. 

Our generation is not the first to notice the repetitive nature of our holidays and holy texts, and remarks like that of Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah remind us to keep paying attention. There is also the advice of the ancient sage Ben Bag Bag: “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)  

“Knowing” a story only means that we know some of what the story has to teach. Our Tradition is built of layers upon layers upon layers. Even when we know the story, there may be more for us to learn, more for us to appreciate, more for us to understand. The Buddhists say, “When you are ready to learn, a teacher will appear.” Perhaps we should say, “When you are ready to learn, an already-known story can reveal new truths we are finally ready to hear.”

K'lay Kodesh: Holy Treatment for Holy Vessels

March 31st: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Hebrew word k’li means tool or vessel, and Leviticus is very concerned with how the k’lay kodesh, the holy tools/vessels are used and treated. There are even special protocols for how they are packed and carried. The k’lay kodesh include the special priestly vestments, the portable altars (one for meat and the other for incense), and the various basins, bowls, firepans, tongs, and other tools for the sacrificial offerings. And there are the priests themselves. As holy and ordained servants of God, they are considered k’lay kodesh, holy implements and vessels of God’s presence among the people.                                             

This week’s Torah portion describes the ordination of the priests—the rituals that qualify them for officiating at the sacrifices. Clothed in their uniforms, they are the sacred workers and the only ones allowed to touch and use the sacred utensils and vessels. K’lay kodesh using k’lay kodesh: it is the sacred process in Israel’s worship of the One God.  

The Torah goes into lots and lots of detail about the equipment and the rituals, but one thing that is omitted is what should be done with the tongs or fire pans or incense equipment that get broken or worn out. There must have been ancient protocols, but the textual discussion had to wait several centuries for the Rabbis in the Talmudic Age. By then, Torah Scrolls and other sacred books had been added to the category of k’lay kodesh, and so that were included in these sacred repair or disposal discussions. And there was another addition.  

Rabbinic Judaism takes a passage from the Torah, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19.6), and turns it into a kind of spiritual raison d’etre or modus operandi. Whereas God probably intended the phrase as an inspirational metaphor—with the actual priesthood being a hereditary institution in the Tribe of Levi, the Rabbis see in it a call to individual holiness for all Jews. By engaging in personal and communal acts of piety, non-Priestly Jews can attain a holiness and individual relationship with God—ministering as k’lay kodesh in the building of God’s kingdom on earth.  

So, as the Rabbis might have asked, How are human beings like Torah Scrolls—and what does this teach us? When human pass away, their bodies are treated with respect and holy care, and they are buried in consecrated ground. Should not the same care and respect be accorded to other k’lay kodesh—like worn-out Torah Scrolls and sacred books? As a result, we have the curious and endearing custom of burying old prayer books, Torah Scrolls and Tefillin—anything in which the Name of God is written. Sometimes, we bury holy books in the graves of the deceased, and other times we bury holy books in special graves dug just for this purpose.  

As both a practical and educational activity, we shall be joining with Penn State Hillel for a book burial on Monday April 24th at the historic Rodef Sholem Jewish Cemetery near Bellefonte. This Jewish cemetery dates back to the 1800s and is held in sacred trust by our congregation. The book burial will be begin at 1:00 PM on the 24th, and you are invited to join in the sacred work.  There are three ways to participate:
(1)  Lend us your shovels and pickaxes. The plan is for the Penn State students to do the digging, but they did not bring tools to college. If you can lend us your tools, please put your name on them so we can be sure to return them to you.
(2)  Bring us old and worn-out holy books to be buried. Hillel is bringing several dozen old prayer books, but we shall have room for any worn-out prayer books or Bibles you may have around the house. Just bring them to the synagogue and the rabbi’s office.
(3)  Join in the mitzvah of honoring our k’lay kodesh. While our main diggers will be Hillel students, we welcome any and all congregational members to join us. You can help dig, carry books up the hill, or just watch and give moral support.    

We shall be gathering at Rodef Sholem Cemetery around 1:00 PM on Monday April 24th. The cemetery is on Route 550, just off the Benner Pike/Willowbank Street in Spring Township. The turn off is to the left, before you get to Bellefonte and just past The Hot Dog House. The cemetery does not have a sign in front, but it is about 1/3 mile in on the left. We plan to be finished before 4:00. 

As is often the case in our faith, we work with a combination of the holy and the practical—bringing heaven to earth and earth to heaven.

"Va’ani Tefilati / May I Be My Prayer" (Psalm 69.14)

March 24th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich  

With what do we come before the Lord? What does God want from us? 

These are questions with many answers, and our history as a religious people offers quite a few. Back in pre-Biblical times, people believed that they needed to feed the gods, and their worship involved sacrificing animals so that the gods could get sustenance. This ancient thinking is illustrated in the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic’s story of Utnapishtim, a Noah-like character who saves himself and lots of animals from a great flood. When the waters recede, and Utnapishtim exits the giant boat and offers sacrifices to the gods, they “hover around the cooking meat like flies.” In deciding to destroy humanity, the gods have foolishly forgotten who feeds them and are now very, very hungry. 

As you no doubt notice, this ancient Babylonian tale mirrors the Biblical tale of the Great Flood—though there are a few significant differences. In the Bible, there is only One God, and our God is not hungry. God does, however, enjoy the re’ach nicho’ach, the aroma of the cooking meat. “So Noah came out, together with his sons, his wife, and his sons’ wives. Every animal, every creeping thing, and every bird, everything that stirs on earth came out of the ark by families. Then Noah built an altar to the Lord and, taking of every clean animal and every clean bird, offered burnt offerings on the altar. The Lord smelled the pleasing odor and mused, ‘Never again will I doom the earth because of the humans…’” (Genesis 8.18-21) 

From these ancient days until the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, our people worshipped God with sacrificial offerings. Over time, the worship process became more formalized and professionalized, and its high point was the elaborate Priestly Service in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. For our ancient ancestors, the answer to the question was: “We come before the Lord with burnt offerings,” and, as we begin the Book of Leviticus this week, we are taught again the ritual instructions.  

After the Temple was destroyed by the Romans, the new situation necessitated a new form of worship. Following the basic pattern of the sacrificial worship service, the Rabbis developed a prayer service in which a main prayer takes the place of the sacrifice. This main prayer is now known as the Amidah, the standing prayer, with nineteen blessings on weekdays and seven blessings on Shabbat. As scholars of the Torah, the Rabbis also included a section of Torah study. And so, for almost 2000 years, we have come before the Lord with prayer and with study. 

Through the years, however, many thinkers have expanded the discussion beyond the form of worship. Back in Biblical days, the Hebrew Prophets insisted that ritual alone is not enough for God—that the Lord also demands righteousness and morality. As the Prophet Amos proclaims, ritual propriety mixed with dishonesty in regular life is disgusting to our Lord: “Spare me the sound of your hymns, and let Me not hear the music of your lutes, but let justice well up like water, righteousness like a mighty stream.” (Amos 5.23-24)

When the Prophet Micah summarizes what is most important to God, ritual is merely an implication of a relationship with the Eternal One: “It has been told you, O Human, what is good, and what the Lord requires of you: Only to do justice, to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6.8) Rituals are only acceptable if the worshippers behave righteously in every realm of their lives. 

There is also what we could call a pietistic theme in many spiritual texts—where we are reminded that ritual forms need to be filled with sincerity and respect. As David prays in Psalm 19.15, “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” If we want our prayers to be l’ratzon, acceptable, how do we make them so? The basic answer is that we must pray with kavannah, with spiritual focus. In Psalm 51.17, we even pray to be able to pray: “Eternal God, open my lips that my mouth may declare Your glory.” 

There is also the necessity of humility. “You do not want me to bring sacrifices; You do not desire burnt offerings. True sacrifice to God is a contrite spirit; O God, You will not despise a contrite and crushed heart.” (Psalm 51.18-19) 

Or, as the author of the 12th Century Hymn of Unity elaborates: “It is written: I, the Lord, will not reprove you for lack of sacrifices or your burnt offerings. For I commanded not your ancestors concerning sacrifices and burnt offerings. What have I asked, and what have I sought, but that you revere me? To serve with joy and a good heart; behold, to hearken is better than sacrifice, and a broken heart than a whole offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit. I will build an altar of the broken fragments of my heart, and will bow my spirit within me. My broken spirit—that is Your sacrifice; let it be acceptable upon Your altar. I will proclaim aloud Your praise; I will declare all Your wonders.  

Or, as the Baal Shem Tov explains, “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.”  

When we read the ancient rules of sacrifices, above and beyond the ritual details is the human aspiration to lift ourselves into God’s Presence and be accepted and loved. Our long tradition of prayers and rituals represents our intense and deep desire to live in a positive and loving relationship with Divine. With what do we come before the Lord? With ourselves—our deepest and most sincere selves. “Va’ani tefilati…/May I be my prayer…” (Psalm 69.14) May we be our prayers.