Responsibility and Guilt, Part II

January 19th: Bo 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH 
Rabbi David E. Ostrich  

Last week, we considered the definitions of the word responsible. Prompted by my discomfort with a famous exhortation by Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel (“Some are guilty. All are responsible”), we looked at the several definitions of the word and their differences. Sometimes responsible is used regarding guilt or culpability. However, other times the word is not directed at blaming someone for a problem but rather at recognizing opportunities for solving a problem.   

The question is pertinent again this week as we continue the year of the plagues. (From Burning Bush to the Exodus occupies about a year.) How does one assign culpability for ancient Egypt’s oppression of the Israelites? Is it a dictatorship where the Pharaoh is considered a god and therefore rules with unquestioned authority? Is there a leadership class—like the English nobility—who are less powerful than the Pharaoh but whose support and cooperation are necessary for the monarch to reign? And what about the regular Egyptians: are all who suffer from the plagues guilty, or are they swept up in the sins of their leadership?   

Or are some Egyptians innocent and as exempt from the plagues as the Israelites? I am speaking about the mysterious Erev Rav / Mixed Multitude of non-Israelites who joins our people. Some Biblical interpreters speculate that they were foreigners associated with the Hyksos who invaded Egypt around 1650 BCE. When the Hyksos were deposed, those seen as their allies could have been identified as “enslavable.” Thus were the Hebrews and other “foreigners” swept up in the oppression from which God rescues us. Or perhaps this Erev Rav was comprised of regular Egyptians who, as some point during the many years of slavery defected from Egyptian injustice. The definitive moment of Hebrew Identification—painting one’s doorposts with lambs’ blood—could have been the time for others to join our tribes and our future.  

Human life is both individual and communal, and our communal affiliations hold our devotion in varying levels. While belonging to a religion or political party or social group means some acceptance of the group’s agenda, it does not necessarily involve complete identification or agreement with all or even most of the group’s opinions or practices. Members may feel both connected and in dissonance. Consider for example the Log Cabin Republicans, Gays and Lesbians who are loyal members of a party not known for supporting LGBT rights. Or consider Roman Catholics who are loyal to the Church but who disobey the Church policies on artificial contraception or fertility treatments. Or consider the many loyal Israelis who are vehemently opposed to Bibi Netanyahu and his political machinations. Or consider Mosab Hassan Yousef, the now well-known son of a Hamas founder, who was raised in Hamas but later realized the evil of their ways and became a double agent for Israeli Intelligence (and a Christian!). He is not the only Palestinian opposed to Hamas. It is estimated that some 20% of Gazans are opposed to Hamas, and their comments (in hushed tones) may point to a better future after the war. Each of these examples represents the curious ways we participate, dissent, engage from afar, or seek to exert our influence in our various affiliations. Let us beware thinking in stark terms—ignoring the many shades of gray between black and white and the many ways that people take responsibility for fixing the world’s problems. 

Another example is the recent “shocking revelation” that Bibi Netanyahu is “responsible for Hamas”—“using it” to counter the Palestinian Authority. I am certainly not an apologist for Mr. Netanyahu, but my scant knowledge of international realpolitik reminds me that leaders must sometimes do business with unsavory characters. Even those who think that Donald Trump is too cozy with Vladimir Putin understand that Putin/Russia is a player with whom we need to have some kind of relationship. Was this not the case with President Obama, and is it not true of President Biden, as well? We have relationships with Xi Jinping and all kinds of leaders and rulers who, despite being less that wonderful, exercise power and influence. I do not often quote Don Vito Corleone, but perhaps this is a time to do so: “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Having a relationship or playing power politics does not necessarily mean approval. It is a leader’s responsibility to deal with whatever factors his/her country faces.  

This is not to say that Bibi’s strategy is or was good. Or that a strategy that worked for a while ceased at some point to be helpful. Consider the US support of the Taliban fighters who opposed the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. It seemed to be a good strategy for a while, and then it was not. Is this a moral question, or is it a strategic question—as leaders face a multiplicity of players and issues and international needs?   

A final example may be equally controversial. There are serious questions about Pope Pius XII, the Pontiff who ruled the Roman Catholic Church from 1939-1958, and his responses to the Nazis. Did he support or enable them? Did he oppose them but not enough? What exactly did he do, and what could he have done? I am not an apologist for the Vatican, but one must remember that the supreme evil of Adolf Hitler was also an existential crisis for the Church. We know that there were elements of opposition—convents and monasteries that hid Jews and helped resistance fighters, but what about the many cases of Church inaction or acquiescence? Were they strategic or immoral? Were they anti-Semitic or realpolitik? Stories of heroic chance-taking are amazing and inspiring, but does not success require strategic assessment? Just being on the “right side” is not enough. Consider the disastrous consequences of the Arab Spring. Supporters of democracy in Syria and Egypt might have been morally right, but the results of their actions have been catastrophic. When we imagine a heroic Pope Pius XII fully confronting Hitler, is it a cogent strategy, or is it vainglorious thinking—consigning his Church to destruction? If I were Pope and I saw my responsibility to keep the Church alive and able to continue its mission after Hitler—for tyrants do always meet their end, then I might make similar decisions. When you meet the Devil, you just cannot unmeet him. He’s there, and he’s the Devil. The question is not how to beat him but how to minimize the damage he will cause.  

The word responsible is multivalent, and the ways that we can take responsibility vary widely. When the heroic Egyptian midwives, Shifrah and Puah, are confronted with Pharaoh’s evil order (Exodus 1.15-19), they do not confront Pharaoh directly. They do not “speak to truth to power.” No, they resist his immoral commandments and dissemble. They take responsibility, but they do not grandstand in a senseless display of suicidal opposition. If we were Egyptians, how could we oppose Pharaoh’s immorality—effectively? And, if we, in our own measured and strategic ways, resist, would not the Lord realize what we are doing? Perhaps this is the role the Erev Rav plays in the story. They represent Egyptians who work against Pharaoh and whom God saves along with Israel.

Responsibility and Blame and Guilt

January 12th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the great moral questions of the Torah regards the punishments of the ordinary Egyptians. The plagues God sends affect all the Egyptians—not just the Pharaoh who rules Egypt with unchallenged authority and who single-handedly refuses God’s insistence to “Sh’lach et ami! / Let My people go!” Even if one expands the responsibility to the Egyptians actively involved in the oppression of the Israelites, one suspects that there are many Egyptians who are not guilty. Yet, when God sends the blood, the frogs, the lice, and the flies, all the Egyptians are plagued—even the seemingly innocent ones. And there are the animals—since the cattle boils are not just a problem for the livestock owners. Our humanitarian concerns reach their climax in the Tenth Plague, the Smiting of the First Born.
“In the middle of the night, the Lord struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharaoh who sat on the throne to the first-born of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all the first-born of the cattle…there was a loud cry in Egypt, for there was no house where there was not someone dead.” (Exodus 12.29-30)
All except the house of the Israelites—whose doorposts and lintels are marked with the blood of the Passover lamb. The Angel of Death passes over our houses. 

Do all the Egyptians deserve such punishments? Tradition struggles with this one, and, though we are taught that God loves all humans—and feels real remorse for our suffering, this question of the seeming punishment of the innocent haunts us and leaves us wondering.  

The great Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel approaches this question—in terms of modern social justice—with a statement both inspiring and troubling. “Some are guilty. All are responsible.”  

Does this mean that we are responsible for the crimes or missteps of others? How can we be responsible for the sins of people who lived years or centuries before us—who may not even be related to us? For example, how can Jews be responsible for the White Invasion of the Americas or the Enslavement of Africans when almost all of us were in Europe and having our teeth kicked in by Cossacks and the like? How can modern people be blamed for the sins of people who lived hundreds of years ago? No one living in America today enslaved Africans, or fought with Jackson or Custer in the many Indian Wars, or expelled the Mexicans from Texas or California. And so, when someone tries to blame us moderns —or to induce guilt—for the sins of the past, the illogic of such misbegotten thinking is galling and repellent. Terrible things have been done in the past, but modern people are not at fault. Why then would some be tempted down this path of projecting guilt—and is Rabbi Heschel one of them? 

There is a tendency among sensitive and loving people to take on guilt that they do not deserve. They look at the world’s problems and feel empathy for those who suffer, and they wish with all their hearts that things would be better, and then they transform their empathy into guilt. It happens all the time, and there is even a local example. Remember the Sandusky Scandal and how many people in State College began with sadness and outrage but then progressed to guilt. The crimes were committed by an individual and were kept secret. They were even missed by the child-welfare authorities. This was not a communal sin, but there was so much community guilt that the local clergy put together teams to talk to people and help them deal with guilt for sins they did not commit. Shock and terrible sadness were appropriate, but not guilt. Not responsibility. One was guilty; we were not all responsible. 

Bothered by Rabbi Heschel’s exhortation, I decided to look up the definition of the word responsibility. As it turns out, there are five definitions—and some light began to dawn in my mind about the point this great Tzaddik was trying to make.

(1) the state or fact of having a duty to deal with something or of having control over someone.
"A true leader takes responsibility for the team and helps them achieve goals."
(2) the state or fact of being accountable or to blame for something.
"The group has claimed responsibility for a string of murders."
(3) the opportunity or ability to act independently and make decisions without authorization.
"We would expect individuals lower down the organization to take on more
responsibility."
(4) a thing that one is required to do as part of a job, role, or legal obligation.
“He will take over the responsibilities of overseas director.”
(5) a moral obligation to behave correctly toward or in respect of.
"Individuals have a responsibility to control personal behavior." 

When I heard Rabbi Heschel’s exhortation, “Some are guilty. All are responsible,” I was thinking about Definition #2 (the state of being to blame for something). This is the basis of my argument. However, if Rabbi Heschel means Definition #1 (having a duty to deal with something) or perhaps Definition #4 (being required to help—as a function of our Jewishness) or Definition #5 (our moral obligation to participate in Tikkun Olam/The Repair of the World), then this makes all the difference in the world. I am not being told to feel guilty about the sins of past generations, but rather reminded that I have a responsibility to help right our societal ship.  

Back to the Egyptians. Our minds strain to fathom God’s justice. Could not God customize the punishment so that only the guilty suffer? Or would that kind of punishment be ineffective—not accomplish God’s purposes of teaching a moral lesson to the world? Perhaps God’s stated intention—“to mete out punishments to all the gods of Egypt” (Exodus 12.12 )—requires a greater “stage” for effective communication. Or has God already tried the individual punishment strategy with the many Pharaohs and their many accomplices over the four hundred years the Israelites suffer cruel bondage? Or could there be a societal guilt—given that the Egyptian people have had some four hundred years to do whatever it takes to repent and change?  

We try to understand God’s justice, but we are small-minded and possessed of limited wisdom. As God challenges Job, “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth…?” (Job 38.4) Are profound humility and trust in the Divine our only options? Or can Midrash help us?  

The Torah speaks of a group called the Erev Rav / Mixed Multitude, non-Israelites who join us as we are leaving Egypt. Could they be Egyptians who separate themselves from the immorality of their country—siding with God’s justice and the Israelites? Think about the blood-on-the-doorpost rituals. Does God really need to see blood to know who is inside, or is this a chance for everyone—Hebrew and Egyptian—to choose sides? Could there have been other chances—opportunities for non-Israelites to join God’s people and thus not be party to the immorality of slavery—or its consequences? When surveying God’s justice, a wider purview can help us see.

Betrayal and Hope

January 5th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

We begin this Torah portion—and the book of Exodus and the New Year—with disappointment. Disappointment in the way that trusted institutions can turn on a dime and become oppressive. When we Jews read, “And a new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph” (Exodus 1.8), we know that trouble is coming.  

The phrase itself is curiously ambiguous. Is the new king unaware of Joseph? Or does he willfully (ideologically) “forget” what Joseph has done for his country? Or does this new king arise over an Egypt which has forgotten its history—and its historical friendship and appreciation of Joseph and his family? In any event, this advent of suffering speaks to the ways that things can change suddenly and for the worse.  

Though the Torah portion speaks of ancient Egypt, there are many modern parallels. Today my disappointment centers on two “new kings” who have risen and forgotten—and betrayed their higher selves. 

The New Kings of “The University”
I was raised in a college town and always looked up to “The University” for enlightenment. Though not very famous, the college in Lafayette, Louisiana offered expansive wisdom—in music, theater, art, literature, and philosophy. It was the font of technological innovation and improvement—and of political and civil rights illumination. In a place where there was a lot of racism and bigotry, the university offered knowledge and understanding of a better world, one where people were prized for their minds and characters rather than by the color of their skin or ethnic heritage. In Cajun country, this was more than just a Black-White matter. Education—university education—was the road to opportunity for many French Acadians, providing them paths from agrarian and blue-collar work to professions and prominence. Responding to these early experiences and expectations, I have always gravitated to places near colleges and universities and considered them the midwives of civilization. 

How disappointing then that the drive for equality and respect has been turned into oppression from the Left—how the compassionate concept of intersectionality has been turned into an exclusionary bludgeon that demands adherence to authoritarian political formulations. How the noble ends of civil rights and civil liberties have been turned into weapons of racial warfare. How the racial or ethnic identities of thinkers have become more important than their thoughts.  

This is not a sudden development. These kinds of things have been developing on campuses for a few decades. Even Penn State, a place not known as a hotbed of the enslavement of intellectual inquiry and discussion, has not been immune. From the White graduate students forbidden to speak at DEI committee meetings to a job applicant in Jewish Studies being publicly berated for being a “colonialist” (her research was on modern Israeli society), we have had our share of oppressive and small-minded foolishness. Fortunately (?), the real problems are at other universities, where chants of “Death to the Jews,” the shunning of Zionists, and mob scenes desecrate the hallowed halls of learning. It is so disappointing, and I find myself fearing that Sophia The Goddess of Wisdom is facing exile.

The New Kings of the News Media
I have always looked up to journalists—to the brave and wise people who report on the important events of the day. They brought an integrity to their work—work that was important for both the social fabric and the functioning of a democratic society. Though my studies in history revealed scurrilous journalistic behaviors in the past, I believed that major institutions like the New York Times, the Washington Post, Time Magazine, The Atlantic Monthly, and National Public Radio were the arbiters of truth and enlightenment. They were the ones to shine light on the facts of the day. They were the ones to help us decipher and interpret the complications of the world. They were the ones upon whom we could depend for good information. But, as entertainment and emotional pornography became more important than facts and analysis, as celebrity took over from integrity, and as moral equivalence transformed from a fallacy to a journalistic axion, my icons collapsed. Sometimes I feel sorry for journalists who try to work under intense and absurd pressures. Sometimes I despise them for their moral vapidity—and the real harm they are doing to our world.  

I first noticed it when reporters at prestigious networks seemed oblivious to the history of the stories they were reporting. I then began to see a media obsessed with feelings—anger at some, empathy with others—as though that were the most salient part of a story. I then noticed a fear of appearing biased so pathological that important reporters could not bring themselves to distinguish between opinion and propaganda.  

None of this is new, but the intensity, immorality, and sheer misinformation in the coverage of the War between Israel and Hamas have been stunning. We know that warring sides tend to spin the stories their way, but is not fact-checking the work of reporters? Would not a little reporting help distinguish the difference between Israeli public relations and Israeli behavior—and show that Israel is not a blood-thirsty horde indiscriminately and unnecessarily attacking innocent civilians in a genocidal frenzy? And would not a little reporting show that Hamas’ statements about civilian casualties are dissembling at its best/worst—and manipulatively creating an impression that masks their murderous behaviors, their disregard for Palestinian lives, and their genocidal hatred for Jews and Westerners?

I could go on and on—and you could probably join in and give your own examples, but let us get back to the Torah. The betrayal of righteousness introduced with, “And a new king arose over Egypt…” is not the end of the story. A book that begins with betrayal and slavery eventuates in  Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt—an exit from narrowness to an open and improved world, one that aspires to morality and holiness.  

I am disappointed—terribly so—at institutions I used to trust, but I look around at the many who are not buying it, who are seeing through the fallacious stories and tortured analyses, who are not fooled by propaganda and the coopting of noble aspirations, who are thinking and turning away from the “new kings” and seeking better sources of information and enlightenment. The story is grim right now, but I am hopeful for improvement.

Sojourning

December 22nd: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Sometimes the English words used in Biblical translations are as hard as the Hebrew to understand. An example is the word Sojourning. The Hebrew is yagur or lagur, to live/reside in a place, but, in the case of Abraham and Sarah and later Jacob and Leah and Rachel, they reside in many places. The lives of our ancestral semi-nomadic shepherds meant following the grasses that grow seasonally in various valleys around a region. This circuit, moving from pasture to pasture, is what the Torah means when it says Eretz M’gurayhem / the Land of Their Sojournings.  

Many of us are also sojourners. Whether for education, better employment, or safety, we too often find ourselves seeking new pasture lands. We may not have goatskin tents, but some need both hands to count the number of cities in which we have resided. The difference between us and the Patriarchs and Matriarchs is that for them sojourning is a lifestyle—while we try to establish a sense of permanence. When we move, that permanence is disrupted, and we are like Tevye and Golda in the final scene in Fiddler on the Roof. Tearfully packing up to leave Anatevka, they sing what many Jews have sung over the years:
“Anatevka, Anatevka. Underfed, overworked Anatevka
Where else could Sabbath be so sweet?
Anatevka, Anatevka. Intimate, obstinate Anatevka,
Where I know everyone I meet.
Soon I’ll be a stranger in a strange new place,
Searching for an old familiar face
From Anatevka.” 

In our Torah portion, Jacob prepares to leave Canaan, Eretz M’gurav / the Land of His Sojourning. Accepting the invitation from Pharaoh, Jacob travels to Egypt seeking refuge from the great famine and yearning to see his long-lost son Joseph. “So Israel set out with all that was his, and he came to Beer-sheba, where he offered sacrifices to the God of his father Isaac. God called to Israel in a vision by night: ‘Jacob! Jacob!’ He answered, ‘Here.” And God said, ‘I am God, the God of your father. Fear not to go down to Egypt, and I Myself will also bring you back, and Joseph’s hand shall close your eyes.’ So Jacob set out from Beer-sheba. The sons of Israel put their father Jacob and their children and their wives in the wagons that Pharaoh had sent to transport him; and they took along their livestock and the wealth that they had amassed in the land of Canaan. Thus Jacob and all his offspring with him came to Egypt: he brought with him to Egypt his sons and grandsons, his daughters and granddaughters—all his offspring.”  (Genesis 46.1-7) 

Jacob lives his last seventeen years in Egypt (Genesis 47.28), and when he dies, Joseph brings him back to Canaan—to be buried in the Cave of Machpelah in Hebron. A life of sojourning concludes with his parents, grandparents, and wife Leah—finally a place of permanence. 

As we meditate on Jacob/Israel’s life of impermanence—his sojourning, two lessons come to mind. 

The first is taught by Hillel: “Do not be sure of yourself until the day you die.” (Avot 2.4) There are many experiences in life and many tests. They are all important, but what has happened in the past does not tell us how we shall experience the next episode or perform on the next test. Every moment of life offers a new opportunity—a new possibility to be human.  

The second is a bit less optimistic and hearkens back to the most famous story of Jacob’s father and grandfather—the time when Abraham almost sacrifices Isaac. That story is remarkably unsettling and speaks of shattered trust. Does Isaac ever—in his more horrible nightmares—imagine his beloved and trusted father holding a slaughtering knife at his neck? Does Abraham ever—in his most horrible nightmares—imagine taking that knife to his beloved son? It is too much to consider, and yet we are bidden to hear this story over and over again. It comes yearly in the cycle of Torah readings and is a standard portion every Rosh Hashanah. And, the traditional Siddur has worshippers read Akedat Yitzhak (the Binding of Isaac) every single weekday morning. What a way to start the day! Why?! 

Perhaps the message is that one never knows what the day will bring. One never knows whether the things upon which we depend will be dependable, whether the ground on which we stand is stable, or whether the legs and feet on which we stand will work. We hate to dwell on the vagaries of life and the dangers that could upset our expectations, but they could happen. We hope and pray that they do not, but… 

This is where you can fill in your own struggles and fears. There are the scary things that can happen to our bodies and minds. There are the scary things that happen in society and in places of intellectual acumen. We work and pray for good outcomes, but what do we do if the news is bad? 

Jacob’s advice is twofold. Enjoy and appreciate the blessings we have and be ready to greet the unknown. Though we may live in brick or wooden homes, we are also sojourners—moving from moment to moment, from experience to experience, and from opportunity to opportunity. The only thing that is permanent is God’s Presence. 

“Fear not…for I shall be with you...wherever you go.” (Genesis 28.15) 

“B’yado afkid ruchi, b’et ishan v’a’irah.
V’im ruchi g’vi’yati, Adonai li v’lo ira.
Into God’s hand do I entrust my soul,
Both when I sleep and when I wake,
And with my soul also my spirit
When God is with me, there is no fear.”  (Adon Olam)

The Bigger Picture: Is Our Vision Wide Enough to See?

December 15th: Mikketz 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In the story of Joseph, the Torah’s focus is on the miraculous and complex web of causation that God effects in the world. What seem like immature dreams of grandeur turn out to be prophetic. What seem like family squabbles turn out to be a divine vehicle for getting the Hebrews a place of refuge during famine times. What seems to be a series of tragedies turns out to be developmental steps before Joseph assumes a position of great importance in Egypt. As Joseph explains to his brothers at the end of the story, “Although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” (Genesis 50.20) The Lord works in mysterious ways, and Joseph and Jacob and all the Children of Israel are surprised at the way things turn out. 

Nestled in all this Divine Providence however is a major economic revolution in Egyptian society—one wrought by Joseph as a solution to the seven years of plenty and the seven years of famine. When Joseph interprets Pharaoh’s two parallel dreams—about the seven fat cows being consumed by the seven malnourished cows, and about the seven healthy ears of grain being swallowed by the seven shriveled ears of grain, he also offers some advice. “Pharaoh’s dreams are one and the same. God has told Pharaoh what He is about to do….Immediately ahead are seven years of great abundance in all the land of Egypt. After them will come seven years of famine, and all the abundance in the land of Egypt will be forgotten…Accordingly, let Pharaoh find a man of discernment and wisdom, and set him over the land of Egypt…to organize the land of Egypt in the seven years of plenty…” (Genesis 41.25-34) 

Impressed with young Joseph, Pharaoh appoints him as that “man of discernment and wisdom” who is put in charge of dealing with the crisis. In this week’s portion, Mikketz, Joseph’s general supervision and success is described, but in next week’s portion, Vayiggash, (Genesis 47.13-26), the details and larger plan emerges. When the Egyptians come to the governmental reserves, they must purchase the grain. “Joseph gathered in all the money that was to be found in Egypt and in the land of Canaan, as payment for the rations that were being procured, and Joseph brough the money into Pharaoh’s palace.” (Genesis 47.14) When their money runs out, the government lets the people pay for food with their livestock. When all the livestock is transferred to Pharaoh, the only things the people have left to offer are their land and their labor. “Let us not perish before your eyes, both we and our land. Take us and our land in exchange for bread, and we with our land will be serfs to Pharaoh…So Joseph gained possession of all the farmland of Egypt for Pharaoh…thus the land passed over to Pharaoh.” (Genesis 47.19-20 

In other words, the solution to this natural catastrophe is a complete restructuring of the Egyptian economy—with agriculture and even population distribution being under centralized government control.  

In a few weeks, when we begin Exodus, the Torah gives a sort of explanation for why things in Egypt change so drastically—how the Israelites go from being honored guests to slaves: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph.” (Exodus 1.8) As one can imagine, this ambiguous sentence can lead to lots of speculation. Is this a critical comment about a new leader who does not know or appreciate the nation’s history? Is this a cynical comment about a country that changes loyalty at the drop of a hat? Or is there something more complicated at play? 

The Egyptian records are remarkably silent on the Hebrews’ presence—our welcome, our enslavement, and our dramatic Exodus, and this silence keeps scholars and their Ph.D. students busy as they try to put together various hints into theories and explanations.  

One of the explanations is that during this time—roughly 1600 BCE, Egypt was invaded by a group known as the Hyksos. The Hyksos were militarily and technologically advanced and swept in from Asia Minor (Turkey/Anatolia). They ruled for over a hundred years before they were expelled, and other rulers took over. One theory is that the Pharaoh of the Joseph story was Hyksos and that “the new king who knew not Joseph” represented those who removed the Hyksos rulers and purged the country of all foreign elements—including the new economic system enacted under the Hyksos. Perhaps the enslavement of the Hebrews and other foreigners was part of this Reconquista.  

In other words, this could have been the first time our people have been caught up in changes and blamed/victimized for economic and political machinations far beyond our control. Change is often destabilizing, and scapegoats can help redirect anger at disruptions and changes in wealth and status. This was the point of historian Ellis Rivkin, late of the Hebrew Union College, when he observed that every significant case of anti-Semitism has been in response to an economic crisis. As long as the economy prospered—in Spain, in France, in Germany, or in Russia, the Jews were left alone. There is no theological imperative in either Christianity or Islam to persecute the Jews. However, once an economic crisis hits—like the defeat of the Spanish Armada or Industrialization being slow in Tzarist Russia, all of a sudden, unscrupulous actors target Jews as the maligning cause. Of course, “The Jews” are never the cause of the problem, and persecuting Jews is problematic on several levels. First, it is unjust and evil. Secondly, scapegoating is a distraction from the actual causes of the problem. And third, persecuting Jews or any other scapegoat is a waste of resources that could be marshalled to help solve the actual problem. Think about all the Jewish thinking and energy chased away or eliminated from societies in crisis. Many have taken this evil and pointless path, and it has not availed them.

One could take this analysis and apply it to many current cases of anti-Semitism, both on the Right and the Left. The list is long, but, as a parting thought, let us just think about the oppressed peoples in the Arab and Muslim world—places where too much violence reigns and where the godly messages of the Koran are misapplied to the detriment of the faithful. Rather than examining the real causes, unscrupulous leaders blame Israel and the Jews for it all. If, however and God forbid, Israel and the Jews would disappear tomorrow, would the Arab and Muslim world really have peace? Would suppression of human rights evaporate? Would freedom and prosperity suddenly bloom in Iran, in Afghanistan, in Syria, in Egypt, in Gaza or in the West Bank? Of course not. And so I find myself feeling sorry for those in the Arab and Muslim world who blame their problems on Israel and the Jews. They are, to use an old saying, barking up the wrong tree. Attacking the Jews will not solve their problems, AND their faulty thinking denies them the help of Jews who are called to Tikkun Olam, the Repair of the World. We are willing to help if they will just let us.

The Many Faces of Chanukah

December 8th: Vayeshev and Chanukah 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though a celebration, the symbolism and messages of Chanukah have often been troublesome—and sometimes in need of a massage. 

A military holiday—celebrating the Maccabees’ victory over the Greek Syrians in 165 BCE, Chanukah was troublesome to the Rabbis of the Talmud who did not want to emphasize armed rebellion. After the disastrous Jewish Rebellion (66-70 CE) and the equally disastrous Bar Kochba Rebellion (132-136 CE), the Rabbis decided that military might was futile and counseled against it—a general approach that lasted until the 19th and 20th Centuries. To militate (😊) against Chanukah’s martial tendencies, they focused on the miracle story of the oil, moving away from militarism and toward faith and hope in God.  

A counter-cultural holiday—commemorating a time when Jews stood up to the overwhelming Hellenistic culture, Chanukah was troublesome to the thousands of Jews who were comfortable with most of Hellenism. Though the Maccabees represented those Jews who resisted Hellenistic practices, Greek culture inundated Judea in all sorts of ways. People spoke Greek. Jews—including High Priests and Rabbis—had Greek names. Rabbinic discussions used Greek-style questioning and categories. Even the crowning work of Rabbinic Judaism, the Mishnah, is organized as a Greek legal code. Though the Rabbis clearly rejected Greek idolatry and religious syncretism, they did not purge everything Hellenistic from Jewish civilization. Thus, the anti-Greek elements of the Chanukah story were reduced to a focus on the evil and idolatrous king.  

A sacrificial cult holiday—celebrating the restoration of Temple sacrifices, Chanukah was a problem when Judaism shifted to prayer worship. Though the Maccabees saved the Temple in 165 BCE, sacrificial worship only lasted a few hundred more years. When the Romans destroyed the Temple and Jerusalem in 70 CE, the Rabbis had to scramble for a replacement. Their temporary fix, a worship service in which a main prayer takes the place of the animal sacrifices, was so non-Temple oriented that the Chanukah focus on saving the Temple was rendered less relevant. To keep Chanukah’s power, the Rabbi’s focused on the faith, ritual purity, and God’s miracles. Again, the holiday was malleable. 

In more modern times, these challenges continued. An obedience-to-God themed holiday—where following God orders was worth martyrdom, Chanukah was a problem for those who did not consider every mitzvah of the Tradition as binding. An answer was to de-emphasize the martyrdom stories of Hannah and Her Sons—and the gruesome deaths of Judah Maccabee and most of his brothers. In their place, the cultural pride message was elevated, and Chanukah became a statement of Jewish Identity. This “message massage” has proved to be very helpful. 

A similar massage was necessary with the advent of Labor Zionism. A God-focused holiday—"she’asah nisim l’avotaynu / Who did miracles for our ancestors,” Chanukah was a problem for non-religious Jewish Nationalists whose messianism involved the redemptive ability of humans to fix and save themselves. Waiting for God’s salvation was not a theme for them to celebrate. Thus Chanukah was reimagined to speak to the power of ancient Jewish Nationalists who rose to the occasion and freed themselves. Again, Chanukah was molded to express current values. 

Back to militarism. A pro-military holiday, Chanukah was a problem for Jews in the anti-war movement of the 1960s and 1970s, and it is still a problem for those uncomfortable with Israel’s military might and the ways the Israel Defense Forces are used. On the other hand, in times when Jews are in peril, most celebrate the fact that we now have an army to fight back. Since the rebirth of Jewish Self-Defense (in the mid-1800s), the Maccabees’ bravery and military prowess have been beacons of Jewish pride and self-reliance. Not only is Chanukah celebrated in December, but the Maccabees are also celebrated throughout Jewish culture all year long. 

A final modern concern: Though certainly not “the Jewish Christmas,” Chanukah has been significantly affected by the seasonal frenzy—making many Jews uncomfortable with the elevation of a formerly “minor Jewish holiday” into something much bigger. One can look at Chanukah’s enhancement as an unJewish incursion, or one can see it as a modern Jewish survival strategy. Indeed, the parallels with the ancient situation that spawned Chanukah are striking. Just as Hellenism flooded ancient sensibilities, think about how hard it is to be a Jewish child when everyone and everything around you scream “Christmas!” From carols in school and scouts and the background music at the grocery store, to decorations everywhere, and to the constant conversations about parties and gifts, Christmastime washes over us all and draws us into its wake. Interestingly, it is usually not the theological message of Christmas that overwhelms us. In fact, many pious Christians mourn the deconsecration of their holiday—pleading to “Put Christ back in Christmas.” Nonetheless, we Jews of all ages find ourselves both drawn into and assaulted by the season, and we devise ways to accommodate the cultural energy while staying true to our faith: Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas, attending parties but not church, focusing on the Peace and Goodwill themes rather than the Joy to the World, the Lord is Come messages. While being asked to sing Christmas carols makes me uncomfortable, I can nonetheless plunge fully into Christmas charity work like Toys for Tots. Theologically and culturally, we Jews walk a fine line. 

The meta-challenge of Hellenism was that it forced our ancestors to live in two worlds—one Jewish and the other non-Jewish. Both were appealing, and each Jew bayamim hahem / in those days had to figure out the best balance for his/her life. One suspects that for them it was a matter of continuingly balancing and adjusting. We who also live in two worlds, work on balancing our two important and nurturing realities. That Chanukah—an ancient holiday of cultural and religious bravery—can in its elevated form help us to find balance and keep the Jewish side of things strong and resilient and fun is wonderful. It is just one example of the way our religion has adapted to what our long and many sojourns have brought us. As the Lord said to Jacob, “I will be with you wherever you go.” (Genesis 28.15)  

Happy Chanukah!

The Surprises of Jacob

December 1st: Vayetzay and Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Jacob’s life is full of surprises—some wonderful and some not so good. In Vayetzay, he is surprised by the unexpected holiness of his campsite. Journeying to escape the wrath of his brother Esau and to visit family in Padan Aram (in Syria), he stops to spend the night. In his sleep, he has a fantastic vision about a ladder connecting heaven and earth. Angels are going down and up the ladder, and God stands at the top. Then God speaks to him: “I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants. Remember, I am with you…” (Genesis 28.13-15) 

Jacob awakes from this vision surprised, shaken, awestruck, and perhaps a little fearful. (The Hebrew word vayi’ra’ is multivalent.) “Surely the Lord is present in this place, and I, I did not know it!” (Genesis 28.16) Like Jonah many years later—and their descendants in the Babylonian Exile, he is surprised that God and holiness are in every place, possible in every moment.  

When Jacob arrives in Paddan Aram and meets his relatives, he experiences several more surprises. First, he falls in love with his cousin Rachel. Second, he is surprised by the dishonesty of his Uncle Laban. One would  think that one can trust one’s family, but, with Laban, trust is an opening for deception. Perhaps the worst surprise is when Jacob wakes up after his wedding night and finds that he is married to the wrong sister! The story speaks as though Jacob is the victim—and it is true, but the greater victim, the one whose betrayal is more profound, is Leah. One would think that her father would find her a husband who will love her, but by foisting her on a man in love with her sister, Leah is doomed to a marriage in which she never feels the love she deserves. One would think that the bosom of the family is a place of trust, but, in Laban’s family, intrigue and betrayal seem to be the pattern.  

Surprises happen in life, and we need to be flexible and resilient. Sometimes the surprises are bad, and we need to be ready to protect ourselves. Sometimes the surprises are good, and we need to keep our eyes open to the good and holy.  

Another surprise is Jacob’s selection as Patriarch. He is a deeply flawed individual and, despite his imperfections, is somehow chosen by God for a high religious position. One can argue that he gets this position by fooling his father Isaac into giving him his “innermost blessing.” But think about it: will God be bound by a ruse perpetrated on a blind and infirm old man? Of course not. Jacob and Rebekah might fool Isaac, but they do not fool God. In fact, this whole issue of subterfuge—and Jacob’s refusal to share lentil stew with Esau—prompts the Midrash to do some serious and creative damage control to offset the bad optics of Jacob’s early life. A bit of a fast talker, Jacob seems to think that he can finagle anyone he meets and get his own way. He even tries it with God. After the dramatic dream of the ladder ascending to heaven and God’s promises, Jacob’s response is:
“IF God remains with me, IF God protects me on this journey, IF God gives me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and IF I return safe to my father’s house, THEN the Lord will be my God.” (Genesis 28.20-21)  

Perhaps his time with Uncle Laban (a finagler’s finagler!) helps Jacob to look for other more honest and straightforward ways to behave, but he does not achieve perfection. He cannot seem to manage his marriage (to two wives and two concubines) or his children. He blatantly favors one wife and her children. He fails in supervising his daughter Dinah, and, after her assault and kidnapping by Shechem, he fails in controlling his sons’ vindictive response. When things between his favored son Joseph and his other sons get very tense—“they hated Joseph…for his talk about his dreams,” Jacob just “keeps the matter in mind.” (Genesis 27.8-11) He does not take charge and fix his family. 

Is Jacob more flawed than other Biblical figures? It is hard to say since we know a lot more about Jacob than anyone else in the Torah save Moses. The Jacob saga covers seven Torah portions—some twenty-five chapters in Genesis, and all his foibles are laid bare. He may not be worse than others, but his flaws are on record, and we are left to wonder how such an imperfect person can be chosen by God for spiritual leadership.  

This gets us to an old question in Biblical studies. Whenever someone is chosen for an exalted role—as Patriarch, Prophet, or King, the commentators always ask “Why?” They then try to divine a reason—some way that the chosen one prepares for the role, or some qualities that make him or her uniquely qualified. Such are the questions asked about Noah, Abram, Moses, and even the Children of Israel who are selected by God as “My treasured possession among all peoples….a kingdom of priests and a holy people.” (Exodus 19.5-6). The sub-agenda in such questions is very personal. If the commentator can figure out what qualifies these heroic figures to be honored by God, then perhaps he/she can emulate the Tzaddik and also merit a special role. However, in each of these selection discussions, there is always the possibility that there is no special preparation or quality. Noah, Abram, and even Moses could be “selected” for no other reason than that they respond to God’s call. Perhaps the Burning Bush burns in front of lots of shepherds, but only Moses turns aside and answers God’s challenge. Perhaps the Oneness of God is presented to lots of ancient Mesopotamians, but only Abram responds when God approaches him. Perhaps Jacob is chosen not because he is wonderful but because he responds when God needs some human assistance. In this, he presents a very personal and very hopeful example. 

Jacob’s struggles and frequent failures represent the human condition in which most of us find ourselves. We do not appear before God as exemplars of morality, religiosity, or intellect. We are not Tzaddikim. But we are nonetheless capable of rising to the occasion and doing the right thing—bringing holiness into an unholy moment.  

The unexpected selection of our imperfect grandfather Jacob reminds us that regular and imperfect people have the ability to hearken to what is compelling—to respond to the call of God. Righteousness, kindness, and holiness are always possible. We should keep our eyes open for the opportunities placed before us. 

Are We Paranoid, Or Are They Out to Get Us?

November 17th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When Moses says, “I was a stranger in a strange land” (Exodus 2.22), his words resonate with much of the Jewish experience. As a people dispersed in every corner of the world, we have had to figure out the mores and social currency of the people among whom we have dwelled. This has always been a subjective endeavor—with both judgment and speculation.

Take my cousin who died from wounds he received on Kristallnacht some eighty-five years ago. Ferdinand Levy’s family had been in Germany for centuries, and his grandfather Philipp Levy and father Wilhelm Levy had both served in the Prussian Army. When it was Ferdinand’s turn, he fought for his country in the Great War, serving at Verdun and on the Eastern Front and receiving the Iron Cross for bravery. After the war, he became a kosher butcher, married, fathered three children, and served as a vice-mayor of Neuwied in the Rhineland. One would think that being a good citizen would garner safety and acceptance, and it did until it did not.  

In the Torah, we see a variety of strategies for surviving encounters with neighbors—some more successful than others. When Abraham and Sarah visit Egypt (Genesis 12) and later Gerar (Genesis 20), Abraham is concerned that the locals will kill him to get his beautiful wife, Sarah. So, they inform everyone that she is his sister. The problem, in both places, is that this beautiful “sister” is conscripted into the king’s harem. Fortunately, God protects Sarah—afflicting the Egyptians with “mighty plagues” (which the Midrash identifies as national impotence) and giving Abimelech the king of Gerar a warning dream. In both cases, when the local ruler realizes that Sarah is Abraham’s wife and not his sister, he is aghast that he might have committed adultery and sends Abraham off with compensatory damages for the afront. Maybe Abraham was wrong; maybe they would not have killed him for his beautiful wife. Or, maybe he was right, and the kings feigned morality in the face of God’s protective power. 

In this week’s Torah portion, Isaac and Rebekah have a similar experience (Genesis 25.1-11):
“There was a famine in the land…and Isaac went to Abimelech, king of the Philistines in Gerar…When the men of the place asked him about his wife, he said, ‘She is my sister,’ for he was afraid to say, ‘my wife,’ thinking, ‘The men of the place might kill me on account of Rebekah for she is beautiful.’ When some time had passed, Abimelech king of the Philistines, looking out of the window, saw Isaac fondling his wife Rebekah. Abimelech sent for Isaac and said, ‘So she is your wife! Why then did you say that “she is my sister?!”’ Isaac said to him, ‘Because I thought I might lose my life on account of her.’ Abimelech said, ‘What have you done to us! One of the people might have lain with your wife, and you would have brought guilt upon us.’ Abimelech then charged all the people, saying ‘Anyone who molests this man or his wife shall be put to death.’”
Is Isaac correct in fearing immorality and murder as a Philistine possibility? Or does he not recognize “God-fearing” people from a different culture? 

In last week’s portion, Chayay Sarah, as Abraham seeks a gravesite for his beloved wife, he realizes that his status as “a resident alien” puts him at a disadvantage. In the absence of courthouse records, how can he buy property and have that possession secure for future generations? As the commentary on Genesis 23 explains, Abraham’s strategy is to pay Ephron the Hittite far more than the market price for the cave of Machpelah: the story of the Hebrew who paid 400 shekels for a much less expensive piece of property would reverberate through the region and be told again and again. Living among strangers, Abraham figures that an outlandish, tellable story will establish his ownership as a well-known fact.  

These stories, though tense, never get too conflictual. However, things get very dramatic in Genesis 34 (Parshat Vayishlach, which comes in two weeks). Returning from some twenty years in Paddan Aram, Jacob/Israel, his family, and his tribe settle for a while near Shechem. When Israel’s daughter Dinah “goes out to visit the daughters of the land,” she is sexually assaulted by the local chieftain’s son, Shechem son of Hamor. The young man offers to marry Dinah, but Israel’s family is divided on how to respond. Some think that agreement will bring peace. Others think that agreement will set the Israelites up for continuing disrespect and eventual subjugation. Their strategy—agreeing to the marriage but insisting that the whole Gentile tribe get circumcised—turns out to be a ruse. When Hamor’s tribe is writhing in pain after submitting to circumcision, Simeon and Levi—two of Dinah’s full brothers, “each took his sword, came upon the city unmolested, and slew all the males. They put Hamor and his son Shechem to the sword, took Dinah out of Shechem’s house, and went away.” The other Israelites plundered the town “because their sister had been defiled.”  

Back at the Israelite camp, Jacob/Israel is horrified. “You have brought trouble on me, making me odious among the inhabitants of the land.” But Simeon and Levi answer, “Should our sister be treated as a whore?” Loosely translated, I think they mean, “Nobody will dare mess with us again.” (Or as an old rewrite of Psalm 23 goes, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest @&#*@& in the valley.” ) 

For over 100 years, there has been an active discussion among Jews about how best to deal with Arabs. Some say that we should treat Arabs as we would like to be treated ourselves. Be respectful. Recognize their inherent value as human beings and their rights, and the respect we show will be returned to us in kind. Others have the opposite view. They say that Arabs see kindness and respect as weakness—that treating them nicely provokes a natural aggressiveness and violence. Better to treat them harshly: remind them who the meanest %#(&@#& in the valley is. That’s the only way to protect ourselves.  

As much as many of us see the Two State Solution as the long-hoped-for answer to the conflict between Israel and the Arabs, sometimes I wonder if it is more a pipe dream. Are there really any Arab “partners for peace?” Are there really enough Palestinians to make a Palestinian State a peaceful neighbor? Or is the Two State Solution merely a ruse, a temporary stage while the Palestinians bide their time before driving the Jews into the sea?  

Israel lives in a dangerous neighborhood. It is, in many ways, a stranger in a strange region. Even though it is our homeland, the surrounding hostility forces Israel to calculate the same kind of survival strategies our people have sought for thousands of years. Are we paranoid, or are they really out to get us? As we have recently seen, too much trust and naivete can prove deadly.  

The Answers to Our Prayers

November 10th: Chayay Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Bible may be full of miracle stories, but, for regular people in Biblical times, the incidence of miracles and revelations was probably close to zero. Think about the editing process of the Bible. Whether the choices were made by God or by human editors—or by both, the good stories were chosen for their inspirational or educational impact. Abraham, whose Torah story concludes this week, was a veteran of quite a few revelations and miracles, but even he, in his 175 years, spent most of the time leading a regular life. As for the rest of the people in Biblical times, they might have gone years or entire lifetimes without hearing God’s Voice or experiencing the supernatural. Pretty much like us. 

For regular people living regular lives—and even for Patriarchs, Matriarchs, and Prophets most of the time, the day-to-day Presence of God is manifested in regular ways—in the processes of nature, in our relationships with other people, and in cosmic insights that we occasionally glimpse. One suspects that there were times when they, like we, yearned for a more engaged relationship with the Divine, and thus there was worship, there were prayers, and there was hope. Our weekly Torah portion gives us an interesting example.  

In Genesis 24, after Sarah’s death and burial, Abraham feels the need to get a wife for his son Isaac. Being too old to go on the errand himself, he sends his senior servant.
“…do not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell, but go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac.” (Genesis 24.3-4)
(The Midrash says that this servant is Eliezer of Damascus, but the Torah does not give the servant’s name. Eliezer had been Abraham’s main servant before Isaac was born, but we do not know if he is still alive or still able to make a journey of this distance and difficulty.) 

The servant assembles a caravan of camels, retainers, and gifts and journeys to the land of Abraham’s birth. When he arrives in Aram-Naharaim in northern Mesopotamia, a town where some of Abraham’s relatives live, he rests by the town well and prays a very particular prayer:
“O Lord, God of my master Abraham, grant me good fortune this day, and deal graciously with my master Abraham: here I stand by the spring as the daughters of the townsmen come out to draw water. Let the maiden to whom I say, ‘Please, lower your jar that I may drink,’ and who replies, ‘Drink, and I will also water your camels’—let that be the one whom You have decreed for Your servant Isaac.”  (Genesis 24.12-14)
As soon as he finishes praying, this is exactly what happens! Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel and great-niece of Abraham, appears, is approached by the servant, and responds just as the prayer requests. She is the one, and, after a family meeting with Abraham’s servant, Rebekah departs her old life to become the wife of Isaac and a Matriarch of the eventual Jewish People.  

Would that our prayers be answered so quickly! Would that our prayers be answered so precisely! Then again, this story was selected for the Bible because it is so unusual. For most of us and our prayers, I can repeat the advice of Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, “Praying to God is not like Domino’s Pizza—guaranteed delivery in thirty minutes.” Prayer is a different kind of encounter. 

When we call a pizza business to order food, the restaurant is responsive because it wants to trade its pizza for our money. What is God’s motivation in the prayer process? Is there something in our prayers that can make them worthy of being answered? Lots of desires rush into our minds, but which of them are things we would really place before the Lord of the Universe and expect Divine agreement and acceptance?  

This is the subject of a Kabbalistic passage traditionally chanted before the open Ark during the Shabbat morning Torah service.
“Beh ana rachetz…/
In God alone do we put our trust, and to God alone do we utter praise.
O may it be Your will to open our hearts to Your Torah and
v’tash’lim mish’alin d’libi v’liba d’chol amach Yis’ra’el l’tav ul’chayin v’lish’lam/
to fulfill the worthy desires of our hearts and of the hearts of all Your people Israel:
for good, for life, and for peace.” (Zohar, Vayak’hel 369a) 

It does not make any difference to Domino’s if you order mushrooms or extra cheese, but, when we make prayer requests, one figures that God’s values are going to affect God’s willingness to respond. This notion is behind Rabban Gamliel’s advice in Pirke Avot (2.4):
“Make God’s will your will, so that God will do your will as though it is God’s.”

Though we might like to be able to manipulate God’s will, the only manipulation here is what we can do with our own attitudes—bringing them into alignment with the values and aspirations that God enjoins upon us. When we effect this attitudinal transformation, then the prayers we pray will be godly—and we can find a measure of reception from the Holy One.  

Though there is a tendency to think of prayer as transactional—as a give and take between humans and God, the reality of prayer is more relational. Prayer brings us closer to God—and allows God better and closer access to us and our sensibilities. Miracles may come occasionally—as in the story about Abraham’s servant and Rebekah, but the usual process of prayer is a matter of drawing closer to God and godliness—and letting God into our hearts.   

Let me conclude with a concatenation (a liturgical piece composed of verses from a variety of religious texts) about the process and potential of prayer. You may recognize it from page 48 of our prayerbook Siddur B’rit Shalom: 
“The Lord is near to all who call—to all who call out in truth.”
            “Where is God? Wherever we open our hearts.”
“The purpose of prayer is to leave us alone with God.”      
           “But there is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.”
How can we know if our prayers are answered?
            “When you rise from your prayers a better person,
            then surely have your prayers been answered.” 
(Sources: Psalm 145, Reb Mendel of Kotzk, Rabbi Leo Baeck, The Baal Shem Tov, and George Meredith)

Thus Saith the Lord (?): Revelation and Interpretation

November 3rd: Vayera’
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

“The Lord appeared to Abraham…” (Genesis 18.1)
Most religion is based on revelation, and this is both wonderfully inspiring and fraught with danger. Revelation is generally understood as the Deity (or a deity) appearing to humans and giving them instructions. Since the instructions come from the Deity, they are to be followed. 

In religions like Judaism, the usual process is for the Deity to appear to a Navi/Prophet who then brings the message of God to the people. The meaning of the Hebrew word Navi is one who brings. Thus many Prophets begin their messages with the phrase, “Thus saith the Lord.” 

It is wonderful to believe that the Divine is present in our lives, and it fills us with purpose when we submit ourselves to the Divine Will—in the words of Rabban Gamliel, “Aseh r’tzono chir’tzon’cha / to make God’s Will your will.” (Avot 2.4)  The question is, however: What exactly is God’s Will? 

We know from this week’s Torah portion the difficulty in determining God’s meaning. Does God really command Abraham to sacrifice Isaac? Or, when God says, “v’ha’alehu sham l’olah (Genesis 22.2), does the Deity mean, “Slaughter him and cook him as a sacrifice,” or “Bring him up to the mountain and elevate his spirituality?” Does God want Abraham to kill Isaac or to educate him in the ways of holiness? What exactly is God’s Will? 

In the previous chapter, when Sarah insists that Hagar and Ishmael be expelled from the household—and God agrees, does this mean that Abraham is to send them away completely? Or is the Midrashic suggestion that Abraham separates the households but keeps Hagar and Ishmael in his life—installed a few miles away in the territory of Abraham’s friend Abimelech of Gerar—a reasonable interpretation? What exactly is God’s Will? 

There is also the matter of God’s multiple—and not consistent—promises about The Land being given to Abraham and his descendants. Is Abraham’s possession (1) all the land he can see, (2) all the Land of Canaan, (3) the land of his sojourning (semi-nomadic shepherding), or (4) everything from the Euphrates to the Nile? 

It can be difficult to know exactly what God means—and whether God’s general instructions are okay to interpret or interpret differently over time. 

One of the problems with revelation is what we could call “the revelation attitude.” Some people believe so intently in revelation that they regard their current leaders as part of the revelatory chain of command. Though the revelation (Tanach, New Testament, or Koran) occurred many, many centuries ago, some people accept their current leaders’ modern interpretations as God’s official instructions.  

Thus were there Evangelical Christians in the mid-Twentieth century who believed their segregationist preachers who “found” segregation of the races in the Bible. Thus are there Orthodox Jews who believe that the current age’s Ultra-Orthodox Judaism is exactly what God decreed back at Mount Sinai. Thus are there modern Muslims who believe that hate-filled preachers are communicating what Mohammed heard from God. 

Among the many modern Muslim leaders who believe in peace and tolerance—and studying and working with Jews—is Imam Abdullah Antepli, currently on the staff and faculty at Duke University and involved in peace and education efforts at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. When he tells his story, he cites a gathering he attended as a teenager in Turkey where the Islamist speaker “quoted” something from the Koran that young Abdullah had never seen. When he asked the speaker for the citation, the speaker got defensive and dismissed the question without answering. The future imam did some research and found that the quotation did not exist—neither in the Sura (the revelations of God to the Prophet Mohammed) or the Hadith (the sayings of the Prophet Mohammed). The passage did not exist, but the speaker had been convinced by someone else that it did, and he preached it to people who believed it. Thus a decidedly non-Koranic message was attributed to the Koran—and hate was presented as the Will of God.  

This is what in Judaism we call Chillul Hashem, a Desecration of the Divine Name. We could also classify it as a violation of the Ninth Commandment, bearing false witness and lying about what God says. It is bad news regardless of the religion of the mis-speaker, and we who aspire to be godly need to be wary of those who claim to speak for the Lord. 

One of my favorite teachers, the late Ellis Rivkin of the Hebrew Union College, used to declare that he was a fundamentalist—that he believed every single word in the Bible. Of course, since the Bible has many differing views, he continued, he had to think for himself and figure out which of the many Biblical positions is godly. 

His humorous irony points to what I think is an important view of Scripture—any scripture of any religion. Holy books reflect the thinking of people striving for holiness—of trying to ascertain the nature of God and the Will of God. As a result, all holy books present a chorus of different opinions about how humans can best aspire to holy and righteous behavior. The various contexts of the writers’/aspirers’ lives lead to views that may or may not agree with each other or be applicable to different situations. This is why honest and thoughtful interpretations are crucial. Are the teachings of an interpreter holy, righteous, kind, and gracious, or are they harsh, unyielding, and unholy? Do they reflect the gracious, forgiving, and hopeful qualities of the Divine, or do they reflect the impatience and hostility of frustrated people—who love doctrine more than other people? Are good things being proposed in the Name of God, or is God being implicated in the “evil devisings of the heart?”   

Faith is more than quoting the Scripture—be it Tanach, New Testament, or Koran. Faith is approaching life as an opportunity to be holy, and thinking clearly and carefully is the only way to make sure that God is in the passages and their interpretations.

God's Promise and "The Land"

October 27th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In Genesis 12, Abram (and Sarai!) get the call, as God sends them on a significant and multi-generational journey. There are many promises:
“I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you.
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you,
And all the families of the earth shall be blessed by you.” (Genesis 12.2-3),
Though the promise is that we (Abram and Sarai and their descendants) will be blessings, there is an awful lot of resistance when we try to bring these blessings to the world.  

Take for instance God’s promise of the Land of Canaan, the Promised Land:
“Raise your eyes and look out from where you are, to the north and south, to the east and west,
for I give all the land that you see to you and your offspring forever.” (Genesis 13.14)
As we well know, this gift has put us on a collision course with our Arab cousins. But, why? Why does this little sliver of land—around the size of New Jersey—inspire so much consternation in the Arab and Muslim world?  

If one considers the land mass of Arab countries (Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Oman, Qatar, the Gulf Emirates, Yemen, Egypt, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco), the Promised Land of Israel/Palestine is less than 1%. When one considers the non-Arab Muslim countries—like Turkey, Albania, Pakistan, Iran, Afghanistan, and Indonesia (and several more in Africa), the size of Israel is even more miniscule. With all the other problems of the world—and of all these Arab and Muslim countries, why are so many so singly focused on Israel? 

Could it be that all these Arabs and Muslims are concerned for the welfare of the Palestinian people? I do not think so. The idea of solidarity and peoplehood—as expressed for Jews in the Talmudic principle, “Kol Yisrael arevim zeh bazeh / all Jews are responsible for one another” (Shevuot 39a)—does not seem to be an operating imperative for most Arabs or Muslims. There are many Arab and Muslim charities, but this concern for all other “members of the tribe” is not manifested as universally as it is in the Jewish community. For example, since 1948, the Palestinian refugees have not been welcome into other countries—with the support for them being overwhelmingly military as opposed to humanitarian. When Arab Iraq was fighting Persian Iran, the other Arab countries did not come running to help. When Muslim Bosnia was being savaged by Eastern Orthodox Serbia and Roman Catholic Croatia, the rest of the Muslim world was not concerned. Right now, when Rohingya Muslims in Myanmar (Burma) and Uyghur Muslims in China are both facing genocide, the rest of the Muslim world is not particularly exercised. This is not an insult; it is simply a sociological observation. The kind of group solidarity so pronounced among Jews does not seem to be part of Arab or Muslim thinking. The question thus remains, why are the Palestinians such a cause in so much of the Arab and Muslim world? 

Could the issue be that Israel possesses Jerusalem and al-Haram al-Sharif / The Noble Sanctuary (the Muslim term for the Temple Mount)? This is the third holiest site in Islam—the place from where, according to legend, Mohammed ascended to heaven—and the place where, according to legend, Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac. It is understandable that Muslims would be concerned with non-Muslim controlling Muslim holy places, but the Israelis have always been very respectful of other religions’ holy places and appoint Muslims to administer the sites. Though there is some rhetoric objecting to Jewish “ownership,” this seems too small to justify all the attention, anger, and money thrown at continual attempts to destroy the Jewish state. There must be other reasons.  

Could we be looking at an “Arab Manifest Destiny,” a Middle-Eastern version of that 19th Century American idea that God destined White Americans to own the yet-to-be-conquered West—and that any Natives living there were just impediments to be removed? These days, Manifest Destiny is generally an embarrassment—a racist, imperialist, and manipulative concept, but it held enormous power in the 1800s, spurring economic, military, religious, and literary activity that innervated the American spirit. Could it be that, in the sensibility of many Arabs, the entire Middle East is considered Arab land, and any non-Arabs—be they Crusaders, Ottomans, Britons, or Jews—are unwelcome encroachers regardless of how small their stake may be?  

The implications of this possibility can be helpful in understanding Arab attitudes. This could be why many Arab leaders are so reticent to discuss the so-called “Two State Solution”—and thus accept Jewish ownership of some of Palestine. When the occasional Arab leader does consider the idea, the Arab response is either (1) a Two State Solution is just a temporary stage before the complete removal of Jews from Palestine, or (2) any Arab who makes peace with Israel is a traitor and deserves death. (QED: Anwar Sadat.) This could also explain why, when Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert offered the Palestinians 94% of the disputed lands (in 2008), the offer was rejected out of hand. And it can explain the remarkable lack of concern for Palestinian civilians. As has been observed many times, Hamas (and Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad and El Aqsa Martyrs Brigade and Fatah) strategy has always been much more interested in hurting Israelis than in protecting Palestinians. The focus is on Palestine the land—and not the people, leaving the actual Palestinians as pawns and human shields in a greater struggle with the “invader” Jews.  

Interestingly enough, it is a similar “Manifest Destiny” kind of argument that accounts for Evangelical Christian support for Israel. Whenever the subject comes up, Evangelicals are quick to quote God’s Lech Lecha promise to Abram, “I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you.” They are determined to be included in God’s blessings.  

To me, the guiding principle for all humans—Jewish, Christian, or Muslim—is the one repeated over and over in the Torah and Prophets: God’s gift of the Promised Land is provisional and dependent on how we behave. When the Children of God behave with righteousness, compassion, and charity, then we deserve The Land. When we do not behave ourselves, then God’s punishment is exile. Whether Jewish, Arab, Muslim, or Christian, let us remember that God owns The Land, and we, like Abraham and Sarah, are sojourners on God’s property.

Who Loves the Palestinians?

October 20th: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we considered the term Tohu Vavohu, the primordial chaos that God wrestles into order in Genesis 1. As Rabbi Micky Boyden observes, it is with words that the Eternal One effects this effort: “When God began to create heaven and earth—the earth being tohu vavohu / unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and the spirit of God hovering over the water—God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.” Words are powerful and can have a positive effect. However, in this week’s story of the Tower of Babel (Genesis 11.1-9), we learn that words can also be a source of confusion.  

Many words have been written or spoken about the Palestinians—about their safety, needs, human rights, and national aspirations, but are these words sources of light or obfuscations of reality? It might be helpful to consider this simple question: Who loves the Palestinians? 

NOT HAMAS: Hamas is a terrorist organization that ruthlessly dominates the politics and society of Gaza. It seized power in farcical elections, intimidates and murders local opposition, diverts much needed humanitarian resources to military use, and uses Palestinian civilians—often children—as human shields. It destroyed industrial facilities and housing left by the Israelis in 2005, and it invokes destructive retaliations from the Israelis by mounting petty attacks on Israeli citizens and agriculture. (I use the word petty in the sense that the attacks have no hope of actually “freeing the land of Palestine from the river to the sea.” They are not petty when one considers the damage they bring to individual Israelis.)   

NOT IRAN OR HEZBOLLAH: Though the Islamic Republic of Iran and its various terrorist arms send lot of money and rhetoric to Gaza, it is to Hamas in Gaza. Rather than helping the Palestinian people in Gaza (or in Syria or Lebanon or the West Bank or Israel proper), Iran props up abusive and violent thugs—malevolent actors who violate Palestinian human rights and prevent any kind of progress or prosperity. Also, the Shiite Iranians do not smile on the Sunni Islam of Gaza, and one wonders how freely the Muslims of Palestine would be allowed to practice their religion if an Iranian surrogate were to be in charge.  

NOT EGYPT: Notice how Egypt is not letting the Palestinian refugees leave Gaza. Remember how the blockade has been in effect for years. Remember how, despite the fact that Egypt owned Gaza (then called The Gaza Strip) from 1948 to 1967, it never allowed the Palestinians to enter Egypt as immigrants and be absorbed into Egyptian society. Among the ironies here is that a vast number of “Palestinians” were really immigrants (colonists?) from Egypt, a prime example being Yasser Arafat, the infamous leader of the Palestine Liberation Organization.  

NOT JORDAN: Great Britain declared the whole of Palestine a Jewish Homeland in 1917, but then split it in half in 1922, assigning the eastern side of the Jordan River as the original Palestinian State. However, from 1948-1967, Jordan kept almost all the Palestinian refugees in squalid West Bank internment camps, refusing to let them enter Jordanian society. When Jordan finally allowed some to enter after 1967, a bloody civil war erupted, resulting in the expulsion of the refugees. This brutal time is known in Palestinian lore as “Black September,” a name made infamous by the terrorist organization that murdered twelve Israeli athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. Jordan does not love the Palestinians nor want them in Jordan.  

NOT LEBANON: Though the motherland of modern Arab culture, Lebanon is caught between two camps—neither of which loves the Palestinians. One camp is dominated by Hezbollah or PLO remnants and treats the Palestinians as pawns in its terror campaigns. The other camp is traditional Lebanese society which has been terrorized by the Hezbollah or PLO remnants for decades. They have endured a continuing civil war provoked by terrorists and have seen their country reduced from a pearl of Arab culture and commerce to a dysfunctional tragedy.  

NOT SAUDI ARABIA: Since 1948, Saudi Arabia has funded Palestinian terrorists in astronomical amounts, while doling out pitiful sums for humanitarian assistance. It has also refused to welcome Palestinians into their society—allowing only limited numbers of those willing to endure abusive domestic servitude.  

NOT THE UNITED NATIONS: While presumably focusing on relief and human rights, the UN turns a blind eye to the corruption and criminality of Hamas and other terrorist organizations. UN personnel ignore terrorist activities and diversion of humanitarian funds. They fund and print textbooks which foment hate—and therefore prevent peace and progress. When generations of Palestinian children are raised to hate Israel, what real chance is there for a Two State Solution? Is enabling the terror state that reigns in Gaza helping anyone but Hamas? Rather, the UN is actively involved in making sure that Israel never has “a partner for peace.” 

NOT HUMAN RIGHTS GROUPS: In traditional Arab society, the vast majority of women are not free to pursue education, employment, sexuality empowerment, or even their own fashion choices. Far too many women are forced to endure “female circumcision.” The situation is even worse in Islamist-dominated societies like Iran or Afghanistan where “morality police” act with impunity, carrying whatever misogynist outrages they choose. In terms of LGBT+ rights, there are none. Gays and Lesbians are hounded, imprisoned, raped, and even murdered. The idea of gender re-assignment is not even on the agenda. Freedom of speech and assembly are absent—as is real voting. Elections are held, but any district or village that does not overwhelming support the terrorist regime suffers violence and repercussions. Palestinians deserve human rights, but the organizations that speak for them are consigning them to tyranny and oppression.
 

Ironically, the best chance for Palestinian freedom and economic and social viability lies with Israel. The Arab citizens of Israel have more freedom, prosperity, and human rights than almost anyone in the Arab world. The continuing violence, however, creates suspicion and hate for all Arabs and all Muslims. It sabotages their full participation in Israeli society. It torpedoes any hope for a Palestinian State—or a single state where Jews and Arabs live together. By allowing and encouraging terrorism to dominate, all of these supposed “friends of the Palestinian people” doom the Palestinian people in dozens of ways. There are lots of words of concern and support, but too much of it is babble—and there is little love.  

As we pray for peace, let us pray for clarity, truth, and wisdom.

Tohu Vavohu and Evil

October 13th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

My custom this time of the year is to send out my High Holy Day sermons in the weekly e-mail announcements. This week, the plan was to present my Yom Kippur Morning sermon in which I discuss some of the origins of the current political crisis in Israel. That crisis, tragically, has been pushed to the back burner by the Hamas attack. The sermon is posted on the website for anyone who is interested, but my weekly essay has of necessity a new subject. 

In Genesis 1, when God begins to create the heaven and the earth, we are told that the earth “was unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep, and the spirit of God hovering over the water.” The Hebrew for “unformed and void” is tohu vavohu, a term which can also mean utter confusion and senselessness. The story begins with tohu vavohu while God hovers above it—presumably preparing to bring some order and morality into the pointless mess.  

Much of life is conflict, and much of that conflict comes from wildly diverging goals and agendas. It also comes from people doing things impulsively and without thinking ahead. If you feel it, do it. If you feel it deeply, do it vigorously. And, if that feeling is hate, act on that hate regardless of the implications or consequences. For too many of us, the act of violence is reward in itself. It does not need a purpose other than self-expression. Let the anger flow! 

There are many discussions and opinions about Israel and Israel’s policies over the years. There are many opinions about how best to live with or apart from the Arabs. And, among Arabs, there are many opinions about how best to navigate the tricky waters of the whole Middle East. We could spend hours or years discussing these ends and outs, but what happened this weekend is not part of this logical and orderly discussion. What happened this past weekend is tohu vavohu, an unmitigated flow of anger and impulse without any redeeming value.  

Hamas and its sponsors purport to be fighting for the sake of the Palestinian people, but what they did—attacking Israeli towns and massacring civilians—will not in any way further the cause of the Palestinians. It will not bring anyone closer to a Two-State Solution. It will not convince or force the Israelis to abandon the Land of Israel—purging the land of Jews “from the river to the sea.” It will not convince the Israeli population that the Palestinians can be good neighbors “if we are just nice to them.” 

What will happen?

(1)  The attack will cause many deaths. The numbers of Israeli casualties are heartbreaking. And the many deaths of Palestinians will also be tragic.

(2)  Israel will win this war. It will devastate military targets in Gaza, killing many militants and forcing Hamas and its partners underground until they can be resupplied.

(3)  The Israeli counter-attack will also kill many Palestinian civilians. This sad fact is what happens when terrorist organizations like Hamas put missile batteries next to day-care centers and hospitals. This is what happens when citizens are not allowed to leave buildings after the Israelis drop announcements warning residents to evacuate. This is what happens when international press offices and humanitarian agencies are forced into offices next door or downstairs from terrorist organizations—and then threatened if they report what is really going on.

(4)  Significant aid will pour into Gaza, but instead of using the funds to help the Palestinians, more weapons will be bought, more tunnels will be dug, and more terrorists will be trained.

(5)  The borders between Israel and Gaza and between Israel and the Palestinian Authority will be closed for quite a while—which means that the thousands of Palestinians who make their livings in Israel will be without work and salaries.

(6)  Those in the tourist industry will suffer financially. This includes many Jews, but it also includes thousands of Israeli Arabs who work at hotels, managing the front desk, working in the restaurants, and cleaning rooms. Even if their salaries continue, the tips will not.

(7)  Many building projects will be suspended—so the thousands of Israeli Arabs who work in the building trades will not be working or earning money.

(8)  If any Israeli Arabs join in the attacks—as Hamas is instructing, the precarious position of all Israeli Arabs will be damaged. Their livelihoods and social integration will suffer serious setbacks. 

My point is that these savage attacks will have no positive effects for the Palestinians in Gaza, in the West Bank, or in Israel. Poverty will not be relieved. Employment will not be increased. Living conditions and health-care and education will not be improved. Gaza will sink further into the morass, and Palestinians in the Occupied Territories will also suffer. This murderous crusade is not part of a cogent plan to help the Palestinian people. It is tohu vavohu and evil. 

The only positive effect will be for the bloodthirsty reputations of Hamas and its leaders—individuals whose only goals are raising their own profiles and solidifying their grasp on political control. Anyone in Gaza who opposes Hamas is threatened or murdered, and any suggestion of democracy is just a veneer. Hamas’ rule is a tyranny as terrible as any totalitarian state in history. Israels are the victims for now, but the Palestinians are the victims of Hamas every single day.

As we pray for peace, let us remember to think clearly. As we pray for peace, let us encourage reasoned policies that will actually help people. And, as we pray for peace, let us be thankful for strength.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo va’shalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people so the Lord can bless our people with peace.”
(Psalm 29.11)

Sins and Repercussions and Israel

October 13th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur morning sermon.

It has been said that The only thing two Jews can agree on is how much a third should give to Tzedakah. It is probably true, but, ultimately, whatever those two Jews agree on is just talk. It is the giver who decides how much will be given. Regardless of the committee’s opinion, there is autonomy for the individual.  

When it comes to the government, this is decidedly not the case. Governmental leaders decide what others will give for the common good, and though each person in a democracy has a voice, once decisions are made, individual autonomy is often futile. Sometimes the sacrifices “for the common good” are spread around for everyone to make, but sometimes those in charge decide that some people will sacrifice for the sake of others. Whether such decisions are fair or not is a matter for debate. The point is that some decide what others will give.  

We could take this discussion in many different directions--from the tax code to local zoning, but I think it can be helpful in understanding a big story in the Jewish world, the political turmoil we see in Israel. My thesis? When some decide what others will sacrifice, those who make the sacrifices may stew about it for years and ultimately aspire to political power. 

I’m basing my comments on an article by the Israeli journalist Yossi Klein Halevi. I have been acquainted with Yossi for several years, as he is part of the Hartman Institute in Jerusalem where I study in the summer. This summer, his lectures and classes at Hartman reflected his internal turmoil over the current political situation. In some ways, I feel like I helped birth this article, since I endured several tortured classes where he was trying to organize all the facts into a coherent analysis. Published in The Times of Israel, his article, The Wounded Jewish Psyche and the Divided Israeli Soul, traces much of the current political crisis to two crises most of us have forgotten. 

Before looking at these two crises, a word about Yossi. Yossi Klein Halevi was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York. A devotee of the famous and then infamous Rabbi Meir Kahane, he was active in the Jewish Defense League for several years. In his twenties, however, he had a change of heart, turned away from that extremism, moved to Israel, and eventually became a moderate voice for peace and mutual respect.  

The first forgotten crisis Yossi identifies occurred in 2005 as Israel was disengaging from Gaza. The hard-working and very successful Jewish settlers there were forced by the Israeli government to abandon the farms and homes they had built over some thirty years. There were protests all over the country, and many of the families had to be physically dragged from their homes by Israeli soldiers. For the sake of peace, the government decided that Gaza needed to be given completely to the Palestinian Arabs, and the moshavniks and farmers who had built lives there for some thirty years were the ones chosen to make the sacrifice. 

A side issue that just makes the whole episode doubly painful is that, instead of using the Jewish homes and ultra-sophisticated greenhouse systems for their people’s prosperity, Hamas came through and destroyed both farms and homes. The real issue, however, is that the Israeli government promised to help the Jewish farming communities re-establish themselves—rebuild and restart their lives, but this never happened. 

The farmers who were dragged from their homes in Gaza were pretty much abandoned by the government and left to piece together relatively impoverished lives. Yossi still believes that disengaging from Gaza was a good decision, but he also sees the deep discontent of those whose sacrifice was not honored or compensated.  

The injustice of their situation has festered for some fifteen years and given rise to attitudes and political parties based on disenchantment. Rather than seeing the Israeli government as a problem solver, a number of Israeli Jews see the government as a betrayer. As it turns out, two of the politicians who rose from this deep alienation are Betzalel Smotrich and Itamar ben Gvir, the two right-wing politicians who are currently manhandling both the Knesset and Bibi Netanyahu. Ben Gvir, rejected in his youth from the army because of mental instability, is now in charge of Israel’s “Department of Homeland Security.”  

An earlier crisis is one most of us never even thought of as a crisis. As Yossi puts it, “...in in the early years of the state...the secular Ashkenazi Labor leadership tried to impose its notion of Israeliness on immigrants, especially from the Middle East, a disastrous mistake for which we continue to pay.” 

This campaign had several levels, but first remember that many Muslim countries took the establishment of Israel as an occasion to drive out their Jewish populations. So, not only were Jewish refugees pouring in from Europe, Jews who had been residents in Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, Egypt, Iraq, and Persia for over a thousand years were also on their way.  

The government decided that the new nation’s social fabric would not be well-served if there were too many Mizrachi (non-European) Jews. It was too late to stop the mass influx of Syrian, Iraqi, and Persian Jews, but the Moroccans had not yet arrived. So, the Aliyah agencies diverted large numbers of Moroccan Jewish refugees and sent them to Europe--to the displaced persons camps formerly occupied by Holocaust survivors. It took some Moroccan Jews over two years to get from one end of the Mediterranean to the other.  

Then, when they finally arrived in Israel, they were sent out to the middle of nowhere. David Ben Gurion realized that the largest part of Jewish territory, the Negev in the south, was the least inhabited and that building the country mean settling people there. So, without asking or explaining, he had these new Moroccan Jewish immigrants loaded on busses and sent to their “new homes.” They were bussed at night to “development towns” and left there. When they awoke and emerged from what they thought were temporary huts, there was no town, and they were left on their own to build communities. Eventually, these involuntary pioneers built the development towns of Arad, Dimona, Yerocham, and S’derot, but they and their children have not forgotten the callous and manipulative ways that the government used them. Years later, when the Ethiopian Jews came, they were also shipped in large numbers to these out-of-the-way development towns. People in the upper echelons of the Israeli government decided that these towns needed to be built up—and that these newcomers were the ones to do the building.  

Some of these development towns are also border outposts. An example is S’derot, located less than a kilometer from Gaza and Hamas, where its predominantly Moroccan and Ethiopian residents spend their days thinking about how far they are from bomb shelters. That these people have deep and abiding resentments about government largesse should not be a surprise. 

As Yossi Klein Halevi observed before, the Modern Jewish State began with a particular Israeli identity in mind and worked very hard to impose it on everyone in Israel--a strategy that left many with feelings of alienation. Not every Israeli is Ashkenazic or a Socialist or an atheist or a Kibbutznik. The ones in power from 1948 to 1977 were, but all those who were not—Jews from the Muslim countries, non-Socialist Europeans, and the ultra-Orthodox—eventually developed political power and were a big part of what brought perennial minority leader Menachem Begin to power in 1977. Though there have been some Labor-dominated governments since, most have been decidedly non-Socialist, and today the Left in Israel is virtually  unrepresented in the Knesset. And even though the Likkud and similar Conservative parties were supported by the perennial minorities, they too assumed an Ashkenazi and secular dominated paternalism. Left or Right, governmental arrogance has left many in the margins. 

In the current government, in particular, the power of the ultra-Orthodox, the settler movement, and the permanent underclass of Jews from Muslim countries are on display, and their energy is anything but conciliatory or cooperative. They have the power they have long craved, and their attempts to remake the legal system are evidence of long-simmering resentments and a sense that the government is not their friend. Since previous governments were not their friends, they see no reason to be friendly to their political opponents. They have the power now, and they are intent on using it for themselves. 

Yossi Klein Halevi believes that they have over-played their hand—that the enormous public demonstrations against the judicial changes and against the vengeful wielding of power will soon doom the current coalition. Israeli democracy will recover, but the festering mistrust that gave rise to this power-grab should not be ignored. In democracies, government is ultimately at the pleasure of the governed, and, if the government wants to be perceived as the people’s “friend,” it needs to act like one.  

Yes, the hard decisions of leadership do involve choosing who will make the sacrifices for the common good. And many of those strategies—developing the Negev, giving Gaza to the Palestinians, trying to mold an Israeli identity from all the Jewish identities the immigrants brought with them—all made sense. But there were human costs along the way, and failing to acknowledge them or give recompense to those who made the sacrifices has created an atmosphere of disenfranchisement. 

The irony is that many of these marginalized groups have achieved power and status. Though discounted at first, the Moroccans and other Jews from Muslim countries have made great progress economically, culturally, and politically. The ultra-Orthodox, though clamoring for more, have significant government subsidies, ample school funding, exemptions from military service, and control over their neighborhoods. Even the settler movement is not as oppressed as they claim. The vast majority of “settlers” live in cities with apartment buildings, commercial districts, excellent infrastructure and internet access, and high-level security. Their “oppression” comes from critics on the Left and international objections to the continuing Occupation—and, of course, from the continuing hostility of Palestinian terrorists. The Israeli government is not their enemy, but many settlers project the difficulties of their lives—and the refusal of the majority of Israelis to embrace religious fundamentalism—onto the government and are trying now to use their government to solve their problems.  

This strategy will fail, and Israel’s democracy will survive, but the re-emerging coalition of sanity must not forget the legitimacy and history of the formerly disenfranchised. Among the most important insights I heard when I was in Israel this summer is the following. Polarization results from treating one’s political opponents as enemies. When the Moderates regain power, they need to treat their vanquished opponents as neighbors and fellow citizens, looking for just ways to cooperate with them and to help them in their lives. In short, if the government—whoever is in control—wants to be perceived as the people’s friend, it needs to act like a friend.

Praying Against Sins and Not Against Sinners

October 6th: Erev Simchat Torah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following  is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre sermon:

Though our focus today is on our sins, we are also urged to consider the sins of others. Sometimes, their sins do not affect us. We may read about them in the paper—or not, and, though we believe that sins should not happen, we do not feel the pain that they cause. Other times, however, we bear the brunt of others’ sins, and we do feel the pain. These can be communal sins and pain, or international sins and pain, or individual sins and pain. Such sins—and pain—often lead us to anger, and we can understand why King David wrote these verses.  

From Psalm 92 (verse 12):
וַתַּבֵּט עֵינִי בְּשׁוּרָי בַּקָּמִים עָלַי מְרֵעִים תִּשְׁמַעְנָה אָזְנָי:
“I shall see the defeat of my foes, my ears shall hear of their downfall.”
From Psalm 104 (verse 35),
יִתַּמּוּ חַטָּאִים ׀ מִן־הָאָרֶץ וּרְשָׁעִים ׀ עוֹד אֵינָם...
“May sinners disappear from the earth, and the wicked be no more.”

Yes, the evil deserve their punishment, and we who are good often feel a kind of moral satisfaction when they get their rightful comeuppance. I have seldom, in my very fortunate life, come in contact with true evil, but I must admit a fascination with movies that pit the good guys against the bad guys. Think of all the action movies where evil must be confronted—and how we get drawn into the emotional intensity of the story. They always start with the bad guys being really, really bad—which is a dramatic set up for the final showdown. Often the good guys get battered terribly before they come back with a roar. There are so many examples with James Bond, Jean Claude Van Damme, Stephen Segal, and, of course, Sylvester Stallone, but the one final scene that stands out to me is in the 1986 film Cobra. In that final fight scene, a police detective played by Sylvester Stallone stands on a platform over a super cruel and murderous villain—a guy who has gone above and beyond in perpetrating evil and cruelty. The bad guy tries to shoot Stallone, but his bullet punctures a barrel of flammable liquid, and the oil splatters all over the villain. Stallone’s character, a man of few words, says, “You have the right to remain silent,” lights a match on the grip of his pistol, and drops it. I don’t think of myself as a cruel or vengeful person, but I’ve got to tell you, that moment is sweet. More than vengeful, it is morally cathartic. “May sinners disappear from the earth, and the wicked be no more.” (Psalm 104.35) 

But, we are in synagogue now, and we are supposed to be considering sin and punishment and teshuvah—how we can become more godly. Is what happens in action films really the end for sinners for which we should pray?  

Such is the discussion in the Babylonian Talmud, Berachot 10a: “There were some hooligans in Rabbi Meir’s neighborhood who caused him a great deal of anguish. Rabbi Meir prayed to God (to have mercy on them) that they should die. Rabbi Meir’s wife, Beruriah, said to him: What are you thinking? On what basis do you pray for the death of these hooligans? Is it the verse from Psalm 104, ‘Let sinners cease from the land’ (Psalms 104:35)? You are interpreting it to mean that the world would be better if the wicked were destroyed. But notice: it is not written, ‘Let sinners cease.’ It is written, ‘Let sins cease.’” She interprets the wordחַטָּאִים  not as sinners, but as sins. She continues, “One should pray for an end to their transgressions, not for the death of the transgressors themselves. More proof comes from the end of the verse: 'And the wicked will be no more.’ If, ‘transgressions shall cease’ means the death of the evildoers, then they cannot fulfill the passage about ‘the wicked being no more—in other words, that they will be wicked no more. The only way that can happen is for them to repent from their evil. So, pray for God to have mercy on them, that they should repent. If they do repent, then the wicked will be no more because they will no longer be wicked.”

“Rabbi Meir saw that Beruriah was correct and he prayed for God to have mercy on them, and they repented.” 

Though we certainly want our sinfulness to be treated this way, there is something in us that lusts for the punishment of the wicked—other than us. Like we began, there is something to be said for David’s emotional poetry in Psalm 92.

וַתַּבֵּט עֵינִי בְּשׁוּרָי בַּקָּמִים עָלַי מְרֵעִים תִּשְׁמַעְנָה אָזְנָי:
“I shall see the defeat of my foes, my ears shall hear of their downfall.”

Our Tradition has for a long, long time realized this kind of elemental human desire, and it provides a text to help us reconsider our urges. When we read The Book of Jonah, we are tempted to focus on the storm and the giant fish—and I must admit that my favorite verse when I was a child was,

 וַיָּקֵא אֶת־יוֹנָה אֶל־הַיַּבָּשָׁה:
“...the fish vomited him out upon dry land.” (Jonah 2.11)

However, the real message of the story is about how Jonah’s desire for Nineveh’s destruction is totally and shockingly inappropriate. Once he embarks on God’s mission and speaks prophecy, he looks forward to its fulfillment, which to him is the annihilation of Nineveh and its inhabitants. Why? Perhaps it is a matter of protecting his prophetic reputation. “When Jonah pronounces a Divine message, it is going to happen!” Or it could be a sense of self-righteousness in which the destruction of the evil-doers props up his own faith and theology. “If I am not allowed to sin, how can they get away with it?”  

In any event, Jonah sits on the hill, gleefully looking forward to the imminent fire and brimstone, and, when it does not come, he is furious. He lashes out at God and infuses his temper tantrum with theology and a Biblical quotation:

“O Lord, isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish.
כִּי יָדַעְתִּי כִּי אַתָּה אֵל־חַנּוּן וְרַחוּם אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם
וְרַב־חֶסֶד וְנִחָם עַל־הָרָעָה:

For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment.” (Jonah 4.2)

One would think that Jonah would be pleased that his prophetic message works, that the Ninevites listen to him. They all, including the animals, put on sackcloth and cover their heads with ashes. They fast and pray for forgiveness. They repent!

“God saw what they did, how they were turning back from their evil ways.
And God renounced the punishment planned to bring upon them,
and did not carry it out.” (Jonah 3.10)  

One would think that Jonah would be satisfied. However, in a stunning but very human burst of anger, he evidences no compassion for the Ninevites. The Lord is astounded and disgusted at Jonah’s immaturity and callousness and sends the brutal east wind and the gourd in an attempt to get him to open up his moral eyes. Sadly, Jonah’s heart is closed, and finally the Lord states what Jonah and we all need to understand.

“Should not I care about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than
a 120,000 persons who do not yet know their right hand from their left,
and also much cattle?!”  (Jonah 4.11)

The point is, as we read in Ezekiel (18.23) and our Machzor:

“Is it my desire that the wicked die?—says the Lord God. No!
It is rather that they turn from their evil ways and live.”

This is what God thinks about them—those sinners out beyond these synagogue walls, and this is what God thinks about us.

This desire for sinners to repent is one we should keep in mind as we approach the conflict and anger that often consume our political lives. Is the goal to destroy our opponents? Or is the goal to convince them that our path is the better way? Is the goal to identify our opponents as enemies and vanquish them? Or, is the goal to recognize them as human beings who are either incorrect or simply have different opinions? 

In the ongoing Civil Rights Movement, the goal has not been to destroy the racists; it has been to show them that people of color are human beings who deserve respect and rights. In the ongoing fight against anti-Semitism, the goal has not been to destroy those with senseless prejudice and hatred but to guide them to wiser and more respectful thinking.  

This attitude can also help guide us in dealing with cancel culture, in the “got’cha” dynamic that so frequently graces our public discourse. A public figure is caught saying or doing something inappropriate—often in the distant past, and they are smeared and vilified. Is our goal in Tikkun Olam/the Perfection of the World to find flaws in people’s past and to expel them from the body politic, or should the goal be to ascertain their current understanding and guide them to a more perfect appreciation of humanity in all of its diversity? Paraphrasing Ezekiel, we could say that our goal should not be the political or professional death of sinners but that they should repent, turning from their ignorant or prejudiced path and striving for godliness. Or, in the words of Beruriah, we should pray “for an end to their transgressions...” so that they can be “wicked no more.” If we believe in repentance and atonement, then we should believe in its possibility on days other than Yom Kippur and in places other than the synagogue. 

What we should want—and what God wants—is not that sinners will cease but that sins will cease. If it is true for us, it should be true for our fellow human beings.

Akedat Yitzchak and Moral Reasoning

September 22nd: Shabbat Shuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Evening D’var Torah:

Many years ago, the late Rabbi Steven Sager of Durham, North Carolina, was leading a sermon seminar for a rabbinic gathering, and he uttered what to him was a bold aspiration. Always daunted by the difficulty of the Akedat Yitzchak, the Binding of Isaac, he was, after some twenty years in the rabbinate, finally going to write a sermon on this challenging story. Rabbi Sager was a great scholar, a sage and inspired leader, but I was surprised and even a bit flummoxed by his hesitancy. Twenty years of leading Rosh Hashanah services and no Akedat Yitzchak sermons? I did not know we had a choice. Whether good or bad, I had been writing Divray Torah on it since my earliest days in the pulpit.  

I mention this reminiscence of my late friend and mentor to remind us of the extreme difficulty of this portion. We know the tale well, but we should never let our familiarity obscure the angst we should feel at our Father Abraham’s plight. What would we do if God commanded such a sacrifice from us? 

If we could calm ourselves enough for systematic thinking, we might try to subject the command to the two categories of ethical decision making. One kind is code based—officially termed de-ontological ethical reasoning. We are under the jurisdiction of various moral and legal codes, and, when a question arises, we consult the codes and see what is required and what is forbidden. Whether the codes involve traffic laws, tax laws, property laws, ethical codes for our various professions, neighborhood covenants, by-laws of our various organizations, or the Ten Commandments and Halachah, there are rules which guide us in our decisions.  

The problem, in Abraham’s test, is that de-ontological reasoning would command two different and opposing responses. On the one hand, there is the religious presumption that one should follow God’s commands. When God speaks, we are supposed to be obedient. However, there is also the unwritten but furiously obvious code of parenting which says that parents should protect their children. However Abraham imagines the ethical codes that govern him, he receives two very different instructions. 

The second kind of ethical reasoning is based on the results of a proposed action—a good result making the action ethical and moral, and a bad result making the action unethical and immoral. This is called teleological ethical reasoning. An example would be whether one observes traffic laws in a medical emergency. Though the speed limit should limit our velocity, we may determine that driving slowly would result in the death of the patient—clearly not a good result. Driving fast, though it is against the code, would result in the patient living—clearly a good result. In such a situation, teleological ethical reasoning counsels us to ignore the speed limits and save a life. 

When it comes to Abraham’s situation, however, teleological reasoning is also conflicted. If he follows God’s command to sacrifice Isaac, the obviously tragic result would be the death of his beloved son. Such an action cannot be in any way good or moral. If Abraham disobeys God’s command, that could also bring about devastating results: God could get angry and kill Isaac anyway—and kill Abraham and everyone else he loves. Neither following nor refusing God’s command will yield a good result. What is a Patriarch to do?! 

Though there are hundreds of ways to approach this tortuous situation, the Tradition is generally of two minds on the subject. One lionizes Abraham’s faith and holds him up as the epitome of an obedient and faithful Servant. The impossibility of the situation speaks to his spiritual strength and zeal for the Lord.  

The other view rebels with every fiber of its collective being at the thought that God would ask such a travesty of a mitzvah. There is no way that a loving God would demand such a sacrifice. Thus, some voices in the Tradition insist that Abraham’s behavior must result from misunderstanding what God says.  

Remember how the story begins.

וַיְהִי אַחַר הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה וְהָאֱלֹהִים נִסָּה אֶת־אַבְרָהָם
“Sometime afterward, God put Abraham to the test.”

What exactly is God testing? 

If we follow the Tradition that God wants to know if Abraham is totally loyal and obedient, Abraham passes the test. He does God’s bidding regardless of the personal cost. 

However, if the test is of a different sort, then Abraham’s blind obedience and automaton-like zealotry may not be what God is seeking at all. What if the test is of Abraham’s moral fibre? What if God wants to see if he is strong enough to say No to an unjust command? Supporting this second theory are two verses later in the portion. In the original instruction—and in many instances in Abraham’s life, God speaks directly to him. But, after Abraham almost slaughters Isaac, God never again speaks to him directly.

Look to the text. When Abraham stands over Isaac, the slaughtering knife in hand, it is not God Who stops him.

וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו מַלְאַךְ יְהוָֹה מִן־הַשָּׁמַיִם...
אַל־תִּשְׁלַח יָדְךָ אֶל־הַנַּעַר
וְאַל־תַּעַשׂ לוֹ מְאוּמָה...
“Then an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven...
and said, ‘Do not raise your hand against the boy,
or harm him in any way...’” (Genesis 22.11-12)

 And, after Abraham sacrifices the ram in Isaac’s place, it is again an angel who speaks to him.

וַיִּקְרָא מַלְאַךְ יְהוָֹה אֶל־אַבְרָהָם שֵׁנִית מִן־הַשָּׁמָיִם
“The angel of the Lord called to Abraham a second time from heaven...” (Genesis 22.15)

 Abraham is a favorite of God, a “friend of God,” but, in this case, passing the test would have Abraham protesting the immoral command and refusing it. When Abraham fails the test and tries to kill Isaac, God is disgusted by Abraham’s mindless zealotry and withdraws, sending an angel to fix the mess.  

Another possible explanation is that Abraham misunderstands what God means by ,וְהַעֲלֵהוּ to make Isaac go up. This is the Hebrew term for sacrificing, but there are certainly other ways to elevate the child? Physically bringing him up from Beer-sheba to Moriah and then spiritually elevating him with religious instruction is infinitely more suitable. We already know, from Genesis 14, that Moriah/Salem/Jerusalem is a place of worship and religious education. As you may remember, Abraham spends some time there after he rescues his nephew Lot in the war of the four kings against the five kings. He stops at Salem to visit King Melchizedek,כֹהֵן לְאֵל עֶלְיוֹן , a priest of God Most High.

King Melchizedek of Salem  brought out bread and wine;
he was a priest of God Most High, and he blessed Abraham, saying,
‘Blessed be Abraham of God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth.
And blessed be God Most High Who has delivered your foes into your hand.’”
(Genesis 14.17-20)

According to the Midrash, this Melchizedek is actually Shem, the son of Noah, who with his grandson Eber has a school of spirituality in which the ancients learn the ways of God. This school is in Salem, identified also as both Jerusalem and Moriah, and perhaps, when God says (Genesis 22.2),

וְלֶךְ־לְךָ אֶל־אֶרֶץ הַמֹּרִיָּה וְהַעֲלֵהוּ שָׁם
“...go to the Land of Moriah and elevate him there,”

Abraham is supposed to elevate Isaac, וְהַעֲלֵהוּ, by having him educated at Shem and Eber’s religious academy.

Ultimately, Abraham may get the point, because, if you look carefully at the end of the story, Isaac does not return with Abraham and the servants to Beer-sheba.

וַיָּשָׁב אַבְרָהָם אֶל־נְעָרָיו
וַיָּקֻמוּ וַיֵּלְכוּ יַחְדָּו אֶל־בְּאֵר שָׁבַע...
“Abraham then returned to his servants, and they departed together for Beer-sheba...”  (Genesis 22.19)

Perhaps eventually, Isaac gets the education God wants for him. 

Another possible explanation for Abraham’s failure is that he is not adequately paying attention. Though he answers both God and Isaac, with הִנֵּנִי, “Here I am,” Abraham’s  kavanah/ concentration may be less than ideal. First, he does not even listen to his own prophetic words. When Isaac asks him,

וְאַיֵּה הַשֶּׂה לְעֹלָה,
“where is the sheep for the burnt offering,”

Abraham answers,

אֱלֹהִים יִרְאֶה־לּוֹ הַשֶּׂה לְעֹלָה,
“God will see to the sheep for the burnt offering,”

but he does not act as if there is a sheep waiting up on the mountain. He ties up Isaac and puts him on the altar. Abraham is a prophet and thus speaks words from God, but the question is whether he is listening to the words he speaks. For all of us who speak the great words of our Tradition or literature, let us make sure that we are paying attention not just to the presentation but also to the message.
 

This, by the way, is a lesson we’ll consider on Yom Kippur in the story of Jonah. He preaches for God but fails to see God’s perspective in the hope for human improvement.  

Another hint that Abraham is not paying attention is his inability to see the ram up there on the mountain. Whether devoted unthinkingly to God—or devastated by the command to kill his beloved son, Abraham is so overwhelmed and transfixed that he fails to see that God has indeed provided the sheep for the sacrifice. Only after the angel stops him does his vision seem to return.

וַיִּשָּׂא אַבְרָהָם אֶת־עֵינָיו וַיַּרְא
וְהִנֵּה־אַיִל אַחַר נֶאֱחַז בַּסְּבַךְ בְּקַרְנָיו
“When Abraham looked up, his eye fell upon a ram,
caught in the thicket by its horns.”

Devotion or holiness is no reason to be inattentive. Indeed, it is only through paying attention that we can truly see the opportunities and possibilities that God places before us.  

The voices in our Tradition that speak of Abraham failing the test focus on the impossibility of God’s command. There is no way that a good and loving God would give this command, and thus Abraham’s test is on a more subtle level. His challenge is to think about what God has said, to see through the simple meaning and find the deeper truth, to pay attention to the entirety of God’s prophetic messages, and to bring forth the moral strength that God has placed within him. 

We do not pass every test, but hopefully, with God’s help, we can make the necessary U-turns and הַעֲלֵנוּ, elevate ourselves as God hopes we will.

Awesome, Dude!

September 15th: Rosh Hashanah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though we use words as though they have set meanings, many words wander around and meander in curious and sometimes amusing directions. A case in point is the word awesome which achieved new lives in the hands and mouths of teenagers and other cool people in the 1980s. From its traditional definition of “extremely impressive or daunting, inspiring great admiration, apprehension, or fear,” awesome was transformed to a slang word for anything positive. “Awesome car!” “Awesome concert!” “Awesome pizza, dude!” Those more expert than I may trace this usage to the “Valley Girl” culture, or to Surfer Culture or perhaps even to Cheech and Chong’s takes on drug culture, but my point is simply that the definition changed.  

As it turns out,  Rosh Hashanah is an excellent time to reflect on the old meaning. 

In the Biblical idiom, awesome means much more than excellent or pleasurable. It describes something that is impressive but much, much, much more than the usual impressive things in life. It also describes something so impressive that our admiration is mixed with fear—with terror. Imagine the Israelites crossing the Red Sea—a story we moderns know so well that we can forget the absolute terror of the situation. When our ancient ancestors looked up and saw the Egyptians thundering toward us, we were facing certain death. It was not a ride at Disney World. It was not a concocted sense of fear in an action movie. We were facing our murderers, and things were hopeless. Then the miracle, a miracle of such unexpected and awe-inspiring grandeur that we were dumbstruck. We stumbled across the sea between the walls of water, tingling with a disquieting sense that reality had suddenly become vastly different, very scary, very purposeful. While we usually try to understand our environment so that we can work within it or manipulate it, this was something totally different—something in which a power beyond our understanding or imagining was at play.  

The Egyptians were quick on their feet and adapted their battle plan. We’ll just chase them into the this (newly formed) roadway and kill them there. “I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my desire shall have its fill of them! I will bare my sword—my hand will subdue them!” (Exodus 15.9) But then, this world to which the cavalry so quickly adapted turned—changed drastically and overturned them. “They went down into the depths like a stone.” And we, we who were still dumbfounded and stumbling through the passageway, did not know what to think. It was all so far from what we knew of life. 

When words were finally put together to describe the events of that day, one used was awesome, in Hebrew nora.
“Mi chamocha ba’elim, Adonai?!
Who is like You, O Lord, among the celestials/gods?!
Mi kamocha ne’dar bakodesh!
Who is like You, majestic in holiness,
NORA tehilot, oseh fele!
Awesome in splendor, working wonders!”  (Exodus 15.11)
We had encountered a Presence of immense and jaw dropping power, a power and purpose both incredibly impressive and incredibly fear invoking. The power had worked for us that day, but it was not under our control. This was something both to appreciate and to fear. This was something demanding deep and profound respect. This was and is serious—awesome!

Few of us approach the High Holy Days with this kind of deep and foreboding reverence—and I do not see this as a problem. There is much to celebrate in our lives. There is much to contemplate in the wisdom of our Tradition. And, we are assured, forgiveness is within our reach. As we shall read several times, “It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their evil ways and live!” (Ezekiel 18.23) If we do the work of Teshuvah / repentance, we will be forgiven.  

Nonetheless, there is a reason the High Holy Days are traditionally called The Days of Awe / Yamim HaNora’im. The importance of our gathering is not to be underestimated. We matter. Our lives matter. Our deeds matter. Our thinking matters. Our prayers matter. What we are doing—as we contemplate and navigate life—is of great importance. It is obviously important to us, but it is also important to the people who love us, the people who know us and interact with us, and to our Creator, the Presence in which we find our existence. As Martin Buber observed, we learn in the Torah that each one of us was created for a reason, for a purpose. Each one of us is God’s stake in the whole world. 

So, when we hear the musically trepidatious words, “Un’taneh tokef kedushat hayom ki hu NORA v’ayom. / Let us proclaim the sacred power of this day. It is AWESOME and full of dread,” let us remember that we are involved in serious matters. What we do matters. What we think matters. How we navigate our lives matters. Let us pay attention. 

As Sa’adia Gaon observed, the Book of Life is not so much written by God as by us. Let us write good years for ourselves and everyone else. 

L’shanah Tovah Tikatevu! 

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.”