“A Lick and a Promise”

June 14th: Shavuot and the Ten Commandments
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When I was a child, my mother would occasionally use the expression, “a lick and a promise.” It was in reference to a dirty child (me!) when time did not allow a proper bath. She would get a wet washcloth and run it over my face and neck—and that was all we had time for. The promise was the bath I would certainly get later. 

What do you do when the proper or full treatment is not possible? What is the minimum requirement?  

This question comes up in Halachah in regard to Birkat Hamazon, the long blessing after a meal. When a child is too young to learn the whole thing—or when an adult eater is in a big rush, what is the minimum necessary to properly thank God for the food? The answer, according to the Talmud (Berachot 40b), is: .בְּרִיךְ רַחֲמָנָא מַלְכָּא דְעָלְמָא מָרֵי דְהַאִי פִּתָה.
“B’rich Rachama, Malkah d’alma, Maray d’hai pita”—which is Aramaic for “Blessed is the Compassionate One, Ruler of the World, Who owns this bread.” A proper appreciation to God is much longer, but this minimal version will at least fulfill the basic requirement to “eat, find satisfaction, and thank the Lord.” (Deuteronomy 8.10). 

There is, in us, a kind of reductionist tendency. Well aware of the complexities of the world, sometimes we just want “the basics.” This dynamic is certainly at play in the famous story of the Convert who approaches both Shammai and Hillel with an extremely reductionist request: “I will convert if you teach me the whole Torah while I stand on one foot.” Shammai regards the question as absurd and insulting. Torah is something one learns over an entire lifetime. This guy is obviously not serious about Judaism, so “Shammai pushed him away with the builder’s cubit in his hand.” Hillel, on the other hand, ignores the insult and figures out a way to hook the prospective convert and get him into Judaism. “Hillel converted him and said, ‘What is hateful to you do not do to another; that is the entire Torah; the rest is commentary. Now go and study!’” (Talmud Shabbat 31a) Clearly, Hillel’s answer is almost as absurd as the question, and yet his summary is both instructive and inspiring. Sometimes, it is nice to boil things down to an essential truth or two. 

The problem—as both Hillel and Shammai certainly knew—is that sometimes our reductionist tendencies can be too much so and cheat us of the wide swath of our greater knowledge or culture. It is hard to overstate, for example, the importance of the Ten Commandments—the revelation of which we celebrate on Shavuot. But there is a lot more to Judaism than just those ten. In fact, Tradition is a little hazy—or expansive—about the encounter at Mount Sinai and calls it much more than just the Ten Commandments. It is called Matan Torah, the Giving of the entire Torah. While the Ten Commandments are certainly of extreme value, they are only the beginning and perhaps most dramatic of the 613 Commandments which Tradition insists that God gave us. 

Admittedly, many of those 613 involve obsolete and unobserved rituals from the days of the Temple. And many of them are only applicable if we live in the Land of Israel. And many of them involve sexist or other archaic attitudes that we no longer agree are holy or what God really wants. However, there is a lot more than ten things that God enjoins us to do. For instance, there are those gems of morality from Leviticus 19:
“You shall be holy for I the Lord your God am holy.
When you harvest the produce of your field or vineyard, leave some for the poor!
The wages of a laborer shall not remain with you until morning.
You shall not insult the deaf, or put a stumbling block before the blind.
When judging, do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich. Judge people fairly!
You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

And let us not forget all the injunctions in Exodus about “telling your child about the Exodus from Egypt,” so that we can properly appreciate our freedom.

And there is the elevating challenge of Deuteronomy: “And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul,  and with all your might.” 

As with most reductions or summaries, the Ten Commandments come to us on two levels. First, they are the main instructions that God gives us—and the glory and drama of the presentation reverberates still in the Jewish heart.
“I am the Lord your God Who brought you up from the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage; you shall have no other gods beside Me.
You shall make no idols or images and worship them.
You shall not take the Name of the Lord Your God in vain.
You shall remember and observe the Sabbath Day.
You shall honor your father and your mother.
You shall not murder.
You shall not commit adultery.
You shall not steal.
You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
You shall not covet.” (Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5) 

Second, however, they are symbolic of the greater wisdom and tradition—the communal holiness—that they begin/began. The story of the Revelation at Mount Sinai represents the possibility of an interface between Infinity and mortality. Though very limited creatures, we have the ability to channel the values and aspirations of God into the world. We have this power, and the Ten Commandments symbolize all the ways that God can be present in our lives—and that we can manifest God in the world. 

 .נִהְיֶה אֲנַֽחְנוּ יָדֶיךָ בָּעוֹלָם לְהָבִיא בְּרָכוֹת־הַשָּׁמַֽיִם לְכָל־הָאָרֶץ
Nihiyeh anachnu Yadecha ba’olam, l’havi b’rachot-hashamayim lechol-ha’aretz.
May we be Your Hands in the world, bringing the blessings of Heaven to all the earth.

Wisdom Dawning: From "Bemidbar" to Pride Week

June 7th: Bemidbar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The numbers part of the Book of Numbers—an ancient census—is fairly brief, while most of the book deals with our forty plus years wandering Bemidbar, in the desert. These stories are much less dramatic that Yetzi’at Mitzrayim/The Exodus from Egypt and Matan Torah/The Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and yet they are in many ways more important. Whatever our incredible experiences with the Lord, and whatever lofty goals God instructs us to follow, Numbers is where we learn to live in holy community. We move from the idealized vision to the practical reality, and, as Shakespeare wrote, “There’s the rub.” 

Among the challenges of living in community is the problem of other people’s differences. There are all kinds of human divergences and peculiarities, and much of our social cohesiveness or dissension depends on how we negotiate or adjudicate these differences. Are the differences just interesting, or are they disturbing? Do they involve dangerous behavior or just idiosyncrasy? Do they threaten the common good or are they just part of the variations of human experience? 

There is also the question of power and authority. Are these differences relevant in re rights and responsibilities: are some differences legitimate impediments to full citizenship and participation? 

When we moderns look at some of the opinions of our ancient forebears, we find ourselves in positions of serious disagreement. We believe that society should treat men and women as equals. We believe that different religions should be allowed freedom and that their believers should be allowed full access and participation in society. We believe that children are not property—that they have inherent rights and that our authority over them should be limited and gradually wane. As Khalil Gibran wrote, children “come through you but not from you…they are with you yet they belong not to you.” In fact, in a comment of mystical profundity, he explains that children—and therefore all of us—are “the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.” One way of looking at diversity is that it is Creation’s extraordinary adventure—a Divine yearning for manifestation in an amazing array of creativity and beauty. 

Our problem—in learning to live communally—is coming to grips with the fact that humans are not all the same. How do we as a society deal with human diversity? 

I say, “we as a society” because society has often felt compelled to take on responsibility for the common good—both defining propriety and enforcing it. While our libertarian inclinations may urge us to “live and let live,” ancient religious texts show a real concern for the danger individual decisions can bring to the entire community. Whether or not we believe that God in Heaven threatens Israel with group punishment for the idolatry or dishonesty or immorality of individual Israelites, the texts clearly represent both this fear and the concomitant need to regulate individual behavior. Our ancestors believed that, if a community “allows” some behaviors, then the community courts disaster. 

Though many of us today are less concerned about God visiting punishments if we “allow”  a variety of sexual and gender expressions, we might be much more receptive to the kind of Prophetic rants that threaten Heaven’s wrath on a society that allows economic or racial injustice—that “crushes My people and grinds the face of the poor.” (Isaiah 3.15) The principle, with which we might not disagree, is that leadership is charged with determining and managing communal standards—because deviation from these standards can bring calamity upon everyone. 

The challenge over these many centuries has been to ascertain which behaviors or characteristics are problems and which are mere differences—examples of the incredible diversity of creation. While we can disagree with our ancestors’ thinking about which differences are dangerous, I hope that we can understand their fears. I also hope that we can appreciate the great enlightenment that has been dawning for the last few centuries. The strides in the acceptance and embrace of LGTBQ+ individuals have been part of a process in which all kinds of formerly oppressed or marginalized human beings have been gradually accorded full human status: Protestants, Catholics, “Mohammedans,” Jews, women, formerly enslaved Africans, people with disabilities, etc.  

The notion of one group of humans “accepting” other human beings into full social membership sounds incredibly haughty. Who are these “accepters” to think that they have such power? And yet, they do. As society has developed over thousands of years, some people have power, and others hope for consideration or inclusion. Visionaries like George Washington—whose own vision was both profound and limited—sensed the absurdity of their gate-keeping authority—"It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights,” but they possessed and exercised this power nonetheless. Though natural rights should be natural and automatic, the fact is that it has taken us many, many years to open our eyes and see the full humanity of some of our fellow creatures. 

For many of us, living without full accord has been like wandering Bemidbar, in the desert or wilderness. Or, as one group of Jewish lesbians expressed it, they felt like a crust of stale bread on a Seder Plate—not belonging there. How blessed that light has dawned and that our LGBTQ+ friends and neighbors can be welcomed and embraced for the children of God they are. As our congregation and community celebrate Pride Week, let us remember the fears of our ancient past and appreciate the wisdom that has finally dawned—and how we are learning to distinguish between legitimate threats and the beauty of human diversity.  

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, מַתִּיר אֲסוּרִים

Blessed are You, O Lord our God, Ruler of All, for freeing the captive.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, זוֹקֵף כְּפוּפִים:

Blessed are You, O Lord our God, Ruler of All, for lifting up those who have been

kept down.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, שֶׁעָשַׂנּוּ כֻּלָּנוּ בְּצֶלֶם אֱלֹהִים:

Blessed are You, O Lord our God, Ruler of All, for creating us all in the Divine Image.

Mikveh Yisrael: Our Hope in This New Land

May 31st: Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

A few weeks ago, when Mayor (and member) Ezra Nanes declared Jewish American Heritage Month, I was asked to accept the proclamation and make a statement to the Borough Council. I chose to quote one of the most famous statements in American Jewish History, the letter from President George Washington to the Hebrew Congregation in Newport, Rhode Island. Upon his election in 1790, the Jews of Newport wrote to congratulate him, and he responded:
“The Citizens of the United States of America have a right to applaud themselves for having given to mankind examples of an enlarged and liberal policy: a policy worthy of imitation. All possess alike liberty of conscience and immunities of citizenship. It is now no more that toleration is spoken of, as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights. For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.” 
It is a wonderful and embracing statement, but the fact that he had to say it reminds us that the acceptance of Jews in this land has not always been a foregone conclusion. 

Actually, all six of the Jewish communities in the new United States (in New York, Newport, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia, and Richmond) wrote letters to Washington—perhaps to curry favor with the new ruler, and each received a similar reply. There have been for us times of great acceptance, opportunity, and good fortune, and there have been times when our people’s safety and status have been under threat. Though we live in the land of freedom, we and others have not always enjoyed the “domestic Tranquility” and “Blessings of Liberty” that our Constitution seeks. 

When Jews first arrived on these shores, their feelings were probably a combination of hope and desperation, and this hope in a context of anxiety can be seen in the names they gave their congregation. Three of the earliest congregations are named Mikveh Yisrael / O Hope of Israel, words that come from this week’s Haftarah portion. The Prophet Jeremiah (17.12-13) is exhorting our ancestors to trust in the blessings of the Lord: “O Throne of Glory, exalted from of old, Our Sacred Shrine! Mikveh Yisrael/O Hope of Israel! O Lord!” 

These three Mikveh Israel’s are in Curacao, an island off Venezuela (founded 1674), Savannah, Georgia (founded 1733), and Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (founded 1740). I do not know about the state of mind of these early Jews in Curacao and Philadelphia, but I served at Mickve Israel in Savannah and had the chance to learn about their less-than-enthusiastic reception. In 1733, General James Edward Oglethorpe received a charter from King George II to establish a colony that would be a frontier barrier to Spanish encroachment from their colony, La Florida. Backed by officers and men conditionally released from debtors’ prison, Oglethorpe set out to establish a utopia. His plan was to ban certain problems, among them slavery, lawyers, and Jews. However, six months after he landed, a boatload of Jews from England arrived and sought residency. Oglethorpe was adamantly opposed to their presence, but he was occupied with a crisis. A swamp fever was decimating his colony, and the only doctor had died from the illness. When he found out that one of the Jews was a physician, a Dr. Samuel Nunes, Oglethorpe said that he could disembark. Nunes countered that he would only help out if all the Jews on board would be allowed admission. The General relented, and the Jewish settlers named their congregation for the tenuous hope they felt at the possibilities in the new land. For many, the hopes were fulfilled, but for others danger lurked just down the coast. Though the original group had both Ashkenazim and Sephardim, the Sephardim departed after a few years. One theory is that they feared the encroaching Spanish (and Inquisition!) from La Florida. Again, safety in America was not always a foregone conclusion. 

The first Jewish residents of New York—then New Amsterdam—also had a less than open-armed reception. Though the group that arrived in 1654 was originally European Sephardic, their voyage to New Amsterdam was from Recife, Brazil. Originally a Portuguese colony—where the Inquisition made it very dangerous for Jews, Recife had been conquered by the Netherlands in 1630 and was run by the Dutch West India Company. Given that Holland and the Company were very friendly to Jews, a group of Jews from Amsterdam settled there. However, in 1654, the Portuguese recaptured Recife, and the Jews knew better than to wait for the Inquisition. Seeking another Dutch colony, they sailed for New Amsterdam. However, the governor of the colony, Peter Stuyvesant, was anti-Semitic and did not want the Jews. After entreaties to the Dutch West India Company in Amsterdam—and its many Jewish investors, Stuyvesant received firm directives to allow the Jews to settle, and they did. Still, he would not let them stand guard on duty on the Wall (the future Wall Street) because he did not consider them trustworthy.  

Twice exiled (from Iberia in the 1400s and Recife in 1654), these Jews felt like a very small remnant of Judaism’s former glory, and they named their congregation Shearith Yisrael, a remnant of Israel, as a reflection of their tenuous situation. They prayed that they would survive and keep Judaism alive in this very far off place. 

The founders of the second oldest Jewish congregation in the United States were perhaps a bit more hopeful. When the first Jews of Newport, Rhode Island established their synagogue—now known as the Touro Synagogue, they named it Yeshu’at Yisrael, the Salvation of Israel. It was 1658, and this outpost of Jewishness was at the edge of the world. Hopefully, this place would bring us good things. 

In large measure, our hope in this new land has been rewarded. Our faith and institutions are strong. Our people have been free to work hard and aspire to the American Dream. And we have been a constructive part of the American process, contributing in every possible way to America’s building and improvement. We are part of the American fabric, and yet still we wonder and worry. There is much to treasure, and there is much to protect. 

Hopefully, we too can find inspiration in God’s Presence—Mikveh Yisrael—and keep alive the religious spirit that filled our ancestors. God can be with us—if we only open our hearts and minds and allow the proximity of God. As Jeremiah also says (in this week’s Haftarah), “Blessed is one who trusts in the Lord, whose trust and faith is in God. It is like a tree planted by waters, sending forth its roots by a stream; It does not sense the coming of heat, its leaves are ever fresh; it has no care in a year of drought, It does not cease

Tapping the Mind of God

May 24th: Behar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In 1751, Isaac Norris, the Speaker of the Pennsylvania Assembly, chose an inscription for the State House Bell—now known as The Liberty Bell. It was a verse from this week’s Torah portion: “Proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof” (Leviticus 25.10). We do not know why he chose this verse—though some think it was in honor of William Penn’s 1701 Charter of Privileges which granted religious liberties and political self-government. However what strikes me is his interpretative effort to craft a majestically inspiring phrase from a verse that has nothing to do with religion or politics. It is a wonderful inscription, but it is not at all what the Torah’s author meant. 

The Hebrew phrase refers to real estate. Though the King James’ translation used by Norris is has those overtones that make it perfect for The Liberty Bell, the actual phrase, “U’kra’tem d’ror ba’aretz l’chol-yosh’veha…” is more contextually translated as, “You shall proclaim release throughout the land for all its inhabitants.” (Jewish Publication Society, 1999). Every fifty years, all real estate transactions were to be cancelled, and everyone was to return to his ancestral homestead—the land assigned by Moses (and God!) when the Israelites were entering the Promised Land. 

So, what we have is a marvelous quotation, but one that is taken out of context. Is the sentiment true because it is from the Bible? Or is it true because it is a hopeful goal for our country? One thing for sure, Norris’ use is an example of eisegesis—the imposition of an idea on a Biblical verse that the Biblical author did not intend or anticipate. 

The opposite of eisegesis is exegesis, an interpretation that approaches what the passage is actually addressing.  

One might think that exegesis is the more authentic way to approach the Bible, and there is logic in this view. However, there are some wonderful examples of eisegesis that speak to us of great wisdom. That the messages were not intended by the Biblical author is just historical fact. What may be more important is how these Biblical words inspired later readers to derive wisdom—a wisdom that stands on its own. 

The Liberty Bell inscription is a perfect example. Though taken out of context, this new formulation holds up the holy possibility to which Pennsylvania—and the whole United States—aspires. Our Union is not yet perfect, but such goals statements remind us to keep trying. Let us “proclaim liberty throughout all the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof!”  

The Bible presents an interesting and challenging chorus of opinions and experiences. Some we adopt as timeless and essential, while others strike our modern sensibilities as unfair or unrealistic. In other words, in dealing with a text that is both holy and ancient, interpretation is a must—and both exegesis and eisegesis have their place. When we are presented with “Love thy neighbor as thyself” or “With Justice shall you judge My people,” (Leviticus 19.18 and 15), we can affirm them wholeheartedly. However, when we read time-bound or culture-bound anachronisms that enforce gender roles, or dismiss those with some physical disabilities (see Leviticus 21.16ff), or insist that worship requires animal sacrifice, we Liberal Jews feel bound by a higher sensibility to filter out these less-than-godly traditions. Upon what basis do we do so? Upon the principles of fairness, justice, piety, and God’s all-encompassing love that are also in the Bible. As much as we revere the holy text—and the relationship with the Divine it represents, there are times when we need to transcend the text with the wisdom that God gives us through less direct communications. This is where eisegesis and Midrash enter the Jewish equation, offering teachings that can be more Biblical and holy than literally-minded exegesis.  

Another example involves the notion of majority rule. It is in no way Biblical. In the Bible, instructions and laws are given by God, and people are expected to follow orders. Though most of the instructions are given through Nevi’im (Prophets), God chooses them and tells them what to say. Humans are expected to follow God’s rules—even if they disagree with them, and those who disobey suffer the consequences. The Rabbis, however, lived in a “different world,” one in which revelation was no longer operative. And, in the absence of revelatory instructions and clarifications, they determined that majority rule by the Sages is the best course. Since it is not in the Torah, however, they had to rely upon a higher wisdom and “find” such an imprimatur. The passage they chose for eisegesis is Exodus 23.1-2: “You must not carry false rumors; you shall not join hands with the guilty to act as a malicious witness. Neither shall you side with the mighty to do wrong…”  Though the passage does not address actual decision making, the Rabbis took the phrase, “you shall neither side with the mighty to do wrong,” and reconfigured it into, “You shall not incline after the majority to do wrong, but you shall incline after the majority to do good,” thus providing a “proof text” for majority rule. The teaching is expounded in a wonderful story in Talmud Baba Metzia 59b, The Oven of Achnai, in which the majority’s view overcomes even miraculous testimonies. As Rabbi Joshua insists, quoting Deuteronomy 30.12, “It is not in the heavens.” God gave the Torah to humanity, and it is up to us to interpret it.  

One can object that the Exodus passage is taken out of context—or twisted logically, but the wisdom of majority rule stands on its own. And, as the Talmud tells us, even God approves. 

The point of my “praise of eisegesis” is that there is a wisdom that emanates from the Torah and its study, a wisdom that may not be found in the words themselves. Perhaps this is what Rabbi Chananya ben Teradion meant when he said, “When two people sit and words of Torah pass between them, the Presence of God resides upon them.” (Pirke Avot  3.2) Or, as my teacher, Ellis Rivkin used to say, sometimes we are able to “tap the Mind of God.” 

How do we know whether an interpretation is legitimate, wise, and actually from God? Not every interpretation is wise or fair or kind or helpful. We wish there were a foolproof technique, but in lieu of an actual immutable and perfect revelation, we are left with the human search for wisdom—the continuing and developing human quest for enlightenment and holiness. Lots of ideas are floated, and we must decide which ones are good. Perhaps that is why the Rabbis relied on study, majority rule, and persistent reconsideration. Ours is a living tradition and one that needs to be in touch with the Mind of God on a regular basis.

The Rabbis' Search for Personal Holiness

May 17th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

We all know that Talmudic (Rabbinic) Judaism is much different from Biblical Judaism. One need only compare the Sacrificial Worship of the Temple to the Prayer Book Worship of the synagogue to get a glimpse of the wealth and breadth of changes. Over the millennia, our religion has undergone a number of developmental innovations, and we are thus heirs to a rich and multi-layered tradition. Inasmuch as we see ourselves as continuing the religious traditions of the Bible, it is worthwhile to reflect on these changes—why and how they were made, and why further changes have been made over the centuries. This week’s Torah portion has some interesting entrées into some of the Rabbis’ innovations.  

First, it is important to realize that the Rabbis began their reformation of Judaism well before the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Though the biggest historical change is the substitution of sacrifices with prayers, Rabbinic/Talmudic Judaism had already developed some significant enhancements.  

Possibly originating with the Scribes mentioned in the Bible, “The Rabbis” began as a group of scholars who, around 200 BCE, developed some unique approaches to our communal relationship with God.  Calling themselves Perushim (separatists), these scholars sought to break away from the cultural tidal wave of Hellenism that dominated everything in the Eastern Mediterranean—including religion. The English name for these Perushim is Pharisees, and they were organized enough to come to power around 165 BCE.  

If this date sounds familiar, it is: 165 BCE is when the Maccabees drove the Greek Syrians from the Temple and rededicated the Temple—ushering in our festival of Chanukah. The Maccabees—also called the Hasmoneans—replaced the Hellenized Temple Priesthood with a less assimilated set of Kohanim from Judah Maccabee’s priestly clan. As part of their campaign for public support, the Hasmoneans brought in the newly emergent Rabbinic/Pharisaic group to be their legal interpreters. Though the Pharisees were not priests themselves, they were experts in the Torah and could evaluate and instruct the new Kohanim in the sacrificial worship system. They also introduced and encouraged personal prayer and piety for the rest of our people—the ones not actively engaged in the Temple worship on a daily basis. They did not seek to minimize the importance of the Temple. However, regular Jews only made the pilgrimage there three times a year—on Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot, and the Pharisees believed that regular Jewish life would be more holy and more spiritually meaningful if individuals could develop a personal relationship with God.  It was part of their separating from Hellenism and its idolatry, and they patterned some of their changes on the holiness practices of the Kohanim. Again, it was not a matter of usurping the Priestly role ordained in the Torah. Rather, the attempt was to adapt some of the Priestly observances so that individual Jews could feel a more personal connection to God.  

Just as the Kohanim wore special Priestly garments, the Pharisees began to adopt special spiritual garments. Just as the Kohanim ate ritually slaughtered meat at worship, the Pharisees adopted a spiritual food system with ritually slaughtered meat—a system now knows as Kashrut.  Just as the Kohanim officiated at worship services twice daily, the Pharisees developed prayer services twice a day that were prayed simultaneously with the Temple sacrifices—only from far away.  

What we have in this Torah portion are a few of the Priestly customs that were adopted and adapted for non-Priestly holiness. Note the opening of Leviticus 21. “The Lord said to Moses, Speak to the Priests, the sons of Aaron, and say to them…” What follows are instructions for the Kohanim (and not for everyone else), among them the prohibition of being near a dead body. Proximity to the dead renders a Priest ritually unclean—a condition that requires special rituals and several days of being off-duty. This was not applied to the non-Kohanim because someone had to be able to attend to the deceased and their resting places. However, in Verse 5, the Kohanim are forbidden from the pagan mourning customs of “shaving smooth any part of their heads or cutting the side-growth of their beards, or making gashes in their flesh.” These prohibitions were part of priestly ritual holiness—and only applicable when a priest was in mourning. However, the Pharisees adopted this prohibition and adapted it as a permanent (all the time, not just while mourning) practice for their followers. Thus do we have the ritual custom of payyot/side curls and beards that are so idiomatic in traditional Judaism.  

In Leviticus 22, the Kohanim are instructed to be scrupulous about the ritual holiness of any meat they consume—and, in Verse 8, they are especially warned against eating “anything that died or was torn by beasts (trefah!), thereby becoming unclean.” When the Rabbis applied these priestly food regulations to regular Jews, we got our prohibition of eating trafe—any meat that is not ritually slaughtered. What had been applicable only to the Priests was now voluntarily adopted by Pharisees seeking their own measure of holy connection. 

Interestingly, not all of the priestly restrictions were adopted. Whereas the Kohanim were prohibited from marrying divorcees (21.7), regular Jews were permitted. And, whereas physical deformities disqualified a Kohen from serving as a Priest (see Leviticus 21.16-23), the Rabbis had no such limitations; such physical disabilities were not an impediment to piety. 

A modern twist involves women’s roles in worship. Though women were not allowed to serve as Kohanim, the wives and daughters of Priests were considered “holy-adjacent” and were able to eat meat from the sacrifices. This is how the Priests fed their families. In recent times, as women have taken their places as full participants and leaders in Judaism, the term for a Priest’s daughter has come back into play. Since the Bat Kohayn was able to eat the consecrated (sacrificed) meat, the custom has developed that women whose fathers are/were Kohanim are given the Kohayn honors in being called to bless the Torah.  

These Pharisaic innovations and adaptations were a gradual and expansive effort that took some 400 years of development before they were recorded in the Mishnah (225 CE). Then the discussions and adaptations continued for another three centuries before they were ultimately recorded in the Talmud. Thus a pattern has been set that continues to this day. Ours is a living tradition of innovation and pious adaptation in which we revere our holy past and work for our holy future.

The Holiness of Categories, Part II

May 10th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we considered categories—and how our various classifications can provide guidance and/or guard rails for our behavior. In the case of the Yom Kippur Rituals (Leviticus 16), different people—and animals—have distinct roles in the atonement process. In the case of the Laws of Consanguinity (Leviticus 17), some family relationships make sexual liaisons sinful.  

This theme is found in many places in the Torah and Bible, but this week’s portion, Kedoshim, offers some interesting angles. Some of our classifications have temporal applicability, i.e., obligations that may apply in some times and situations but not in others. Take for example the instructions to judges in Leviticus 19.15: “You shall not render an unfair decision: do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich; judge your kinsman fairly.”  

Most of us can appreciate the moral importance of not favoring rich people in court. Most of us can also appreciate the temptation. Rich people are often powerful, and their favor or disfavor can have beneficial or other-than-beneficial results for us. Better to be on the “right side” of the rich and powerful. On the other hand, justice is supposed to be just, and we hope that even the small, weak, and poor will have a fair chance in court. This all seems morally straightforward. 

The challenging part of this mitzvah comes in the earlier phrase, “do not favor the poor,” because we are also commanded to share our abundance with the poor. All of us—including judges—are  commanded to give Tzedakah. So, if I were a judge hearing a case between a rich person and a poor person, would it not be the perfect opportunity to do a little wealth-leveling? Say, for example, that a rich person and a poor person have a cart accident. I know that the poor person cannot afford to replace his cart and that the rich person has several carts in his barn. I could try to figure out who is at fault, or I could consider the relative wealth of the litigants and help the poor fellow out. Why not let the rich person fund the poor person’s new cart? 

There is a kind of logic to this—one based on Tzedakah and the mitzvah of compassion for the poor. However, the Torah says No. “B’tzedek tish’pot amitecha. With justice shall you judge My people,” and judges are prohibited from favoring the poor. What is the Torah telling us? 

The Torah is drawing a line between two categories occupied by the judge. In his function as a judge, he is prohibited from favoring the poor. However, in his function as a citizen, he has the same responsibilities for charity as any other person. In other words, though the judge has an obligation to help the poor, the courtroom is not the place. In the courtroom, justice and justice alone should rule. After he leaves the courtroom, however, that is when he should dig into his pocket and give Tzedakah. The judge inhabits two categories, and each dictates its own “situational” responsibilities.  

Another angle on categories and their concomitant requirements comes in a series of prohibitions of dishonest behavior. In Verse 11, we read: “You shall not steal; you shall not deal deceitfully or deal falsely with one another.” And in Verse 13, we read: “You shall not defraud your fellow. You shall not commit robbery.” While technically distinct, these five Hebrew words for dishonest dealings—tignov, techachash, teshaker, ta’ashok, and tigzol—all mean about the same thing. They are practical synonyms. Why then all the verbiage and repetition? The concern seems to be the fuzzy way that prevaricators try to justify unjustifiable behavior. “I’m not stealing; I’m just defrauding,” or “I’m not dealing deceitfully; I’m just dealing falsely.” These are all immoral and unethical acts, and the Torah wants to quash any games and meaningless distinctions. Dishonesty is wrong regardless of the specific categorization.  

Another example of categories in Kedoshim comes in the form of a kind of equalization. “When you reap the harvest of your land, you shall not reap all the way to the edges of your field, or gather the gleanings of your harvest. You shall not pick your vineyard bare, or gather the fallen fruit of your vineyard; you shall leave them for the poor and the stranger: I the Lord am your God.” (Leviticus 19.9-10) Though some are farmers, and others are beggars, all are children of God, and all are to be gifted by God with the produce of the land. When I read this as a child, I always imagined the poor and the strangers waiting until nighttime and then going through the fields—picking up the produce “left for them.” However, the Book of Ruth shows a much more integrative system. In Chapter 2, the gleaners, the poor who are picking up the produce left behind, follow directly behind the harvesters. Though the land is “owned” by the farmer, the real Owner is God, and God’s gift of abundance is to be shared. In this case, there may be a difference in the categories, but all are deserving of God’s blessings. (As it turns out, this is how Boaz and Ruth meet. He sees a stranger gleaning, asks who she is, and, when he finds out that she is the widow of his cousin, he extends her special hospitality.) 

The portion’s most famous verse, Leviticus 19.18, assumes separate categories and then brings them together in a kind of Venn Diagram. “Love your neighbor as yourself” instructs us to move beyond our own category and apply the grace we crave to others. Or, as Hillel rephrases it in Talmud Shabbat 31a, “That which is hateful to you do not do to another.” If we have trouble showing love, we can simply forego behaviors that, were we the victim, would be hurtful. We are separate from others, but our human condition calls us to kindness, fairness, and a sense of camaraderie.  

For an interesting reversal of the energy flow in our sacred Venn Diagram, consider the advice of Reb Shmelke: “What is hateful in your neighbor, do not do yourself.”  

As we moderns look at our Tradition’s ancient categories, we can find guidance in ordering our lives and society. Not all ancient categorizations are just, but many are profoundly wise and helpful. That is why we carefully study our Torah to continue its tradition of holy righteousness.

The Holiness and Helpfulness of Categories, Part I

May 4th: Acharay Mot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Two chapters from this week’s Torah portion are traditionally read on Yom Kippur. Leviticus Chapter 16 tells of the ancient Yom Kippur “scapegoat” ritual in which the High Priest “places the sins of the people on a goat” and sends them and it out to Azazel (a desert dwelling demon.)   

Leviticus Chapter 18 explains the laws of consanguinity through a rather long list of prohibited sexual relationships. Among them:
“Do not uncover the nakedness of your father’s wife; it is the nakedness of your father.”
“Do not uncover the nakedness of your father’s sister; she is your father’s flesh.”
“Do not uncover the nakedness of a woman and her daughter; nor shall you marry her son’s daughter or her daughter’s daughter and uncover her nakedness: they are kindred; it is depravity.”  

These many prohibitions are summarized in Verse 24: “Do not defile yourselves in any of those ways, for it is by such that the nations that I am casting out before you defiled themselves. Thus the land became defiled; and I called it to account for its iniquity, and the land spewed out its inhabitants.”  

The rabbis who chose the High Holy Day Torah readings were obviously concerned about sexual immorality and wanted to make sure that people knew what not to do, but there is another paradigm being presented. We are each part of various categories, and these categories determine which behaviors are acceptable for us—and which are not.  

In the chapter about the scapegoat, the classifications are certainly part of the ritual. Two goats are presented to the High Priest, and based on lots, one is consigned to Azazel and the other to holy sacrifice. Before that, the High Priest does three levels of atonement—one for each of three categories: himself, his family, and all Israel. Of course, the category of priesthood allows him—and only him—to enter the Holy of Holies. Category determines proper and improper behavior. 

Think of the categories into which we fall—and how these classifications are germane to our lives. Some things are appropriate for children, others for adults. Some places are reserved for males, others for females. Some spaces are reserved for members or employees. (Like some restrooms!) Sometimes these separations seem appropriate, and sometimes they seem arbitrary—or even oppressive. Sometimes, it is just a matter of impolite labeling. I remember, for example, visiting the House of Commons in London and, because we were not Commonwealth citizens, being directed to the “Strangers’ Gallery.”  

Though we do not like unjust discrimination, some discrimination between categories of people is necessary for security or efficiency or matters of privacy. Though the White House in Washington, D.C., is “the people’s house,” most would consider its limitations on access to be important for national security. How different it was in 1829 when, at Andrew Jackson’s inauguration, thousands of citizens from the frontier traveled for an open house at the White House. They “made themselves at home” so enthusiastically that they had to be lured outside with bowls of liquored punch on the lawn. When the new president grew tired of the revelry, he apparently had to escape out a window. Admission these days is much more limited. 

Sometimes, our categories dictate when our actions or opinions are appropriate or allowed. In legal proceedings, only certain people have standing, while others are welcome to their opinions but have no legal power to participate. The same is true for professional qualifications—in medicine, law enforcement, insurance, real estate, or electrical installation. Only those who have proved their competence and are licensed are allowed to practice. From time to time, such questions may be re-addressed. For example, as late as the 1970s, the American Medical Association considered chiropractors and osteopaths “quacks,” but they were ultimately admitted to the realm of qualified medical professionals.  

There are also categories dictated by job description or jurisdiction. The Sheriff of Centre County is limited in where he can enforce the law. The synagogue office manager is not expected to write the D’var Torah—and should she be asked, may well wish that she could “stay in her own lane.” That would certainly be my thought if I were asked to figure out the congregational budget or fix our computers. While sometimes restrictive, our categories or job descriptions offer us definitional guidance in what we should or should not do. Sometimes, staying within our definitions is challenging, and we may stray into other people’s domains. For example, House Speaker Mike Johnson or Senate Majority Leader Chuck Schumer may have opinions about individuals who lead prominent universities or Middle Eastern nations, but hiring or firing such people is not in their job descriptions. Some professors and students may have opinions about the investment portfolios of university endowments, but such financial decisions are not theirs to determine. Despite the “ownership” various stakeholders feel, actual ownership/authority is quite limited. In the case of students, their limited knowledge, responsibility, and temporal horizons make such limits appropriate. The same goes for alumni. I may be unhappy with the Hebrew Union College’s decision to phase out rabbinic education at the Cincinnati campus, but I was ordained forty-two years ago and am not the one balancing the books or raising the money to keep the institution solvent. Such decisions are not “in my lane.”  

Sometimes we feel stifled by categorizations that limit our autonomy, and some would suggest that true freedom means ending such definitions of powers and prerogatives. I understand the frustration, but I wonder about decisions made by people who are unqualified or unconnected or not responsible for the consequences. Does the intensity of their feelings or the number of internet signatures they can assemble or the noise they can make or the celebrities who endorse their cause determine what should be done? Not all categorizations and limitations are just, but many are vital to the safe and responsible functioning of our institutions and families.  

Though the Torah is speaking about consanguinity, the principle is much more expansive. We are each part of a number of categories, and sometimes these categories provide us guidance as to what is and is not appropriate behavior. When the categories are unjust (see verse 22), they need to be challenged. But, in so many other cases, knowing where we fit in—and our subsequent responsibilities—can be very helpful.

Living Amidst Both the Seen and the Unseen

April 19th: Metzorah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Years ago, I chanced to read the Betty Crocker Cookbook that my mother received as a new bride. Written in the 1940’s, the book featured both recipes and advice about home-making. Make sure that your home is clean and orderly, with fresh flowers on the nicely set table. This way your husband will feel welcome when he comes home in the evening. Perhaps young brides in that era found such advice helpful, but, when I read it in the 1970s—in the heyday of Women’s Liberation, many would have described the prescriptions for being a good housewife as antiquated and oppressive. The late humor columnist Erma Bombeck even described such counsel as nightmarish. And, yet, in the 1990’s, many au current people were investigating and investing in very similar home-making practices. Though derived from exotic places and graced with mystical names, things like Feng Shui and Zen Flower Arranging seemed pretty similar: techniques to make one’s home pleasant, comfortable, and inviting.  

Though phrased in vastly different ambiences, both approaches speak to a spiritual dimension to our physical lives. Can the energy of a house be healthy or unhealthy? Can there be a karmic element to our clothing—or good or negative vibrations in certain social settings? 

The Torah portions at this time of year—last week Tazria and this week Metzora—can be read as superstition intruding on physical matters. Skin diseases are not in the realm of religion—nor is mildew in a wall or some kind of growth in fabric. These are physical matters which need physical tending. Why then would the Torah call in the Kohanim/Priests? “When you enter the land of Canaan that I gave you as a possession, and I inflict an eruptive plague upon a house in the land you possess, the owner of the house shall come and tell the Priest.” (Leviticus 14.34) Is this pre-scientific thinking that sees supernatural causes for life’s problems and thus prescribes supernatural solutions for them? Or are we reading this text with too narrow a focus? 

First, it is important to notice that the remedies for such “affections” are both physical and spiritual. Skin is evaluated according to medical criteria, and walls and fabric are addressed physically. For example, “The house shall be scraped inside all around...and the stones replaced.” (v.41-42) Only after the physical situation has been dealt with are the religious rituals performed. Second, we need to remember that our compartmentalization of knowledge and expertise is not the only model. In many societies, leaders possess knowledge in a number of different fields. So, the possibility of a Kohen being trained in ritual matters and medical matters and textile matters and construction is not outlandish. And third, even the ancients allowed for experts to be brought in: the Midrashic collection Sifra includes a comment about Kohanim being assisted by lay people who may be more acquainted with the affected skin or materials. 

There is also the possibility that our counter-superstition thinking may have fallen prey to a kind of narrow-minded bias. The more we learn, the more our eyes are opened to forces and processes not yet explainable by science. This is particularly true of our health where any number of holistic factors seem to affect both body and mind. Think for a minute about all the things that were part of life and the world despite the fact that Science had not yet discovered, i.e., learned how to describe and measure scientifically. People were breathing oxygen long before Priestly discovered it. The Higgs Boson was doing whatever it did long before the recently departed Dr. Higgs identified it. And think about how things that used to be considered non-scientific—subjects like Psychology, Sociology, Political Science, Marketing, Management, and Industrial Engineering—have been and are still being converted/transformed into Social Sciences. The goal of Social Scientists is basically to reconfigure/redefine what used to be considered wisdom or insight or intuition into science—forms of analysis that are quantifiable and replicable.  

My point is that we should not be too quick to discard the spiritual dimension as superstitious. Our lives and surroundings seem to be affected by any number of factors—some of which can be described scientifically, others of which cannot. Praying and positive attitudes seem to improve health prospects. Some people have charisma—putting out “vibes” that are more positive and inviting. Some people have “green thumbs” and do much better with plants than others (like me). And there are matters of the social fabric. Dishonesty or gossip or exploitation seem to have all kinds of effects—as do honesty and trust and good citizenship. So, when our Tradition speaks of the spiritual dimension of skin disease or building decay, we may not need a scientific explanation to pick up on the Torah’s cue that immorality brings about damage.  

It seems to me that there are two lessons to consider. First, inasmuch as God created creation—everything and the processes that lead to every thing’s existence and function, then God should have insights as to how existence should be operated. Whether the advice involves regular prayer or dietary customs or health regulations or moral and ethical guidance, since God created it all, it makes sense that God would have advice for how best to function in life. So, if God says that “leprosy” of the skin, cloth, or walls is comprised of both physical and spiritual dimensions, perhaps we should look at both dimensions—at both modalities in which existence can malfunction. 

Second, it is worthwhile to meditate on Infinity and what it means when God is described as Infinite. Whatever notion or image we may have of God, it is inevitably less that the totality of the what God really is. Though our ancient tradition speaks of God in anthropomorphic terms, such images are obviously limited human attempts to state the ineffable, to put an understandable “face” on Something far beyond our ability to know or conceive. This means that such phrases as “inasmuch as God created creation,” should be understood as much more than a big man putting together a project. The creative process—from the Big Bang and through billions of years—includes much we know and much we do not know, much we can measure and understand, and much we can only sense or anticipate. As the process continues to unfold, who knows what new phenomena are yet to be perceived or understood—or created. The point is that knowledge and insights about the spiritual dimension can be reflections of creation just as much as the scientific knowledge we have been so fortunate to discover. And they can be valuable and helpful as we negotiate a life we do not fully understand. 

Our Tradition bids us approach life and our sacred texts with both humility and curiosity. Everything is not as it seems. There are hidden dimensions and unexplained factors. Sometimes, physical situations are just that, but sometimes, there are other factors involved, and a wise person considers all the possibilities.

Leprosy and "Leprosy:" Figuring Out Which is Which

April 12th: Tazria
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the great lessons of Torah came for me during a discussion on this week’s portion over forty years ago. Tazria is the portion in Leviticus (Chapters 12-13) which deals with “leprosy.” “When a person has a skin swelling, rash, or discoloration, and it develops into a scaly affection on the skin, it shall be reported to Aaron the priest or to one of his sons, the priests. The priest shall examine the affection on the skin: if hair in the affected patch has turned white and the affection appears to be deeper than the skin, it is a leprous affection; when the priest sees it, he shall pronounce the patient tameh/impure.” (Leviticus 13.2-3) 

Some modern translations hesitate to use the word leprosy because it refers to what medical science now knows are a large number of different skin disorders—Hansen’s Disease being only one. Nonetheless, whatever the skin disorder, the Priest’s diagnostic duty is to determine whether a rash is just a rash or something more serious.  

But this was not the great Torah lesson. The lesson came from a Senior Sermon that extrapolated from the priest’s declaration of tameh (impure) or tahor (pure) for leprosy to a matter of social justice. The issue was a plan to locate a group home for intellectually disabled adults in a residential neighborhood—and the opposition of some neighbors. The student rabbi saw the neighborhood opposition as a modern form of “shunning lepers” and maintained that no human should have the power to declare another human unacceptable. Who does the Kohen/Priest think he is to declare another human unacceptable? How could the Torah dictate such elitism and discrimination? 

My classmate’s social justice fervor was understandable, but our supervising professor was concerned about the way his anger impugned a legitimate priestly function. Is it unjust for a Priest to identify danger and then act to protect the community? Our professor did not question the social justice and egalitarian views of the student rabbi, but he did suggest a different perspective on the existence of authority. Is it possible that authority can be used for good? 

The Biblical Kohanim, he pointed out, do not act arbitrarily. They are trained in the medical skill of identifying dangerous and contagious conditions—in order to protect the community from them. If the rash turns out to be nothing more than a rash, then the Kohen can let everyone know that no danger exists. If the rash turns out to be leprous, then the Kohen can prescribe quarantine procedures and treatment to protect both patient and community. And, if the rash eventually goes away—if whatever it was has healed, then the patient and community can be given the “all clear” sign. Though authority is given and used, the purpose and effect is good. 

In the modern neighborhood discussion, the professor suggested, the problem is not in the existence of fear. Neighborhood residents have a right to be concerned about their safety and their property values. In every social justice pursuit, there needs to be a calculation about costs and benefits. As Hillel asks, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” (Avot 1.14) The fear—as in the ancient fear of someone’s possibly contagious rash—is understandable. What is needed is for the modern Kohen/moral leader to investigate the plan for the group home and the way the residents will be selected and supervised. If there is no danger, then they can be declared tahor. They are not lepers; they are pure. If there is danger, however, then it is reasonable for the modern religious leader—rabbinic or lay—to work on the situation so that both neighbors and group-home residents are treated fairly. In other words, authority should be used to determine the truth and then to act for the good.

There are times when we are very aware of our relative weakness—of our smallness in the world. Some people, institutions, and situations are so much greater than we are that we feel powerless, vulnerable. Sometimes, we look at these powers and feel resentment. Other times we find fault with the way authority is used. However, for all of its potential pitfalls, authority is a fact of life and can be both necessary and helpful. Rather than railing against authority qua authority, which my classmate seemed to be doing in both ancient and modern contexts, the lesson of the day was to figure out ways to use authority for justice and good. 

One more lesson. Our professor also suggested a different perspective on the Scripture. When we disagree with Scripture—when some ancient institutions and practices seem distasteful or morally problematic, we have a choice in how we distance ourselves from them. We can negate and reject the whole Biblical record, or we can try to understand how different times and cultural values led to such customs or laws—how something that might have begun with good or reasonable motivations eventuated in practices we now realize are neither just nor fair. This means viewing the Tradition with positive reverence—as one would view a work in progress. What began as ancient and imperfect attempts to live in holiness progressed through centuries of experience and insight—and gave us the chance to improve.  

In my mind, the Bible is like the founding documents of our United States. Though many of the principles and aspirations were not fulfilled in the early centuries of our national life, the seeds of justice and righteousness were planted—and our history shows a persistent struggle to make these goals reality. Though racism and misogyny and other prejudices stymied the lofty principles of The Declaration of Independence, the stated principles of equality and fairness have served as beacons, beckoning us to improve. The same can be said of the society outlined in the Torah. There are principles there, the attainments of which were far beyond the possibilities of our ancient ancestors. Nonetheless, the values are inscribed in our sacred texts, and, nurtured by conscience, have been waiting to be actualized and inspiring us to make our Judaism a better Judaism. Though there is more work to be done, the possibilities of living in relationship with the Divine call us to improvement.

Getting back to our Torah portion, the problem is not with identifying “leprosy” as dangerous. Skin diseases can be dangerous. The challenge is to be accurate in our identification and to manage our fears and responses—approaching our problems with clarity and justice. This is the challenge for authority and those of us who strive to use it for good.

Whose Side are You On?

April 5th: Shemini and HaChodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the big questions in the original Passover instructions involves the reason God and The Angel of Death need help telling which houses are Jewish and which are Egyptian. “For when the Lord goes through to smite the Egyptians, He will see the blood on the lintel and the two doorposts, and the Lord will pass over door and not let the Angel of Death enter and smite your home.” (Exodus 12.23) One would think that God would already know who is Hebrew and who is Egyptian—that is, who is supposed to go free in the morning and who is be smitten.  

What then is the purpose of the blood? One answer to this koshi (difficulty) suggests that the blood on the doorposts and lintels is a sign for the inhabitants. When they hear the screams of their Egyptian neighbors at the death of their first born, the Israelites will look at the blood on their doorposts and know that they are safe. Another view suggests that it is a self-identification ritual/test for the Israelites. To be freed from Egypt, the Israelites need to “sign on” to the Exodus process—to declare that they are willing to be part of God’s covenant. A third view addresses the expansiveness of God’s invitation to freedom. Accompanying the Israelites as they depart Egypt is a sizable contingent of non-Hebrews called the Erev Rav, the Mixed Multitude. These are people from many other backgrounds who, at some point, decide to affiliate with the Israelites. The Torah does not tell us when and how they join, but, at some point, these non-Israelites must develop a dissonance with Egypt’s oppressive policies and began a drift toward the Israelite side. On that fateful night, if they have drifted enough to the Israelite side and painted blood on their doorposts, then they are saved and included in Israel. 

This kind of drifting—between one side and another—is a common human behavior and is indicative of the subtleties of loyalty, support, and opposition in social relationships. 

There is a lot of talk these days about allies and ally-ship. What does it take to be an ally? We may have sympathy with others and wish to support them, but must we agree on everything? Or can we support them in some ways and disagree with them in others? A case in point is the Black Lives Matter movement. Many people believe that Black lives matter, but they do not agree with the anti-Zionist and anti-Capitalist platform of the official organization. Must compatriots agree on everything? Can allies share common goals but not agree on every decision? An example of unity and division can be found in Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous Letter from Birmingham Jail (1963) where he addresses allies—both Black and White—who agree with him in principle but who disagree with him on strategy and timing. People think their own thoughts and have their own opinions. Regardless of the organization, there is seldom unanimity.

Some people are not happy with these varying degrees of agreement, and feelings can be hurt when allies and friends are repudiated for questions or doubts—or for other affiliations on which there is disagreement. Witness the many liberal Jewish activists who have been excoriated or expelled from various causes because of their support for Israel. 

The dynamics of loyalty and support can sometimes be confused by labeling. Whether or not one is an official card-carrying member of an organization or movement is not necessarily related to how one will speak up, or the money one will donate, or how one will vote on Election Day. Republicans may vote Democrat and vice versa. Behavior is more important than labels. 

A case in point is the current anti-Israel climate. There is an awful lot of anti-Semitism going around, but we can get caught up in the pedantic and semantic question of whether one is an “anti-Semite.” Can Arabs be anti-Semites? Can Jews be anti-Semitic? Are good-hearted people who express support for Palestine and who vilify Israel anti-Semites? Is it possible to be critical of Israel and not be anti-Jewish? Some distinctions are certainly possible, but the separating membranes can be very porous. In case after case after case, what begins as a critique of an Israeli policy slips into anti-Zionism—and then into full-fledged anti-Jewishness. When “Free Palestine” demonstrations devolve into “Kill the Jews,” anti-Semitism is present. When people yell “From the River to the Sea,” unless they are geographically challenged, they are speaking of removing the Jewish population from Israel/Palestine and pushing them into the sea—and are thus expressing anti-Jewish hate. When peace groups or city councils pass “Immediate Cease Fire” resolutions, they are demanding that Hamas be given the chance to rearm, reload, and attack again—and are thus engaging in anti-Semitism. Even if these people are Jewish or friends of Jews, their behavior and words give emotional and political support to anti-Jewish groups.  

The arguing about labels reminds me of two terms from very bad sources. When Chairman Mao—arguably the most evil person of the last century—saw someone opposing him, he ignored the semantic discussion of whether or not the person was an anti-Communist. If the person’s actions or words opposed Communism, then the person was identified as a Running Dog of the Capitalists. If people ran enthusiastically after anti-Communist activities, it did not matter what kind of “membership card” they had in their wallets. Or we could use a term favored by the Soviets in reference to U.S. supporters: Useful Idiots. They might not have been card-carrying Communists, but their words and votes contributed to Soviet efforts to undermine America.  

So, whether Israel’s various foes are actual anti-Semites, or running dogs of the anti-Semites, or useful idiots doing the anti-Semites’ work, there are lots of people giving emotional and material support to anti-Semitism—a reality that makes fighting over labels beside the point. We do not need to argue about whether NPR’s reporters (including lots of Jews) are anti-Semites. We just need to hear their verbatim repetition of Hamas propaganda and their continual vilification of Israel to know that they are running dogs of anti-Semitism. Their words support people whose stated goal is the murder of every Israeli and every Jew. The same can be said of city councils, and “progressives,” and “human rights advocates,” and all those whose critiques of Israeli policies quickly bleed into murderous rhetoric or implications. Whether card-carrying anti-Semites or not, they are useful idiots helping Jew-haters. Their behavior effects anti-Semitism, and we need to defend ourselves against them. 

When it comes to allyship or “enemy-ship,” we do not need to rely on symbolic statements of membership. We, like God, do not need symbols like the blood painted on the doorposts and lintels of the ancient Israelite homes. We know who is inside. We can tell by their words and their actions whose side they are on.

Understanding the Word "Mitzvah"

March 29th: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When I compiled and edited our congregational prayer book, Siddur B’rit Shalom, one of my principles was that the English translations accurately translate the traditional Hebrew prayers. Some of our traditional Hebrew prayers contain problematic passages—and some prayer books keep the original Hebrew but have translations that avoid the difficulties. One small example is Ayn Kelohaynu in the red Siddur Hadash which has the traditional last line of the Hebrew but leaves out of the translation the antiquated reference to incense.  

Though fully accurate translation was one of my principles, I wavered on one word—the word that is the title of our weekly portion. Tzav is the imperative form of the word Mitzvah—and how to translate Mitzvah in modern Liberal Judaism is a bit of a challenge. 

In the Bible, the word means commandment, and much of Biblical and Talmudic Judaism is oriented around a kind of military paradigm. There is a Commander (God), commandments (the Mitzvot), and “commandees.” The determination of these “commandees” occupies many discussions in the Talmud. Some Mitzvot are for men, some for women, some for all ages, some for people over the age of thirteen. Some are for people living in the Land of Israel—some in Temple times, some when the Temple is not in operation. Some are for Jews, and some for non-Jews. Whoever the “commmandee,” however, there is a very firm expectation that the Mitzvot / commandments will be obeyed. As the saying goes, “They are commandments, not suggestions.”  

Note the tenor of these Mitzvot in the opening paragraph of our Torah portion: “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Command Aaron and his sons thus: This is the ritual of the burnt offering: The burnt offering (olah) itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept going on it. The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body…”   (Leviticus 6.1-3) These rules and the many that follow are meant to be followed scrupulously.  

This approach continues to be the Orthodox way of viewing Torah, but it is not the understanding  of Liberal Judaism (Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist). While the Orthodox see the Torah as a set of permanent and immutable instructions from God—commandments that people are commanded to follow for all time, Liberal Jews have a different sense of our ancient religious tradition. We look at the Hebrew Scriptures as a reflection of our people’s spiritual seeking and history—what our ancient ancestors thought God wanted them to do. We study these ancient ideas and stories. We revere their spiritual aspirations. And we strive to continue the tradition of living a life of holiness in the presence of God. However, we do not see these ancient instructions as binding—as commandments that are applicable to us. And thus translating the terms Mitzvot/Commandments or V’tzivanu/and commanded us requires some theological contemplation.  

For religious Liberal Jews, the Mitzvot are seen as sanctifying actions—ritual behaviors that bring a sense of God’s Presence into our lives. We do them at times when we choose to connect with God. And we choose which of the traditional practices we find meaningful. We also may make some creative adaptations. In other words, the Mitzvot are not seen as obedience to the Divine Will, but rather as voluntary moments of spiritual encounter.   

(There is also, of course, the Yiddishism and connotation that a Mitzvah is a good deed. Since God wants us to be good, kind, and just, any good deeds we do are in a sense commanded by God. For a moral person, helping others is compelling.) 

So, how do we translate a word that used to invoke a cosmic sense of obligation and obedience—but that now involves a conscious choice to engage the spiritual? It is as though our ancient and revered tradition offers a catalogue of sanctifying opportunities, and we offer thanks to the Creator for those which help draw us consciously closer. And we can feel affection and appreciation for our ancestral spiritual guides who fashioned from their experiences with God ways for us to feel that closeness in our own days and ways. 

When I think of the nature and development of religion, I find helpful the words of William James as he sought to describe the religious drive—that Religion is “the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality, to the ‘more’” (an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence). Many of us sense that Presence, and we feel part of traditions of thought and behavior that help us understand this ineffable aspect of reality and live in mindful relationship with It. The source of our religiosity and spiritual yearning is in this greater “more,” and all of the various religious responses (religion) are the results of human yearning and creativity. As Ellis Rivkin used to say, “Religion is the religious response to reality.”  

How then does a Liberal Jew understand the opening passage in this week’s portion—about “the burnt offering (olah) remaining where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning,” and “the priest dressing in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body” or any other of the Torah’s Mitzvot? While the text treats them as specific instructions from the Eternal God of the Universe, the modern Liberal Jewish understanding is that they are what our ancient and pious ancestors conceived to be the most respectful and proper ways to worship/draw close to God. Holiness is represented in both views, but the source and development of these instructions are where we differ. 

In Liberal Judaism, we do not understand phrases like Asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav / Who makes us holy with the mitzvot as the cosmic Presence commanding us in actual words Rather we read it in the sense that the cosmic Presence is inducing us to make a sacred connection—and, through our Tradition of spiritual quest, offering us opportunities for holiness and sacred connection. In other words, there is a lot of theology in something as simple as lighting the Sabbath candles or blessing the Sabbath wine. We can take the words literally, or we can understand the many years of religious thinking that inform them. We are given the opportunity to approach the Eternal and to bring some of that holiness—godliness—into our lives. 

Baruch Atah Adonai, Elohaynu Melech ha’olam, Asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu…
We praise You, O Lord our God, Ruler of all, Who makes us holy with Your mitzvot and teaches us…to live and strive spiritually in Jewish ways. 

The Problem with AIPAC

March 22nd: Parshat Zachor and Approaching Purim, Part II
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We are small and weak—and none of us have much power. Oh yes, we have the power of the ballot box, but our single votes only count if lots of other people vote along with us. We hear about the apocryphal butterfly—whose fluttering wings affect the entire world, but if a bunch of other butterflies are fluttering their wings in a different way, won’t they affect the world more? Though each of us has some agency, the fact is that we are weak and at the mercy of greater powers. Overwhelmed, we often try to identify and understand the greater forces that exert so much influence—and we have lots of suspects: the capitalists, the communists, the corporations, organized crime. And what about the lobbyists—those evil agents who sneak into the corridors of power and manipulate our hapless legislators? 

A lot can be said about lobbyists, but a closer look at the legislative process reveals a much less nefarious presence. What most lobbyists provide is expertise—expertise about the ways legislation can solve or cause problems. Since legislators and their advisors cannot possibly understand enough about all the realms they are asked to address, they consult the various vested interests—the ones on both sides who actually know. These are the lobbyists.  

Nonetheless, we love to imagine corruption and influence peddling as the real reasons for big decisions, and we love to vent our spleens at these mythical and malevolent foes. A case in point is AIPAC, the American Israel Public Affairs Committee, an organization often accused by Israel’s critics of unfairly controlling American foreign policy. Founded in 1963, AIPAC is a lobbying group that advocates pro-Israel policies to the legislative and executive branches of the United States. It provides information and insights about Israel and often brings legislators on “missions,” trips to Israel so that they can see in person the various strategic and demographic realities. A sophisticated and well-funded operation, AIPAC also spreads its message through grassroots work in both the Jewish and Gentile communities.  

I mentioned well-funded, and this is one of its problems. The funding comes from thousands of supporters—both Jewish and non-Jewish—who need to be convinced that their donations will be well-spent, and thus AIPAC does a lot of bragging. They brag about their successes, and they brag about their influence. While the real “product” is the fact that Israel’s case argues itself, AIPAC loves to claim credit for America’s support for Israel—and herein lies the problem. Non-biased observers understand that AIPAC’s bragging is just salesmanship, but biased observers turn the salesmanship into proof of a nefarious conspiracy—that AIPAC “controls” American foreign policy and turns us away from “what is in our best interests.”  

If you think that this sounds like classic anti-Semitism, you are correct. Just like the Protocols of the Elders of Zion, the anti-AIPAC line attributes controlling power to a hidden cabal of Jewish leaders who manipulate the hapless President and Congress, “betraying America and supporting the Jews.” This charge is absurd and misdirects attention away from the real reason the U.S. supports Israel: Israel’s presence and interests coincide with ours!

The late historian Ellis Rivkin of the Hebrew Union College used to say that, if there were not a single Jew in the United States, the U.S. would still support Israel. In a part of the world filled with valuable resources, vital trade routes, and forces working against us, Israel is the world’s largest “aircraft carrier.” It represents and defends American interests—and the Israelis man the ship themselves. Also, Israel is a “beachhead of developmental capitalism,” representing and offering the benefits of democracy and progress in a part of the world woefully in need of it. In other words, the U.S. supports Israel because it is good for the United States. 

Another reason the U.S. supports Israel is also not Jewish. America is home to a vast number of Evangelical Christians who believe God’s words to Abraham in Genesis 12: “I will bless those who bless you, and curse him that curses you; and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves through you.” These Christians are a powerful presence in American politics, and they see supporting Israel as blessing Abraham’s descendants—and inviting God’s blessings.  

America has many more Evangelicals than Jews, and so one may wonder why anti-Zionist and pro-Hamas groups narrow their focus onto AIPAC and “the Jews” instead of attacking the Christian supporters of Israel. Could it be that Jews are deemed a “safer” target—that attacks against Evangelical Christians would be met with more than dismay and philosophical speeches? Like the playground bully who only goes after kids who won’t fight back, the Arab and “Progressive” anti-Semites know better than to attack a demographic not known for its exceeding tolerance.  

Yes, we Jews are devoted to Israel, but we are not the reason the United States stands up for the Jewish State. The case for Israel argues itself, and AIPAC is merely an educational effort to help our governmental leaders understand.  

Perhaps we can summarize this with a look at two texts—the Purim story and the letter of George Washington to the  Jews of Newport, Rhode Island. The Book of Esther certainly tells of a victory for the Jews. We are given the right to defend ourselves, we do so and survive, and we celebrate. However, Esther and Mordecai are lifted to high positions not because of their religion but because of their human qualities. Esther is beautiful and kind. Mordecai is loyal and wise—and he administers with fairness for all. They may be Jewish, but they function in their public roles as good Persian citizens.  

George Washington states this same principle. When the Newport congregation writes to congratulate him on his election to the presidency, he responds with a statement of inclusion that resounds through history. We in the United States, he writes, do not speak of tolerance anymore, “as if it was by the indulgence of one class of people, that another enjoyed the exercise of their inherent natural rights. For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support.”  

The Jews (and Gentiles) who support AIPAC are not pursuing a “Jewish and anti-American” agenda; they are participating in American democracy, “giving it on all occasions their effectual support,” and showing that supporting Israel is good for America.

“Orientalism” and the Continuing Failure of the Peace Process

March 15th: Approaching Purim and Shabbat Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

I am not a fan of Edward Said. I think that his literary theory—which has grown like kudzu into international politics and sociology and pretty much everything else –is responsible for many of the world’s intellectual woes. Nonetheless, even the wrong can be occasionally right. 

Said, the late Professor of Literature at Columbia, taught that Western writers often try to see the Orient (a term for non-Western countries and cultures) from an Occidental/Western point of view—and that, in doing so, they misunderstand the peoples and cultures of Asia. If we (Westerners) want to accurately analyze the Orient, we need to see it in their (non-Western) terms, categories, social mores, etc. Orientalism is the fallacy that occurs when we foist our sensibilities or Weltanschauung onto non-Westerners and mispresent them and their cultures. 

A case in point is our thinking about the Arabs and their resistance to the State of Israel. Many of us think that Arabs are “just like us: if we are nice to them, then they will be nice to us.” So, from the 1920s, various Western and Jewish thinkers have proposed sharing the Middle East and assigning Jews and Arabs their own areas. This initial thought came in the League of Nations’ Mandates to re-organize the disintegrating Ottoman Empire. Lots of land was given to the Arabs (Lebanon, Syria, Iraq, and Egypt), and a little bit of land (Palestine) was given to the Jews. Considering the percentage of native Jews in the Ottoman Empire (1299-1922), the area of Palestine was much smaller than proportional, but, when the Arabs protested, more than half of Palestine was removed from the Mandate and given to the Arab Hashemite Tribe. This resulted in the Hashemite Kingdom of Transjordan (the part of Palestine across (east of) the Jordan River). Still, the Arabs objected, so the United Nations tried a further division in the 1947 Partition Plan. Some areas of a diminished Palestine were assigned to Jews, and other areas of this diminished Palestine were assigned to Arabs. This too was unacceptable to the Arabs, and, the day after Israel declared itself a state, five Arab armies invaded. 

Though many years have passed, the story has been remarkably consistent. Western types keep trying to offer land to the Arabs in a dizzying variety of peace packages, and the Arabs keep rejecting them. Sometimes, they even accentuate their rejection with an intifada. 

A brief geographical note: on October 7, 2023, Hamas invaded Israel from Gaza, a territory owned and ruled by Arab Palestinians for eighteen years. 

The months since October 7 have seen a number of speakers rise to celebrity status for their passionate, well-reasoned, and insightful defense of Israel. Those of us battered by the international crusade against Israel are often comforted and inspired by the likes of Eylon Levy, Bari Weiss, and Douglas Murray. New to me—though not new to the situation—is Einat Wilf, an academic, former diplomat, and former Member of Knesset. Dr. Wilf has been a dyed-in-the-wool Israeli peacenik, laboring with Shimon Peres in the peace process and in the Labor Party and eventually realizing the error of her ways. She sees the origins of the current situation in the last days of the Ottoman Empire and in the failed British attempt to work the Mandate and set up ethnically-based nation states. Among her most insightful finds is a 1947 statement by the British Foreign Secretary—an anti-Semite named Ernest Bevin—explaining why Britain has been unsuccessful: “His Majesty’s Government have thus been faced with an irreconcilable conflict of principles … For the Jews, the essential point of principle is the creation of a sovereign Jewish State. For the Arabs, the essential point of principle is to resist to the last the establishment of Jewish sovereignty in any part of Palestine.” 

Think about this. Bevin’s 1947 review of the thirty-year British experience in Palestine explains pretty much everything that has happened between Israel and the Arabs for more than a century. The Jews want a Jewish State and will do whatever they can to make it happen. The Arabs oppose any kind of Jewish State in “Arab territory” and will do anything they can to stop it.  

That is why every offer of “land for peace” with the Palestinians has been rejected by the Palestinians. That is why Yasser Arafat rejected a Palestinian State on the West Bank and in Gaza and with East Jerusalem as its capital—and immediately started the Second Intifada. That is why eighteen years of Palestinian autonomy in Gaza led to the October 7 invasion of Israel and massacres of Israelis. That is why Hamas is happy to “sacrifice” their Arab human shields, and that is why current calls for a ceasefire are subterfuges for reloading and re-arming. For the Arabs, “From the River to the Sea” is not a call for peace; it is a call for annihilation. 

Thinking that they are “just like us” is Orientalism—foisting our image of reasonableness on a population whose guiding principles are offended by the very existence of a sovereign Jewish State. For them, it is a point of racial, cultural, and cosmic principle to destroy any Zionist entity, and thus offers of land and autonomy are beside the point. Thinking that the Arabs will be assuaged by anything other than the dismantling of Israel is an Orientalist fantasy, one that will fail again and again and again. 

This is not racism but history. As Dr. Wilf explains, the long-standing Arab/Muslim attitude toward Jews is that we should be weak, deferential, and never in charge. This had been the Jewish survival strategy from around 200 CE, and it was the strategy of Jews during the years when Islam was created and came to dominate much of the world. However, since the 1800s, the notion of Jewish Self-Defense has risen, and we Jews have made ourselves powerful and autonomous. What used to be a Jewish fantasy expressed in the Purim story of Esther and Mordecai has become a reality. Today’s Jewish presence is one traditional Muslim and Arab sensibilities cannot accept. 

Do we wish that there were no enemies? Do we yearn to sing Kumbaya as we hold hands with our neighbors? Inshallah! However, we have enemies—self-declared enemies who oppose us, who wish us harm, and who will not be deterred by territorial compromises. They are out to destroy Israel and any non-acquiescent Jews. We either stand firm, or we give up. 

“Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants your safety from all your enemies around you, in the land of that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” (Deuteronomy 25.17-19)

The Golden Calf, Part II

March 8th: Vayakhel
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we looked at the mass hysteria that leads the Israelites into apostasy—and how unbridled anger could lead God into a similarly destructive rampage. We also considered the way that a minority—sometimes a very small minority—can seize power in a group and “lead the group” into actions the group neither desires nor affirms.  

The sin of the Golden Calf—breaking three of the Ten Commandments in one fell swoop—is so egregious that the authors of the Torah are quite negative in their evaluation of the Israelites.  “They have been quick to turn aside from the way that I enjoined them…This is a stiff-necked people…You know that this people is bent on evil.” (Exodus 32.8-9, 22) The idea is that the idolatry came from a place of irreligion and sin.  

Another possibility, however, is that this religious excess came from a place of insatiable religiosity—that the people were so sanctified by God’s miracles and Presence that they wanted more and more and more. “So, You’ve freed us from Egypt with Ten Plagues and the Splitting of the Red Sea. And You’ve fed us Manna in the desert. And You’ve made us Your Chosen People and given us the Ten Commandments. Wonderful, but what have You done for us LATELY?!” 

There is something in the human soul that is never satisfied. As we read in our Yizkor Service on Yom Kippur, “The eye is never satisfied with seeing; endless are the desires of the heart. No mortal has ever had enough of riches, honor, and wisdom.” And, I would add, the spiritual wonder of God’s Presence.  

Some humans seem to have a proclivity for spiritual awareness—and are open to moments when they sense a closeness to God or spiritual intensity. These moments can be beautiful and wonderful and elevating and grounding—and very difficult to describe. This is why the great Rabbi and mystic Abraham Joshua Heschel uses the word ineffable: sometimes we experience or sense things that are impossible to describe in words—but are nonetheless remarkably compelling. These kinds of experiences are universal among religions, and, though they may be described/understood differently, they are often are quite similar. Among these commonalities are two kinds of reactions. Some of us are bowled over by such moments and just bask in the glow, while others are so taken that they yearn for more.  

According to Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, this desire for more is at the basis of religious ritual. As he puts it, religious rituals are “peak experience domesticated.” Something amazing happens—perhaps long ago, and we want to feel it just as it was first experienced: to relive the closeness to the Eternal. Thus do Jews try to recreate both the pain of slavery and the elation of freedom. Thus do Christians try to recreate the intimacy of the apostles with Jesus at the Last Supper and at the Cross. Thus do Muslims on the Haj seek to recreate Abraham’s renunciation of Satan and temptation and sin. We Jews even get didactic about it: “In every generation, each person should feel that he/she personally went out of Egypt, as it is commanded in Exodus 13, ‘You shall tell your child on that day, “I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.”’” (Rabban Gamliel, Mishna Pesachim 10.5) The Presence of God—however one defines or understands it—is amazing to behold, and our religious rituals afford us opportunities to draw close and be with God again.  

But what happens if the closeness to God provided by regular religious practice is not enough? What happens if we want more? A simple answer is that one can become more religious. More worship. More Scripture study. More observance. More participation in religious groups. The idea is that more time and more energy invested in God can bring us even closer to God—can heighten our sense of God’s Presence in our lives. 

This is a pattern I see in my own life and in the lives of others. Sometimes we “dose ourselves” with more religion, and sometimes we “dose ourselves” with less. For most people, this is a lifelong process in which we live in the Presence of God and manage our relationship with more or less intensity.  

There are those, however, who cannot get enough. Whether Jewish, Christian, Muslim, or Hindu, they find themselves perpetually yearning. For them, regular religious experience is just not enough. They want more of God, and they want it now. I realize that I am speculating, but I sense this kind of perpetual and insatiable yearning for “more God” in many of today’s religious zealots: “Born Again” Christians, Ba’alay Teshuvah (“born again” Jews), Hindu Nationalists, and radical Muslims like the Salafists or Muslim Brotherhood. I wonder if their zeal and off-putting religiosity is a symptom of their perennial dissatisfaction with the closeness to God that religion offers.  

In his 1969 book, The Ritual Process, anthropologist Victor Turner identifies two factors in successful religious rituals—rituals from all cultures and religions. The first is a Separation from the Regular. With special clothing, language, locations, or activities, one leaves the regular to enter into holiness. The second is an intense feeling of togetherness he calls Communitas—a joining together with a Presence or a community. I think many of us have felt both, but what happens if the usual separation from the regular loses it specialness—if one becomes so habituated to the holy (being separate) that it no longer feels special or holy? Could this be the reason these various zealots seek more separation or differences than their religions provide? Could this be why they are so extreme in their behaviors? Too often we see that such zealotry—such dramatic separation and more intense immersion in the religious—can actually turn religion on its head. Devotion can overwhelm compassion. Intensity can beat patience. Dedication can defeat grace. The painful irony is that “religion” can rebel against God and God’s wishes. 

I wonder if those calf-worshipping Israelites at Mount Sinai are so “hell-bent” on feeling God’s Presence that they forget or ignore the rules God so recently and clearly explains. God wants us to be holy, but God also wants us to live our religion here as humans and here on earth. True piety involves humility, graciousness, and patience. As Rabbi Lawrence Kushner imagines God quipping, “I’m God, and you’re not.”

The Golden Calf, Part I

March 1st: Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Imagine if we could go back in time and stop disasters. If we could explain to Eve and Adam the dire consequences of tasting the forbidden fruit that probably was not that tasty or “good for eating and a delight to the eyes” (Genesis 3.6), could we stop them? If we could counsel Cain (as God tries!) and get him to project his disappointment and anger in a more positive direction, could we save Abel’s life—and save Cain from a life of ceaseless wandering? And what about the Golden Calf incident? Are our ancient ancestors intent on idolatry? Do they have any notion of the severity of such a sin? Could it be nothing more than a misunderstanding about Moses’ delay up on the mountain—and something we could explain, saving them from a great sin?  

As you may remember from the end of Parshat Mishpatim, Moses goes up on Mount Sinai and leaves Aaron and Hur in charge. The plan is for him to be up there for forty days and forty nights, but this understanding does not count the extra days of preparation God requires. “When Moses had ascended the mountain, the cloud covered the mountain. The Presence of the Lord abode on Mount Sinai, and the cloud hid it for six days. On the seventh day, God called to Moses from the midst of the cloud…Moses went inside the cloud and ascended the mountain; and Moses remained on the mountain forty days and forty nights.” (Exodus 24.15-18) In other words, he is up there for forty days and nights AND an extra week. No wonder the people wonder what happened to Moses. “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, they gathered against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man, Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt—we do not know what happened to him.’” (Exodus 32.1) There is also the issue of the apparent volcano on the top of the mountain. “Now the Presence of the Lord appeared in the sight of the Israelites as a consuming fire on the top of the mountain.” (Exodus 24.17) 

If we could go back, could we talk them out of their irrationality? Could they listen to logic, or is it a mob scene in which panic and group hysteria take over—and logic and facts are abandoned?   

One can see a similar emotional storm up on Mount Sinai. Upon seeing the Golden Calf and the Israelites worshipping it, God turns to Moses and explodes: “Let Me be, that My anger may blaze forth against them and that I may destroy them, and make of you a great nation.” (Exodus 32.10) “But Moses implored the Lord his God,” and offers three arguments against God’s murderous urge. (1) You have put a lot of effort into freeing this people. Do not destroy them in anger and waste all that energy and time. (2) Your message to the world is that You are a good God Who insists on justice and mercy. If you destroy the Israelites, the Egyptians will tell everyone that you took Israel out into the desert to destroy them—and it will destroy Your good reputation. (3) You made a promise to the Patriarchs to continue their line and make it into a great nation—and give them the Land of Israel. If you kill everyone, you’ll be breaking that promise. We do not know which of these arguments works, but the logic of Moses’ counsel sways the Lord away from an emotional and self-sabotaging outburst. “The Lord renounced the punishment planned for the people.” (Exodus 32.14)  

There are many lessons to be drawn from this story, but I would like to focus on two. 

The first is that emotions can take over our intellectual functioning and lead us to bad decisions. The people panic at Moses delayed return, let their fear decide that he is already dead, and then then misremember their own recent experiences. Whereas God brought them out of Egypt with incredible signs and wonders, they exclaim to the Golden Calf, “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!” (Exodus 32.4) Though they know better, their agitation and panic make them forget the facts. The same could be said of God’s initial fury. Yes, the Israelites’ behavior is maddening, but, as Moses reminds God, there are lots of reasons to work with the Israelites rather than to destroy them.  Fortunately, God has the benefit of Moses’ calming and logical counsel—while the Israelites down at the foot of Mount Sinai do not have any ameliorating guidance. Calm and thoughtful minds might spare them a terrible apostasy.  

A second lesson regards the unanimity or lack of unanimity of the Israelites’ idolatrous tendencies. The story makes it sound like everyone—all the Israelites!—are intent on evil. “They have made themselves a molten calf…this is a stiff-necked people.” (Exodus 32.8-9) But is it really everyone, or is it just a vocal group that seizes power? With 600,000 Israelites (or, according to the Midrash, 2,500,000!), the idea of everyone doing anything together is hard to fathom. I think of the million disgruntled Egyptians in Tahrir Square during the “Arab Spring” and wonder how any democratic decisions could have possibly been reached. When this mass of people was taken over by the Muslim Brotherhood—who then started a murderous rampage, one wonders how many in the Square desired such a result. One does not wonder then about why the military felt the need to seize power. It was a mess and a mob scene—and certainly not the democratic voice of the Egyptian people—and I suspect that the leaderless mob of Israelites in Exodus 32 is similar. A small group with idolatrous tendencies—or other agendas—seizes power and leads “the people” into actions they neither want nor affirm. One can even see a hint of this minority-seizing-power in the punishment. “Moses took the calf that they had made and burned it; he ground it to powder and strewed it upon the water and so made the Israelites drink it.” (Exodus 32.20) Water for 600,000 people (or 2,500,000!)? Perhaps only the perpetrating idolaters are punished—identified, castigated, and forced to drink the gold-dusted water.  

Another hint about this small group seizing power comes at the conclusion of the chapter. Moses asks about atonement for the entire people, and God answers, “Only those who have sinned against Me will I erase from My record…when I make an accounting, I will bring them to account for their sins. Then the Lord sent a plague upon the people, for what they did with the calf that Aaron made.” (Exodus 32.33-35) We may think of a plague as being indiscriminate, but the implication is that only those who sinned are punished—and thus it seems that the entire Israelite people are not guilty: the entire people did not commit the sin of the Golden Calf. 

Think of all the groups—political, social, religious, and national—that are seized and led by small groups who purport to represent the entire group but do not. When assessing an entire group, let us look carefully. And, when spurred by outrage, let us take a breath and think. It can help us make better decisions. 

Next week: a third lesson from the Golden Calf Incident.

Time with God...Up on the Mountain, Part II

February 16th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When Simon the Righteous spoke to his colleagues and disciples, he knew that they were devoted to Torah and Worship, so he compared their importance to something they might have been tempted to forget, the performance of good deeds:
“Al sh’loshah d’varim ha’olam omed: Al haTorah v’al haAvodah, v’al G’milut Chasadim.
On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” (Avot 1.2)

 If he were speaking to us today, he may need to reverse the order and reconfigure his tagline. For us—who know very well the vital importance of good deeds, our nudge may need to be in the direction of the first two essentials, Torah study and Worship. Like Moses and Israel in the Torah, we need time “with God.”  

Praying is more than just reciting the words in the prayer book. The ideal is to use the words to develop a real communion with God. The key word in Tradition is kavannah—concentration, focus, a real sense of connection, and the many years of Jewish piety have resulted in a number of suggestions for enhancing our kavannah. One of the most famous comes from Rabbi Shimon (Pirke Avot 2.13) who says, “When you pray, do not make your prayer a fixed form (automatic), but rather infuse it with a plea for mercy and grace before God.” We need to mean the words we read or chant. In the parlance of those old Nike ads, we should “be our prayers.”  

For many—like the early Hassidim, fervor in prayer is both a technique and a goal. If God can see the exuberance with which we say our prayers, then hopefully, our efforts will be appreciated, and God will pay attention. But kavannah is more than just energy and frenetic behavior. True prayer requires accessing our deeply imbedded godliness and bringing it into contact with its Heavenly Source.  

There are many Hassidic insights into this inner goodness, and most involve a deeper and more profound understanding of our situation in the world and relationship with God. One of the more interesting approaches is taught by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov who instructs his students to spend a few hours each day conversing with God—just talking. The subject matter does not particularly matter: students can share their thoughts on great matters or on relatively minor things. Speaking in their native tongues—instead of the formality of prayer-book Hebrew, the point is to share whatever is on one’s mind: questions about the nature of good and evil or personal concerns like a threadbare coat that needs replacing. Inasmuch as God is the Infinite Creator of everything, Rebbe Nachman teaches that God is interested in every single detail of the universe—and each individual’s every thought.  

Called hit’bodedut, this talking meditative practice can have some interesting results. Because one is speaking with God, one ends up filtering or adjusting one’s thoughts so that God can understand. It is not a matter of self-censorship or “putting one’s best foot forward,” but rather of profound honesty. As in an extended conversation with a person, talking to God involves stating, restating, reflecting, and reconsidering—the goal being to identity our many influences and motivations. True honesty involves considering our many “selves,” both those that are less-than-ideal and those that represent our higher callings. Hopefully, we can find both the godliness that lies deep inside and the impediments that keep it so hidden. 

Imagining oneself in God’s Presence is like looking into a cosmic mirror. The view can be harsh—detailed and revealing every wart, blemish, or hair out of place. God sees everything. But God’s view is also compassionate, loving, and creative enough to see that the good inside is worth preserving, improving, and embracing. God may see all our faults, but they are seen with a love and kindness that is profound, “for God is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, and renouncing punishment” (Joel 2.13). God’s critiques are both devastatingly true and infinitely loving. God’s gaze is aspirational, as the cosmos itself yearns for our improvement.  

Reb Nachman teaches that every sin has a glimmer of goodness at its base—that sin happens when this goodness is diverted or stifled or misunderstood. If, however, we can dig into the detritus of selfishness, hate, and evil, we may be able to find the path of repentance and redemption. Why do we want things we should not have? Why do we want to do things that we should not? What deeper motivations or inadequacies do our evil thoughts reflect? And is sin the best way to address them? If we can find the original good motivations and then find good and constructive ways to express them, then we can bring forth our inner godliness and become blessings. Hit’bodedut calls on us to view ourselves through the honest and loving eyes of the Lord. 

That passage from Joel (2.13)—“for God is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, and renouncing punishment”—is quoted by Rabbi Shimon in his proverb, and then he then adds a plea for self-mercy: “Be not wicked in your own esteem.” Let us beware focusing so much on our sins that we forget the mercy we deserve—and that God accords us. Though profoundly imperfect, we are ultimately lovable and worthy of redemption. Repentance is always a possibility. Improvement is the call of the Universe.  

Sometimes we may think of our prayers as transactional—praising God and expecting in return our various needs and requests, but there is another, better, and more realistic approach. Prayer can be our time “up on the mountain,” a time for drawing close to God and for inviting God’s attention, vision, and influence. When we put ourselves in God’s purview, we invite our better and higher selves to come forth. In other words, the aspiration of prayer should be less transactional and more transformative: we are inviting the Lord into our lives and our sensibilities. As George Meredith explains, “When you rise from your prayers a better person, then surely have your prayers been answered.”

Time with God...Up on the Mountain

February 9th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Torah portions in this section of Exodus are jam-packed with God’s commandments and instructions, but the setting of these revelations is also important. Moses is alone with God and receiving wisdom. Up there on Mount Sinai, Moses becomes as close to the Lord as any human possibly can. Filled with Torah and holiness, his connection to the Divine is so inspired that beams of light shine from his face even when he returns to the people.  

(These beams of light are misportrayed in Michelangelo’s famous statue of Moses with horns—on the tomb of Pope Julius II in the Church of St. Peter in Chains in Rome. The Torah speaks of these beams of light, but an ancient Latin mistranslation speaks of horns…)  

Of all the Prophets, Moses’ relationship with God is the most intimate. As we read in Moses’ obituary in the final chapter of Deuteronomy, “Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Lord singled out, face to face…” This relationship is also the most frequent. Whereas an Abraham or a Jacob has less than a dozen revelatory moments, Moses seems to be speaking with God on a regular basis. This means that Moses, perhaps more than other religious people, must spend more effort transitioning between God-consciousness and earthly demands. While the ideal is for every human being to have a relationship with the Divine and to manifest God’s wisdom and commandments in daily life, we often have difficulty with the divide between heaven and earth. Even those who are very moved by prayer must still figure out how to live that holiness in the challenges and business of life.  

Years ago, Pensacola, Florida became a world center of charismatic Christianity when a one night revival was “seized by the Spirit” and continued for several years. From 1995 to 2000, “The Pensacola Outpouring” brought more than four million pilgrims to the Brownsville Assembly of God–and to the hotels and restaurants of the Florida Panhandle. (There were even several bus trips from State College.) As one can imagine, there were lots of conversations about the revival, with many people wondering about the veracity of the miracles: Is God really there? Is the spiritual atmosphere real—or is it some kind of mass hysteria or fraud?  There were many newspaper stories, and, for one, several local clergy were asked their opinions. I think my reply surprised the reporter when I said that God is absolutely present at the revival. Since God is omnipresent—everywhere—and since God is interested in relating to everyone, why would God not be there at the revival and accessible to all those Pentecostals? The real question, I said as I shifted the focus, is whether the people so moved by the Presence of God at the revival bring heavenly sensibilities to their earthly lives. Do they treat other people with kindness and fairness? Do they give charity? Do they follow traffic laws and pay their child support? If their lives are thus affected positively by God’s Presence at the revival—if God’s Presence is not merely entertainment, then the revival and all the worship is real and a blessing. 

In Jewish terms, this is akin to the verse where God tells Moses that, “You have stayed long enough at this mountain” (Deuteronomy 1.6). It is time to go out into the world and get to work. Actually, this instruction is to both Moses and Israel, for Moses’ time alone with God is an example of what all Israel experiences in the wilderness. The forty-year sojourn is a time of religious instruction and intensity. As Tradition teaches, God tells Moses the entire Torah, and then Moses teaches it all to the people. Unencumbered by having to make a living or grow food or even clean or repair their clothing, they can devote themselves completely to prayer and Torah study—and develop a wonderful closeness to the Lord. And so, for us as well as Moses, bringing the heavenly Torah to the challenges of earth is a mitzvah—our obligation and honor. 

There has always been a tension in Judaism—and in other religions—between the ethereal beauty of prayer, meditation, and sacred study and our earthly conflicts, problems, and contradictions. It is a tension to be assuaged—a potential gap that needs to be bridged, and one of the tasks of religion is to help us in this process. Though we may be tempted to ignore the gap and just live on one side—spending our lives praying and meditating OR spending our lives in the world, we are called to both aspects of life: to both the spiritual and the physical worlds.  

This was the point, I believe, of the ancient Sage Simon the Righteous in his most famous advice. He used to say: “Al sh’loshah d’varim ha’olam omed/ On three things does the world stand: al haTorah, v’al ha’avodah, v’al g’milut chasadim/on Torah study, on worship, and on deeds of lovingkindness.” (Avot 1.2) The people whom he was addressing—Scribes, Rabbis, students—already knew about the importance of Torah and Worship—of spending time “up on the mountain” with God. What they needed is a reminder about the third leg of this three-legged stool. Good deeds are of equal importance.  

For us, a different emphasis may be necessary. We know about the importance of good deeds. Tikkun Olam / The Repair of the World is a kind of watch-word among modern Jews. However, we may need a little nudging about the first two legs: Torah and Worship are just as important as kindness and justice. We need some time “up on the mountain,” thinking about God, relating to God, and considering the ways that heaven and earth can connect. 

To be continued…

How Midrash Preserves and "Adjusts" the Torah

February 2nd: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the most important things about the process of Judaism is how we both inherit and enhance the Tradition. We inherit and revere our ancient stories and accounts, and we make them our own by bringing our own insights and experiences into the discussion. Thus is Torah a living “Tree of Life” that continues to “bring forth fruit in old age.” (Proverbs 3.18, Psalms 92.14) 

One of Tradition’s most endearing enhancements is Midrash—stories told about Scripture which add to old texts new and important levels of meaning. From the Hebrew word d’rash / search, Midrash involves searching the text for additional lessons. One could compare it to mining, digging into the ground to find hidden treasures. The traditional understanding is that God places these hidden gems deep within the text so that pious readers can find them. However, I believe that this is more a metaphysical truth than a textual fact: all wisdom comes from God, but each Midrash is the work of a human reader who uses the text as a pretext for teaching something of value. Sometimes the lesson goes along with the text, and sometimes the lesson is a real departure—an attempt by an ancient rabbi to change the point of the text and improve the lesson.  

Let me give you two examples—one from last week’s portion and the other from this week’s. The Biblical point of the Exodus story is that God is a miraculous Savior. God whisks us out of slavery in Egypt and ga’al / redeems us. From The Burning Bush to Moses’ miraculous staff, to the Ten Plagues and the Splitting of the Red Sea, the narrative is full of God’s miracles. We are taught to believe in miracles and to trust God, but the fact is that sometimes—most of the time—the miracles do not come, and we humans are left on our own to solve the problems that confront us. Understanding this reality, the Rabbis walk a fine line between faith in miracles and not-so-much-faith that we fail to take human action, and the Midrash about Nachshon walking into the waters of the Red Sea to “jumpstart” the miracle represents this balanced approach. Picking up on the possibly contradictory phrase, “The Children of Israel walked into the sea on dry land” (Exodus 14.22), an ancient Sage wonders how one can be both in the water and on dry land at the same time. His answer is that the phrase is sequential—that they first walk into the sea (water!) and that it then becomes dry ground. God does the miracle, but the faith and action of Nachshon and his Tribe of Judah pave the way for the Divine intervention. In other words, the point of Exodus—that God does miracles—is adjusted to remind us that we have a responsibility to help fix the world.  

A second example comes this week as Israel prepares for Matan Torah / The Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai. God says: “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians and how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me. Now therefore, if you obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, then you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. All the earth is Mine, but you shall be unto Me a kingdom of priests and a holy people” (Exodus 19.4-6). We are God’s Chosen People. 

A wonderful tradition that can fill us with a sense of spiritual significance and purpose, this doctrine can also bring problems. It can create in Jews a belief that we have special privileges and that our relationship with God gives us immunity from punishment when we misbehave. It can also create jealousy in non-Jews who then take out their anger at God on us. While we can see modern manifestations of these concerns, their history goes all the way back. Some twenty-eight hundred years ago, the Prophet Amos tries to remind us that our Chosen-ness is no license to sin. “You are no better to Me than the Ethiopians, O Israel, says the Lord. True I brought Israel up out of the Land of Egypt, but I also brought the Philistines from Caphtor and the Arameans from Kir.” (Amos 9.7) Our sins, the Prophet continues, are just as bad and just as punishable as those of the other nations. 

A further attempt to solve the problem of our Chosen-ness comes in a Midrash that “reveals the fact” that Israel is God’s last choice. As the story tells it, God wants someone to accept the Torah and mitzvot and goes searching from tribe to tribe: Amalekites, Jebusites, Midianites, Edomites, etc. Each time the Lord asks, the tribal leaders want an example of a mitzvah, and, when given one of the commandments, each and every tribe rejects God’s offer. Finally, after trying all of the other sixty-nine ancient nations, God turns to Israel. At this point, the Midrash has two alternative conclusions. In one, the Israelites have great faith and piety and accept the Torah without asking for an example. “Na’aseh v’nishma / We will do before we hear!” (Exodus 24.7) The other conclusion quotes Rabbi Avdimi bar Hama bar Chasa (Babylonian Talmud Shabbat 88a) who notes a strange phrase. Whereas we usually understand the Hebrew “tach’teet hahar” as “at the foot of the mountain,” the literally meaning is “under the mountain” (Exodus19.17). As Rabbi Avdimi imagines it, God picks up Mount Sinai and holds it over Israel. Desperate for someone to accept the mitzvot, God threatens Israel with death if we do not accept. 

Though these two Midrashim teach lessons—one which inspires us with the piety of our ancestors, and the other which speaks of the burden it is to follow the Torah and do the right thing, the real agenda is that we Jews are no better than other nations—that we were God’s last choice as the “Chosen People.” Though our job assignment (following God’s mitzvot and bringing the Torah to the world) is important, it does not represent any biological or moral superiority. Whatever prestige we may get comes from obedience to God’s Word and cleaving to God’s Presence. In other words, though the Torah story speaks of God’s favor for us, this Midrash sees the problems that such favor can bring and re-orients/remediates the story’s moral.  

Are these Midrashic lessons actually imbedded in the Torah—planted there by God so that an enterprising and pious student can find them? Though a traditional explanation, I do not think that this is or was the case. What we have is our traditional pattern of revering the text while also adjusting it and accommodating it to help us in our attempts to be holy and cleave to the Lord. The Midrashim are “in the text”—in the sense that all wisdom comes from God, but they must be crafted by human beings who study the sacred texts and make them our own. 

Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradion used to say, “When two people sit and words of Torah are spoken, God’s Presence (Shechinah) abides among them.” (Avot 3.2)

Bibi and Amalek

SPECIAL EXTRA “THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH”
January 26th: Beshallach
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In addition to the dramatic Splitting of the Red Sea, Beshallach includes a small and curious story about a battle between Israel and Amalek. It has current relevance because of recent remarks in which Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu compares Hamas to Amalek. Critics of Israel are all abuzz about this Biblical reference. What could Bibi mean? 

Amalek is mentioned in the Bible ten times, but three and a half are significant and merit our attention. In this week’s portion, after the Red Sea and after the introduction of the Manna, we read: “Amalek came and fought with Israel at Rephidim.” (Exodus 17.8-16) While Joshua leads the Israelite fighters, Moses stations himself on a hilltop above the battle and raises his holy staff. When his hands and staff are up, Israel prevails. But, when he gets tired and lowers his arms, the Amalekites recover and gain the advantage. Fortunately, Moses is assisted by Aaron and Hur who get him a stone for a seat and then literally hold up his arms. Thus does Israel win the battle: “Joshua overwhelmed the people of Amalek with the sword.” This miracle is interesting, but more so is God’s message afterwards: “Inscribe this in a document as a reminder, and read it aloud to Joshua: I will utterly blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven....the Lord will be at war with Amalek throughout the ages.” 

What does Amalek do that is so heinous? According to Deuteronomy 25.17-19 (the special

portion read the Shabbat before Purim), Amalek’s sin is that he attacks the rear of the

Israelites—murdering the old and infirm and people with young children: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” There are lots of enemies in our ancient history—and we end up living in peace with many, but only the Amalekites are singled out as deserving of permanent hostility. 

The next significant mention is in I Samuel 15 where King Saul is ordered to destroy Amalek: “Thus said the Lord of Hosts: I am exacting the penalty for what Amalek did to Israel, for the assault he made upon them on the road, on their way up from Egypt. Now go, attack Amalek, and proscribe all that belongs to him. Spare no one, but kill alike men and women, infants and sucklings, oxen and sheep, camels and asses.” Saul successfully attacks Amalek and kills everyone—except some livestock. Under pressure from his troops who want to sacrifice some animals to God in thanksgiving—and have a big celebratory meal, he relents and saves some of the livestock. It may not seem much of a sin—or a sin at all, but the Prophet Samuel declares that this is a rejection of God’s authority and strips Saul of the crown.  

To us, the commandment to liquidate the entirety of Amalek seems brutal—as brutal as other commandments to destroy the peoples who inhabit Canaan before the Israelites return to the Promised Land. Israel is commanded to destroy all the nations, and the Bible records their devastating campaigns of conquest, but the fact is that these nations are not destroyed. Though the Bible brags about Israel’s success, it also speaks of these people’s presence in Israel long after their supposed annihilation. We know this because the Prophets spend a lot of time criticizing these Canaanite peoples’ cultures and religions which continue to be a snare for the Israelites. Also, if there had been such a complete destruction of Canaanite population and culture, a lot of archeological evidence would have been left. However, there is nothing—nothing to suggest such a violent and extensive subjugation. We are thus left with the probability that the destructive conquest described in Joshua never happens. The commandments and the victory reports must be hyperbole. Much as modern sports fans speak of destroying their opponents, such statements are true only in the sense of enthusiasm and bragging. They do not reflect actual divine commands or the complete conquest of Canaan. What we probably had was a filtering in of the Israelites and an eventual multi-cultural population. This is clearly what the Bible reports—despite the outlandish battle rhetoric.

 Now, the “half mention:” In the Book of Esther (3.1), Haman is identified as an Agagite. Since the King of the Amalekites killed by Samuel is named Agag, there is some ancient thought that Haman is thus a descendant of Amalek. Though not in the Bible itself, this legend is recorded in some of the Targumim (ancient Aramaic translations) and Midrash. If true, then it would seem that the Amalekites were not all slaughtered—that this family survives and over and over again tries to destroy us: “The Lord will be at war with Amalek throughout the ages.” 

So, when Prime Minister Netanyahu refers to Hamas as a modern-day Amalek, is he calling for genocide against the Palestinian people? Hardly. First, he is always careful to delineate between the Palestinian people and Hamas. His calls for destruction are for the Hamas terrorists who oppress Palestinian civilians as well as Jews. Second, his call for destruction is different from genocide: Hamas fighters are asked to surrender, and thousands have. The ones killed are the ones who keep fighting and die in battle. Israel is defending itself military from deadly and persistent enemies. Third and most importantly, the Prime Minister is clearly speaking of the Deuteronomy 25 reference, the one that speaks of Amalek being totally evil and attacking the stragglers—the infirm and children! This is the most well-known reference to Amalek, and this is exactly what Hamas did on October 7th. The terrorists attacked and brutalized civilians at a music festival and kibbutzim filled with children and old people—many of whom are peaceniks and old hippies who specifically chose to live within the Green Line and not in territory seized in the Six Day War. Hamas massacred defenseless citizens, thus placing themselves in the Amalek category. They have “no fear of God.” 

As for the genocide accusation, let us consider Israel’s record with the Palestinians over the last seventy years. Since 1950, life expectancy for Arabs in Palestine has gone up from 46 years to 74 years, an increase of 62%. And, in this same period, the Arab population of Palestine has gone up from 944,800 to 5,371,000, an increase of 570%. Israeli health care, public health, and better food and water supplies have resulted in these profound improvements. In other words, despite the tensions and frequent hostility, Israeli “treatment” of Palestinians has been the total opposite of genocide—a fact which makes such charges evaporate into absurdity or prejudice or fantasy. In the real world, where facts are acknowledged and the Bible is known, referring to Hamas as a modern-day Amalek is an indictment of Hamas’ moral fiber. The terrorists speak of submitting to God, but they ignore God and serve evil. They are a Chillul Hashem, a desecration of all that is holy and noble in Judaism and Islam.

The Song of the Sea

January 26th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH 
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week has two names in Tradition. First is the name of the weekly portion, Beshallach / When Pharaoh sent forth the Israelites, and second is Shabbat Shirah, the Sabbath of The Song—the song Israel sings after crossing the Red Sea.
“I will sing to the Lord Who has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver have been hurled into the sea.
The Lord is my strength and my song;
The Lord is indeed my deliverance.
This is my God Whom I will enshrine;
The God of my ancestor Whom I will exalt” (Exodus 15.1-2)  

Yetzi’at Mitzrayim / The Exodus from Egypt is one of the “big three” of God’s miracles. The other two are Ma’aseh V’raysheet / The Creation of the World and Matan Torah / The Giving of the Torah. Though the whole Exodus is miraculous, it is the Crossing of the Red Sea that climaxes the story:
“The Israelites marched through the sea on dry ground, the waters forming a wall for them on their right and on their left. Thus the Lord delivered Israel that day from the Egyptians.” (Exodus 14.29-30) 

Tradition regards these three miracles as existentially relational Divine deeds and has us recount them in our worship services—both morning and evening—every day. They are the blessings that precede and follow the Shema. 

Yotzer Ham’orot in the morning and Ma’ariv Aravim in the evening speak of God’s creative power—a power that created the world way back when and which: “Uv’tuvo m’chadesh bechol yom tamid Ma’aseh V’raysheet / in goodness renews the Work of Creation every single day.” 

Ahavah Rabba in the morning and Ahavat Olam in the evening speak of God’s love for us—a love expressed in the gift of Torah. The wisdom and insight contained in Torah is seen as the dynamic of our relationship with the Divine. God gives us the Torah to improve our lives, and we study and follow Torah as a manifestation of godliness in the world. It is a sacred relationship, and we are given the opportunity to bring God into our worlds. 

Ge’ulah / Salvation is the third blessing in The Shema and Its Blessings, the first two coming before the Shema, and the third coming afterwards. Its theme is God’s saving power, and the Exodus from Egypt is held up as the archetype of the ways that God can save us. The prayer recounts our travail in Egypt and then speaks of God’s remarkable and miraculous rescue—leading to the climactic miracle at the sea. Thus Tradition includes verses from Exodus 15 (verses 11 and 18), the Song of the Sea.
Mi chamocha ba’elim Adonai, mi kamocha ne’dar bakodesh,
nora t’hilot oseh fele’...Adonai yimloch l’olam va’ed!
Who is like You, O Lord, among the mighty?! Who is like You, glorious in holiness,
awesome in praises, working wonders? The Lord shall reign forever and ever! 

There are many musical settings for these verses, and they vary in mood. Some are somber and meditative—as one who is completely overwhelmed by such a miracle. Some are exuberant or dramatic—as one might feel when the adrenaline of such an experience is still very present. Some are peppy, and others are sweet and beautiful. The chant we usually use is a Sephardic tune which I heard as the chant for the entire Song of the Sea at a morning service. To me, it speaks of the exalted awareness of God’s ineffable power—a power that saved us in our hour of need. (This tune is also used for a Ladino Grace after Meals, Bendigamos.) 

As for the poem/song itself, the Torah presents it as though it is chanted right there, on the shore:
“Then Moses and the Israelites sang this song to the Lord.” (Exodus 15.1) However, it is quite a poem, and one wonders if such wonderful phrases could be conjured on the spot. Perhaps a more logical explanation is that the song was composed later and then its verses were put back in the story as a retrospective imagining of the elation and awe of the Israelites. 

I used to think this, but then I had the pleasure of seeing an amazing improvisational poet in action. It was a live interview program, and the guest was Chris Jackson, the original George Washington of Hamilton. Before that play, he and Lin Manual Miranda were part of an improvisational group called Freestyle Love Supreme, and in the interview, Mr. Jackson displayed his abilities. The interviewer asked him a question about a teenaged experience—a first love and first broken heart, and Mr. Jackson just started free-styling. It was amazing—not quite Mi Chamocha level awesome, but he definitely composed a cogent and gracefully poetic narrative right there on the spot. Perhaps Moses has this ability and is seized by The Spirit, “freestyling” what is in his heart and in the atmosphere there “on the shores of the sea.” 

In either case, we have a poem worth reading and chanting, a poem which speaks of the practical ways that God can be present and save us from certain destruction.
“In Your love You lead the people You redeemed;
In Your strength You guide them to Your holy abode.” (Exodus 15.13) 

The Traditional chatimah (signature summary) of this third of the Shema’s Blessings is:
“Baruch Atah Adonai, Ga’al Yisrael. We praise You, O Lord, Who saved Israel.”
Though it speaks of the past, the hope is that God’s salvation continues and is available for us. That is why I like to expand this sensibility and speak directly of the many ways that God’s salvation can be present.
“Baruch Atah Adonai, Shom’raynu, Go’alaynu, v’Tzur yish’aynu.
We praise You, O Lord, Who protects us, Who helps us when we are in difficulty, and Who is our eternal and everlasting hope.”