Judaism's Chorus of Voices

November 1st: Noach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

(This week, we share Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Evening D’var Torah, Judaism’s Chorus of Voices.) 

One of the most useful phrases I have learned in recent years is often heard at the Shalom Hartman Institute in Jerusalem. Explaining the many different opinions among Jews, the phrase speaks of Judaism being a chorus of voices. Rather than seeing divergent views as contradictions or problems, it encourages us to see them as a part of a process where different people try to understand God and what God wants of us. This multiplicity of opinions goes all the way back to Genesis where many of the Torah stories have variant versions. For an example, look at the first two chapters in Genesis. Chapter 1 tells of the Six Days of Creation, but starting in Chapter 2.4, it is as though the entire first chapter did not exist. God begins to create the world, and without a timeline or number of days, does things in a very different order. The man and woman in Chapter 1 are nowhere to be seen, so God has to “form man from the dust of the earth,” and, later, when no animal proves to be a suitable companion, God takes a rib from the man and creates woman. From the very beginning, our Tradition presents us with more than one opinion. 

This was the point of my teacher, the late Ellis Rivkin of the Hebrew Union College, who used to joke that he was a Biblical literalist. Definitely not a Biblical literalist, he used to say that he believed every single word in the Bible—but, that since the Bible has multiple opinions about most subjects, he got to pick and choose what seemed right to him. 

I like the Hartman notion of a chorus of voices because it graciously helps us to feel a part of a process rather than being in the middle of a conflict. We are all in this together, trying to understand the un-understandable, trying to make sense of a very complex and often chaotic world. Our divergent opinions represent a community of sacred questing—and we Jews have been at it for quite a while. 

Among the most important subjects addressed is the question of good and evil, and reward and punishment, or, as Rabbi Harold Kushner puts it, Why Bad Things Happen to Good People. A subject with which we are all familiar, one can see our ancestors in the Bible and Talmud struggling with the challenges of life. Our chorus of voices has been “singing” for many, many years. 

One view, known as Deuteronomic Theology, is presented in several places in the final book of the Torah. A familiar iteration is Deuteronomy 11.13-21—which is found in traditional prayer books as the second paragraph of the Shema. וְהָיָה אִם־שָׁמֹעַ תִּשְׁמְעוּ אֶל־מִצְוֹתַי
 If we obey God’s mitzvot, we will be blessed with all manner of good things in this life:
“I will grant the rain for your land in season, the early rain and the late rain. You shall gather in your new grain and wine and oil; I will also provide grass in the fields for your cattle, and thus you shall eat your fill.”

However, הִשָּֽׁמְר֣וּ לָכֶ֔ם פֶּן־יִפְתֶּ֖ה לְבַבְכֶ֑ם...
if we disobey, we will be punished—also in this life:
“The Lord’s anger will flare up against you, and God will shut up the skies so that there will be no rain, and the ground will not yield its produce; and you will soon perish from the good land that the Lord assigns you.”

(Though our Biblical ancestors believed in an afterlife, She’ol, it was not a place of reward or punishment. It is just where the dead people went.) 

The problem with this Deuteronomic Theology is that experience and observation prove it wrong. Too often, the evil prosper, and the righteous suffer. If only things worked like the Torah assures.

Another voice in our sacred chorus may help explain. In the second of the Ten Commandments, after prohibiting idolatry, God adds:

כִּי אָנֹכִי יְיָ אֱלֹהֶיךָ אֵל קַנָּא פֹּקֵד עֲוֹן אָבוֹת עַל־בָּנִים וְעַל־שִׁלֵּשִׁים וְעַל־רִבֵּעִים לְשֹׂנְאָי:
וְעֹשֶׂה חֶסֶד לַאֲלָפִים לְאֹהֲבַי וּלְשֹׁמְרֵי מִצְוֹתָו [מִצְוֹתָי] :

“For I the Lord your God am an impassioned God, visiting the guilt of the parents upon the children, upon the third and fourth generation of those who reject Me, but showing kindness to the thousandth generation of those who love Me and keep My commandments.” (Deuteronomy 5.9-10, Exodus 20.5-6)  

Could it be that the bad things happening to good people are the result of the sins of their ancestors? Could the good things happening to evil people be the result of the virtues of their ancestors? Hmmm. 

A contradictory opinion comes in Deuteronomy 24.16 where a very different principle is stated:

לֹא־יוּמְתוּ אָבוֹת עַל־בָּנִים וּבָנִים לֹא־יוּמְתוּ עַל־אָבוֹת אִישׁ בְּחֶטְאוֹ יוּמָתוּ:
“Parents shall not be put to death for the crimes of their children; neither shall children be put to death for the crimes of their parents; a person shall be put to death only for his/her own crime.”

Though this passage speaks about the death penalty, it certainly argues against the Second Commandment’s thinking.  

We are not the only ones to notice how the Torah is of several minds on this subject, and thus does the Book of Job enter our theological tug of war. Though it is presented as a historical story, it takes the form of a Greek play, and many scholars think that it is a fictional though realistic attempt to wrestle with this moral and theological problem—a problem philosophers call Theodicy. The Biblical writer presents Job as a perfect human being who nonetheless suffers grievously. He maintains his faith but desperately wants to understand God’s mysterious ways. Finally, he realizes that God’s ways are beyond human understanding.

עַל־כֵּן אֶמְאַס וְנִחַמְתִּי עַל־עָפָר וָאֵפֶר:
“Therefore I recant and relent (any questions), being nothing but dust and ashes.” (Job 42.6)

Job’s conclusion is that what may appear to be unjust may actually be just, and what appears to be unfair may actually be fair. Though we do not understand, we have no choice but to trust in God no matter what.

Some people are satisfied with this answer—and it does make some philosophical sense. Given the humility we ought to have in re God’s infinity, there is no way that we limited and mortal creatures can possibly fathom or judge the Infinite One. We just need to trust God, whatever may come. However, there were plenty of people who did not find this blind trust helpful, and the Pharisees and Sages of the Talmudic Age pondered the problem and derived a very different answer.  

It is not that they did not trust God. However, their trust in God led them down a different path. If God is ultimately just—if the righteous will be rewarded and the evil punished, and if these rewards or punishments do not occur in this life, then God must have arranged something after this life—a time when, as Torah promises, the scales of justice will be well and truly balanced. 

In other words, if justice is not done in this life, then it must be done in an afterlife where the truth of Deuteronomy is fulfilled. The just will receive their rewards, and the evil will receive their punishment. Just not in this life. 

This belief is not spelled out in the Bible—which is why the Sadducees opposed it vigorously, but the ancient Rabbis based their conclusion on intuition. Inasmuch as God is just, there must be an Olam Haba, a World to Come. Our faith in God and God’s justice demands this truth. It is the only way that God can ultimately right the scales of justice. It is as we sing in Yidgal,  

גּוֹמֵל לְאִישׁ חֶֽסֶד כְּמִפְעָלוֹ, נוֹתֵן לְרָשָׁע רָע כְּרִשְׁעָתוֹ:
“God deals kindly with those who merit kindness and brings upon the wicked the consequences of their evil.”

Yigdal, by the way, is from the 15th Century liturgist Daniel ben Judah Dayyan of Rome and is his poetic presentation of Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of the Jewish Faith. This belief in God’s ultimate justice is central to what our Tradition understands and believes.

The question of Theodicy—why bad things happen to good people—is one of the great conundrums of life. We like to think that our choices and deeds matter—and they often do, but often we seem to be victims of forces beyond us. We feel confused and caught—suffering or prospering—and not really knowing why. We yearn to understand, but no one really knows. We try to dredge wisdom from our sacred texts and Sages, but, ultimately, this is just a matter beyond us.

What we see in our Tradition—in its chorus of voices—is the attempt of our people to fathom the unfathomable and make sense out of infinity. Are there all the answers we need? No. But is there value in our thinking? Without a doubt! We seek, as our prayer book puts it, “to endow our fleeting days with abiding worth,” and our Tradition’s chorus of voices reflects our grappling and wrestling with God. We are, after all, בְּנֵי יִשׂרָאֵל the Children of Israel—the children of a man who wrestled with God and would not let go.

Merachefet / Hovering and Difficult Decisions

October 25th: Simchat Torah and Beraysheet
THIS WEEKIN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Genesis begins before Creation, with God “merachefet / hovering” over the “tohu vavohu / utter chaos.” God hovers and thinks—and then gets to work. Does God have any doubts about creating the world? According to the Midrash, yes: God is aware of all that could go wrong—and even convenes a council of the angels to discuss the matter. Bad things could happen, but not creating the world would prevent all the wonders and blessings that could come to pass. So, God creates the world and us and embarks on a long-term project that will “yamlich malchuteh,” make the world as godly as possible.  

How often are we in similar situations—embarking on a project but doubting ourselves and wondering about potential problems? Good planning requires thinking about both the benefits and the costs of an action or policy, and even good decisions have disadvantages—negatives that gnaw at the conscience. What are the costs—both financial and human? Do the advantages outweigh them enough to justify continuing? 

Some decisions are fairly easy, but sometimes, situations are fraught with uncertainty and danger. Instead of good answers, we may be faced with a set of competing evils. Hence the old expression “the lesser of two evils” with which we try to figure out the less bad choice. The problem is that choosing any evil, even a small one, is extremely worrisome.  

This is why some of us seek a kind of safety in ambivalence. Rather than choosing the lesser of two evils, we take on the role of observers and commenters, rising above the conflict and hovering. We think and we feel, retaining a kind of moral purity but avoiding responsibility. I even remember a church signboard encouraging this kind of moral aloofness: “When faced with two evils, choose neither.” It is an understandable prayer, but is hovering above the fray—and refusing to choose the lesser evil—really a moral option? I worry that such attempts at moral purity can bring disastrous results. When we refrain from choosing between evils, we allow the possibility that both evils will choose themselves. How good can we be if we eschew agency and let evil have its way with the world?  

Sometimes, we may be blessed with problems that are not ours to solve—and we can observe from afar and make wise comments. Sometimes, we have no business sticking our noses in other people’s affairs. However, sometimes we are the ones with a difficult choice to make. It could be us or our government or our people, and we do not have the luxury of detached ambivalence. We face the crisis, and merachefet/hovering is not an option. 

So, for example, let us imagine that we are at the table with President Truman, planning the end of World War II. The atom bomb has been prepared, and we could drop it on Japan. Or we could mount a ground invasion. Or we could just pack up and go home. My instinct would be to rise above the difficulty and hover, thinking of profound things to say. But my profundities would not be helpful. Everyone at the table already knows the full range of options and the terrible consequences of every choice. Whatever we advise and whatever the President decides, terrible things are going to happen. Hiroshima? Nagasaki? A million or more dead soldiers and civilians if we invade? Leave Japan armed and bent on conquest? Which evil is less bad? Which terrible option do we choose? 

When confronted with determining and then choosing the lesser of two evils, some of us seek refuge in public confessions of ambivalence. It seems important that other people know how unhappy we are with the options and the decision. We share our doubts, ambivalence, and angst, staking out a public position of moral dissatisfaction. It is as though our ambivalence is evidence of our higher ethical stature. 

The problem is that such public testimonials suggest that those who do not advertise their doubts and regrets do not have any. How often do we judge people who speak confidently and assume that they are uncaring or that they have not considered the costs and disadvantages of their actions? Is such pre-judging (prejudice!) fair? Moreover, is ambivalence a moral virtue, or is it merely the natural by-product of any decision-making process? An intelligent person thinks about the options and the benefits and costs when making a decision, but not everyone feels the need to share misgivings and angst. Some of us just like to share, but others prefer to focus on the course that their deliberations have counseled. In other words, jumping to the conclusion that they are unthinking or uncaring is both unfounded and highly insulting. We may not be privy to others’ thinking, but that does not mean that real moral considerations have not taken place. 

There is also the question of what comprises actual caring behavior. Ambivalence and hovering are understandable responses, but ultimately, they are limited in solving real and gut-wrenching difficulties. Sometimes, a resolute and courageous approach is the best and the most helpful.  

Take the current turmoil regarding Israel. Once one peels away the virulent anti-Semitism and double-standard-ism that subverts clear-headed thinking, there are legitimate concerns about non-combatants caught in the crossfire. On the Israeli side, this is a matter of great concern, and the Israel Defense Forces has taken extraordinary measures to minimize civilian casualties. As tragic as every human injury or death may be, the civilian casualties in Gaza and Lebanon are the lowest in the history of modern urban warfare. Contrast this with the “advocacy” of Hamas, Hezbollah, and Iran et al who deliberately “sacrifice” Arab civilians—putting their own people in harm’s way and even preventing them from leaving targeted zones after Israeli warnings. Is this “caring” behavior? It is clearly a hellish situation, but the decision Israel faces has no good answers. Either Israel accepts destruction, or Israel defends itself. There are no good choices, but choices must nonetheless be made. They must be made, and they must be carried out, and an excess of ambivalence and angst is at a certain level distracting and counterproductive. In a life-or-death situation, Israel is choosing to survive. 

It is hard to “out oneself” as a Zionist these days. It is hard to speak confidently and be suspected of “not caring.” Many of us are tempted to seek safety in ambivalence. However, we owe it to ourselves to think clearly and not impute automatic immorality to those who do not have the luxury of hovering above the crisis. And we owe it to ourselves to remember the true moral standard of this incessant conflict. As Golda Meir explained,
(1)   “We can forgive the Arabs for killing our sons, but we can never forgive them for making our sons kill their sons.”
(2)   “Peace will come when the Arabs love their own children more than they hate us.”

Dimensions of Responsibility

October 18th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last year, I mused about the curious literary and television tradition of clergy investigating crimes. From the various vicars of Grantchester to Father Brown and the detective monk in Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, to the 10th Century Benedictine Monk Cadfael—and to Harry Kellerman’s Rabbi David Small, there is a curious intersection in which people of faith try to figure out why other people commit crimes. 

In the Torah, in Deuteronomy 21, we have an early mention of what we now would call a murder mystery. If a corpse is found  out in a field or on the road, what should be done? Though one figures that the authorities would try to figure out “who dunit,” the Torah seems to have a different concern. Measurements are taken to determine the closest town, and that town’s leaders are to assemble at the crime scene. The priests kill a heifer, and the leaders wash their hands over the heifer, saying: “Our hands did not shed this blood, nor did our eyes see it done. Absolve, O Lord, Your people Israel whom You redeemed, and do not let guilt for the blood of the innocent remain among Your people Israel.”  

It is a curious ritual because it does not seem to have anything to do with figuring out what happened—a fact not lost on the Rabbis of the Mishnah. They ask, “Why must the elders of the closest town declare their innocence? If no one is accused of the crime, they they are not responsible. If someone is accused of the crime, then he/she is the responsible party.” It is so perplexing that the Mishnah (in Sotah 9) even imagines God asking about it. “Why would it occur to you that the elders of the town are somehow involved or guilty? And, if not, then this declaration seems unnecessary.” Is there communal responsibility or not? If not, then why the ritual? And, if there is communal responsibility, then how would a mere denial of responsibility achieve justice?  

These questions continue in the Talmud (Sotah 38b), and the Sages work toward an explanation—recasting the question of guilt or innocence into a reminder of general social responsibility. According to the Gemara, when the leaders say, “Our hands did not shed this blood, and our eyes did not see it,” what they should be thinking is that, hopefully “(the victim) did not come to our village, and we did not dismiss him; we did not see him and leave him.” Hopefully, this dead person was not previously victimized by us ignoring him or refusing to help. 

The community is thus asked to think about any interactions they might have had with the victim—interactions in which warning signs were missed. If there were none—or if they had had no contact with the victim, then they could assuage the survivor’s guilt that often accompanies a tragedy. If there were contact—and warning signs were present but ignored, the community is thus warned to pay more attention in the future. It is not a matter of the victim’s death being their fault, but rather that some action on their part could have prevented the victim from falling into malevolent hands.  

Underlying this Talmudic discussion, there seems to be a psychological insight—that those who are close to a crime, even if they are not culpable, are nonetheless affected by the crime. An outrage or tragedy can inflict a kind of social or cosmic pain on a whole community, and there is often a need to come to grips with what has happened. 

As I studied this Talmudic section at a Rabbinic Seminar this past August, my mind kept jumping to eerily similar modern situations—situations in which people outside of the circle of the victims nonetheless feel a kind of trauma. This can be accentuated with television and the internet in that we can feel proximate to all kinds of far off tragedies. But it is more than just tragedy voyeurism. Remember, for example, how close we all felt to the events of September 11, 2001. Even though most Americans lived far away from the actual tragedies, many of us felt personally assaulted. Though many in New York felt that it was “their” tragedy—because, in deed, many New Yorkers were the victims and the fallen heros, the fact is that people all over the United States felt a very strong, almost local connection to the catastrophic events. It was not “their” tragedy. It was ours. 

And, though we may not be guilty when something terrible happens near us, many nonetheless feel a king of associative guilt. Unfortunately, our community knows this too well. When, some thirteen years ago, Jerry Sandusky was arrested, prosecuted, and convicted, our whole community reeled. Though none of us were responsible, most everyone in State College felt “guilt adjacent” and “gut-punched.” In addition to the legal processes which sought to deliver justice, the community as a whole felt the need for healing. Civic leaders worked on various ways for “the community to deal with the scandal.” Clergy teams dispersed to area congregations, trying to help people separate their angst from questions of actual culpability. The University and community all participated in various kinds of moral introspection—and various forms of amelioration or teshuvah.  

Evidence of this communal associative guilt can be found in the nomenclature—in what we choose to call the scandal. While it should be called the Sandusky Scandal—because he was the sole perpetrator, many refer to it as the Penn State Scandal. This is not because we are all guilty or culpable but rather because we all feel connected and remorseful and somehow tainted by the terrible things done in our proximity. Could this be the kind of psychological dynamic the ancient Torah ritual is trying to address?  When something terrible happens, we are all affected. 

I should hasten to add that dealing with our guilt-adjacent feelings is not as important as actually dispensing justice for the actual victims. The Talmud’s counsel is inwardly directed and clearly a kind of self-care—and does not deal with the greater issue of a potential crime. However, a community’s psychic health is important, and that is why the Talmud spends time addressing it.  

Now back to the moral introspection and inventory. Can we mean it when we say, “Our hands have not shed this blood?” Were there any warning signs that we missed? Could we have helped this person before he/she became a victim? If there were no missed signals, then the community can feel confident in their vigilance. But, if there were moral or charitable shortcomings, then the ritual declaration should remind everyone to pay better attention and to extend the hand of kindness and assistance. 

This talk of communal culpability and possible responsibility reminds me of a discussion we had last Yom Kippur afternoon. It involved my ambivalence about a famous declaration from Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel: “Some are guilty; all are responsible.” “Some are guilty; all are responsible.”  

Many people find this very meaningful, but I have always been troubled by it. Yes, when something bad happens, some are guilty. But, in my mind, Rabbi Heschel is trying to expand the blame to everyone else, and this does not seem judicious. 

Of course, Rabbi Heschel was a great Torah scholar and an exemplary social justice leader, so I am certainly not in a position to question his wisdom. So I have thought about his statement and wrestled with it for years. It always made be feel a kind of moral discomfort, but then I had a possible breakthrough—a possible resolution. What if Rabbi Heschel were using the word responsible differently than I was hearing it? What if I were misunderstanding his message? If there were other definitions of the word responsible, perhaps I could find out what the modern Sage was trying to tell me. So, looking up the word, I was pleased to find several different definitions.  

Responsible can mean “someone who causes something to happen,” but it can also refer to a “a duty or task someone is required or expected to do” or “a sense of moral obligation.”

In other words, sometimes the word responsible involves blaming something on someone, but other times the word speaks to how we see ourselves as constructive participants in solving the problems around us. 

So, if I may presume to interpret the fifty-year old English of a native German speaker, I think I understand what Rabbi Heschel’s meant when he declared, “Some are guilty; all are responsible.” It is not a matter of blaming everyone for the sins and tragedies of the past. Some are guilty. But, as children and servants of God who are committed to helping God, we should feel connected enough to the rest of the world to have a sense of responsibility for making things better. 

When something sad or egregious or tragic happens in our world, we are called upon to pay attention and to try to figure out where things went wrong. We are bidden not to ignore the imperfection which permeates the world but to develop a sense of responsibility for תִּקוּן עוֹלָם  / Fixing the World. The hope is that we can do our part   וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ / in bringing about God’s universal influence. 

In other words, when that ancient corpse was found—and presumably an investigation sought to find out what happened, it was also time for the community to do some soul-searching. Whether we were at fault or not, are there things we can do to prevent this kind of tragedy from happening again? Are there ways that we can help? Are there ways for us to expand our responsibility  לְתַקֵן אֶת הָעוֹלָם  / to repair God’s world?

Our Heritage of Wisdom and Hope

October 11th: Yom Kippur
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

We often mention the Mishnah, the Gemara, and the Talmud, classic Jewish texts which are central to the development of our religion. As a refresher, let us review the basics of these important sources. 

First, though, let us look at our first and most sacred text, the Torah (The Five Books of Moses). According to Tradition, it was given by God to Moses and the Israelites around 1200 BCE during their years in the Sinai. After the Five Books of Moses, God’s revelation continued with the many books of the Prophets (Nevi’im) and the various Writings (Ketuvim). Together, the three—the Torah, the Prophets, and the Writings—are called the Bible or the Hebrew Scriptures or Tanach—TaNaCH being an acronym for Torah, Nevi’im, and Ketuvim. Though some call the Tanach the “Old Testament,” that name suggests that it is old, outmoded, and was replaced by the New Testament. This is not our Jewish understanding, so we try not to use that term.  

After the events recorded in the Tanach, Judaism continued to develop. Around 200 BCE, a group of scholars began enhancing the Bible’s Temple Sacrifice-oriented Judaism with personal spiritual practices that sought to bring forth the Biblical metaphor, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy people.” (Exodus 19.6) Though not priests, these scholars sought to develop a priest-like holiness in which ordinary Jews could participate and feel close to God. These scholars were called Rabbis, and the enhanced Judaism they crafted is called Rabbinic or Talmudic Judaism. Theirs was a slow and deliberate process—one mixed with applying Biblical principles and practices and dealing with the post-Biblical world in which Jews lived under the hegemony of the Greeks and later the Romans. For some four hundred years (200 BCE to 200 CE), this Rabbinic Judaism slowly developed and was transmitted orally. Only the Holy Scriptures—the TaNaCH—were to be written. But around 200 CE, the leader of the Rabbis, Judah Hanasi (the Prince/President) decided that the Oral Tradition needed to be written down. He organized it as a Law Code, and he called this work the Mishnah / The Teaching. It was finalized around 225 CE.  

Of course, being Jews and being very conscious of living in God’s Presence, the conversations did not stop. Generations of Rabbis and scholars studied the Mishnah and applied it to their lives and situations, and some of their most famous conversations were preserved. Eventually, many of these discussions were collected in a text called Gemara, Aramaic for Continuing. There were two collections of Gemara, one compiled in Babylonia (Mesopotamia) and the other compiled in the Land of Israel. Thus do we have one Mishnah and two continuations, the Babylonian Gemara and the “Jerusalem” or Palestinian Gemara. (Jerusalem had been destroyed by the Romans, but in honor of its special place in Judaism, the Gemara compiled in the north of Israel, primarily Tiberias, was called Yerushalmi/Jerusalem.) 

The combination of Mishnah and Gemara is called Talmud, and there are thus two Talmuds. The Babylonian Talmud is the combination of the Mishnah and the Babylonian Gemara discussions, and the Yerushalmi/Jerusalem/Palestinian Talmud is the combination of the Mishnah and the Gemara discussions compiled by the Sages in Tiberias. The Babylonian Talmud is more popular, but both are considered authoritative. 

The Talmud’s format has a paragraph of the Mishnah followed by a Gemara discussion. Some of these discussions are quite long—many pages, and they often employ a stream-of-consciousness series of subjects. Thus do our modern Jewish discussions—aided and abetted by modern rabbis—bear a delightfully traditional resemblance to the ancient Rabbinic discussions. Lots of digressions. Lots of analogies. Lots of ways that principles on one subject are applied to another. 

To get specific, my D’var Torah (sermon) on Rosh Hashanah began with a passage from the Torah (Deuteronomy 21) about a corpse being found out in the countryside. The ancient Rabbis discussed and analyzed this Torah mitzvah, and their opinions are recorded in the Mishnah—in Chapter 9 of the section called Sotah. The Gemara quotes the Mishnah’s findings and records further discussions by later generations of Rabbis. In the Babylonian Talmud, these further discussions are in a section also called Sotah (page 38b). Our sacred tradition is made up of layers upon layers upon layers as we Jews have sought—throughout our generations—to understand what God wants of us and how we can respond to God with holiness and goodness and love.  

ALSO:
Our candle lighting on Kol Nidre Eve will honor all of our young people. When Majorie Miller, our Director of Religious School and Youth Engagement, lights the candles, we shall invite all of our children and teens to come up to the bimah and be with her. Kol Nidre is probably the holiest moment of the whole year, and we want our young people to know that they are at the center of our holiness. We are all precious to God—from the youngest of us to the oldest of us. We all have a role to play in the closeness to God we hope will come that night.

Writing in the Book of Life

October 4th: Rosh Hashanah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

A few weeks ago, we read, “My father was a wandering Aramean,” the passage in Deuteronomy (26) with which our ancestors presented themselves and their sacrifices when they appeared before the Lord. Last week, we also read about appearing before the Lord: “Atem nitzavim / You are all standing here this day…before the Lord your God…to enter into God’s Covenant.” (Deuteronomy (29.1). Then, this week, the same message comes again. On Rosh Hashanah—also known as Yom HaDin, the Day of Judgment, we stand before God once more. It is what we could call a seasonal theme—a theme reaches it most intense level on Yom Kippur when we stand before God and chant Kol Nidre.  

Through Torah portions, prayers, and legends, our Tradition presents us with an exceedingly dramatic setting: we are assembled to stand before the Lord God of the Universe. And yet, the irony is that we are always in God’s Presence. We are always standing—or sitting or living—before God. God is always here, always with us, and always paying attention to us. As the Machzor reminds,
“You (God) know the mysteries of the universe as well as the secrets of every mortal. You search the deepest recesses of the human soul, and probe all our thoughts and motives. Nothing escapes You, nothing is concealed from You.”
The hope is that we can keep this basic fact in mind and maintain our integrity and good behavior. It is as the Psalmist imagines God’s intentions,
“Let me enlighten you and show you which way to go; let me offer counsel; my eye is on you.” (32.8)  

When we read the words in our prayer books, we can focus on the intellectual content and have a lively conversation about whether what we read is true. Is there really a Book of Life, big book in which God writes our fates for the coming year? Do our prayers have any effect on them—either for better or for worse? Will God really seal the writing at the end of Yom Kippur—or is there perhaps some more time, after the Gates of Neilah close, for more repentance? There is a lot to think about, and smart people—like you and me—have minds that prompt such intellectual ponderings. However, at a certain level, it might be useful to stop all the chatter and give ourselves over to the spirit of the occasion—to engage the emotional and spiritual effects the dramatic imagery is intended to inspire. If we allow it, the traditional language can stimulate our awareness, our humility, and our serious self-reflection.  

The legend of The Book of Life is only about 1400-1500 years old, and even though it is a popular part of the liturgy, its theology and persuasive power have always been up for discussion. One can even see some pushback. About a thousand years ago, the great pietist Bahya ibn Pakuda (Andalusia, 1050-1120) approached the idea of a Book of Life but suggested a slightly different dynamic. Instead of God writing in the Book, Reb Bahya imagined us as the authors. “Days are scrolls; write on them only what you want remembered.” We can even find alternative imagery in Un’taneh Tokef, the great prayer that formalizes the idea of writing our fates in the Book of Life—the prayer that ominously intones,
“Who shall die by fire and who by water, who by strangling and who by stoning…”
While it states directly,
“You write and You seal, You record and recount. You remember deeds long forgotten,”
there is also a kind of theological redirection:
“You open the book of our days, and what is written there proclaims itself, for it bears the signature of every human being.”   

While the Tradition is clearly concerned with what God does, the point of our introspection and teshuvah is that we will decide to be better people—that we will write our own good fates. We can help or we can hurt. We can bless or we can curse. We are authors too of the mythical Book of Life, and we need to inspire ourselves to write blessings. 

So, when we say “L’shanah Tovah Tikatayvu / May you be written in the Book of Life for a good year,” it is a multi-valent prayer. May God bless you with good things, and may you bless yourselves and everyone else with the goodness you have within.

Standing or Sitting (?) Before the Lord

September 27th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Sometimes, in our Torah study, we look at the big picture—the meta-narrative of God’s work in the world, and other times we focus on a single word, wondering what bit of wisdom it can reveal. For example, when we study the Shema and Ve’ahavta from Deuteronomy 6, we can meditate on the expansiveness of the mitzvah to love God “with all your, with all your soul, and with all your might.” What kinds of attitudes and behaviors does loving the Divine with everything we have involve? O, we can focus on specific things—things as specific as posture. When the Torah says to recite Shema “when you lie down and when you rise up,” does this mean we should literally lie down and rise up—or is the Torah talking about the times of the day we are to remember that God is One? The ancient Sages had quite a lively discussion on this one. Bet Shammai (the House of Shammai) held that the Torah should be taken literally: the Shema is to be recited lying down at night and standing up in the morning. Bet Hillel (the House of Hillel) took the phrase as a reference to the time of day the Shema should be recited: at the time when one goes to sleep and at the time one wakes up. The debate went on for quite a while—until, in a sort of climax, a follower of Shammai, Rabbi Tarphon, came to the Sages with a troubling report. He had been on a caravan and, when it was time to recite the Shema, got off and lay down. The caravan continued on its way, leaving him alone, and he was attacked by robbers. When he reported this to the Sages, they said that it served him right for following Bet Shammai’s needless literalism. (Babylonian Talmud Berachot 11a) 

Nonetheless, the position in which we say our prayers can be a matter of strong opinion. Traditionally, Jews have stood up for Bar’chu but sat down for Shema. The reasoning is based on the Ve’ahavta’s words: “You shall speak of them when you sit in your house.” Reform Judaism, however, focused on the importance of the Shema. Since it is so important—the “watchword of our faith,” Reform decided that the Shema should be recited standing up. 

The Amidah—the long prayer that takes the place of the ancient sacrifices—is another story. Though its official name is Tefillah/The Prayer, Tradition taught that people should stand up for it to show its importance—leading to its nickname, the Amidah / Standing Prayer. However, around 100-125 years ago, when Reform Judaism started standing for The Shema, it also started sitting for the “Amidah.” This practice was part of Classical Reform, a once popular modernizing approach that has been fading into a renewed traditionalism since the mid-20th Century. The 1975 prayer book, Gates of Prayer, sort of changed course, having the worshippers rise for the Amidah/Tefillah, but keeping the standing Shema.  

That same new prayer book introduced another posture-oriented controversy. Whereas the “old” Union Prayer Book (1940) had worshippers rise for Bar’chu, sit for the next two prayers, and then re-rise for Shema, Gates of Prayer had people remain standing from Bar’chu through Shema. When complaints of exhaustion arose, the explanation was practical. For people with bad knees, all that standing and sitting is difficult. Better to rise and stay standing for a few minutes.  

In any event, these kinds of questions come to the fore in this week’s very dramatic portion Nitzavim:
“You are all standing here this day before the Lord your God—your tribal heads, your elders and your officials, all the men of Israel, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water drawer—to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God, which the Lord your God is concluding with you this day, with its sanctions; to the end that God may establish you this day as the Lord’s people and be your God, as was promised to you and as was sworn to your ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” (Deuteronomy 29.9-12) 

We could focus on the standing part—and there are traditions about standing for the reading of the Ten Commandments since our ancestors stood as they entered God’s covenant, but we could also focus on the breadth of participation. Everyone was included—from big shots to servants to women and children. And there is more. In verses 13-14, the passage has a potentially mysterious comment about other attendees:
“I make this covenant…not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Lord our God and with those who are not with us here this day.”

In the original context, this probably refers to those who could not make it out to Mount Sinai from camp. With 600,000 people, someone was bound to be ill or infirm or on guard or taking care of someone else. God’s point seems to be that everyone is included—even people who were back at camp. However, the Rabbis of the Midrash saw two deeper possibilities.  

They began by speculating that those “who are not here today” could be the future generations of Israel—all the Jews destined to be born. Every Jew of every generation was there at Mount Sinai, affirming the covenant and entering into it. We were all there at Sinai and all included in God’s Covenant.  

The second Midrashic deepening involves our Gerim/Converts. If the assembly at Sinai included all Jews from all times, then those who would eventually convert to Judaism would also have “been there.” Such a notion is inspiring, and it also clears up a Halachic question. While Gerut/ Conversion is clearly part of the Tradition—with allusions to it in the Bible and prescriptions in the Mishnah and Talmud, there is an opinion which states that Judaism/Jewishness is a quality of the soul. Either one has a Jewish soul, or one does not. One might think that conversion is thus impossible—that one cannot change a non-Jewish soul to a Jewish soul. However, this Midrash resolves the question. If all Jewish souls of all time were there at Mount Sinai, and if this assembly included the future Gerim/Converts, then any person who converts to Judaism must have already had a Jewish soul. Born into a non-Jewish family, the Jewish soul slowly begins to realize that it belongs in Judaism and eventually works its way to the Jewish people and the Jewish religion. Our Gerim were Jewish all along; they just had to go on a spiritual journey to rejoin our covenantal community.

A final thought. The word nitzavim/standing could refer to the people’s postures that day, but it could also be a prompt about Jewish assertiveness. Being a Jew is certainly a blessing, but living as a Jew and bringing Jewish values into the world require that we stand up and participate in the covenant ourselves. Whether born into Jewish families or born into non-Jewish families, all Jews need to choose to be Jewish—to stand up and be genuine participants in God’s continuing and holy project.

Presenting Our Identities to the Lord and the World

September 20th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion this week begins with an ancient prayer—one recited by our ancestors when they brought the first fruits of their harvests to God in thanksgiving. When God’s promises were fulfilled—once they had settled in The Promised Land, farmed it, and harvested their crops, they were instructed to remember that God is the source of their blessings—and recite the following:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and there and became a great and populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us, oppressing us and enslaving us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand, an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and portents. God brought us to this place and gave us this land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

The prayer presents a summary of our story—a ritual summary designed to remind us of our place in God’s world, but, as a summary, it does not include everything. A different ritual might have called for a different summary story—with perhaps something about Abraham’s faith or the awesomeness of hearing the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai. Ours is a very rich history, and, since there is always more to say, the parts that match the occasion must be selected. 

This rich history and multidimensional identity of our Jewish people is also true of our individual identities. Each has a distinct background as well as wide ranging interests and affiliations. We each have an ethnic and family heritage and, when we consider our professional duties, our cultural interests and hobbies and charitable endeavors and civic activities, we each possess what we could call “multiple identities”—or a multi-valent identity. We each “wear a lot of caps,” and, at various moments, different aspects of our identities come to the fore. 

This variety makes our lives very rich, but it can also bring about some problems. I remember, for example, how, last October, an outspoken LGBT activist reported “losing dozens of friends” when her Zionism made her a pariah in some Progressive circles. For some, the conflict comes when their political party changes its position, and they find themselves in dissonance with longtime political allies. Sometimes, the conflict is in timing. What happens when a family event coincides with an important professional meeting—or when a big charitable project or sports event falls on Yom Kippur? It is like the old joke about the football fan who is stuck between the big game and Kol Nidre. His rabbi suggests that perhaps a VCR might provide relief. The man gets really excited and says, “Rabbi, you’d be willing to tape the service for me?!” Sometimes, we can get the conflicting events moved, but other times we are faced with making choices among our priorities—our identities.  

Back in the early years of the Zionist movement, some Jews opposed the development of a Jewish State because they thought it would jeopardize our position as loyal Americans. Can one have multi-identities without having “dual loyalties?” Some—both Jewish and non-Jewish—have worried about a potential armed conflict between the U.S. and Israel. Would Jews be loyal to America or to our fellow Jews? Fortunately, this theoretical fear has never come to pass, and hopefully it never will. Though there are often policy disagreements among friends and allies—and within each nation (!), the fact is that the United States and Israel are united in purpose and goals. As historian Ellis Rivkin used to say, Israel is the “beachhead of Democracy and American Developmental Capitalism in a part of the world where it is badly needed.” Israel is essentially an American asset in international relations and, though an independent nation, works with us at every step of the way.  

The more present conflict arises when our identity as Jews creates a dissonance with our identity as employees or students. What do we do when Rosh Hashanah falls on a weekday? Though our leaders have worked hard on this issue—and succeeded in getting laws and regulations that allow us to miss work on our Holy Days, still the conflict persists. Do we take off work and miss a big meeting or potential sale? Do we take off school and use up a “personal day” or miss a test or event? Freedom of religion means that we should be free to observe Judaism’s most holy days, but can we exercise this freedom without negative repercussions? Many of us feel pulled by our different identities and reluctant to miss work or school or services.  

There are many stories about these choices, but perhaps the most famous involves baseball legend Hank Greenberg who took the day in the 1934 American League Playoffs. He was the star of his team, but he went to Yom Kippur services instead of the ball field. It was a hard decision for Greenberg, and the difficulty was reflected in the decision he made just ten days earlier. On Rosh Hashanah, he felt the pull of both his Judaism and his team, and he ended up finessing the situation. He played on Rosh Hashanah afternoon (hitting two home runs and giving his Detroit Tigers a 2-1 victory) —but only after attending synagogue services that morning. On Yom Kippur, however, he made a different decision, praying in synagogue and skipping the game. He chose his faith over other important values, and his courage and dedication inspired Jews all over the country.  

When we live among non-Jews, there are so many questions to navigate. From singing Christmas carols in school to closing businesses on Yom Tov to participating in charitable work on Saturday mornings, we often find ourselves having to choose between our Judaism and our other important identities. It is just part of the territory, and we each learn to consider and decide and then sometimes redecide on our priorities. 

A final story. For some seventy years, my Mother lived a very Jewish life in very Catholic Cajun Louisiana. She encountered many challenges, seeing many accommodations and making quite a few herself. Some she understood. Others, in her mind, went too far. Among them was the local funeral home’s custom of putting a kneeling bench in front of the coffin—so that friends and relatives could kneel and say prayers for the deceased. This was the Catholic custom, and, since there were always Catholic mourners at funerals—even Jewish funerals, the kneeling bench was de rigueur. This really rankled her, and many times, during her last few decades, my Mom would look me straight in the eyes and implore me, “Please, when I die, do not let them put a kneeling bench in front of my coffin.” To her, this was a step too far, and I can report that, when she passed away, there was no kneeling bench.  

The High Holy Days are a good time to reflect on our multiple identities—and where we draw the line. Who are we? What do we represent? How can our actions express our highest values?

Visualizing World Peace

September 13th: Ki Tetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

“Oseh shalom bim’romav Hu ya’aseh shalom alaynu v’al kol Yisra’el v’al kol yosh’vay tevel.
May the One Who makes peace in the high heavens make peace for us, for all Israel,
and for all who dwell on earth.” 
World peace is a holy aspiration—a prayer and a sacred dream. We hope with all our hearts and souls that yam’lich Malchutay, that God’s peace will soon reign.  

World peace, however, is not a plan. It is not a policy. Between the dream and the reality, there are thousands of steps, plans, and policies—and it is worthwhile keeping this difference in mind. It is not a matter of visualizing world peace. It is a matter of figuring out, step by step, how we get to our goal. We also have to figure out how to get everyone else to work with us. 

As heirs of the Prophets, certain aspirations resonate in our souls.
“And they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks. 
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they study war.” (Micah 4.3)
There is an element of messianism and utopianism in our faith—and we treasure it. And yet, the realities of life mean that this must be, for now, a distant dream. Our hopeful souls need to remember the many and challenging intermediate steps, and this week’s Torah portion comes with what we could call a reality check. 

Ki Tetze is concerned with dozens of difficult moments in life—situations that are messy and in which practicality and base instinct come face to face with the Torah’s hope for morality and holiness. Just look at the opening words, “When you go forth to war against your enemies…” (Deuteronomy 21.10) War! When war happens, it is serious business. Those other guys are trying to kill us—and perhaps our families and our future, too. 

Today, Israel—and in some ways the entire Jewish people—is at war. Terrible things are happening, and the hopeful among us often express their dreams for tranquility and love with utopian terms—terms like World Peace and Two State Solution. They are lovely sentiments, but is either a plan? The Two State Solution may be the obvious and long-term solution to the Arab-Israel Conflict, but it is not a policy—an actual possibility for this time. There is a big difference between utopian hopes and the current reality, and the recent and utterly gratuitous execution of Israeli hostages in Gaza is just a drop in a bucket of woe. 

If there is to be a Two State Solution, then there needs to be a polity of Arabs willing to step forward and constructively build it. There must be, in other words, Partners for Peace. When I usually hear this phrase, it is in the negative sense—and usually spoken by Benjamin Netanyahu. When he says, “There are no Partners for Peace,” some people hear this as an illustration of his intransigence and refusal to acknowledge the peoplehood and rights of the Palestinians. He is seen by many as a roadblock to any progress. Others, however, hear his words as exactly what he is saying: that there are no Arabs willing to step forward and make peace and build peace and preserve peace. I am neither a defender nor endorser of Mr. Netanyahu—or his politics or his military strategy, but, in this case, I wonder if he may know what he is talking about. 

There have been a few Arab leaders who wanted to work with Israel and build peace, but most of them are dead—murdered or maimed by other Arabs or Muslims who hate Jews more than they love the Palestinian future. Over the years, it has been very dangerous for Palestinian leaders to be too friendly with Israel, and this, according to many observers, is why Yasser Arafat refused land-for-peace offers that were 96% of what he demanded. Making peace with Israel would have put his life in danger—not from Jews but from more radical Arabs. So, whether we like Bibi or not, we need to answer the question: Are there Arab partners for peace? 

This is not a matter of a utopian vision; it is a practical matter of building and supporting a peaceful Palestinian State. By the way, simply speaking of a Palestinian State is not enough. For Israel’s existence, it must be a peaceful and cooperative Palestinian State, and a lot of people are waiting for the partners for peace to appear. Will they bravely step up and try to save their people from perpetual war—and will they survive to see it through? 

Let us not forget that Gaza is and has been an independent Palestinian State since 2005. From 2005 until now, the only times Israel has attacked Gaza have been in response to Hamas missile attacks or armed incursions from autonomous Palestinian Gaza into Israel. Remember that a cease-fire was in effect up until the moment Hamas launched its murderous and barbaric attack last October. Can anyone really think that Hamas—or Hezbollah or Islamic Jihad or even the terrorist-filled Palestinian Authority—are actual partners for peace? 

When we look at the latest outrage—the senseless and wanton execution of six Israeli hostages, we feel grief and anger and utter exasperation. But, we should not be surprised. The people who run and support Hamas are not good people. They are not merely people with different opinions. They are people who hate Israel and Jews more than they love their own Palestinian brothers and sisters. Filled with hate, they look for ways to torment and torture everyone in their orbit. 

One more consideration: the long-term hopes of the Palestinian/Iranian/Muslim coalition. Their hopes and plans have been, for the last year, well-voiced by the international public relations campaign launched in tandem with the October 7th attacks. There were no pleas for better relations with Gaza. There were no proposals for improving the economy or social fabric of Gaza or the West Bank. Instead, the persistent messaging has been existential:
“Israel has no right to exist.
Zionism is settler-colonialism—and is illegal and should be destroyed.
From the River (Jordan) to the Sea (Mediterranean), the land will be Judenrein.
Jews everywhere are the enemy of Islam.”
Ubiquitous messages like these give me pause: are there any partners for peace? 

When listening to dreamers and politicians and other hopeful types, I always try to distinguish between serious plans and idyllic aspirations. Are calls for a Two State Solution serious policy proposals, or are they just rhetorical flourishes— perhaps rhetorical signals that the speaker hopes for a better world. Is the Two State Solution a reasonable and practical possibility, or is it a just a nice dream that nice people have on their utopian list? I share the dream. I agree with the aspiration. But, I know that, until there are real partners for peace, we are stuck in a fight for survival. Let us pray to God for strength and fortitude.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai y’varech et amo vashalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.” (Psalm 29)

The Greatness (?) of Leaders

September 5th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

King Solomon, I am afraid to say, was a bit of a problem. Yes, he shored up the united monarchy after this father David’s death. He built the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem—a magnificent facility that was famous the world over. He wrote the Books of Proverb and Ecclesiastes and the Song of Songs. He was known as the wisest of men. 

And, yet, his regime was not without foible or criticism. First, his building program included not only the holy Temple, but also a more ostentatious palace for himself—and he conscripted labor from the Israelites to build it. (Some speculate that the ancient story of slavery in Egypt—a story that has no historical proof—was concocted to object to the corvee labor that Solomon required of thousands and thousands of Israelites. The theory—and it is only a theory—suggests that the southern area of the Negev, around Timna, was a place of mining and hard labor, and, being “Egypt adjacent,” it is the basis of the story of Egyptian bondage.)  

Second, the lavishness of Solomon’s lifestyle—paid for by taxes levied on everyone in the kingdom—led to criticism and dissatisfaction. His palace was extravagant. Taking care of his 300 wives and 700 concubines in style was expensive. And, he had a thing for horses: according to the Bible, he had 12,000 horses, and archeological evidence has revealed stables from his reign that could accommodate hundreds of horses at his palace in Megiddo. This all seemed to be a part of a very high international profile, but the expenses involved put a real burden on the people. While there was murmuring during his lifetime, it reached its apex after he died. One of his officials, Jeroboam, wrested the Northern Ten Tribes from Solomon’s heir Rehoboam and established an independent kingdom. Thus were there two “Jewish” kingdoms, Judah in the South and Israel in the North. 

Third, and this is perhaps the most troublesome theologically, Solomon’s foreign policy involved pagan worship in Jerusalem. Dignitaries expected to be able to worship their gods when they came to the very cosmopolitan Jerusalem. And, many of those wives and concubines—married as part of political alliances—were allowed to set up temples for their gods and bring in both idols and their priests. Though Solomon’s power was great, this affront to Israelite monotheism did not go without notice, and zealots for the Israelite religion were outraged. 

Solomon died around 927 BCE, and the book we are now reading, Deuteronomy, was apparently authored/edited three centuries later—around 620 BCE, during the reign of King Josiah. It was a time of religious revolution—or, as they saw it, religious purification, and many long-standing and problematic traditions were eliminated. Among these were the various foreign/pagan temples still present in Jerusalem. And, when these purgers of ungodly outrages explained their religious purifications in the book authored as though Moses himself had written it, they included a warning about “out of control” kings. Here is what we read this week in Par’shat Shoftim:
“If, after you have entered the land that the Lord your God has assigned to you, and taken possession of it and settled in it, you decide, ‘I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,’ you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by the Lord your God. Be sure to set as king over yourself one of your own people; you must not set a foreigner over you, one who is not your kinsman. Moreover, he shall not keep many horses, or send people back to Egypt to add to his horses, since the Lord has warned you, ‘You must not go back that way again.’ And he shall not have many wives, lest his heart go astray; nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess.” (Deuteronomy 17.14-17) 

That is what a king should not do, but the Torah also includes what a king should do:
“When he is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching / Mishnah Torah written for him by the Levitical priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching/Torah as well as these laws. Thus he will not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from the Instruction /  hamitzvah to the right or to the left, to the end that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel.”  (Deuteronomy 17.18-20) 

Given his other ample credits, I believe that it is unfair to say that Solomon was not a godly man. He was a great man, but, like all great humans, he was not perfect. And, in the course of wielding power, he seemed to “deviate to the right or to left.”  How are nations to be led and greatness achieved? How is the “game of nations” to be played? And, how can this be done with morality and piety?  

Earlier in the parsha we read about the serious work of appointing leaders:
“You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20) 

Choosing the right leader is no easy task. There are lots of problems and lots of ideas about how to solve them. There are also lots of loud voices trying to persuade us. Amidst this cacophony, we need to remember the importance of honesty and principle. We also need to remember that the people are important and worthy of respect: both the people making the decisions in our democracy and the people who will be affected by the solutions and policies. Remember, “The people shall be governed with true justice…Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

The Place Where God's Name Dwells

August 30th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though Jerusalem was the capital of ancient Israel—both politically with King David and his descendants and religiously with the Temple of the Lord, it is not mentioned in the Torah. In the Torah, there is only a vague mention of a “place where the Lord shall make the Holy Name dwell,” but the specific location is not mentioned. Even if God had Jerusalem in mind as the eventual and permanent place of holiness, it took our ancient ancestors a number of centuries to get around to the Mount Zion and the Temple Mount and the City we have considered holy for some three thousand years. 

When the Israelites enter the Promised Land (around 1200 BCE), they continue with the Mishkan, the portable “tent temple” described in Exodus and which they carried with them during their forty years of wandering in the wilderness. The Mishkan stayed in various locations for a number of years—the most famous of them being Shiloh., but, with the reign of King David and the establishment of Jerusalem as his capital, the Ark and Mishkan were moved to Jerusalem where David’s son Solomon eventually built the Temple—sometime in the 900’s BCE. 

From here on out, this was the place of God’s holiness and the fulfillment of the mitzvah we read in this week’s Torah portion: “After you traverse the Jordan and dwell in the land which the Lord your God gives you to inherit, and when God gives you rest from all your enemies round about, so that you dwell in safety; then there shall be a place which the Lord your God shall choose to cause the Holy Name to dwell; there shall you bring all that I command you: your burnt offerings, and your sacrifices, your tithes, and the offering of your hand, and all your choice vows which you vow to the Lord: and you shall rejoice before the Lord your God, you, your sons and your daughters, your male and female servants, and the Levite who is within your gate…” (Deuteronomy 12.10-12) 

Jerusalem has remained our religious capital ever since. When the Temple was destroyed by the Babylonians in 586 BCE, the people of Judah yearned to return (see Psalms 137 and 126) and then rebuilt the Temple when the Persians allowed them to reestablish Judah and Jerusalem. Then, when the Romans destroyed the Second Temple in 70 CE, the yearning reignited AND the resulting post-Temple prayer worship continued to focus on Jerusalem. In constant mentions and even in physical attitude—directing our prayers to the Temple Mount, Jerusalem, and the Holy Temple—“the place where the Lord chose to make the Divine Name dwell”—have been the closest place to heaven on earth, the place which offers the best access to God. 

For centuries, Jews would make pilgrimage to the remnants of the ancient Temple, getting as close as they could be by praying at the Western Wall, the remnants of the retailing wall that surrounded the Temple Mount and made a mountain into a plaza for the Holy Temple. Then, after the 1967 Six Day War, when Israel captured the Old City, the Western Wall/Kotel Hama’ariv became a place of celebration and a place where more and more Jews could come close to the ancient holiness. 

It was by a quirk of bureaucratic fate that the Western Wall came under the control of the Ministry of the Interior—which controls synagogues—and not the Ministry of Antiquities. Classified as a synagogue instead of an archeological site, the area became the province of the Orthodox rabbinate—and thus the many conflicts began: men’s and women’s sections, no organized services or Torah readings on the women’s side, no non-Orthodox religious services, hassles about archeological excavations at the site, etc. 

Back in 1996, I was part of a Reform Rabbi’s Mission to Israel, one where, among other things, we met with Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu to get him to give Reform Judaism more funding and respect. We also had a worship service in the Kotel Plaza—the large and mixed plaza just outside of the segregated men’s and women’s sections. We were “at” the Kotel, just a few dozen meters farther. We were some forty Reform Rabbis, men and women, and we began to pray. There were some ultra-Orthodox protesters who tried screaming and falling to the ground to get the attention of some Israeli news cameras. We were told that ours was the first “mixed” service at the Kotel. The protesters were unable to break up the service because the government has also provided several armed soldiers who guarded us as we prayed. 

I remember one of the colleagues, a young female rabbi, expressing her comfort at the fact that we were being guarded and could continue our prayers. My reaction was different. I felt very distracted and very unconnected, and I wondered why this ancient wall was so important. It is not as though we Jews have not achieved an incredible spiritual tradition while living and praying in other places. Were we to think that our prayers, some thirty meters from the Kotel, were somehow holier than the prayers uttered by Jews in Babylonia or Cairo or Warsaw or in Mayence? Were we to think that prayers in this place were somehow closer to the omnipresent God Whose dominion is in the whole universe?  

There is nonetheless something special about the Kotel, and I visit it and pray every time I’m in Jerusalem. I yearn for the special closeness to God that Tradition ascribes to the holy precinct, but I also realize that the notion of God only being present in one place is not as true as some of our ancient ancestors believed. As Judah Halevi prayerfully wrote: 

“O Lord, where shall I find Thee, hid is Thy lofty place?
And where shall I not find Thee, Whose glory fills all space?
ho formed the world, abideth within man’s soul alway;
Refuge to them that seek Thee, ransom for them that stray. 

O, how can mortals praise Thee, when angels strive in vain?
O build for Thee a dwelling, Whom worlds cannot contain?
Longing to draw near Thee, with all my heart I pray,
Then going forth to seek Thee, Thou meetest me on the way. 

I find thee in the marvels of Thy creative might,
In visions in Thy Temple, in dreams that bless the night.
Who saith he hath not seen Thee? The heavens refute his word.
Their hosts declare Thy glory, though never voice be heard.”                                        

Bendigamos al Altisimo

August 23rd: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
 This is the week where we get our curious Jewish custom of saying a blessing after our meals. Many cultures give thanks before eating—and we do too, but our Tradition has taken Deuteronomy 8.10 and constructed a mitzvah to give thanks after we eat. “When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which has been given to you.”

In addition to the simple notion of giving thanks for an experience both nutritional and enjoyable, the mitzvah should be seen in the context of many blessings. “The Lord your God is bringing you into a good land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill; a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper. When you have eaten your fill, give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land which has been given to you.” (Deuteronomy 8.7-10) 

Jewish Tradition has acted upon this mitzvah in many ways, with Birkat Hamazon / the Grace After Meals taking a number of different forms. Among them is a Sephardic version in Ladino known by its first word, Bendigamos.  

Bendigamos al Altisimo al senor que nos crio,
Demosle agradecimiento, por los bienes que nos dio.
Alabado sea su Santo Nombre, porque siempre nos apiado.
Load al Senor que es bueno, que para siempre su merced.

(Let us bless the Most High, the Lord who created us,
Let us give him thanks, for the good things he has given us.
Praised be his Holy Name, for he has always taken pity on us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.) 

Bendigamos al Altisimo, por su Ley primeramente,
Que liga a nuestra raza, con el cielo continuamente,
Alabado sea su Santo Nombre, porque siempre nos apiado.
Load al Senor que es bueno, que para siempre su merced.

(Let us bless the Most High, first, for his Law,
Which connects our race/home, with heaven, continuously.
Praised be his Holy Name, for he has always taken pity on us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.) 

Bendigamos al Altisimo, por el pan segundamente,
Y todos los manjares, que comimos juntamente.
Pues comimos y bebimos alegremente, su merced nunca nos falto,
Load al Senor que ese bueno, que para siempre su merced.

 (Let us bless the Most High, second, for the bread
And also for these foods which we have eaten together.
For we have eaten and drunk happily, His mercy has never failed us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.) 

Bendita sea la casa esta, el hogar de su presencia,
Donde guardamos su fiesta, conalegira y permanencia.
Alabado sea su Santo Nombre, porque siempre nos apiado.
Load al Senor que es bueno, que para siempre su merced.

(Blessed be this house/tabernacle, the home of His presence,
Where we keep his feast, with happiness and steadfastness.
Praised be his Holy Name, for he has always taken pity on us.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.)

Hodu l’Adonai ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo.
Hodu l’Adonai ki tov, ki le’olam chasdo.

(Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.
Praise the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy is everlasting.)

While most of us think of praying in both Hebrew and English, others in our Tradition have used their daily languages along with Hebrew—linking both past and present in their spiritual offerings. From Aramaic and Greek in the ancient days, to English, French, German, and Italian of today—and Yiddish, Ladino, Judeo-Farsi, and Judeo-Arabic, Jewish prayer has been communicated in many languages and with those languages’ particular energies.   

When we thank God, it is also important to be thankful for the whole process in which we humans are able to participate. Though we say—at the beginning of a meal—that God “motzi lechem min ha’aretz / brings forth bread from the earth,” the fact is that many people take part in the miracle of nutrition and aesthetic delight that bread represents. We are all part of the Shefa, the flow of blessings that comes from God through us.  

It is in this spirit that our congregation gives thanks to those who have been channels of Divine Blessing in our midst. Each year, we formalize our thanks and appreciation in the presentation of Brit Shalom’s Helping Hands Award. This Friday, at our Shabbat evening service, we shall be awarding this posthumously to Barry Ruback , our past president and friend. Barry led a rich and productive life, and in what turned out to be his final years gifted our congregation with energy, wisdom, and vision. Much of our current congregational prosperity and vitality is a direct result of Barry’s ideas and work. So, please join us as we give the Helping Hands Award to Jasmin and Miriam who will be accepting it on behalf of Barry—for his participation in bringing the blessings of heaven to this holy part of the earth.

Searching for Clarity and Understanding

July 12th: Chukat
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E.  Ostrich

This is the week that Moses loses it. He and Aaron lose their sister Miriam (Numbers 20.1ff). and then he loses his temper, composure, and future in the Promised Land. The Israelites are typically obnoxious—criticizing him for a water shortage, but God is typically responsive with a miraculous plan to provide all the water they need. Moses is instructed to go to a rock and speak to it, “Order the rock to yield its water,” but Moses’ composure and patience are at their end. “Moses and Aaron assembled the congregation in front of the rock, and he said to them: ‘Listen, you rebels, shall we get water for you out of this rock?’ And Moses raised his hand and struck the rock twice with his rod.” What may seem like an understandable and unusual outburst is too much for the Lord Who has higher standards. “Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation unto the land that I have given them.” 

Sometimes, the pressures of the world can be too much, and we can lose our bearings. Such a time is now for Jews around the world. The unrelenting pressure of misinformation and hostility is taking a toll on most of us. We do not want to “lose it” as did Moses, but we need the relief of clarity and truth. Clarity will not solve all of Israel’s or Jewry’s problems, but it can help us remember than we are neither immoral nor crazy. The Israeli-Arab conflict needs to be discussed with understanding and compassion and fairness, but too often this is not the case.  

So we comb the internet and news sources, taking each anti-Israel punch and nonetheless searching for something not hateful, not anti-Semitic, not a repetition of Hamas propaganda—something that clearly discusses the conflict in which our Zionist dream is continually mired. When we find such an essay or interview or news report, we bookmark it and distribute it to our friends and relatives—and former friends. Such pieces are like life rafts in a sea of infuriating and overwhelming bad thinking. 

It is in such a spirit that a friend sent me this piece from the Wall Street Journal. It is by Elliot Kaufman, a staff writer and letters editor. Written from Jerusalem, it covers a lot of ground, but it is full of compassion and wisdom and good thinking. This essay helped me with my moral composure and equanimity. I hope it can be helpful to you.  

“We pray that one day there will be peace,” says Nina Tokayer, half of the Israeli musical duo Yonina, after a candle is extinguished to bring the Sabbath to a close. “Sometimes that means eliminating our enemies, who hate peace and want to destroy us. For some reason, a lot of people around the world don’t understand that.” 

Israelis don’t understand what the world doesn’t understand about Oct. 7. Hamas is the Palestinian majority party, and Oct. 7 was its apotheosis. It will try it again if Israel quits Gaza too early, and it will do worse if Israel surrenders the West Bank. Yet the world demands both, leaving Israelis to conclude that the world has little problem subjecting them to more massacres. Israelis feel as if a mandatory form of amnesia is being imposed on them: Thou shalt not remember what actual Palestinian nationalism looks like. 

The struggle for memory has strategic significance. Micah Goodman, a leading intellectual of the Israeli center, says the first lesson of Oct. 7 is: “When we leave territory, we’re not protected from that territory.” This has become a national consensus. 

“We had Oct. 7 before—in 1929,” Mr. Goodman says. Then, Arab mobs massacred more than 100 Jews across Hebron, Safed, Jerusalem and Jaffa and left more than 300 wounded. “Jews were attacked in the streets, in their homes, with all the terrible atrocities that we saw on Oct. 7. This was before the nakba of 1948, before the occupation of 1967.” 

I thought of the struggle for memory on a visit to an Israeli military base, home to an elite combat unit whose members’ full identities are kept secret. “The world doesn’t understand the pain,” says Maxim, a young soldier, “and I don’t think it cares.” He allows that people may have forgotten Hamas’s Oct. 7 attack. Roi, his comrade, doesn’t buy it: “They know what happened, but they don’t give a s—. Or they support it and call it ‘resistance.’” Asaf, a 21-year-old fighter, says, “The Arabs win because they are patient. We can defeat Hamas, but if we leave, they’ll rebuild it all and in 10 years they will attack again.” In his view, as one soldier, “the only way we win is if we take the land.” 

He shouldn’t say that. What could be more repulsive to foreign ears than an Israeli reoccupation of Gaza? Much less repulsive to the world is Asaf’s other scenario: Hamas keeps Gaza and plots the next Oct. 7. 

In the border kibbutz of Kfar Aza, Chen Kotler works to prevent Oct. 7 from being forgotten. She tells of terrorists on her roof and in her sister’s house. “Along this pavement, eight people were murdered,” she says at one spot. Hamas still holds hostage five of her neighbors: Gali and Ziv Berman, Emily Damari, Doron Steinbrecher and Keith Siegel, a 65-year-old U.S. citizen. Buildings have been wrecked, and the community will have to fight to survive. 

But aren’t more people dying in Gaza? The media is happy to obscure the relevant distinctions. Activists promoted the “genocide” lie even before the war. Eylon Levy, until recently Israel’s government spokesman, explains, “The slanders of Israel today are preparing the response to the next Oct. 7: ‘The Jews had it coming.’” 

Perhaps Israel can’t satisfy the Western gaze. A sign on one destroyed home in Kfar Aza reads: “Aviad Edri was brutally murdered in this house.” But the West wants to see the body left out on the ground. Israelis won’t—and shouldn’t—cooperate. Some of Ms. Kotler’s surviving neighbors even oppose the tours and don’t allow photos. “This will soon be history,” she says. “The tractors will come to repair. So, you’ll have to carry it for your whole life.” 

The world is unwilling to bear the weight for long. While President Biden made clear after Oct. 7 that Hamas must not remain in power, by February he wasn’t so sure. He called Israel’s counterattack “over the top.” At a Holocaust remembrance event in May, he urged the world to “never forget” Oct. 7 while withholding arms from Israel to prevent an attack on Hamas’s stronghold. 

Thomas Friedman now writes what is implicit in Biden policy: It’s OK to leave Hamas in power. Maybe there will be a power-sharing agreement. Maybe the people of Gaza will restrain Hamas. Or maybe the West has learned nothing from Oct. 7. 

There’s a story the West tells itself: After the massacre, Israel had the world’s sympathy and support. But Israel went too far, and the world turned against it. Right-thinking Westerners like this story because right-thinking Westerners are its stars. They are moved by the plight of Kfar Aza and the Nova festivalgoers to denounce Hamas, but not so much that, like those vengeful Israelis, they lose their impartiality and humanitarian instinct. 

The truth is darker. Much, perhaps most, of the world didn’t condemn Oct. 7 or repudiate Hamas. Qatar and Egypt, the mediators, both blamed Israel on Oct. 7. On Oct. 8, China called on Israel to “immediately end the hostilities.” Russia still hosts Hamas delegations. None of Hamas’s patrons have abandoned it or been seriously pressured to do so. The big human-rights groups equivocated on Oct. 7 about “civilians on both sides.” Ever since, they have pretended the war began on Oct. 8, representing the Israeli effort as pure malevolence. The campus left cheered the attack. The United Nations General Assembly still hasn’t condemned it.  

U.S. support for Israel has been essential, but it has strings attached. “If the United States experienced what Israel is experiencing, our response would be swift, decisive and overwhelming,” Mr. Biden said on Oct. 10. But at every stage of the war, he has worked to slow and scale down Israel’s military response. U.S. generals advised Israel not to invade Gaza, senior Israeli officials say. The Americans insisted that raids from the perimeter would defeat Hamas. 

By January the Biden administration was pressing hard for a Palestinian state, which it described as the only real solution, just as it had thought on Oct. 6. Never mind that polls show two-thirds of Palestinians support the Oct. 7 attack. 

Over hummus in Tel Aviv, the right-wing intellectual Gadi Taub puts it provocatively: “Biden’s plan to end the war is for Netanyahu to fall and Sinwar to stay.” The U.S. president has spent months pushing a deal to end the war, and his deputies insist Israeli troops leave Gaza afterward. Since no one else but Israelis will fight and die to keep Hamas down, Hamas rule would quickly be restored. 

“Oct. 7 killed not only the dream of peace,” says Mr. Levy, the former Israeli spokesman. “It killed the dreamers” of the border kibbutzim. But Mr. Biden and his team, the none-too-quiet Americans, are still dreaming. They call it a peace process, but an Israeli withdrawal that returns Gaza to Hamas is the first step to the next massacre, the next war. 

Eran Massas, an Israeli lieutenant colonel in the reserves, says, “Hamas are not people, they are animals.” In response, the liberal Western instinct is to worry about dehumanization. When Mr. Massas tells of how he rescued civilians on Oct. 7, and how he remains haunted by one woman he found, her green clothing left beside her butchered corpse, the same Western instinct is to look away—anywhere but his eyes.

Korach: Should the Lunatics Run the Asylum?

July 5th: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

“The lunatics have taken over the asylum.”
With all due respects to the mentally ill and those who care for them, I find the above expression fascinating. According to Wikipedia, it originated in a 1919 remark by Richard A. Rowland about the founding of United Artists—perhaps as an allusion to the 1845 Edgar Allan Poe short story, The System of Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether. 

Whatever its origin, it has been used in a variety of contexts and generally expresses the view that those in charge have no idea what they are doing—that those who should be managed have somehow pushed out those in rightful authority and established themselves as managers. 

In some ways, this is a highly ironic statement—inasmuch as most people in charge will, upon sober reflection, realize they too have no idea what they are doing. We may have training, experience, and insights, but we are all “works in progress” and often find that we must “fly by the seat of our pants.” While phrases like “fake it till you make it” are unsettling, the fact is that most of us recalibrate, reevaluate, and rethink our habitual patterns on a regular basis. Reality has a way of changing in unexpected ways, and we are often left to our best guesses. 

That being said, there are some people whose training, experience, and wisdom give us more confidence in their abilities to be in charge. We would rather put our lives—or HVAC systems or transmissions or government—in their hands. They are the ones we prefer to trust. 

Thus do we arrive at the essential questions of Parshat Korach. Who should be our leader, and who/Who gets to decide? Whether or not Moses is the best leader possible or always makes the right call is at a certain level irrelevant. He is doing a pretty good job, and God seems generally pleased with him.  Whatever problems there may be (and what leader does not encounter difficulties?), are generally beyond his control. The people’s craving for the foods of Egypt, for instance, or their fear of advancing into the Promised Land seem to be out of Moses’ control. So, when Korach challenges Moses and offers himself as a replacement—“You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?!” (Number 16.3), is it a serious attempt at democracy and improvement, or is it a duplicitous power-grab? Does the system need changing? Should the Israelites get to decide for themselves? Should the “lunatics” be in charge? 

The problem with reading Korach’s story is that we believe in democracy. Despite the relative ignorance with which many voters go to the polls and the less than stellar results many elections elect, we believe in the people’s right to self-government. In fact, when we are offered various theocratic options, most of us recoil. We may believe in God and seek God’s Presence in our lives, but we want to make social and governmental decisions ourselves. 

There is another reason Korach may sound reasonable. Sometimes, the “lunatics”—that is, the people being led, managed, treated, or taught—have valuable insights that those in charge should hear. Health care professionals are taught to listen carefully to what their patients have to say. Teachers are urged to pay attention to the way their students react and process information. Management systems such as W. Edwards Deming’s Total Quality Management insist that those on all levels of the hierarchy be incorporated into decision-making. And, of course, democracies have frequent elections—opportunities for the governed to communicate to those who govern. 

So, when someone demands more democracy, our tendency is to favor their thinking. The problem, however, is that the unscrupulous can manipulate our feelings of fairness to gain authority and then do some very undemocratic things. History is full of such catastrophes.  

And then, there is God. As I mentioned above, most of us resist the idea of theocracy, but not necessarily because of Who is at the top (God!). We worry because those who claim to speak for God may or may not be godly: they may or may not be doing God’s Will on earth. How many times, in Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and Jewish history, have we seen those who purport to speak for God pursue profound ungodliness? As wonderful as God’s Presence can be—enlightening, inspiring, and guiding us, it can also be an intoxicant that makes people think that their own thoughts are God’s. As Rabbi Lawrence Kushner counsels, we need to separate our egos from the voice of God. Or, as he imagines the Deity reminding us, “I’m God, and you’re not.” Let us beware Yetzer HaRa / the Evil Inclination taking over. Let us remember that it is God’s influence that should enter our thinking—rather than foisting our selfishness or evil or ignorance onto God. 

There are so many levels to the Korach story. There is the question of democracy: who gets to decide on leadership? There is the question of sincerity and truth: is Korach to be trusted, and is Moses behaving in a trustworthy manner? There is the question of earthly authority: who decides how God’s instructions are to be interpreted and followed? And how do we derive guidance from ancient, time-bound, and culture-bound words? We seek God’s influence and inspiration, but it takes some serious wisdom and understanding. 

According to the Rabbis, a take-over by Korach would be disastrous. Dominated by ego and selfishness, his communication of God’s Will would be slanted to his own power and self-aggrandizement. Moses, on the other hand, is “a very humble man, moreso than any other man on earth.” (Numbers 12.3) He is a clear channel for God’s Will, one unimpeded by human ego. Perhaps this is why God comes down so strongly for Moses and against Korach. “The earth opened its mouth and swallowed up…all Korach’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, with all that belonged to them; the earth closed over them and they vanished from the congregation.” (Numbers 16.31-33) God seems pretty clear on this—which leaves the reader searching for flaws in Korach’s case. God sees through him. Can we learn to see through the rhetoric of those who seek to lead us? 

Perhaps a lesson we can take from this disturbing story is that the lunatics are probably not best suited to run the asylum. That being said, they may not be completely without wisdom, and those in authority should consider what the patients, students, employees, and citizens have to say. Wisdom can come from many places, and humility and open-mindedness are hallmarks of good leadership. 

“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.