Where the Haftarah Saves the Torah Portion

April 28th: Tazria/M’tzora
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We do not have any records of the ancient rabbinic council that matched Torah portions with Haftarah portions, but, when it comes to this week, we can imagine smiles around the table. For the very unpleasant Torah portion about leprosy, the Second Book of Kings provides a story that is a perfect fit. It has nothing to do with the diagnosis and treatment of leprosy—either of the human body or of the house (a kind of black mold). Rather it tells the story of four lepers and their rather amazing discovery.

The setting, as described in Second Kings 6, is a siege around the city of Samaria—a siege which has left the people of the city starving. One may think that the dire situation is strictly a military matter, but the prophet Elisha sees it as a moral issue. God is using the Arameans to punish the Kingdom of Israel for its sins. Enter the lepers.

In a great Biblical example of gallows humor, four lepers outside the gates of the city are discussing their prospects. “Why should we sit here until we die? If we enter into the city, there’s a famine in the city, and we’ll die there. If we sit here, we’ll die of starvation. Let us, therefore, go to the camp of the Arameans. If they feed us, we shall live. If they kill us, we will not be any deader than if we stay here.” (Second Kings 7.3-4)

 So, they take their chances and go over to the besieging army’s camp. The surprise is that no one is there. Every single soldier is gone, though they seem to have left everything else behind: tents, donkeys, food, etc. At this point, the Narrator explains: “There was no man there, for the Lord had made the camp of the Arameans hear a noise of chariots, and a noise of horses, the noise of a great army; and they said one to another, Lo, the king of Israel must have hired against us the kings of the Hittites and the kings of the Egyptians to gang up against us. Therefore the Arameans rose and fled in the twilight, leaving their tents and their horses and their donkeys, leaving the camp as it was and fleeing for their lives.”

 Realizing what they have found, the lepers proceed from tent to tent, eating food and selecting valuables to hide. This is all fine for a while, but then they realize that they have a moral duty to their city. “It is not right for us to keep this good news to ourselves. If we stay here all night, we deserve punishment for not sharing the news with the people in the city. Come, let us go and tell the king’s household about what we have found.”

So, the lepers tell the king’s guards, and—after a foray to make sure the Arameans are not waiting in ambush—the food left in the camp feeds the hungry people of the city.  The siege and the famine are over, and the people are left to ponder this incredible turn of events.

I find three lessons in the story.

1. The miraculous noise that scares the living daylights out of the sieging Arameans reminds us that God’s assistance can be dramatic. Lest we only look for economic or political or military reasons for our victories or defeats, the Bible suggests that we consider the moral dimension and the possibility of God’s intervention. As we read in Psalm 126:
“When the Lord brought back the captives of Zion, we were like dreamers.
Our mouths were filled with laughter, and our tongues were singing.
It was reported among the nations that the Lord has done great things—
 great things for us! We are so happy! 
 Bring back our captives, O Lord, like a flash flood in the Negev.
 Those who plant in tears shall harvest in joy.
One who goes forth weeping, using food seeds for planting,
shall come back with shouts of joy, bringing instantly produced crops!”
The miraculous does not happen all the time, but it can happen, and it does.

 2. Despite their own difficult situation, the lepers see their moral duty to help the people of their city. Even when we are faced with tragedy or illness or poverty, there are still opportunities for us to help others or to participate in Tikkun Olam (the repair of the world). The lepers in ancient Samaria give us an example of not letting our bitterness get in the way of our humanity.

3. These lepers, excluded from society and probably considered of little value, had great value and made a major contribution to the lives of the city-dwellers. It is like Shimon ben Azzai says in Pirke Avot (4.3): “Despise no one and call nothing useless, for there is no one whose hour does not come, and there is no thing that does not have its place.”

There is also the moral question of how we treat the victims of disease. While society has the right to protect its members against the dangers of contagion, we must beware the tendency to devalue the ill among us. Remembering their humanity is always the right thing to do.

So, though the Torah deals with diagnosing and protecting against leprosy, the Haftarah expands the conversation into the moral realm, and the ancient council of sages must have been very pleased with the match.

Kashrut and Liberal Judaism

April 21st: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion this week introduces what we now know as Kashrut, our Jewish Dietary Laws. In Leviticus 11, our ancient ancestors are instructed as to which animals may be eaten and which animals are not allowed. There are four categories: land animals (verses 2-8), water-dwelling animals (verses 9-12), birds (13-19), and winged insects (verses 20-23).

In the case of land animals, only those which chew the cud and which have split hooves are considered ritually edible. In the case of water-dwelling animals, only those which have both fins and scales are considered ritually edible.

In the case of birds, there are no descriptions of what is allowed. We are merely told what is prohibited: “The following you shall abominate among the birds—they shall not be eaten, they are an abomination: the eagle, the vulture, and the black vulture; the kite, falcons of every variety; all varieties of raven; the ostrich, the nighthawk, the sea gull; hawks of every variety; the little owl, the cormorant, and the great owl; the white owl, the pelican, and the bustard; the stork; herons of every variety; the hoopoe, and the bat.” This leaves as edible what we consider standard barnyard fowl (chickens and geese) and doves and pigeons. To my knowledge, chickens and geese are not mentioned in the Torah, but doves and pigeons are. They are what a poor person should bring as a sacrifice if he/she cannot afford a lamb or a calf.

The section on insects is, to me, the most bizarre: “All winged swarming things that walk on fours shall be an abomination for you. But those you may eat among all the winged swarming things that walk on fours: all that have, above their feet, jointed legs to leap with on the ground—of these you may eat the following: locusts of every variety; all varieties of bald locust; crickets of every variety; and all varieties of grasshopper. But all other winged swarming things that have four legs shall be an abomination for you.” I am not aware of Jewish cuisine involving insects, but I was once told that eating insects was sometimes necessary in places experiencing plagues of locusts. They needed to eat something.

The bigger question, of course, is what we moderns think about these ancient dietary rules. Are they relevant to our modern lives? Do they help us in our relationship with God? As we evaluate our ancient tradition, continuing some things and discarding others, what do we do with Kashrut?

There was a time, in the early days of the Reform Movement, when many people believed that the dietary laws were antiquated and problematic. In the 1885 Pittsburgh Platform, Plank #4 reads:  “We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originated in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.”

Lest anyone think that these changes were impious, the Statement of Principles began with:“We hold that Judaism presents the highest conception of the God-idea as taught in our Holy Scriptures and developed and spiritualized by the Jewish teachers, in accordance with the moral and philosophical progress of their respective ages. We maintain that Judaism preserved and defended midst continual struggles and trials and under enforced isolation, this God-idea as the central religious truth for the human race.”

But, given the many changes in modern life, the Rabbis believed that modern Jews need to make judgments about which parts of Tradition should be kept and which should be eliminated. Here is how they explained it, in Plank #3: “We recognize in the Mosaic legislation a system of training the Jewish people for its mission during its national life in Palestine, and today we accept as binding only its moral laws, and maintain only such ceremonies as elevate and sanctify our lives, but reject all such as are not adapted to the views and habits of modern civilization.”

 Many people thought that this kind of thinking meant a permanent rejection of many traditional elements, but the phrase, “maintain only such ceremonies as elevate and sanctify our lives,” has turned out to be a kind of utility clause, making Reform a continually-reforming “verb” rather than a past-participle Reformed.

So, while Reform discarded many traditional elements in the late 1800s and early 1900s, many of these have come back, e.g., kippot and tallitot, chanting, Bar Mitzvah, and Kashrut. Even the amount of Hebrew in Reform services has changed and changed back again. Whereas Classical Reform services had very little Hebrew, many modern Reform synagogues have 50% or more of the service in Hebrew.

The operative phrase for evaluating religious elements is “as elevate and sanctify our lives,” and the changing religious and cultural sensibilities of Reform Jews has resulting in a continuing process of reform.

This is why, as Reform Jews, we need to respect the individual choices that people make in regard to the ancient dietary laws and customs. Some may find that keeping kosher elevates and sanctifies their lives, and therefore this element of their Judaism is to be respected and encouraged. Others may not find Kashrut to be religiously or spiritually meaningful, and their decision, too, should be respected.

The purpose of religion, according to my teacher Dr. Alvin Reines, is the human search for ultimate meaningfulness. To the extent that the traditional elements of our religion enhance this quest, then they are great. To the extent that they do not help—or perhaps hinder—our spiritual process, then our understanding of Judaism allows and encourages each Jew to craft a religious response that elevates and sanctifies his/her life.

Joining a Holy Community

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

Why, in the original Exodus story, did God need the blood on the doorposts of the Israelite houses? Though God explains (Exodus 12.13), “The blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you: when I see the blood I will pass over you, so that no plague will destroy you when I strike the Land of Egypt,” this does not make sense. Shouldn’t God already know which houses were Israelite and which houses were Egyptian? And, even if people were in houses other than their own, shouldn’t the God of the Universe—Who presumably knows everything—know? Why would God need a sign on the doorposts?

Some commentators point to the phrase “the blood…shall be a sign for you,” and understand the symbol as an opportunity for self-identification: by painting the doorposts and lintels, each individual Hebrew could voluntarily include himself/herself in Am Yisrael, the community of the People of Israel. It was a way of stating publicly that his/her household wanted out of Egypt and its cruel system.

It can also be seen as an opportunity for non-Hebrews to join in the holy community. We do not have descriptions of what non-Jews did that evening, but the Torah tells us that many of them joined us in the Exodus. The Torah calls this group the Erev Rav, the mixed multitude, and they apparently came from all of the many ethnic groups in the Egyptian empire. They did not start out Jewish, but they voluntarily joined our people and were with us for the Exodus, the Crossing of the Red Sea, and the Revelation at Mount Sinai. They became a part of us. So, perhaps the painting of the doorposts was a way for them to declare themselves part of the Israelite community, and perhaps the Lord passed over their houses, as well.

In this and so many other ways, Passover reminds us that our Jewish endeavor is a communal undertaking. Individual religiosity and morality are important, but the joining of many individuals into a community is vital for the actualization of individual principles and goals. To wit, I would like to tell you about some important community events coming up in the next month.

*On April 21, our congregation will restart our Tot Shabbat Program for toddlers and their families. Reimagined by Becca Thorsen and Jennifer White, the program will take place during the Friday night service. Toddlers and their families will begin in the sanctuary for singing and candle-lighting. Then, they’ll go into the social hall for activities. The parents can stay in the sanctuary or go to the social hall. It’s a great idea, and we’re really excited to get this program going again. For more information, you can contact Becca at beccapangborn@yahoo.com. Tot Shabbat begins at 7:00 PM on Friday April 21st.

*On April 23, our congregation will offer a program for Yom Hashoa (Holocaust Remembrance Day). Our featured speaker will be Willa Silverman, Professor of French and Jewish Studies at Penn State. Willa’s research has led her to an understanding of the uniquely French aspects and experiences of the Holocaust, and she’ll be sharing her knowledge with us. The program begins at 4:00 PM on Sunday April 23rd at our synagogue.

*On April 26, we have been invited by the Community Diversity Group to a Cultural Conversation. This non-profit in State College sponsors social events where people can come together and get to know diverse community members on a personal level. In this event, the focus will be on Jews and Judaism and what it is like to be a Jew in State College and in the United States. Aaron Kaufman from Hillel and I will be making short presentations, but the main activity will be small table discussion groups where individual Jews can share our experiences and insights with non-Jews. The program will begin at 6:30 PM on Wednesday April 26th, and it will be held at the State College Borough Building (the Community Room).

*On April 27, our across the street neighbor, the Christian Science congregation, will present an interfaith program on the Transformative Power of Unselfishness. There will be three panelists, one from the Christian Science religion, one from State College Presbyterian Church, and me. The program will be a good opportunity to learn about our neighbors’ spiritual thinking and to share with them our own spiritual insights. The program will begin at 7:00 PM on Thursday April 27th at the First Church of Christ, Scientist, across the street from Brit Shalom.

 *On April 30, the Centre Chamber Orchestra will present a Holocaust-themed concert. Put together by their Israeli-born conductor, Yaniv Attar, the concert will show that, even in the darkest terror of the Holocaust, the human spirit was capable of bringing forth beautiful and hopeful music. One piece was written in the Terezinstaat Concentration Camp by inmate Hans Krasa—composed on the backs of prisoner lists discarded by the Nazis. Another piece was written by the child of a survivor. One was written by Erwin Schulhoff, whose great popularity in Europe (he was known as the “Gershwin of Europe”) did not save him from the oppressors. And, there will be a piece by Felix Mendelsohn, who reclaimed his family’s Jewish name and was thus banned by the Nazis. As Yaniv characterizes the repertoire, “This concert has some of the most uplifting and inspiring works I have ever heard.”  This kind of art needs our support. For tickets call the Pennsylvania Centre Orchestra at (814) 234-8313, or see their website: http://www.centreorchestra.org

*And, on May 5th, our congregation will be hosting A Sabbath Service for the Community and for Our Communal Aspirations. We’ll share our Shabbat worship for members of the community, including our traditions of justice and compassion and involving some non-Jewish friends in the service. This would be a good time to bring your non-Jewish friends who are always asking you questions about our faith. The service will begin at 7:00 PM on Friday May 5th. It will be held in our sanctuary.  (ALSO, if you’d like to contribute baked goods for the Oneg Shabbat afterwards, it would be much appreciated!)

All of these programs are efforts at community-building and the development of mutual-respect and cooperation. Please join us as we make these important statements and work on our communal aspirations. These events need both your support and your attendance.

The Word "Mitzvah"

April 7th: Tzav and Shabbat Hagadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The title word for this portion is TZAV (Tzadee Vav) which means command:
“The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, Command Aaron and his sons….”
It comes from the same root as mitzvah / commandment, and it reminds us of the command structure in the Biblical system. There is a Commander (God) who gives commands (mitzvot) to various commandees (the Israelites or all humanity). They are not suggestions or ideas. They are commands, and the Biblical theology is quite explicit as to the rewards for obeying them and the punishments for disobeying them. The original definition of the word mitzvah is commandment.

 How, then, did we get to the various modern understandings of the word?

I think (and this is my own thinking on the subject) that some of this started in the Rabbinic Period (200 BCE – 200 CE). While the Bible presented a very active God, some of the Rabbis talked about God in less anthropomorphic terms. In particular, some of them referred to the Deity as HaMakom / The Place, as in the place where existence exists. They did not go all the way to panentheism, but they did speak of God more in passive terms than active: that God is the essence of Reality rather than a character that enters the world from time to time, taking various actions. In particular, the Rabbis taught that God’s revelations are no longer operative. Whereas God had certainly spoken and inspired the various Prophets in the Holy Scriptures, that was no longer the way the Deity worked. Now (from 200 BCE on), God has entrusted it to the Sages. They study the Torah, and they decide. They do not wait for new revelatory instructions.

One can see this kind of thinking through Jewish philosophy and mysticism from those Rabbinic days all the way through Kabbalah and Hassidism and various modern more panentheistic understandings of God and Torah. It has been a consistent theme.

Another development came in the hyperbolic use of the word mitzvah in Yiddish. While the original meaning was commandment, one can well see it being used as an intense encouragement. “Please do this. It’s a mitzvah”—meaning, the action is so good, it is as though it is a mitzvah (commanded by God). One can also make the case that, since God commands us to be nice to each other and helpful to strangers, any act of kindness and justice is therefore commanded by the Almighty—even though the Torah might not specify this particular good deed. In other words, the popular definition of mitzvah as a good deed is a secondary or tertiary definition, one that developed over time.

Another way to say that something is so good, it’s as though it’s a mitzvah, is to say something is compelling. Compelling does not usually carry with it the authoritarian structure of a commander/Commander, but it does speak of the authority of the situation or of reality compelling or commanding a particular behavior. In my mind, it harkens back to the Rabbinic notion of God being HaMakom, The Place of Reality, and the fact is that, in Reality, our principles and aspirations compel certain practices and behaviors.

There is also the modern post-Enlightenment understanding of individual autonomy in religious decisions. Rather than look at the mitzvot of Tradition as commands from the Most High, we look at them as the opinions of our ancient forebears on how humans can best live in relationship with God. We consider their opinions and try to appreciate their perspective, but, when it comes to our own religious thinking and practice, we choose what is compelling to us, and we defer those things that are not meaningful to us. Thus is the word mitzvah now used for those acts which are sanctifying—which help us to an apperception of the Divine and which help us in our relationship with the Divine.

At one level, this seems a far cry from the original sense of the Torah, but, then again, we are still concerned with the Ultimate Reality and how best we can understand it and consciously live in Its Presence.

Unwitting Guilt

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

Exegesis and Eisegesis are two terms used in Biblical interpretation. Exegesis is a legitimate drawing of a lesson from a Biblical passage. Eisegesis, on the other hand, involves using the Biblical passage as a springboard for a completely unrelated teaching important to the commentator (or sermon giver). One is supposed to make sure that commentaries are Exegesis, and one is supposed to resist Eisegesis, but every rule needs an occasional exception.

My point of departure this week is Leviticus 4.1: ““When a person unwittingly incurs guilt in regard to any of the Lord’s commandments about things not to be done, and does one of them…” Mistakes happen, and the Torah provides various ceremonies for people to get themselves ritually and spiritually right. Whereas the Torah is talking about inadvertently breaking rules, what I want to address are the ways that we can take on guilt mistakenly—feeling guilt that is undeserved.  

Many years ago, in the health food store, I chanced to see someone I sort of knew. We had never met, but I knew who he was. I happened to notice the things he was buying, and it struck me that he must be quite ill. He did not look ill, but the nature of his purchases gave me a feeling that something was seriously amiss. I didn’t say anything because I did not want to pry and, frankly, because we really didn’t know each other. Two days later, I read in the paper that he had committed suicide and that the reason was a recent diagnosis of a terrible disease. The whole thing was obviously a tragedy, but what struck me was my response. I felt guilty—as though I should have said or done something, as though whatever I could/should have done would have fixed the problems. It was ridiculous, but I felt guilty.

A more appropriate response would have been sadness, but I took the appropriate response and jumped straight to guilt—unfounded, unhelpful guilt.

There is a difference between sadness and guilt. There is a difference between disapproval and guilt. It is possible to grieve or disagree or even be angry without feeling responsible for something bad or sad. Guilt is for things for which we have responsibility, but we are masters of guilt and can transform any sad or bad news into guilt. It’s one of our Jewish abilities. In the Biblical idiom—we can “incur guilt unwittingly.”

A cause and a possible solution come from one of the great Tikkun Olam (Repairing the World) texts in the Talmud. Though the Bible teaches us frequently that we should help the poor and the downtrodden, the enormity of suffering can be overwhelming, and we can become paralyzed in the face of it all. Rabbi Tarphon addresses this dynamic in Pirke Avot 2.21 when he says, “You are not required to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to abstain from it.” Though the problems of the world are enormous, we should nonetheless do our small part to make it better—to heal or repair the world.

The problem, for many of us, is that we somehow do not hear the first part of Rabbi Tarphon’s teaching, “You are not required to complete the work.” Our sense of moral and social responsibility pushes us to want every problem fixed and every kind of suffering alleviated, and our inadequacy to fix everything can morph into guilt. Of course, we have an obligation to help—and some of us may not be doing enough, but guilt over the world’s problems is not appropriate or helpful. There is a difference between yearning for a better world and feeling guilty about the world’s imperfections.

Here are some of the problems of unwitting or inappropriate guilt

(1)   Guilt can obscure our analysis of actual problems and their possible solutions. Guilt is essentially an emotional response, and, as important as emotions are, clear and level-headed thinking is necessary if we are to figure out the causes and the possible solutions for the world’s problems.

(2)   Guilt can be self-indulgent. We can put so much energy into feeling guilty that the guilt becomes our response. We feel like we’re actually doing something, but the fact is that guilt does not help anyone. It is certainly not a contribution to Tikkun Olam.

(3)   Guilt can make us vulnerable to manipulation in policy discussions—manipulation that can be counterproductive for all involved. Some people think that identifying and blaming others is how a problem is solved. It is important to identify the causes of a problem, but the blame game is too often too simplistic and vindictive to see all the causes and all the possible solutions. If we add unnecessary guilt to the equation, we can allow ourselves to be held responsible for things over which we had/have no control. This can often involve blaming entire groups or excluding entire groups from discussion because of their guilt—a guilt which is neither deserved nor relevant.

The next time we hear terrible news, let us resist the temptation to feel guilt over something that is not our fault. Let us separate between sadness and guilt; between anger and guilt. Let us keep our wits about us and think clearly because clear thinking and a sober assessment of reality is our best bet for Tikkun Olam.

We can also consider Rabbi Rami Shapiro’s teaching on the subject. In his book, The Wisdom of the Jewish Sages, he rephrases Rabbi Tarphon’s proverb with a little help from the Prophet Micah: “Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercy, now. Walk humbly, now.”

Transforming Thoughts into Deeds

March 24th: Vayakhel-Pekude and HaChodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, we have a triple portion in the Torah. For starters, we have the double portions of Vayakhel and Pekude that complete the Book of Exodus. Due to the extra month in leap years, the Torah is divided into enough portions so that every week can have its own. During non-leap years—and years when some holy days and Sabbaths coincide, Tradition calls on us to combine some portions and “use them up” before Simchat Torah. This is one of those weeks.

Then, because we are fast approaching Pesach, we have an extra portion reminding us that the month of Pesach is nigh: the New Moon of Nisan will be seen this coming Monday night. This extra portion is called HaChodesh (This Month) and details the procedures for the original Passover.

The details for observing the original Passover are quite specific. “On the tenth of this month, each Israelite shall take a lamb for a family, a lamb to a household…The lamb shall be without blemish, a yearling male—though it may be either a goat lamb or a sheep lamb. You shall keep watch over it until the fourteenth day of the month, and all the assembled congregation of the Israelites shall slaughter their lambs at twilight. They shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they are to eat the lambs. They shall eat the flesh that same night; they shall it eat roasted over the fire, with unleavened bread and with bitter herbs. Do not eat any of it raw, or boiled in water. It must be roasted over the fire—with the head, legs, and entrails all intact. You shall not leave any of it over until morning….Here’s is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand, and you shall eat it hurriedly.” (Exodus 12.3-11)

There are also a lot of details in the regular weekly double portion. While we already know about the detailed instructions for the Mishkan—since we are privy to what God tells Moses up on Mount Sinai during those forty days and forty nights, the people are not told until now: the freewill offerings that the Tent Temple requires and the instructions for the skilled craftsmen and craftswomen who will turn the raw materials into an elaborate physical home for God’s Presence. All those details in Terumah and Tetzaveh must now be given to the Israelites, and then, the Mishkan and its furniture and vessels have to be made. This is all recorded in the Torah, and it climaxes in Exodus 40.33: “When Moses had finished the work (of erecting and arranging everything), the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Mishkan/Tabernacle.” Our ancient ancestors build a place of holiness so that the Lord can dwell in their midst.

A common theme in these passages is the importance of transforming ideas into reality—of taking an ideal and then actually doing it. It reminds me of one of the verses in the old Spiritual, Joshua Fit the Battle:
     I know you heard about Joshua,
     He was the son of Nun,
     He never quit his work until
     Until his work was done.
     Up to the walls of Jericho,
     He marched with spear in hand.
     “Go blow them ram’s horns!” Joshua cried,
     “Cause the battle is in my hand!”
There’s something to be said for the value of sticking to our tasks until they are completed.

There is also importance of taking intellectual ideas and bringing them forth in the world. We who love scholarship and learning need to remember this lesson. Just knowing or understanding something is not enough; many concepts are eminently more valuable when they have been brought to fruition.

There is a reading in our prayer book which speaks of this reality, one I put together as a companion to the traditional prayer, Shochen Ad.
Shochen ad, marom v’kadosh Sh’mo…. You dwell in the heavens; holy is Your Name. It is written: “The righteous rejoice with the Lord; it is fitting for the upright to praise God.” By the mouths of the upright are You acclaimed. By the words of the righteous are You praised. By the tongues of the faithful are You exalted. In the midst of the holy are You made Holy.

Here is the companion prayer:
The Aramaic term Sh’may d’Kud’sha means “God’s Holy Name,” but it can also mean “God’s Reputation,” and thus does it reflect a particular Divine vulnerability. God’s power and reputation are dependent on the behavior of God’s people. It is nice to declare our faith in God or to have a religious experience, but neither is complete unless we actually behave in godly ways. Praising God is fine, but praise from the righteous is what really counts. Sanctifying God is lovely, but only one who is behaving in a holy manner can show the world that God’s ways are worth adopting as our own.
Having ideals is wonderful, but actualizing them and manifesting them in real life is so much more meaningful.

There is also the way that religious ritual and observance bring forth the thoughts of holiness that our Tradition has so ably put in our heads. It is one thing to think Judaism, but religious life offers us the ability to live Judaism. Indeed, this is one of the great appeals of our religions for me. In Judaism, I am given a kind of choreography of religiosity—with rituals, gestures, observances, and even clothing—that can give substance and expression to the internal values I find so profound.

Whether it is the ancient Passover (which we still observe) or the ancient Mishkan (which we just study), there is something to be said for taking the intellectual and spiritual concepts and making them real in the world. It is a holy task to which we are called.

New Thoughts on the Golden Calf Story

March 17th: Ki Tissa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, in the Union for Reform Judaism’s Ten Minutes of Torah commentary on the weekly portion, Rabbi Ana Bonnheim puts an interesting perspective onto the story of the Golden Calf (Exodus 32), and I learned two insights that I would like to share with you.

The first is the choice of the punishment God doles out to the Israelites. We know about Moses’ anger and furious response: “As soon as Moses came near the camp (on his way down Mount Sinai with the Ten Commandments) and saw the calf and the dancing, he became enraged; and he hurled the tablets from his hands and shattered them at the foot of the mountain. He took the calf that they had made and burned it; he ground it to powder and strewed it upon the water and so made the Israelites drink it.” (Exodus 32.19-22)

After hearing the story of the incident from Aaron, Moses cannot get the people to calm down and cease their idolatrous celebration. “Moses then stood up in the gate of the camp and said, ‘Whoever is for the Lord, come here!’ And all the Levites rallied to him. He said to them, ‘Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel: Each of you put sword on thigh, go back and forth from gate to gate throughout the camp, and slay brother, neighbor, and kin.’ The Levites did as Moses had bidden, and some three thousand people fell that day.” (Exodus 32.26-28)

This would seem like enough, but, in the melee, justice is not exact. So, God sends a plague, explaining “Only those who have sinned against Me shall I erase from My record. Go now; lead the people where I told you. See, My angel shall go before you. But, when I make an accounting, I will bring them to account for their sins. Then the Lord sent a plague upon the people, for what they did with the calf that Aaron made.” (Exodus 32.33-35)

 Rabbi Bonnheim notices that a plague is also what God sent against the Egyptians—an indication that worshipping an idol is in the same category of evil as the slavery the Egyptians inflicted upon us. God’s judgment and punishment (or reward) is an equal-opportunity endeavor. There is no special consideration for the Israelites. If we sin, we get the same approbation as sinning Gentiles. Though some people interpret the Chosen People concept as a mark of special privileges—to use a 20th Century expression, as a Get out of Jail Free card, the Torah tells us in no uncertain terms that we too have standards to maintain and are responsible for our actions.

The second insight calls on us to zoom out of the story and see it in its context in the Torah. Note that the story of this apostasy comes right between the instructions for the Mishkan/Tabernacle and its actual construction. To show the relevance of this sequencing, Rabbi Bonnheim brings us the words of Dr. Elsie Stern (in The Torah: A Women’s Commentary): “This arrangement affirms that the Tabernacle, unlike the calf, is an appropriate response to the people’s needs for a physical location where they can gain access to God.”

The basic teaching is an important one—that we need appropriate places and formats for feeling the Presence of God, but what strikes me is the way the Torah uses its own format for teaching the lesson.

Most of the time, I find myself reading the text of the Torah is small sections, focusing on the meanings of words and verses and paragraphs. This is certainly valuable, but, in any editorial process, the order in which things are reported is also part of the story.

Whether we think of the Torah as being written by God or by people inspired by God, the fact is that decisions had to have been made about what to include, what not to include, and how the inclusions would be used in to present the Author’s/authors’ message. Things didn’t just happen and get thrown haphazardly into the book. Of all the things that happened in the 1500 years between Abraham and the Babylonian Exile, only some things were recorded and included in the Bible. Someone had to decide which stories made the final cut and how the particular stories would be told. It might have been God—Who, one figures, is a well-skilled Author Who plans out a literary work with great precision, or it might have been various human authors who structured and edited the received traditions into a work that communicates what they believed to be Heaven’s intentions. In any event, Someone/someone chose to structure the Torah this way, and our depth of understanding is enhanced when we consider the greater structure as well as the details.

There’s always something more to learn.

(If you would like to receive the Union for Reform Judaism’s Ten Minutes of Torah sent to your e-mail daily, just go to the website ReformJudaism.org and sign up. It’s a lovely Jewish way to begin each day.)

Showing Respect

March 10th: T’tzaveh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The first time I visited the Arlington National Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknowns, I did not get it. I knew that the people buried there had given their lives for my freedom, and I appreciated it. What I did not get was the austere formality and stiltedness of the guards. I was a high school student, and, straining against the various strictures and formalities forced upon me, I just didn’t see how their overwhelming strictness honored the dead. Their uniforms were perfect. They didn’t crack a smile or deviate from their marching and standing routine by even an inch. It happened to be freezing outside, and their uniforms did not look very warm. Their hats did not cover their ears, and, with those military haircuts, their ears looked very exposed. Their rigid and expressions and demeanor struck me as stilted, and I did not understand why they paid such compulsive attention to detail.

Several years later, I had the chance to travel in Europe and visited the memorial to the unknown soldiers of Italy. It was a very different setting. Set on the plaza of a very grand monument (the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument), the Unknown Soldier area seemed an afterthought. It certainly did not draw one’s attention. The thing that really struck me, though, was the way the guards behaved. They were wearing regular uniforms, and they were anything but formal or reverent. Slouching or standing casually—the way one waits in a line, they were talking to people and flirting with women. One might even have been smoking a cigarette. It was very, very different from Arlington, and at that moment, I developed a real appreciation for the U.S. Army guards and the way their formality spoke of respect and appreciation—of deep reverence for the sacrifices made by the people whose graves they guarded.

We often enjoy the lack of stress that comes with informality, but there are times when doing things right require seriousness and attention to detail.

With this sensibility, let us approach the Torah portion. After last week’s instructions for the Mishkan, the “tent temple” or Tabernacle that the Israelites are instructed to build in the wilderness, this week’s instructions include the details for the priestly uniforms. As the text puts it, “You shall bring forward your brother Aaron, with his sons, from among the Israelites, to serve Me as priests: Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, Elazar and Ithamar, the sons of Aaron. Make sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment.” (Exodus 28.1-2) Then we get the details. Lots of details! For each item—the breast piece, the ephod (a kind of ritual vest), the robe, the fringed garment, the headdress, and the sash, we have very specific instructions about the design, the materials, and the way they are all to be worn. Unless you get into details like, “They shall make the ephod of gold and of blue, purple, and crimson yarns, and of fine twisted linen, worked into the designs,” it is rather difficult reading. These details and specifics do not seem very relevant today, but they were obviously important for the ancient craftsmen and craftswomen who constructed these sacred garments and who felt a responsibility for the priests’ dignity before God.

Sometime, doing it right requires specificity and an attention to detail. In the case of a uniform, think about how refined adornment infused with dignity speaks to the importance of the wearer’s mission. In the case of the priests, they were not just insisting on looking good for their friends 2 and neighbors; they were officiating at the altar of the Most High. Their dignity and propriety spoke the importance of God and the relationship between God and the Israelite people. The ancient rituals were moments of great importance, and the priests’ uniforms and demeanor thus expressed the seriousness and profound respect that was very, very relevant. Sometimes, we do not need to “sweat the details,” but sometimes the details are part of a larger and deeper message.

A number of years ago, I heard someone complaining about the difficulty of hosting a Seder. Thinking she was worried about leading the Seder, I said something along the lines of, “Not to worry. All you have to do is get a Haggadah and start reading through it.” But, no, that was not the issue at all. This person, fairly new to Judaism and aware of the great importance of the Seder, was worried about setting the table properly and having each dish prepared with the proper recipe—all to the end of showing the proper dignity and respect for the holy occasion. She realized that the details of the table and food are manifestations of the reverence and kavannah that we was hope to bring to the occasion, and she needed to pay attention and do things right.

There are certainly times when we can relax and not let surface things bring undue stress into our lives. There are times when casual is wonderful. But, there are times when formality and specifics are expressions of our seriousness and our respect. Our Torah portion reminds us of this truth and cautions us not to underestimate the value of dignity and respect and the ways we show them through dress and demeanor and the details of life.

Living in Relationship with God

March 3rd: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

If there is a God, then living in relationship to God is inevitable. God is God, and we are part of God’s world—perhaps even part of God. We have no choice; it is just the nature of things.

The question, then, becomes one of consciousness. Do we live conscious of God’s Presence, and do we strive for a conscious relationship with the Divine?

I realize that there are many ways to understand the Infinity of God, what our Mystics call the Ayn Sof. Some people think of God in the terms and images of the Bible, while others consider the word God to be too anthropomorphic. They prefer to think of the Divine in less personality-oriented terms. Two particularly beautiful alternatives are Sibat Hahavayah, The Ground of Being, or Ma’ayan Hab’ri’ah, the Wellspring of Creation. Some prefer simply The Creator or The Divine, but, whatever our understanding of God, I think spiritually-minded people are questing in a way described by William James over 100 years ago. He described religion as the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—something he called the more, an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence.

Given this sensibility—that there is something out there and in here, religiously minded people are set on a life-long quest to encounter and understand and live in conscious relationship with this Presence.

The development of religion—all religions—is based on the audacious possibility that we can develop this conscious relationship, and all holy texts and ritual practices are devoted to this end.

In our case, in this week’s Torah portion, the Hebrews are asked to bring gifts to God—gifts intended for a place of habitation for God in their midst.

“The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so inclined to this generosity. These are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; yarns of blue, purple, and crimson, fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting—for the ephod and for the breast piece. Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.1-8)

In this ancient situation, the people are asked to bring something of value to build the Mishkan, the ancient tent temple. In our case—that is, in our reading of this text for our own spiritual development, we too are asked to bring something of ourselves to God. What shall it be?

A good guide comes from one the ancient Sages, Simon the Righteous, Leader of the Great Assembly (perhaps one of the founders of what we call Rabbinic Judaism). He said, “The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” (Avot 1.2)

When he says, “The world stands,” he means that a complete life—a life that is spiritually whole—requires each of these components. This is not merely an intellectual message; it is advice for each and every one of us.

When we strive to live consciously with God, we must bring ourselves to the study of our holy texts. They contain the insights and wisdom of our forebears, and our discussions of them elicit important thinking. Torah is a lifelong and continuing component of a conscious relationship with the Creator. If we want real consciousness, we need to study Torah.

We must also bring ourselves to the worship process—to services! This is where we meditate on the reality and nature of the Divine, drawing closer to its holiness and realizing our own divinity. Without this contact, this prayerful encounter with God, a spiritual life is undirected and ultimately incomplete. We need prayer, and we Jews need Jewish worship services. There is no substitute for it if we are to have a fully integrated Jewish Identity.

We must also bring ourselves to the mission of Tikkun Olam, the Repair of the World that we can effect with deeds of kindness and righteousness. There is no substitute for human agency in righting the wrongs and soothing the wounds of the world. We are uniquely created to be God’s partners in the ongoing process of creation, and we can do great good. Living with consciousness of God and working on a conscious relationship with God require that we recognize our holy potential and bring it forth. God is depending on us to bring godliness into our world.

Transparency: Holy Vision

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

Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi (1745-1812) was a third generation Hassid—that is, a disciple of a disciple of the Baal Shem Tov. As he learned and formulated his own approach to Hassidism, he founded his own movement and called it Chabad, an acronym for Chochmah (Wisdom), Binah (Understanding), and De’ah (Knowledge). His most famous work was a book called the Tanya, and, in it, one of his most important teachings regarded transparency. His belief was that we could train ourselves to perceive God’s presence in every part of creation—that, with the proper vision, everything and everyone would become transparent and thus reveal God’s creative presence and process. It is a very compelling notion and one that can be quite helpful in developing a spiritual approach to life.

Step One would be learning to perceive God’s creative presence in the creation. Like sensing the master craftsman Stradivarius in his incredible violins, transparency involves realizing that all creation comes from God—and is a part of God. With this insight comes a feeling of connection to the holiness and divine energy that surrounds and includes us all.

Step Two would be learning to perceive God’s creative presence and possibility in every human being. We are taught that we are created “in the image of God” in Genesis 1, and vision with transparency allows us to see the divinity in each and every human being. Some obscure this holiness and divinity pretty well, but it is there, and our awareness calls us to a holy response.

Step Three would be learning to perceive God’s creative presence and possibility in ourselves. We too are created “in the image of God.” We too are worth cherishing and treasuring, and we too have holy potential. Are we going to use the incredible soul—that spark of God—which has been placed within? We were created to bring God into the world, and we should be delighted with the prospect of manifesting our divine potential.

The value of transparency is explored this week in Parshat Mishpatim in a simple but very important passage. Actually, it is a passage that is repeated. We first read it in Exodus 22.20:
“You shall not wrong or oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the Land of Egypt.”

Just as we were human beings in Egypt, and just as oppressing us was wrong, we should realize that the strangers who abide among us are human beings, too. We should not treat them as the Egyptians treated us. All human beings are created in the “image of God” and deserve to be treated fairly and with respect. 

This seems a pretty straight forward mitzvah, but, in the very next chapter, it is stated again with some extra psychological oomph: “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the heart of the stranger, seeing that you were strangers in the Land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23.9) It is not just a matter of seeing God’s presence in the stranger, it is a matter of seeing God’s presence in ourselves AND of knowing how hurtful it is to be oppressed. We (and the spark of God inside us) know the pain of oppression, and we are bidden to remember and extend the kindness that we and every other human embodiment of God deserve.

There are obviously political implications of this mitzvah. Kindness to strangers is part and parcel of our Jewish moral sensibility—and our American moral aspirations. As much as we have welcomed the “tired, the hungry, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” there is still much work to be done in our society and nation, but, there is more to this mitzvah.

I believe that this mitzvah of not oppressing strangers needs to be a part of our daily and general social behaviors—and not just in regard to foreigners. Remember, a stranger can be anyone who is different or ill at ease. Think of our own variations of strangeness—those times when we just do not seem to fit in or feel comfortable. These are times of great vulnerability, and we “know the heart of the stranger”—how callous treatment or disrespect hurts and creates painful memories that each and every one of us carries as part of our emotional baggage.  

Let me give you two examples that are certainly not headline-grabbing but which nonetheless speak to the mitzvah of not oppressing the stranger.

The story is told of a college president who made it a habit to invite new faculty members to dinner. This was back in the late 19th Century when many of the new faculty were from humble backgrounds and climbing their way up the social ladder with their education and devotion to knowledge. One can imagine how special they felt being invited to the president’s home and seated at a fancy table. The problem was that the president always served artichokes—whole steamed artichokes—and sat back, enjoying the new faculty member’s consternation as he tried to figure out what to do with this strange food. Call it hazing or oppression or whatever, the message was clear to the young men: you may have worked your way up the ladder, but you are still below people of refinement and culture. You are still a stranger.

 Contrast that story of social alienation with the comment of Rabbi Abraham Cronbach (1882-1965). Well known as a pacifist and a beloved teacher at the Hebrew Union College, Rabbi Cronbach was one of those people who saw God’s presence in everyone and everything else. Once, when chaperoning a dance, he said, “If I could live my life over again, I would go from party to party and dance only with the wallflowers.” There are certainly worse fates than being a wallflower at a dance, and yet their loneliness and rejection and public humiliation is real and alienating. Would that we could soothe every alienated or estranged heart, welcome everyone who is somehow strange, and give every human being the love and respect they deserve.

As Rabbi Chaim Stern prayed, “Let every wanderer come home from the bitterness of exile”—whether that exile is abroad or at home.

May we be blessed with the vision to see the Creator in every creation, and may we open our arms and our spirits, welcoming every stranger and drawing them close.

Yir'at Adonai

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

When it comes to dramatic narratives, the author of the story of the Revelation at Mount Sinai is clearly calling out its importance. We all know the importance of the Ten Commandments, but, lest we not be sure, the Biblical narrator goes all out to remind us of the monumental significance of our encounter with the Divine. In Exodus 19, we have this lead up to God’s words: 
“Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down up on it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder. The Lord came down upon Mount Sinai, on the top of the mountain, and the Lord called Moses to the top of the mountain, and Moses went up.” (Exodus 19.18-20)

Then, after God has spoken, we have this concluding and emphatic description:
“All the people perceived the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the sound of the horn, and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they trembled, and stood afar off. And they said to Moses: ‘You speak with us and we will hear, but let not God speak with us, lest we die.’ And Moses said unto the people, ‘Fear not; for God is here to prove you, so that the fear of God will be upon you and you sin not.’ So the people stood afar off, and Moses drew near unto the thick darkness where God was.” (Exodus 20.15-18)

If the notion of God speaking directly to the people is not enough, the narrator intensifies the magnitude of the meeting with these vivid and fantastic images.

A useful analogy can come from electricity: when Infinite power voltage is reduced/transformed into something a home electrical outlet can handle, there are bound to be some sparks and noise—and things could get scary. But, was fear the point: was frightening everyone God’s intention? Sort of.

Note the double use of the word fear in the second passage: “Fear not; for God is here to prove you, so that the fear of God will be upon you and you sin not.”

Some would interpret the concept of the fear of the Lord as being frightened of God, and there are certainly some religious thinkers who tremble in fear and try to spread that fear to others. However, the words of Moses tell us exactly the opposite. God’s dramatic and frightening presentation is not supposed to make us scared; rather it is to imbue us with a healthy understanding of the nature of things—that the decisions we make and the way we live our lives matter.

There is actually a semantic discussion about the Hebrew term Yir’a (yod resh alef). Sometimes it means fear, but other times it means awe or reverence. In the case of the term Yir’at Adonai, The Fear of the Lord, some people think of fear, but others think of a kind of reverence—a deep and abiding appreciation of the great power and complexity of the Creator and the creative process.

I read the incredible drama of this narrative as indicative of two lessons. First, the Infinity of God is ineffable—beyond the ability of human words and human thoughts to describe. So, all we can do is get as dramatic as possible and pull out all of our larger-than-life images. It is our human way of saying that this ultimate reality is beyond us and really awesome. Second, though we can only see the finite, we are bidden to perceive the Infinite within and around everything else. We are part of a greater sensibility, and we are fortunate when we can realize this. There is no reason to fear, but there is great reason to feel incredibly connected to both the finite and the Infinite. We are a part of both.

Partnering with God in Miracles

February 6, 2017: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The ancient Jewish art form called Midrash is a combination of Biblical commentary and application to modern concerns. Of course, the “modern concerns” of the Sages are now 1500-2000 years old. One of the enduring gifts of Judaism is that their “modern” often fits our “modern” very well.

A Midrash always starts with a Koshi, a difficulty or curiosity in the Biblical text, and then moves to some kind of moral lesson. In the case of the Crossing of the Red Sea, Exodus 14 and 15, the ancient Sages picked up on an interesting phrase in the narrative, “And they went into the sea on dry ground.” This may not seem weird to you—because we think of “the sea” as a place on a map. However, one ancient Sage suggested that “the sea” is actually water, and this makes the verse impossible. If one goes into the water, how can one be on dry land?

The result is a story utilizing a Biblical character who, while well-known and respected, is not usually at the center of the Exodus narrative: Nachshon son of Amminadab, a leader of the Tribe of Levi and the brother-in-law of Aaron. (He is one of those ancient figures who was very important, but, other than his prominence, we do not know much about the details of his life. Who better to use as an example of faith and insight?)

The story goes like this: “When the Israelites stood on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, terrified at the onrushing chariots, Moses lifted up his rod to divide the waters, but nothing happened. Then Nachshon, an Israelite filled with faith and bravery, jumped into the water and started walking. ‘By our faith shall these waters be divided,’ he shouted, and everyone followed him in. When all the people were in the sea—with the water up to their noses— only then did the sea part, and the Children of Israel could walk through on dry land.” (Babylonian Talmud, Sotah 37a, and Numbers Rabbah 13.7)

The “explanation” or solution to the Koshi is cute: the phrase “they went into the sea on dry land” is read as sequential. First, they went into the sea/water, and then it became dry land. However, the moral dimension of the Sage’s lesson is much more profound: some of God’s miracles require human participation.

The notion of God’s miracles has always been difficult. One the one hand, the Holy Scriptures is full of descriptions of truly miraculous events. On the other hand, such miracles are rare. Though we celebrate the many miracles of the Exodus from Egypt, remember that the Hebrews endured 400 years of slaver—waiting. The same could be said for the Holocaust: though many were saved, many were not. Miracles do not always come on our preferred schedule. Thus there has always been a tension in religious thinking about the nature of miracles and how we are supposed to factor them into our plans.

I would suggest that there are three kinds of miracles. First are the everyday miracles of life. The sun rises, the plants grow, the body heals, and our existence is possible. Though this may seem to be the natural order of things, there is something miraculous about the Creation and the principles and dynamism that give us life.

Second are those times when the impossible happens, when the overwhelming Presence of God intervenes in the natural world and awes us with the unexpected. These are very rare, but the Bible and subsequent experiences tell us that they do happen.

The third kind of miracle is the variety to which our Midrash alludes. Though human action is probably not going to cause the splitting of the sea, we can help God along in many sacred tasks: feeding the hungry, healing the sick, teaching the ignorant, freeing the captive, and searching for the Presence of God in each and every human being. We can help in God’s work. We can be God’s partners. We can participate in miracles.

Sharing God

January 27th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I would like to share two practical lessons this week—one from an obscure verse in last week’s Torah portion, and another from the opening passage of this week’s portion.

Last week, we read about the enslavement in Egypt (began by the Pharaoh who “knew not Joseph”), the birth and early life of Moses, and his call by God at the Burning Bush. Among the issues facing Moses’ decision to obey God and return to Egypt is the fact that Moses is a “wanted man.” After killing the taskmaster who was beating a Hebrew slave, “Pharaoh sought to kill Moses; but Moses fled from Pharaoh. He arrived in the land of Midian...” (Exodus 2.15) In case Moses is thinking that he’ll be arrested as soon as he sets foot in Egypt, God tells him, “Go back to Egypt, for all the men who sought to kill you are dead.” (Exodus 4.19)

I think of this verse, from time to time, when people feel the need to explain to me why they do not belong to the congregation or attend services. Often, the explanation involves someone or something that drove them away many years before. In one particular case (in another state and many years ago), a man was explaining to me that he didn’t attend services because he didn’t want to encounter his estranged sister. I did not know what to say at the time, but the fact is that he would have been quite safe attending services. His sister was never there either! As for the obnoxious things or people from years ago, there is an excellent chance that they are no longer here or active or the same. It’s just a shame to let bad memories or experiences prevent us from a place or activity that could very well be very different—and very worthwhile.

A second lesson comes from the opening passage in this week’s Torah portion. In Exodus 2.2-4, we read, “Elohim/God spoke to Moses and said to him, ‘I am the Lord/Adonai (the Four Letter Name we do not pronounce). I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My Name Adonai (the Four Letter Name we do not pronounce).”

In other words, the One God reveals Itself to humans through different names—different persona. This is true for the Jews, and, as our Tradition teaches, it is true for the non-Jews. The Prophet Amos (9.7) is quite clear in teaching that God loves all peoples and actively participates in their fates. “To Me, O Israelites, you are just like the Ethiopians—declares the Lord. True, I brought Israel up from the Land of Egypt, but also the Philistines from Caphtor, and the Arameans from Kir.”

As for the religious truths of the Gentiles, they can come from God just like ours. This is expressed in the Midrashic treatment of the Biblical character Balaam. Though in Numbers, he is a little sketchy—a prophet for hire who must be threatened by God and educated by his donkey before relenting from cursing the Israelites, the Midrash turns him into a respected religious leader. The Rabbis speak of him being on the same level as Moses—with Moses being God’s representative to the Jews, and Balaam being God’s representative to the Gentiles. In other words, God loves everyone, and God wants everyone to know the One God and Divine Truth. This is also why, the Midrash explains, God gives the Ten Commandments out in the middle of nowhere: it was given to the whole world, and not just the Jews. This is why the Talmud teaches (Sanhedrin 105a) that, “The righteous of all nations/religions have a place in the world to come.”

A modern lesson from these Traditional insights is that, though there are differences of opinion among different religions, there are nonetheless truths and values that we share. This is the basis of interfaith work, and this can lead to understanding, mutual respect, and cooperation.

One of the challenges facing our society today is the concern that those on the other side politically have lost their values (honesty, righteousness, compassion, etc.). This doubt and suspicion is seen on all sides. Though there are significant political differences, I believe that many of the common values we treasure can be found among people of all political opinions. There are a number of religious leaders who join me in this belief, and we are committed to working on our community’s sense of conscience and shared sensibilities.

Among the many programs being planned is one we are going to host at the synagogue.

On February 24th, our Friday evening worship service will be an interfaith event called: A Sabbath Service for the Community and for Our Communal Aspirations. We shall use our regular prayer book, showing our visitors the way a Jewish Service works, and we shall choose the readings that speak of our universal commitment to justice, righteousness, and kindness. I shall lead the service, and I shall invite some Christian clergy to read some of the prayers. The Torah portion (Mishpatim) will be read, and then the sermon will be given by our neighbor (and a native Louisianan), Reverend Dean Lindsey of the State College Presbyterian Church. As his starting point, I suspect he will be using the verse from the parashah, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23.9)

God speaks in many voices and to different people differently. This is not to say that every opinion or action is godly, but rather, there is a great diversity in the ways that God is understood and the ways that godly virtues are pursued. The key in a multicultural, multi-religious, and democratic society is to keep our shared moral values before our eyes and to work together to pursue them.

I hope that you will join us at this community event and invite your non-Jewish friends to join you.

"Knowing" God

January 20th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, as we begin the Book of Exodus, it may be helpful to look forward to the climax or purpose of the journey the Torah describes. In twenty chapters, we shall be at Mount Sinai, witnessing God’s Revelation and receiving the Ten Commandments. I believe that it can be helpful to see this story as a whole: that our journey into and out of slavery sets the stage for Mount Sinai. A hint about this unified message comes in a linguistic note on page 318 of Etz Hayim, the Chumash and Torah commentary we use in our sanctuary. We are told that the Hebrew word ידע / to know appears more than twenty times in the first fourteen chapters of Exodus. Apparently knowing/knowledge are central to the Torah’s message.

The first use of ידע / to know comes just eight verses into the book. “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise, in the event of war, they may join with our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground.’ So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11) Know, in this case means paying attention to and being aware of the historical significance and loyalty of Joseph and his family. Whether the ignorance is a matter of social disruption or dynastic change or willful disregard, the lack of knowledge leads to immorality and oppression. Pharaoh’s ignorance leads him to sin.

(This passage also presents us with the archetypal Jewish nightmare—that our neighbors and fellow citizens will not pay attention to the active and constructive role we play in every country in which we’ve lived—and then turn against us. Chas v’shalom!)

God gets involved in this issue of knowledge because of Pharaoh’s belief that he (Pharaoh) is god. This Egyptian tradition leads these dynasties of leaders to think that they can determine morality—that they can treat people without justice or compassion, and God’s decides that this grievous impiety needs remediation. Most of the other instances of the Hebrew word  ידע / to know in the first half of Exodus are in regard to God’s efforts at teaching Pharaoh and all Egypt and all the world. They need to know that God is God—and they need to know that God wants humans to treat other humans with respect, justice, and kindness.

Notice, as we progress through the next fourteen chapters, how this instruction about God’s Sovereignty is repeated over and over again. At some points, the intended student is Pharaoh. At other points, the message is for Pharaoh and his court. At other points, the audience is expanded to the whole world, and, in a few places, even the Egyptians’ gods are included in those who need to know Who is really in charge.

Of course, Israel is also included in the intended audience, and this brings us to the climax of the story, Mount Sinai and the Ten Commandments. Such a profound moment has led to countless commentaries and lessons, but the lesson about knowledge of the Divine comes in the very first verse (Exodus 20.2): “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage.”

Some consider this a prologue rather than a commandment because nothing is actually commanded. They would add the next phrase, “You shall have no other gods besides Me,” to get a commandment: the prohibition of other gods. These interpreters would then consider the Second Commandment to be the prohibition of all idols, whether of pagan gods or even the One God.

However, there is another opinion that sees the opening sentence as a commandment in itself—a commandment to  ידע / know that God is God. We are commanded to know God and to act accordingly. What can this mean in modern life?

For some, knowing God is a description of the religious life—that combination of prayer, study, and meditation we employ to develop our awareness of and our relationship with the Divine. As Reb Mendel of Kotzk teaches, “Where is God? Wherever we open our hearts.”

For some, knowing God is a matter of ascertaining God’s agenda (or a godly agenda) and making it our own. Thus does Rabban Gamliel, son of Rabbi Judah HaNasi, teach, “Make God’s will your will, so that God will make your will the Divine will.” (Pirke Avot 2.4) This notion is elaborated by Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi when he teaches about our possible role as “the hands of God.” We can do God’s work in the world.

For some, knowing God is the process of understanding the many religious perspectives of humanity and sensing the dynamics and stimuli for religious belief. They may appreciate the definition of religion offered by the philosopher George Santayana: “Religion is an expression of aesthetic value as are poetry and myth; God is the highest symbol of humanity’s highest ideals.”

Or, they may prefer the approach of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan: “God is the life of the universe: immanent as the parts act upon each other, transcendent as the whole acts upon each part.” Or, they may find meaning in the suggestion by William James that religion is the response of people who sense the Divine, that is, “an undifferentiated sense of reality”—an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence.

Some people approach the question of God as a choice, but I think that, for people of faith, there is no choice. If one senses that there is a Divine Presence, then one has no choice but to yearn for clarity and hope for a conscious relationship with It. When one senses the Divine Presence, one feels the imperative to seek understanding and connection—to know God.

Joseph and Decency: Doing the Right Thing

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

Though Joseph toys with his brothers for a while when they come begging for grain—perhaps testing their characters, he ultimately treats them with decency and kindness. Even after their father Jacob dies, Joseph displays a basic morality that shows his development as a person. He begins as an egotistical and spoiled child and grows into a wise and decent man. Note this character-revealing passage in this week’s conclusion to the Joseph saga: “When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead, they said, ‘What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did him!’ So they sent this message to Joseph. ‘Before his death your father left this instruction: So shall you say to Joseph, “Forgive, I urge you, the offense and guilt of your brothers who treated you so harshly.” Therefore, please forgive the offense of the servants of the God of your father.’ And Joseph was in tears as they spoke to them.

 His brothers went to him themselves, flung themselves before him, and said, ‘We are prepared to be your slaves.’ But Joseph said to them, ‘Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people. And so, fear not. I will sustain you and your children.’ Thus he reassured them, speaking kindly to them.” (Genesis 50.15-21)

Part of Joseph’s thinking is theological and long-range. After his excruciating experiences—kidnapping, slavery, false accusation and imprisonment, he finally reaches prominence, wealth, and purpose, and he sees his fate as a plan of God. He is an instrument of the Divine Will, and this greater purview gives him peace and allows him to extend that peace to his brothers.

But there is also another level of his thinking. Given his maturity and his security, his bruised ego has room for kindness and basic decency. The voice of his conscience can be heard above the din of other feelings.

I believe in the presence and power of conscience—in the basic decency that exists in every human heart. Though it is obscured in some hearts, it is there nonetheless, and we hear fairly often how, in the midst of great inhumanity, goodness somehow makes an appearance.

As Rabbi Chaim Stern puts it, “There is evil enough to break the heart, good enough to exalt the soul.” He also reminds us, “If there is goodness at the heart of life, then its power, like the power of evil, is real.” 

It would be so easy for Joseph to punish or torture his brothers. He has the power. He has the status, and, though Jacob and his other eleven sons are important to us, they are of little account to the great Egyptian Empire. And yet, they are Joseph’s family, and they are human beings, and Joseph’s conscience bids him treat them with fairness, with kindness, and with tolerance.

There is much fear in our country these days—fear that basic decency is in short supply. Many who voted for Hilary Clinton are fearful of what Donald Trump will do. And, yet, in talking to people both before and after the election, one could see that same kind of fear among the Trump supporters about Hilary Clinton’s basic decency. Both groups were frightened about the other side’s lack of conscience—which means that, whichever side lost, the fear and despair was bound to be present for about half of the electorate.

However, there are decent, intelligent people are on both sides of this political divide, and I believe that their/our basic human decency—this common conscience—will prove to be a very important factor as we negotiate the future.

Who can say what Mr. Trump will say or do? He cultivates an image of unpredictability and bravado, but I think that whatever he tries to do will be filtered through the checks and balances of decency and practical patriotism. Remember: he is not the only one in charge, and, though there are some scary people in his camp, there are also millions of loyal Americans who want the best for our country and whose understanding of our national interest is filled with the basic American values of fairness and respect. There are also many decent people in the Congress, the Judiciary, the Military, and the Civil Service who feel very strongly the responsibility to do things right. I do not believe that the equality that has been so long in coming—for women, for African Americans, for LGBT individuals, etc.—will be lost. There may be some reconfiguration of legal lines, and one suspects the debate over how best to achieve equality for all will continue and with vigor, but I do not believe that decency and conscience have left our shores.

As comedian and commentator Jon Stewart recently observed, “The same country—with all its grace, and flaws, and volatility, and insecurity, and strength and resilience—exists today as existed (before the election). The same county that elected Donald Trump elected Barack Obama.”

In the Torah portion, Joseph understands that he is a vessel of God, and that the presence of God within—his conscience—guides him to do the right thing. Though some may question the notion of American exceptionalism, it has been a central part of our national aspiration for over 240 years. Despite our limitations and missteps, there is a central belief that we are destined to be vessels of God in the world, and I believe that this decency and belief in fairness has been at the heart of all of our progress. I do not believe it has evaporated, and I believe that, even in this much divided country, there is a common commitment to doing the right thing.

Chanukah Thinking

December 24th-January 1st: Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s teaching is not specifically tied to the weekly Torah portion, so I use the term Torah in a more expansive sense. Actually, the word Torah has six definitions.
(1) The Five Books of Moses
(2) A scroll of the Five Books of Moses (Sefer Torah)
(3) The Tanach or Hebrew Bible (Torah she’Michtav / Written Torah)—called "Old Testament"  by Christians
(4) The Talmud (Torah she’Ba’al Peh / Oral Torah)
(5) All of Jewish Learning—which begins with the Torah
(6) A lesson from Jewish learning, as in “Here’s a Torah I learned from Reb….”

What I want to address this week are two lessons on the festival of Chanukah, a holiday that is not in Torah according to Definitions #1, #2, and #3, but whose origin and practice exemplify Torah in the sense of Definitions #4, #5, and #6.

Remember our Jewish Time Line. Moses lived around 1200 BCE, so whatever he wrote (The Five Books of Moses) speaks of the time up to the end of his life. The rest of the Hebrew Bible concludes around 500 BCE, and the Chanukah Rebellion does not happen until around 165 BCE. Everything about Chanukah is post-Biblical, which means that what we have is a case of the development of Judaism beyond its Biblical roots.

This notion of the development/invention of a totally new holiday is the first lesson. According to Jewish Tradition, God stopped Prophecy—talking to humans---around 500 BCE. Whatever God had to say was already said and written down in the Bible—and there is no mention of Chanukah in the Bible. Therefore, we have no record of God commanding us to light the Chanukah candles. What is the basis, then, for saying, Asher kid’shanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu l’had’lik ner shel Chanukah/Who sanctified us through the commandments and commanded us to kindle the Chanukah lights?

The basis is the reformulation of Israelite religion that the Rabbis developed over several centuries, building what we call Rabbinic Judaism on the foundation of Biblical religion. In other words, they took Definitions #1 and #3 and used them as the foundation for creating Definition #4. From roughly 200 BCE to 500 CE, generations of Jewish scholars wrestled with the realities of life and their religious traditions and crafted a magnificent religion which we are still practicing today. They believed that God had given them the authority to keep Torah and the Jewish relationship with God alive and healthy and vibrant. To this end, various new rituals and holidays needed to be created, and Chanukah is one very important example. We say Asher kid’shanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu because God empowered the Rabbis to speak on God’s behalf and to manage our sacred relationship.

The second lesson involves the timing of Chanukah. Does the holiday seem to have “more energy” this year? That was the theory of the late Professor Alvin Reines of the Hebrew Union College. He figured out that the original Chanukah was observed on the Winter Solstice and absorbed the special energy of that time of year, and he believed that Chanukah celebrations closer to the Winter Solstice are qualitatively better than when they occur early in December or late in November. When he first broached this idea in class, many in our class thought that he was attributing Chanukah’s strength to the energy of Christmas—that Chanukah “piggy-backs” on Christmas’ power. That was not his point, at all. He suggested that the placement of Christmas at the Winter Solstice was a strategic move to capture the cosmic energy at this time of the year. It is well known that the actual birthday of Jesus of Nazareth was in the Spring, but the Church authorities setting up the observances of Christianity moved it to coincide with Saturnalia, a big Roman festival at the Winter Solstice. At one level, the move was necessary so that Jesus’s birth could be celebrated at a time other than the Lenten and Easter season—which, theologically, is much more important than Christmas. At another level, the move was an attempt to co-opt the popularity of this light-in-the-midst-of-darkness festival. Dr. Reines’ point is that the energy in the midst of Winter darkness is especially poignant and fertile for religious celebration, and that part of Christmas’ popularity is as a result of this seasonal cosmic and emotional energy.

He also added that the materialism of both Christmas and Chanukah is the result of a harvest festival sensibility that has been an important part of human culture for thousands of years. We who do not live on farms do not have the seasonal rhythm of the agricultural cycle. For 6000 years, human communal life developed patterns of release of anxiety and celebration that have been expressed in various harvest festivals—and modern urbanized society is missing this psycho-social pattern. We need to find something to replicate this seasonal pattern, and it seems that we have subconsciously developed a harvest festival for the end of our tax year and our financial harvest. Thus do Christians and Jews and everyone else regardless of religion go into a kind material frenzy at this time of year. The existential holiday, according to Dr. Reines, is the real source of energy at this time of year, and the fact that religions cannot control the materialism shows how powerful this financial harvest festival is.

Dr. Reines’ theory is hard to quantify or prove, but I have noticed—in the decades since he broached this analysis—that there is indeed a tremendous amount of energy in the air at this time of year, and I always wonder how it inspires, evokes, or innervates our celebratory urges.

Enough thinking! Have a Happy Chanukah and a Wonderful New Year!

The Possibility of Good Choices

December 23rd: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I’ve always been intrigued by the way people use the term Caveat Emptor, Let the Buyer Beware. Properly used, it is a warning to buyers to be careful. Not all sellers are honest, and, once a transaction is completed, one may have no recourse. It can also be used as an explanation. “Caveat emptor: you should have been more careful before buying that.” However, it should never be seen as a justification or moral defense for cheating or dissembling. It is not morally defensible to say, “According to the principle of caveat emptor, it is permitted for me to be dishonest.” Cheating or lying or any kind of dishonesty is wrong, and the fact that, caveat emptor, some people are unscrupulous does not make bad behavior okay.

I think we can take a similar approach to family dysfunction.

Family dysfunction is present, more or less, in pretty much every family—in every familial emotional process, and the dysfunction in which we might have been raised can often explain some of our quirks and bad habits. Given the emotional milieu of our lives, we often tend to behave in certain ways. However, family dysfunction should never be a justification or moral defense for bad behavior. We always have the option to choose better behavior.

A number of examples can be found in our ancient family—particularly in the parshiyot we’re reading at this time of year. Though the families of our Patriarchs and Matriarchs sometimes display significant dysfunction, many of our ancient forebears nonetheless manage to see their way clear to act decently.

We can only guess at the residual effects on Isaac of almost being slaughtered by his father, but the Torah does explain that he favors one of his twin sons, Esau, while Rebekah favors Jacob. Favoring one child over the other is a problem—a sure sign of family dysfunction, but Isaac and Rebekah might improve in their parenting as the years go by. This seems to be the view of some readers who look at the story of the “Stolen Blessing” in a different way. This reading starts with the un-believability of the story. Is Isaac really fooled by Jacob’s disguise? He recognizes Jacob’s voice, and there’s no way that Esau could be as hairy as a goat. Could it be that, after whatever favoring they did in the boys’ early years, Isaac and Rebekah now realize that each young man is suited for a path uniquely suited to his personality and strengths? We know that Esau and Jacob are vastly different. Could the story of the “Stolen Blessing” really be the story of how Isaac has two innermost blessings, one for each of his sons? Jacob receives the blessing of religious leadership, while Esau’s great strength and ability make him suitable for a different kind of leadership and wealth. Perhaps the initial favoring by each parent of a different child develops into an awareness of each child’s potential, and both Isaac and Rebekah end up guiding each of their beloved sons toward his best path.

In the case of Jacob—whose conniving nature begins in his mother’s womb, he appears to think that he can “fast talk” his way through all kinds of situations and control them. He even tries to finagle God. After God appears to him in a vision (The Ladder to Heaven) that would completely win over any other human being, Jacob’s reply is: “IF God remains with me, IF He protects me on this journey that I am making, IF He gives me bread to eat and clothes to wear, and IF I return safe to my father’s house, THEN the Lord shall be my God.” (Genesis 28.20-21) It takes a while and a lot of maturity, but Jacob eventually learns not to over-function in his relationships. In this week’s portion, after Joseph manages to insult everyone in the family, Jacob does not try to interfere in his grown children’s relationships. In Genesis 37.11, we read about how Joseph’s brothers were “wrought up with him, but Jacob kept the matter in mind.”  He is certainly part of the problem: in his grief at Rachel’s death, he favors her son, Joseph, over the all the other sons and makes him an ornamented tunic (or a Coat of Many Colors). However, the boys are now all grown, and only they can manage their own relationships. While some consider Jacob’s inaction paralysis, others see it as wisdom: one cannot fix other people.

In Joseph’s case, the special love his father shows him is certainly a kind of family dysfunction, but his obnoxious behavior in re his dreams is his own mishegaas. Is the ability his, or is it a gift from God? As a conceited youth, he mistakenly thinks that it is his, and he lords it over his brothers like a bludgeon. Notice the brother’s reaction to his dreams. It is not just the dreams that insult them: “they hated him for the dreams AND for him telling/bragging about them.” (Genesis 37.8) Of course, eventually Joseph learns some humility and some appreciation. When he is in the prison and Pharaoh’s Cup Bearer and Pharaoh’s Baker have no one to interpret their dreams, Joseph does not brag about his abilities. “Surely God can interpret! Tell me your dreams.” (Genesis 40.8) He prayerfully offers to be the conduit for God’s messages.

There are more examples in this week’s portion, but let us conclude with Reuben’s attempt to save Joseph’s life. When Joseph approaches his brothers in Dothan (Genesis 37.18ff), there is a discussion among the brothers as to how best to “teach Joseph a lesson.” Some want to kill him. “Here comes that dreamer! Come now, let us kill him and….see what becomes of his dreams!” But, Reuben realizes that this is terrible, and he tries to calm everyone down. “Let us not take his life. Shed no blood! Cast him into that pit out in the wilderness, but do not touch him yourselves.” Reuben’s idea is to give the brothers their moment of revenge but to go back later and rescue Joseph. In the midst of this very heated situation—genuine family dysfunction (!), Reuben controls his own outrage at Joseph’s obnoxious attitude and works for some decency. It is their bad luck (or God’s providence) that some Midianite traders pass by and kidnap Joseph before Reuben can get back to him. “When Reuben returned to the pit and saw that Joseph was not in the pit, he rent his clothes. Returning to his brothers, he said, ‘The boy is gone! Now, what am I to do?’”

Most people wrestle with family baggage and learned emotional responses that can exacerbate problems and damage relationships. It is part of the human phenomenon. Sometimes, we can look back at our choices and feelings and realize how they came to be. Sometimes we can even extend understanding to others who continue problematic patterns and continue the damage of the generations. However, past dysfunction does not dictate future dysfunction. We have choices as to how we respond and how we behave. We have urges and impulses we can resist. We have wisdom and understanding we can muster. We also have a treasure trove of guidance in the form of our Torah and Jewish Traditions and examples of menschlichkeit. We can outgrow our own worst inclinations. We can make good choices. May we search for the goodness within and bring it forth to shine in the world.

Resilience and Resourcefulness

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

There are two ways to look at the story of the “Rape of Dinah” (Genesis 34). The traditional way speaks of an assault on a member of Jacob’s family and the strategies adopted by the family to deal with it. Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah, is raped and kidnapped by Shechem, the son of the local Hivite chieftain. Claiming love and a willingness to marry, Shechem tries to cover his guilt and maliciousness with an offer of tribal unification, but Jacob’s sons realize that such a person is not to be trusted. The massacre that follows prevents any further abuses by Shechem and his people.

A second way sees the story of the “rape” as an attempt to stifle the freedom of Dinah and all other women. Could it be that Dinah is not raped at all—that she goes out on her own and enters into a relationship with someone she chooses, and not someone her family chooses? Could the whole terrible story be a kind of face-saving effort to cover up unacceptably assertive female behavior?

Traditional Judaism uses the opening verses as a warning to young women: “Now Dinah, the daughter whom Leah had borne to Jacob, went out to visit the daughters of the land. Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite, chief of the country, saw her, and took her and lay with her by force.” “See what happens,” the Traditional advice goes, “When young women go out. Better to stay at home and let your father arrange your life.” Of course, the feminist/egalitarian opposition to this paternalistic view states that young women should be able to go out and make their own decisions about romantic attachments and every other part of life.

The Midrashic novel, The Red Tent, by Anita Diamont, retells the Biblical story from a more feminist perspective: Dinah is raised by the women of her family to be assertive and responsible for herself. She boldly decides to enter into a relationship with Shechem, but their relationship is rejected and violently destroyed by her brothers. The novel’s context is a sub rosa world in which women in the Patriarchal Period exercise a surprising amount of autonomy and power. Their world is certainly controlled by men and male prerogative, but it posits the view that men thinking of women as objects of their decisions and actions does not mean that women necessarily think of themselves the same way. If we want to understand the often unwritten history of our female ancestors, accounts of the way that women negotiate a male-dominated world can be very illuminating.

For example, the Biblical Scholar and Archeologist Carol L. Meyers of Duke University has written about the power given to women in Biblical times. In a subsistence economy, where nutrition was not guaranteed, the person given control over food was very powerful. The Bible and Talmud may not emphasize it, but think about the responsibility and empowerment women had when they were in charge of storing, rationing, and preparing food. Whatever meager provisions existed had to be guarded and allocated and prepared carefully, lest the supplies not last until the next harvest (if the harvest came in!) Rather than women being relegated to the kitchen, Meyers suggests that Biblical women’s food-oriented duties carried significant status.

So often, in our pursuit of equality and justice, we focus on the relative inequality of women in the past, and this is clearly important. However, let us not short-change the resourcefulness and strategic thinking of the women who came before us and worked within the systems of inequality they inhabited. Let us also not be distracted by the fact that history is written by the men—and generally the men in power. Just because something is not written does not mean that it did not happen. If one were to take two modern tales of hierarchical societies, Downton Abbey and My Big Fat Greek Wedding and imagine them written by the people in charge, the relative role and influence of the women might be untold. However, in both tales, it is clear that the women work the system and influence life in significant ways. The aristocratic women in Downton Abbey are definitely part of the dynamic of decision making, and, in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the mother (played by Lainie Kazan) even explains to her daughter how it is done. The husband thinks he is the head of the house. “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.”

And, in hierarchical societies, it is not only the aristocratic women who display relative empowerment. Notice how, in Downton Abbey, the lower class downstairs servants—both male and female—guide the affairs of the Great House in all sorts of ways.

One can see a similar dynamic at play in any case of an “inferior” group working “under” the dominant group. Has this not been a constant effort of Jews in the Diaspora? Is it not also the case among other groups who are not fully enfranchised: African Americans, Hispanics, American Indians, LGBT individuals, etc.?

This is not to understate the injustices of the past, nor to suggest that there is not a lot of work to be done on the road to full justice. However, we should never let our disapproval of inequality blind us to the resilience and the relative successes of the people living under less-than-fair conditions.

So, when looking at the story at hand—the Rape of Dinah, I believe that both interpretations speak of our people’s dealing with relative weakness.

If what happened to Dinah is indeed a rape, then Simeon and Levi use subterfuge to stop a group with pretentions of treating us all as Shechem has treated Dinah. Jacob senses his relative vulnerability among the Canaanites and worries that his family’s savagery will invoke hate and fear. Simeon and Levi agree, but they see such hate and fear as a protection for their vastly outnumbered tribe.

If Dinah’s experience is not a rape but a disapproved romance—as portrayed in Diamont’s The Red Tent, then, as much as we disapprove of the paternalistic control ancient families exercised over women, let us celebrate the ways our ancient mothers must have carved out autonomy in their limited circumstances.

Life is not easy, and so we must rise to challenges that come our way. May we have the strength and resilience and creativity that have kept our people going for some 4000 years.

Alienation, Fear, and Purpose

December 9th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our weekly portion begins with these words: “Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran. He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down it. And the Lord was standing beside him and said, ‘I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants…’” (Genesis 28.10-14)

Our usual focus is on the amazing dream—with the stairway or ladder connecting heaven and earth and, of course, God’s Presence and promise. Though Jacob is leaving home, he is not leaving God or the destiny God has planned for him.

However, the context of the dream is also worth noting. When the Torah says, “Jacob left Beer-sheba,” it is a bit of an understatement. Jacob escaped Beer-sheba. Remember how Esau threatened to kill him after the stolen-blessing incident. This is why Rebekah (the orchestrator of the whole situation) said, “‘Your brother Esau is consoling himself by planning to kill you. Now, my son, listen to me. Flee at once to Haran, to my brother Laban. Stay with him a while, until your brother’s fury subsides…’” (Genesis 27.42-44)

In other words, we have a frightened Jacob, on the run from his very strong and very angry brother. He may also feel alienated, wondering at the price he is now paying for listening to his mother and fooling his father. Add to this the fact that he may not be accustomed to being out in nature and alone. Remember Genesis 25.27’s characterization of young Jacob: “Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” I’m thinking that Jacob is very uncomfortable psychically, and that putting a rock under his head is an expression of this inner angst.

When we humans feel angst, there is a tendency to cause ourselves physical pain as an outward and controllable way to express the inner pain. The Bible speaks of this in terms of Hittite mourning customs, where people would cut themselves on the sides of their heads and bleed onto their faces as a sign of grief. Religious people in many traditions fast and wear sackcloth to expunge their inner impurity. Some even torture themselves with hair shirts or self-flagellation. In our own days, I wonder how many piercings and tattoos may be similarly inspired: outward ways of expressing inner pain.

There is also the tendency, when we feel alienated or grief-stricken, to plunge into despair and to over-estimate the difficulties we are facing. Just look at Rebekah’s statement (in Genesis 25.22) in the midst of a difficult pregnancy. “The children struggled in her womb, and she said, ‘If so, why do I exist?!’” When things get bad, it is often difficult to see that they can get better. Sometimes, we feel so overwhelmed that we just want to give up.

There are also times when we year to do something—anything!—and we may choose destructive actions that are more expressions of anger than solutions to our problems. What do we do when hope is hard to find and tragedy and despair threaten to swallow us whole?

When we can step back from our disappointment and anger and hopelessness—and this may take a while, we may find it possible to remember that we are a resilient species, one capable of enduring and soldiering through dire and catastrophic situations. This is particularly true of our Jewish people, a nation well acquainted with grief and persecution. Ours is a sacred congregation that has maintained our commitment to God and holiness through some of the darkest nights in human history. We have an inner strength and a holy destiny. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel put it, “We are God’s stake in human history.” Despair is not the only option, but it may take some time to see our way clear.

There is an interesting passage in Pirke Avot (4.18) where Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says, “When your friend becomes angry, do not try to calm him. When he is recently bereaved, do not try to console him. When he is about to make an oath, do not ask him questions. Just after he has been disgraced, do not try to see him.”  This does not mean that we should ignore our friends in their times of need, but rather that we should not be among the “fools who rush in” too quickly and without due regard for the emotional difficulty our friends are experiencing. Sometimes, they (and we) just need some time to feel the hurt and process it. Support is helpful, but there is no talking someone out of anger or sadness or frustration or grief.

Once our heads have cleared, we can consider our options more carefully and act in a more thoughtful manner, and that is the part God plays in Jacob’s crisis. After giving Jacob a while to suffer—to run away, sleep with a rock under his head, perhaps consider getting drunk or a tattoo or beating someone up, God comes to him when he is finally and peacefully sleeping and reminds him that he has a purpose.

We have a purpose, too. We can be blessings to our families and to the world.

In the calm that follows the storms of our lives, let us search ourselves and our Tradition for direction and strength and faith. Even in the midst of great trouble, despair is not our only option. We can find a constructive and holy direction.

Yetzer Tov and Yetzer HaRa: Working Together

December 2nd: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of Rabbinical Judaism’s most interesting teachings regards the reason why humans sin. We each have, the Rabbis teach us, two inclinations: Yetzer Tov, the Good Inclination, and Yetzer HaRa, the Evil Inclination. Something inside us wants to do good, but something else is often/always urging us to be selfish or disrespectful or rude, etc. It is like those old cartoons with a little angel whispering in one ear and a little devil whispering in the other. Throughout our lives, we are poised between these two urges and trying to make good choices.

As presented, one would think that the Yetzer Tov is good and Yetzer HaRa is evil, but one Midrash leads us to a different understanding.  In Yoma 69b, we find the curious story about a time when someone managed to catch the universal Yetzer HaRa and lock it up—like in Pandora’s Box. The Sages thought that this would solve every problem in the world, but this turned out not to be the case. Without the inclination to acquire and assert and win and procreate, the world basically ground to a halt. No one would get out of bed in the morning. No one attended to chores or work. Even the animals were lackadaisical: roosters were not going after chickens; bulls were not pursuing cows; neither eggs nor milk were being produced. The things that the world needs were simply not being done, so the Sages had to let the Evil Inclination out.

The suggestion of this Midrash is that the terms Good and Evil are not the best ways to describe our two basic urges. Perhaps Yetzer Tov is better described as the altruistic inclination—that part of us that wants to give and help. And, perhaps Yetzer HaRa is better described as the assertive or self-protective inclination—that part of us which we need to make sure we take care of ourselves. Self-care is not evil. We need to put ourselves at the top of our priorities. As Hillel said, “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me?” The problems come when we get carried away with self-care and share our energy and resources and prerogatives with no one else. “But, if I am only for myself, what am I?” Both self-assertion and altruism are necessary; our challenge is to learn to live in balance.

This lesson can be seen in this week’s Torah portion and in a particular interpretation of the saga of Jacob and Esau. The p’shat /literal meaning of the Torah is that Rebekah gives birth to twins. This is after twenty years of trying and a difficult pregnancy. She and Isaac are overjoyed, but the boys are at odds with each other even before birth. “Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived. But the children struggled in her womb, and she said, ‘If so, why do I exist?’ She went to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her, ‘Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.’ When her time to give birth was at hand, there were twins in her womb. The first one emerged red, like a hairy mantle all over; so they named him Esau. Then his brother emerged, holding on to the heel of Esau; so they named him Jacob.” (Genesis 25.21-26)  There is a lot to be learned from this story in re family relationships, sibling rivalry, and overcoming conflict.

However, another, more psychological interpretation suggests that the “twins” are really one person—one person with two divergent inclinations. One side of Esau/Jacob is a wild man who revels in his strength and exuberance and has little control over his emotions. The other side of Esau/Jacob is quiet and studious and always looking for a subtle way to achieve victory.

Each aspect of this “child’s” personality tries its approach to the world but with incomplete, unsatisfying results. It is not until they wrestle (in Parshat Vayishlach) that the personalities learn to work with each other, and the result is the Patriarch Israel, the one who is smart and pious and strong and assertive enough to wrestle with an angel and prevail.

The message of this psychological approach is for us recognize the value of our wild and dominant side but also to realize that its strength and vigor should be used responsibly. It should also remind us that our soft and giving side is wonderful, but sometimes we need to call upon our inner Esau to get things done.

May we learn to embrace all that God has given us—and learn to live in holy balance.