Living Amidst Both the Seen and the Unseen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leprosy and "Leprosy:" Figuring Out Which is Which

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Whose Side are You On?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Understanding the Word "Mitzvah"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Problem with AIPAC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Orientalism” and the Continuing Failure of the Peace Process

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Golden Calf, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Golden Calf, Part I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time with God...Up on the Mountain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued…

How Midrash Preserves and "Adjusts" the Torah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bibi and Amalek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Song of the Sea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Responsibility and Guilt, Part II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Responsibility and Blame and Guilt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Betrayal and Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sojourning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Many Faces of Chanukah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Chanukah!

The Surprises of Jacob

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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