When We Are Guilty, and When We Are Not

October 10th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre Sermon: When We are Guilty, and When We are Not 

We Jews have a particular affinity for guilt. One of our most well-developed talents, our mastery of the genre is wide ranging. We learn it in our families, bring it into our social lives and work lives, and even have jokes about it—jokes that are both self-critical and celebratory. Guilt permeates our theology and sociology and prayer books, and this holy day, Yom Kippur, is in many ways our “High Festival of Guilt.”  

Guilt can be a useful tool when we use it for introspection and self-improvement, but it can be misused when we assume too much guilt or volunteer for culpability. Guilt is a tool, not a goal.  

One of the most curious developments in Jewish “guilt thinking” came in the ancient Rabbinic teaching that “We were responsible for the destruction of the Temple.” According to many Talmudic Sages, our sins—the sins of the Jewish people—were responsible for the destructions of both King Solomon’s Temple in 586 BCE and the Second Temple in 70 CE. Even though it was really the Babylonians who destroyed the First Temple and the Romans who destroyed the Second Temple—both in wars involving imperial politics and international hegemony, the Rabbis declared that our sins were at fault. As they explained, שִׂנְאַת חִנָם /senseless hatred brought about the destruction of the Temples and our exile from our land.  

Though neither an accurate nor a historical explanation, this teaching follows an interesting theological innovation from the days of the Biblical Prophets. Back then, in the ancient world, conflicts between warring nations were understood as conflicts between their gods. Thus would one nation’s victory be understood as a victory for its gods over the gods of the defeated nation. It was common knowledge for the time, and we can even find this notion in our own texts. In the Torah, in the Exodus narrative, God describes one of the goals (Exodus 12.12): וּבְכָל־אֱלֹהֵ֥י מִצְרַ֛יִם אֶֽעֱשֶׂ֥ה שְׁפָטִ֖ים...
“And I will execute judgments on the gods of the Egyptians...”
Then, in the Song of the Sea, we praise God’s power with words we should recognize from Mi Chamocha (Exodus 15.11):  ‘מִֽי־כָמֹ֤כָה בָּֽאֵלִם֙ ה “Who is like You, O Lord, among the gods?!” 

When Prophets like Isaiah looked at the international military situation—and giant empires like Assyria, Babylonia, and Egypt conquering everything in their paths, they realized that the tiny Jewish kingdoms of Judah and Israel were in great danger. Not only were their conquests pretty much inevitable, but such a tragedy would also mean a theological crisis. If Israel or Judah were to fall, people would think that the Lord God had been defeated—perhaps destroyed. 

Isaiah and some other prophets studied this problem and came up with an intuition that pre-empted such a religious crisis—something we might call a theological elastic clause. If the Jewish kingdoms would be conquered, it would not mean that the Lord was defeated by the gods of the conquering nations. No, the the real explanation would be that God was using the great empires as chastening rods to punish us for Israel’s and Judah’s sins. Our defeat would not mean God’s defeat. Instead, it would demonstrate God’s incredible power—that the Lord is mighty enough to take a mighty empire and use it as a tool for dispensing punishment.  

According to these prophecies, our punishment would be severe, but, after a while, God would reconcile with us, welcoming us back, and restoring us to our Land and our Temple. As we read in Micah (2.12), these surviving Jews, שְׁאֵרִית יִשׂרָאֵל/ the Remnant of Israel, would be welcomed back into God’s embrace. Things would be good again. 

It was a powerful theology and one that helped our religion survive the destruction of Israel in 710 BCE by Assyria and the destruction of Judah in 586 BCE by Babylonia. It helped us keep our relationship with God and led to the development of monotheism, but it has had a problematic psychological effect. Instead of seeing bad things as sad or tragic, this thinking implies that they are punishments. If God is all-powerful and controls everything, then we deserve the bad things that happen to us. They are punishments for our or somebody elses’ sins.  

I think that this is too literal a reading of the Prophets—that perhaps there is another perspective from which we can consider their calls to righteousness. And, to introduce this different way of reading ancient texts, let me turn to an unexpected source, the movie version of Rogers and Hammerstein’s The King and I. In one scene, the king, played by Yul Brenner, is studying the Bible and cannot reconcile the Six-Day Creation Story with modern science. Mrs. Anna, played by Deborah Kerr, casually dismisses the perceived conflict and resolves it with a simple but utterly profound observation:
“The Bible was not written by men of science, but by men of faith. It was their explanation of the miracle of creation which is the same miracle whether it took six days or many centuries.”
As Mrs. Anna observes, reading Genesis with the expectation of scientific and historic accuracy is a mistake. The text is not a science textbook but rather a theological summary—and needs to be understood as such. 

Similarly, Isaiah’s views on our sins and the conquest of Israel and Judah—and the Rabbis’ view on senseless hatred causing the destruction of the Temple—are not intended as serious history. They are not analyses of historical causation. Rather the Sages took these ancient stories and, in creative pedagogical improvisations, used them as rhetorical platforms for encouraging introspection and תְשׁוּבָה/ repentance. Their moral lessons are serious, but they are not history. In many ways, they are like the fables composed by Aesop: the truths contained therein have very little to do with the historical veracity of the events described. 

Guilt is a complicated and ubiquitous presence in both human experience and in Jewish thinking. We are sometimes guilty, but sometimes we are not. And, the kind of introspection we need on this day requires serious thought about our roles and our culpability. In real תְשׁוּבָה/Repentance, habitual and automatic guilt is not helpful. 

In our daily Amidah, one of blessings praises God Who: הַמַּשְׁבִּית רֶֽשַׁע מִין הָאָֽרֶץ.
“Removes evil from the earth.” While we are tempted to interpret this as a request that God get rid of the bad people, the Talmud teaches us—in a famous story about Beruriah and her husband Rabbi Meir—that removing evil is about getting the bad guys to give up their evil and become good. It is not the evil people who are to be removed, but the evil in their hearts. Thus, when I am praying this b’rachah, I often find myself wondering which bad guys God should fix. And then, in a very Jewish way, I wonder: What if I’m one of them? What if I am part of the evil, or complicit with the evil, or not crying out against the evil enough? Am I praying for God to help fix the world—or to fix me? 

Sometimes asking the question assumes that the answer is Yes, and we can go down the rabbit-hole of perpetual inadequacy. Of course, I’m at fault. Of course, I’m not morally pure or politically or economically innocent of wrongdoing. Of course, I am culpable for evils both within and beyond my relatively small orbit. It is like the sensibility in our sin lists—the sins we have committed under duress or by choice, consciously or unconsciously, openly or secretly, in our thoughts, with our words, by abusing our power, by hardening our hearts, by profaning Your Name, by disrespect for parents and teachers, by gossiping, by dishonesty at work, or by hurting others.

Our guilt is multifarious and thus do we confess as a group: עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ
“For the sin WE have committed against you...” 

As we recite the list of possible sins, we are supposed to think about which ones apply to us. Some may indeed be ours, but others may not be ours at all. Even if there are tangential connections, the fact is that we are not at fault for most of the problems of the world. We are certainly imperfect and inadequate, but our guilt-colored glasses can make us much worse than we are and catch us in a morass of counter- productive guilt-mongering. Indeed, we can distract ourselves from real self-improvement. 

I think it is better to focus on the real issues and our real sins—and our real positives. While none of us is perfect, we might actually be doing pretty well. Navigating the vagaries of the world and the complexities of our many relationships is tricky, but we may be doing okay. In other words, maybe the cloud of perpetual and automatic guilt is neither necessary nor helpful. Serious Teshuvah involves distinguishing between our failures and our successes, between our sins and our moments of moral victory. Is guilt our goal, or is it a tool for improvement? 

I do not believe that the bad things that happen in the world are punishments for our sins. Bad choices and behaviors can led to negative consequences, but there are also just sad and tragic things that happen. There is a difference between sympathy and guilt, and we need to understand the distinction. We can feel sad about sad things without taking on responsibility and guilt. Again, guilt is not our goal; it is a tool for self-improvement.  

I am not here to absolve you. I am not here to say: צַדִּיקִים אֲנַֽחְנוּ וְלֹא חָטָֽאנוּ,
“that we are perfect and have not sinned.”
אֲבָל אֲנַֽחְנוּ חָטָֽאנוּ. חָטָֽאנוּ, עָוִֽינוּ, פָּשַֽׁעְנוּ.“In
deed, we have sinned—and transgressed and gone astray,”
BUT, we are not guilty of everything. We are not complicit or responsible for every evil in the world. And, since we are not in a position to fix every problem, we are not culpable for them all.  

What we are responsible for is thinking carefully about our lives and our actions, about our motivations, our attitudes, and our words. We are responsible for figuring out where we went wrong, where we went right, and how to make ourselves better. This is true תְשׁוּבָה/repentance and true הִתְכָּפְּרוּת/atonement. 

In the shadow of our tradition of guilt and ceaseless moral introspection, I am here to remind us that we may not be as guilty as the language of guilt suggests—that we may be doing fine in our struggles to bring forth the divine spark that God plants within us all. Where we are at fault, let us improve. Where we are fine, let us give thanks and endeavor to continue doing our best. The Mitzvah of Teshuvah can only connect us to God when we approach it with equanimity, with calm, and with thoughtful introspection. Let us appreciate the goodness in life and in ourselves, and work to bring more godliness into both.

"If I Had a Hammer"

October 3rd: Yom Kippur and Shabbat Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon: If I Had a Hammer: 

Last evening, I mentioned some of the folk songs that were so important to my generation—songs that seemed Jewish even though they were not. Among them was Peter, Paul, and Mary’s song, If I Had a Hammer. Listening to it recently brought back all kinds of memories—but also a few puzzlements. I realized, after years of hearing it and singing it, that I do not understand the song’s logic. It does not make any sense.        
     If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
    I’d hammer in the evening. All over this land....
Have I perhaps changed over the years? Or did this anthem of the 1960s about “having a hammer, ringing a bell, and singing a song” ever make sense? 

We’ll get back to this later, but now I’d like to shift to another memory of my teenage years. I was on the high school debate team, and, half-a-dozen times a year, we went on overnight bus trips to tournaments in other cities. A variety of drivers drove those buses, but one driver was clearly our favorite: Ted Hariu. He must have liked us too for he got the assignment most of the time. The thing about Ted was that, even though he was the total opposite of what was cool in our teenage eyes, he was cool anyway. Whereas our heroes and role models were rock musicians, incisive journalists, or young political activists, he was a middle-aged, blue collar guy with short greased-back hair. He did not have a beard or long sideburns, and he wore a Greyhound Bus uniform. His personal vehicle was a pickup truck—back before they were cool, and he was into country music, not rock. For our crowd—middle class kids, college bound, and trying hard to be both sophisticated and intellectual, the idea of driving a bus or a truck for a living was the furthest thing from our minds. Indeed, any kind of blue collar career was not the grand future we envisioned for ourselves. And yet, we liked to hang out with Ted during the tournaments and considered him cool: a friend.  

Part of it was the way that he, like those few adults to whom teenagers gravitate, took us seriously, paying attention to us and not being put off by our teenage hair, clothes, music, or attitudes. This was not the custom of many parents who were often critical of youth culture. But more than that, there was a seasoned toughness in Ted and his life and the way that he talked about the decisions he had made, the opinions he had, and the goals he had in mind. He was, in the parlance of the time, real, and we respected his skills—both in life and in maneuvering that very large, double-clutch Greyhound bus. 

For all of our pretensions of grandeur, there was something very substantive and admirable about this blue-collar guy—someone who had developed skills and used them well, who had a place in the world, and who was kind to others.  

Back to the song. What was If I Had a Hammer all about? Was it an expression of our hopes and expectations? Perhaps, but I think that it also revealed our awareness that we were not yet the heroes of our dreams. Though we sang about having a hammer, we could all have easily gotten one—borrowing one from the home tool box or buying one at the hardware store. Why then did we sing as though the mere possession of a hammer would somehow be significant. Ringing a bell was equally unsubstantive. It was just a way of making noise and calling attention to ourselves. As for singing a song all over this land, I understand the inspirational quality of songs—and, of course, prayers, but, if they do not inspire concrete deeds, then they are more hollow than hallowed. Mere singing is not enough. 

Perhaps we teenagers understood deep down that the real challenge was not in getting a hammer, ringing a bell, or even singing a song, but in learning how to use that hammer—actual or metaphorical—in building something. Perhaps that is why Ted Hariu the bus driver seemed so real to us. He had developed his skills and was doing something of substance. 

In retrospect, I think that songs like If I Had a Hammer are developmental—efforts to clarify our values. They showed our teenage awareness of our own immaturity. We sang such anthems of adolescent impotence and desperate hope in the anticipation of eventually doing something real with our lives. 

I am told that the most successful new military officers— graduates of West Point, Annapolis, or ROTC programs—are the ones who find a non-commissioned officer to mentor them. Though these new lieutenants have authority, they do not yet know how to sail a ship, load a cannon, or manage troops. They are in command, but they need a Master Chief or Sergeant who knows how to fight a war and how to prepare for one. By paying attention, young officers can infuse their leadership with practical experience and wisdom. It is not a matter of disrupting the chain of command but rather of respecting real knowledge and putting the mission above rank and ego.

This, by the way, is also a feature of the management system known as Total Quality Management. Based on techniques developed by W. Edwards Deming (1900-1993) that led Japanese industry to economic dominance in the 1970s and 1980s, it was eventually adopted by many American companies and the US. Navy. One of the main features was the inclusion of lower level employees—shop stewards, production line workers, and sailors—in decision making. No matter how highly trained an executive or line officer is, there is value in regularly talking to the people who actually do the work of the company—whose real world experiences are crucial for good corporate decisions.  

As you cogitate on this, you may begin to recognize the old Ivory-Tower-versus-practical-reality tension that so pervades the interface between academics and the average Joes and Josephines who make the world go around. It is a curious tension and one that can be seen over at Penn State—a place where there are several different dimensions. The students live in one. The faculty and researchers live in another. The office staff and administrators live in a third world. And, the OPP guys (those in the Office of Physical Plant) have their own Penn State, one focused on plumbing and electricity, on rooms to set up and gardens to tend, on the steam plant and parking, and every kind of infrastructure. Everyone has a role, but, at a certain level, the OPP guys are... Penn State. Without them, nothing happens. 

This gets us to Pirke Avot, the most popular tractate in the Talmud. The greatness of Rabbinic Judaism can be seen throughout both Mishnah and Gemara, but page for page, Pirke Avot is our best source of Jewish wisdom. Its brief p’rakim/passages are also much more accessible than the complex and lengthy discussions in the rest of the Talmud. This is why Pirke Avot is so popular, with its proverbs studied and quoted both frequently and fondly. However, as explained by Rabbi Dr. David Aaron of the Hebrew Union College, the Rabbis who populate Pirke Avot were part of an elitist fraternity of scholars. There were strict rules, limited admission, and an attitude of intellectual superiority. They considered themselves the brain trust of the Jewish People, and they were very exacting of whom they admitted and what behaviors were required for continued membership. In addition to general Jewish wisdom, much of Pirke Avot records their high standards and single-minded devotion to Torah.  

However, in the midst of their elitism, one can also find self-awareness of the limitations of such high status. In dozens of their sayings, they also speak of the importance of practicality, realism, and the Am Ha’aretz, the little guys—people like bus driver Ted Hariu and the lower level workers that Deming believed in including in decisions. These average agrarian workers or craftsmen are also God’s people, and they possess their own kind of experience, wisdom, and innate worth. Here are some examples:  

In Avot 4.5, “Rabbi Zadok said: do not make the Torah into a crown for self-exaltation, nor a spade with which to dig.” The ancient Sages did not believe in getting paid for studying or teaching Torah, and the Talmud often mentions their various vocations or non-Torah sources of income. One, Rabbi Yonatan Hasandlar (Jonathan the Sandalmaker), was even known by his craft. In later ages, RASHI (Rabbi Solomon son of Isaac) grew grapes and made wine, RAMBAM (Rabbi Moses son of Maimon) was a physician, and the Baal Shem Tov (Rabbi Israel son of Eliezer) was a shochet. Making a living grounds even the wisest and helps them understand life. 

In Avot 1.5, “Yose ben Yochanan of Jerusalem says: Let the poor be members of your household.”
Though the Sages emphasized and congratulated themselves on their intellectual acumen, they were warned about disrespecting those who were not part of their elite fraternity. 

In Avot 2.4, Hillel warns his fellow scholars about judging without really understanding:
“Do not judge your fellow man until you have reached his place.” 

In Avot 4.1, Rabbi Ben Zoma goes further,
Who is wise? He who learns from every man.”
Even the poor and illiterate have something of value to teach.  

This thought is continued by Ben Azzai in Avot 4.9:
“Do not despise any man, and do not discriminate against anything, for there is no man that has not his hour, and there is no thing that has not its place.” 

In Avot 3.9, Rabbi Hanina ben Dosa expands the discussion to include the importance of good deeds backing up good words.
“Anyone whose deeds exceed his wisdom, his wisdom is enduring, but anyone whose wisdom exceeds his deeds, his wisdom is not enduring.” 

And of course, there is the most famous of them all from Avot 1.2:
“The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.”
Simon the Righteous does not need to remind his fellow scholars about the importance of Torah study and worship. They already know and are fully invested in the system. However, lest they fall into the trap that their intellects and piety are all that matter, their leader reminds them of the ultimate and equally existential value of kindness and good deeds. For the original audience of elite scholars, the first two, Torah and Avodah, are just set ups for the third component and its vital dose of practical goodness. 

I do not regret singing If I Had a Hammer. Its words, like those of many poems and prayers, transcend logic and speak of ineffable aspirations. But, there is more to life than singing about a hammer. Getting one and using it is the necessary step in making our aspirations and dreams come true. I think we knew that back then and, while ringing bells and singing songs, we worked on respecting and emulating those for whom Tikkun Olam is more than just words.

Jewish Music and Our Souls

September 26th: Rosh Hashanah and Shabbat Shuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon: Jewish Music and Our Souls 

There is an encounter described in Deuteronomy 29 between God and the people—read both last Shabbat and on Yom Kippur morning: אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי ה' אֱלֹקיכֶם

 “You are standing this day, all of you, before the Lord your God.” It is a very moving account, but its context is not clear. Is it a remembrance of the Revelation at Mount Sinai, or is it describing a second covenantal ceremony, forty years after Sinai and just before the Israelites enter the Promised Land? If it is a new ceremony, solidifying the covenantal relationship, then all the people involved are Israelites. However, if it is a reminder of the original covenantal event at Mount Sinai, then, according the Midrash, the whole world was the “audience.” As the Mekhilta (de Rabbi Ishmael) asks and answers: Why did God give the Ten Commandments at Sinai? Would not the Temple Mount in Jerusalem have been holier? True, but Jerusalem belongs to the Jews, and giving the Torah there would suggest that the Ten Commandments are only for the Jews—and not for the other nations of the world. God chose Mount Sinai, a place out in the middle of the desert—a place owned by no one and accessible to all, to make it clear that the Divine Law is available and applicable to all humans.[1] 

So, we can ask, are the Ten Commandments ours, or do they belong to everyone? We love it when other faiths are influenced by Jewish Tradition, but is it really ours to own and control, or does God’s wisdom belong to all of God’s children? And, what about wisdom or spiritual practices that come from other religious traditions? Are these religious or cultural things “theirs,” or are they universal and “owned” by all? When we get down to it, what makes a religious custom or insight Jewish or Christian or Muslim or Hindu? Are they not all from the same Divine Source—and would this not challenge the notion that certain groups have proprietary rights for things that originated in their cultures or religions?  

This kind of question has particular relevance when we Jews are presented with wisdom, spiritual practices, or customs that come from non-Jewish sources. Whether we are talking about flowers at funerals, Yoga, singing Christmas carols or hymns like Amazing Grace, or yard decorations at Christmastime/ Chanukah, we often find ourselves trying to figure out whether some customs or observances are kosher.  Are they non-Jewish, but okay for Jews? Or are they non-Jewish and crossing a line beyond what is properly and loyally Jewish. By the way, this is not a new question, with plenty of examples in both the Bible and the Talmud. What makes something Jewish; what makes something non-Jewish; and what makes something parev?  

One of the areas where relative Jewishness can be questioned is in music, and let me introduce it with a song:
            If I had a hammer, I’d hammer in the morning.
            I’d hammer in the evenin’, all over this land.
            I’d hammer out danger. I’d hammer out warning.
            I’d hammer out love between my brothers and my sisters,
           All over this land. 

I first heard this song at a Reform Movement summer camp in 1965, and it seemed very Jewish. We sang it at Jewish worship services and youth group activities. We sang it with kavannah and felt very Jewish singing it, and it took me years before I realized that it is not a Jewish song at all. Peter, Paul, and Mary seemed Jewish, but only one, Peter Yarrow, was actually Jewish.[2] Nonetheless, their music seemed Jewish, as did a lot of the secular Folk Music Revival of the 1950s and 1960s.  

The songs seemed Jewish because the American socialism and progressivism that typified the music had a Tikkun Olam sensibility to it. Though the term Tikkun Olam was not used back then in the context of social justice, our Tradition has been calling for social justice since the days of the Bible—“Justice shall well up like water, righteousness like a mighty stream.” (Amos 5.24), so one can understand why many Jews saw labor unions, socialism, and even communism as paths to the Prophetic dream. Judaism sees justice, righteousness, and universal love as paving the way for the Messianic Age. 

So, even though songs like If I Had a Hammer and This Land is Your Land are not particularly Jewish, they partake of values that are also found in Judaism—and thus we Jewish teens sang them with heart and soul and in Jewish settings. 

Part of their appeal was that these folk songs were part of general youth culture—the youth culture of the beatniks and rock’n’roll and hippies that so enervated the formative years of the post-World War II Baby Boom. The music was very appealing, and it filled in a gap in Jewish music. In the early 1960s, Jewish music consisted of:
(1) fancy classical or operatic sounding choral arrangements for choir and organ—or for a capella choirs
(2) big voice cantorial pieces using traditional nusach but with operatic flourishes
(3) congregational sing-along tunes—sometimes inspired by nusach or European folk tunes
(4) Klezmer music from Eastern Europe
(5) Labor Zionist folk tunes and marching songs
There was no Jewish youth music, and we Jewish teenagers wanted music that would “speak to our generation.”  

The revolution in Jewish music occurred when youth group and camp songleaders—teenagers who played guitar—began putting prayer book and Bible passages into folk tunes, tunes with the chord progressions and styles of folk and rock. 

A similar effort was being mounted in Israel—especially with the immense cultural energy after the 1967 Six Day War. So many young Israelis started putting holy texts into folk-rock settings that an annual showcase, the Hassidic Song Festival[3], was organized and became a worldwide Jewish phenomenon. One of its songs continues in our own worship service, the repeating version of Shema by Tzvika Pik.

One of my first experiences with what we could call home-grown Jewish folk music came around 1969 when I heard about a teenager my age from Houston, a songleader, writing his own Jewish song. Using the old-fashioned worship language of our prayer book, he composed a youth-style tune, rendering Psalm 8 in a way I had never heard it before:
            How glorious! How glorious Thy Name!
            How glorious Thy Name in all the earth!
Who knew we could write our own Jewish music—music that was good and cool and Jewish? It was a revelation for me—a real seminal moment of Jewish possibilities. That teenager, by the way, is now Rabbi Les Bronstein, recently retired from a Reconstructionist congregation in the New York suburbs.  

Another revelation for me came in college when a friend showed me an album by a girl he knew from St. Paul, Minnesota. Her name was Debbie Friedman, and she was a songleader in Temple youth group and Reform summer camp. She had written a bunch of her own songs and, in 1972, recorded an album. You have to understand, this was back in the days when albums were not something anyone could just record. It was a big deal, and the fact that there was an album of Jewish youth music was astounding. Who knew such a thing was possible? 

Debbie went on to compose dozens and dozens of songs, record many albums, and inspire several generations of songleaders and composers of Jewish youth music. For many years, she was part of an early summer event in which camp songleaders from all over the country gathered to learn the latest in Jewish folk music—so that they could teach it at their camps and keep everyone up to date.  

As with much of the youth revolution in the 1960s, there was pushback from our elders. Accustomed to a different ambience in worship services, the guitars and more energetic rhythms were unsettling. Whereas we teens thought of standard Temple worship as boring, many pious adults loved services the way they were—finding their style of worship and their music dignified and elevating. These two different worship preferences resulted in quite a tussle, and many lines were drawn in the sand.  

One example. The setting of Shalom Rav which we all know and love was written in 1974 by two Reform movement songleaders, Dan Freelander and Jeff Klepper: שָׁלוֹם רָב עַל יִשְׂרָאֵל עַמְךָ תָּשִׂים לְעוֹלָם...
They went on to became clergy—Dan a Rabbi and Jeff a Cantor, but, back then, they were just students. And, when they wanted to play their setting of Shalom Rav in the Hebrew Union College Chapel in New York, their idea was totally squashed. There was a firm line between camp music and Temple music, and the College was not going to allow that line to be breached.  

Things changed as the teens of the 1960s grew into adulthood and leadership in synagogues and in the movement, and in the early 2000s, the Cantorial School was renamed for one of our “rabble-rousing” teenaged songleaders, the remarkably talented and tenacious Debbie Friedman. This new Jewish music— combining folk guitar stylings and time-honored Jewish texts—had become more and more popular. In the Reform, Reconstructionist, and even Conservative Movements, this new style music became the way people connected with God.

Many of us may not even know how new some of our “traditional” worship music is. For example, this Vesham’ru, וְשָׁמְרוּ בְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת הַשַּׁבָּת..., was not handed down to Moses at Mount Sinai. It was written by two Rabbinical students at Camp Ramah in California in the 1960s. Moshe Rothblum and Yossi Gordon were writing a skit and needed to show that the scene was set at noon on Shabbat, and so they wrote a new tune for a prayer recited at Kiddush.  

Another example is Veha’er Aynaynu, וְהָאֵר עֵינֵֽינוּ בְּתוֹרָתֶֽךָ, וְדַבֵּק לִבֵּֽנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתֶֽיךָ...
The tune was written in the 1960s by Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach, an emissary of the previous Lubavitcher Rabbi, Yosef Yitzhak Schneersohn. The Rebbe wanted Reb Shlomo to combine Judaism with youth culture, and this energetic and spiritual setting is just one example of his impressive and lasting success. 

At our own Brit Shalom, the “revolution” involved the then-new Rabbi Jeff Eisenstat who was young and cool and played the guitar. People loved his music, but some worried that the Old Guard would not approve. The big moment came a few months after Rabbi Jeff’s arrival when the Patriarch of the congregation, Mr. Charles Schlow, came to services. Afterwards, everyone was waiting with bated breath to see what Mr. Schlow would say. When asked about the guitar music, he nodded his head in approval, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Rabbi Eisenstat’s legendary career was off to a great start. 

One more memory: I was a Temple-goer as a child and knew the English of the Ve’ahavta by heart: “Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might.” There was a holiness to its subject matter, its language, and its cadence, and it was a beloved passage. So, when Debbie Friedman took that text and rendered it into a folk song that both honored the holy connection and resonated with our youthful musical tastes, it was a gift. I still remember how this song was both emotionally and spiritually exhilarating. 

Getting back to “Atem Nitzavim” and who was included in the Covenant Ceremony, music is a perfect place to consider what makes a cultural expression “Jewish.” Music connects on an emotional, a visceral level. As Duke Ellington used to reflect, it is extremely personal: “You either dig it or you don’t.” Jewish history contains thousands of different musical approaches to our traditional texts, and it is interesting to consider which of those settings we dig and why. For instance, there are more than 1500 settings for Lecha Dodi, and some may seem more Jewish or more holy than others. What is it about a text and a melody that does or does not connect us with the Divine? 

For many Jewish teenagers of the 1960s, If I Had a Hammer was a Jewish song—even though it was not. And for some of us, traditional Iraqi or Moroccan settings of Adon Olam or Yigdal may not seem “Jewish,” even though Iraqi and Moroccan Jews have used such tunes to connect with God for centuries. Cultural subjectivity is ubiquitous and inevitable, and I find the whole subject fascinating. How does Jewishness and kavannah work in our souls? It is a continuing work-in-progress, as are we, and, in our moments of holiness this year, let us think about our connection with God and how our Tradition contributes to it.   

[1]   Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael

[2]   Paul Stooky is Catholic, and Mary Travers—though she was fond of Reform Judaism in her later years—was never Jewish.

[3]   1969-1992

God's "Chosen People?"

September 19th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion begins week with a call for national formation and identity—for national purpose:
“You stand this day, all of you, before the Lord your God…to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God…so that you will be God’s people…” (Deuteronomy 29.9-12) 

It is a call that echoes God’s words at Mount Sinai. Just before the revelation of the Ten Commandments, God explains the basis and purpose of the Covenant:
“If you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. All the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.5-6)
If we follow God’s Covenant, we shall be God’s Chosen People. 

The idea that we are the Chosen People is both inspiring and troubling, both a source of support and a target for hostility. It is always a relevant question, but, these days, our chosenness and our holy mission seem to be more on our minds. With the conflict between Israel and Hamas, the political dissension in Israel, and the piling-on of commentators, “humanitarians”, and various nations, we find ourselves in a storm of turmoil—a storm that surprises those of us who thought that pogroms and rampant anti-Semitism were things of the past. Many of us are emotionally black-and-blue and shocked at the ferocity of attacks against Israel and everything Jewish. We may even find ourselves thinking about Tevye’s famous question in Fiddler on the Roof: “I know, I know. We are Your chosen people. But, once in a while, can’t You choose someone else?”  

Many words have been written about our current situation, and some of them have been helpful. Some of the best thinking has been presented in Sapir, a fairly new journal edited by Brett Stephens and published by Mark Charendoff. Appearing quarterly (both digitally and in print: info@sapirjournal.org), Sapir has offered a voice of reason and thoughtfulness amid the ideological maelstroms of our day. I recommend it highly and would like to share with you a recent essay by the publisher. His subject is Jewish Chosenness, and I find his words both clarifying and inspiring. 

In January 1983, the New York Times reported on a debate between John Murray Cuddihy, an associate professor of sociology at Hunter College, and Irving (Yitz) Greenberg, then the director of the Jewish National Resource Center. The topic? Chosenness.  

The debate was part of a series called “Turning Inward: The Retribalization of the Jews.” Cuddihy warned that chosenness leads to a “covert form of superiority” while Rabbi Greenberg argued that, for Jews, chosenness is less of a status and more of a calling. In fact, other peoples can be chosen as well, just for other callings. 

But what is our calling? Abraham Joshua Heschel said, “Man is a messenger who forgot the message.” So what is the “message” that we Jews are supposed to be delivering? And is that message static, or does it change as the currents of history carry it and us from place to place and from time to time? Did it shift after the Holocaust, as Jews pondered a world that seemed indifferent to their destruction? Did it shift in 1948 when we once again had a sovereign state for the first time in nearly two millennia? Did the message change on October 7, 2023, or on June 13, 2025? 

For many Jews, the notion of bearing a special message seemed embarrassing, an outdated mode of thinking — “tribalizing,” as the debate series put it. But many of those same Jews began finding their voice around 650 days ago. It seems that humanity did in fact need to be reminded of a divine message. They needed to be reminded that not every culture treasures life and protects its children at all costs. They needed to be reminded that evil does in fact exist. They needed to be reminded that freedom is fragile and must be protected. They needed to be reminded that all of humanity is created in the image of God and all are deserving of dignity. They needed to be reminded that study is important, not only to increase knowledge but to spot the rhyming patterns of history. 

And they needed to be reminded that we can never give up on hope and redemption, that better days lie ahead and our mission is to work together, getting us to those better days a little sooner, a little faster. 

Today’s Jews have reclaimed their message with newfound urgency and clarity as the Jewish state fights to deliver it. (Mark Charendoff, Sapir, Summer 2025) 

Perhaps our time together during the upcoming Holy Days—time spent with God and with other Members of the Tribe—will lead us to some good thinking.

See you soon.
L’shanah Tovah Tikatayvu!

Rhetorical Strategies for Our Prayers

September 12th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In the world of rhetoric, The term ad hominem refers to a logical fallacy in which one attacks one’s opponent rather than the opponent’s argument. In the world of rhetoric, we are taught to identify this tactic and avoid it. If one’s goal is to be, in the words of Quintilian, “Vir bonus, dicendi peritus / “a good man speaking well,” one is urged to find other ways to persuade. Ad hominem arguments are beside the point and unfair.  

That being said, we often find ourselves practicing the opposite, trusting someone because we like him/her and not because the argument makes sense. Some have suggested that these arguments be called pro hominem, and we see them all the time in celebrity endorsements. A fun example is Peyton Manning, an outstanding quarterback, a seemingly very likable fellow, and an alumnus of my Mother-in-Law’s high school in New Orleans (Isidore Newman). Nonetheless, one wonders about his expertise in cars (Buicks), pizza (Papa John’s), and credit cards (MasterCard). (Regardless of what cards he uses, I cannot imagine his financial situation and needs being similar to the people hearing his advice.) Nonetheless, we like him, and his smile is very good for a number of businesses.  

We should understand the logical fallacy of such behavior, but it seems tied to the human thought process. We respond to people who are likeable, and we are not immune to using such pro hominem arguments when they can work to our advantage. Examples abound in our High Holy Day prayers where, throughout, we ask God to take into account Zechut Avot, the merit of our ancestors. Because our ancestors were faithful and pious, we hope that some of their credit will be transferred to us. We remind God that Abraham, our ancestor (!) was a personal friend of the Lord. In places like Avinu Malkaynu and the Shofar Service—as well as in every Avot v’Imahot we say, we remind God of our long-term family relationship and the fact that God has had mercy on our ancestors and us for centuries. Please, O Lord, given that our ancestors were eminently likeable and holy, and given that you have loved us for a long, long time, could you please go easy on us? 

Perhaps this speaks to a desperation in our human situation—that we are all woefully inadequate and in need of mercy. We are never as strong as we wish we could be, never as good as we hope to be, never as resilient as we need to be. We are all weak and vulnerable and in need of Divine Love. Tradition considers our plight and teaches us that God understands—that God looks at our many flaws with Infinite Chen/Grace, Rachamim/Compassion, and Ahavat Olam/Eternal Love. God knows our imperfections, for the Divine is a totally accurate Judge Who sees everything and Whose moral compass is unassailable. Indeed, if the world were judged alone on its imperfection and evil, it would merit immediate and complete destruction. However, God is also possessed of a remarkable measure of understanding and tolerance and genuine affection for us, and God’s compassion always overcomes God’s justice. Thus are we allowed to continue our existence and get another “second chance.” 

It is a poignant situation, and our prayers acknowledge this dynamic and invoke God’s kindness to us and our people. However, despite the delicacy of our position, why do we need to resort to rhetorical strategies before God? Why do we need to say such things—to use these ploys—when God already knows about our noble yichus (family relationships), the history of Divine compassion and love, and our own hopes for improvement? God already knows all of the words of our prayers and pleas—about Abraham’s faith and Rebecca’s faith and Moses’ holiness and Ruth’s determination and love. For what purpose do we recite things God already knows? 

A psychological hint can be derived from this week’s Torah portion, from the prayer of self-identification that our ancestors recited when they brought their first fruits to the Lord. Most of us are familiar with the passage from the Passover Seder, but its original context was at a harvest thanksgiving ritual:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

Were our ancestors reminding God of who they were—sort of like the way we identify ourselves to someone who has forgotten us or never paid attention to us, or could we look at these words of self-identification as reminders to ourselves of who we are? God already knows who we are, where we have been, etc., but do we remember? Do we remember the pivotal events in our lives—and the pivotal people and Influences? Do we remember what we represent—how we are the continuation of an ancient and continuing project in which Divine Energy and Goodness can be present in human life? 

Zechut Avot/the Merit of our Ancestors may be seen as a persuasive reminder for the Judge of All the World, but it can also be a reminder for us that we have holiness within. Zechut Avot means that we, like our ancestors, have noble possibilities and that we should have godly aspirations. Though we speak these words to God, the hope is that we listen to them ourselves. 

Pro hominem prayers are more than just cajoling. They are reminders that each of us can be a Vir Bonus, a good person, a Mensch, a vehicle that brings godliness to the world.

Words of Righteousness in Hard Times

September 6th: Ki Tetzay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion this week begins with words of war:
“When you take the field against your enemies…” (Deuteronomy 21.10)
In this passage—and in others in last week’s portion, the Torah attempts to guide us in the barbaric and desperate world of mortal combat.  

I have never been to war, and all I know about war comes from history books and movies. Some of the movies and books are exciting, but many of the movies and most of the history books are boring. Rather than a well-paced, excitement-filled Tom Clancy or Gregg Hurwitz thriller—or a James Bond or Jason Bourne movie, real war is complicated, plodding, full of factors and strategies and conflicting opinions—an undifferentiated mass of confusion and blood. My suspicion is that real war is akin to those endless battle scenes in Lord of the Rings, Saving Private Ryan, or Game of Thrones. Fighting and fighting and fighting and killing for hours and hours—or being killed, with comrades falling at your side and little sense of the dangers that almost randomly come at you. This is the Hell of warfare. And do not forget the other factors: supply lines, alliances, shifting alliances, political power-plays, misinformation, etc. All of these things are part of war, and their sheer complexity and multivalent shifting of sand makes war very difficult to discuss in soundbites, editorials, and sermons.  

Furthermore, even if someone has been to war, the perspective of being in the middle of a pitched life-or-death battle may not be overly helpful in understanding the larger vision that those in charge of wars must consider. For that perspective, we rely upon experts—line officers who have fought and supervised fighting and whose opinions are more reflective of the strategies and larger issues involved in warfare. The problem with them is that they have lots of different opinions about what is and should be happening. These experts are not always in agreement—and not always fully informed, and that puts those of us not-in-the-know still not-in-the-know. Though there is a lot of talk about war and how best to conduct it, it seems to me that a healthy dose of humility is important. A healthy dose of humility. 

Our Prophets look forward to peace:
“Lo yisa goy el goy cherev; lo yil’m’du od milchamah.
Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.”
 (Isaiah 2.4 and Micah 4.3).
However, the Torah also presents a resigned acceptance of the fact that wars happen—that they may sometimes be necessary. Though we hold up visions of peace, the fact is that such sentiments are prayers—idyllic dreams and poignant hopes that are, unfortunately, more Messianic than practical. Why? Because there are bad guys out there who are trying to hurt/conquer/kill us, and sometimes the only way to stop them is battle. War is not a good thing, but it is too often thrust upon us. It is not one of those blessings in life to which we look forward. But survival is better than death, and freedom is better than enslavement, and sometimes our love of peace cannot find fulfillment.  

In a kind of poignant parallel, our Torah portion also speaks with resigned acceptance of another unpleasant possibility in life, Divorce. Deuteronomy 24.1 is the passage where Judaism gets our operative Halachic approach:  “When a man takes a wife and possesses her,” and the marriage does not work, “and he writes her a bill of divorcement…”  
Though a terribly dramatic event in some people’s lives, the Torah is pretty matter-of-fact about the dissolution of a marriage. For the Rabbinic Sages, divorce is not a positive mitzvah—something that God commands us to do. But, in the unhappy situation of a failed marriage, God nonetheless expects us to behave with righteousness. Thus do the Rabbis of the Talmud derive and prescribe the various mitzvot incumbent upon divorcing parties. The mitzvah is not to divorce but to be holy in even sad and difficult circumstances. Over the ages, this concern with righteous behavior has continued, and many adaptations have been made to render the process fairer and more compassionate. The Reform and Conservative Movements have been at the forefront of these modern innovations, but one can also see progress in parts of the Orthodox world. 

Our Jewish approach is in marked distinction to the attitude of traditional Christianity. Theirs has traditionally been vehemently anti-divorce, and they have considered divorce to be a human rebellion against God’s decision. They take their opposition from a verse that appears twice in the New Testament, once in the Gospel of Mark (10.9) and another time in the Gospel of Matthew (19.6): “What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” Whereas Judaism sees marriage as a relationship between and managed by humans, Christianity sees the sanctification of marriage by the clerical officiant as essentially removing the marriage from human “ownership” and making it God’s. Rather than being something owned and administered by the husband and the wife, the marriage is considered the “property” of God—something the humans have no right to dissolve. History is full of the chaffing that such an attitude has caused—with the machinations of rich and powerful people who try to finesse the system, and the changes that some modern denominations have made. Nonetheless, it is curious to consider how differently our two different faith traditions approach the divide that sometimes opens up between our ideals and our realities.  

When it comes to both war and divorce, we are sometimes forced to deal with things we do not want—with things we would rather not have to do. Our dreams of both peace and a perfect marriage may be strong but sometimes dreams evaporate. What do we do? Judaism in both Torah and Talmud urges us to deal with our problems righteously. We do not deny the sad and tragic parts of life. We stand up and face the truth—and try to figure out the most righteous and holy ways to navigate life’s tragedies.

Justice!?

August 29th: Shof’tim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our Torah portion begins with a demand that public affairs be conducted honestly: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly; you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for brides blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20) 

Though public officials are generally “in charge,” we citizens pay attention and often find ourselves in animated discussions about the way public affairs are conducted. And among our concerns is the way our Justice System operates—whether and how it follows the Biblical mandate of, “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” (Though from a religious text, this mitzvah is certainly a part of the same “self-evident truths” that grounded our Declaration of Independence. It is a universal standard that transcends denominations and to which all should be held.) 

Thus, do we often find ourselves wondering about some of the decisions our modern American Shoftim/Judges render. Civil Rights advocates certainly wondered about Plessy vs. Ferguson’s approval of “Separate but Equal” public education. Conservatives were shocked and concerned over the “Judicial Activism” of the Warren Court. And for a variety of controversial decisions in recent years—Citizens United vs. Federal Election Commission, Shelby vs. Holder, Obergefell vs. Hodges, Dobbs vs. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, the Judiciary’s rulings have attracted a lot of attention, analysis, and heat. Is Justice being pursued, and what is our role in it?  

Years ago, political commentator Rush Limbaugh encouraged his listeners to demonstrate outside of the Supreme Court—to push the Justices to a particular conclusion. I remember being quite angry at his advice, seeing in it a fundamental misstatement of our Constitution’s Separation of Powers. The Court is supposed to rule on the Law and not to court public opinion. Unfortunately, the late Mr. Limbaugh was not the only person who thought of the Court in this manner. This kind of rhetoric shows up all the time—even though it is civically mistaken.  

If we are unhappy with a judicial ruling—be it a traffic ticket, criminal case, or something at the Appellate or Supreme Court level, there are three types of objections/questions to pose:
(1)   Were the judges corrupt—taking bribes, pandering to powers, letting personal agendas overrule the Law?
(2)   Were the legal principles applied correctly—or did the judges/justices ignore important and countervailing legal principles or precedents?
(3)   Or are we just unhappy with the ruling? Are our “philosophical” objections more expressions of anger than logical discussions of the Law?  

There is always the possibility of corruption. My teacher, Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, used to teach that laws are written for precipitating reasons—that someone somewhere must have behaved dishonestly or inappropriately—and that any law telling us to be honest and fair must have been written to guide us and restrain our less-than-noble tendencies. However, dishonesty is not the only reason one side loses a case. There could be (usually are?) legitimate legal bases. If we really believe that fairness is important, then we need to separate our anger and disappointment from the logical discussion of legal principles and applications.  

One of my old classmates, Law Professor and Dean Erwin Chemerinsky, has been unhappy of late with many Supreme Court opinions, and his dissenting columns often appear in the Centre Daily Times and other newspapers. However, he and other legal scholars (like Noah Feldman) generally stick to the Law—discussing the legal arguments and not merely complaining that their side lost. Like the dissenting opinions written by Supreme Court Justices, these arguments are disciplined and dispassionate and contribute to the development and rule of Law.  

This is markedly different from much political speech and writing that decries (or praises) judges and their decisions based on how the decisions affect various groups or individuals. If we are unhappy with policies, it is the Legislature which must change the Law. The Court system’s responsibility is not to write Law, but rather to rule on whether it is being followed and applied.  

A public display of this issue came up during the Confirmation Hearings for now-Justice Brett Kavanaugh. When it was her turn, then-Senator Kamala Harris criticized Judge Kavanaugh’s judicial opinions because he was not a Champion of the Poor: he had sided with wealthy corporations in cases involving poor people. For the future Vice-President, preparing to run for office and having a moment on national television, being a Champion of the Poor was important. However, it is not appropriate for a judge to take into consideration the relative wealth or poverty of litigants. As the Torah warns us: “You shall not render an unfair decision: do not favor the poor or show deference to the rich; judge your kinsman fairly!” (Leviticus 19.15)  

Though from a religious text, this Biblical standard seems pretty ubiquitous—“self-evident” and universal. Tzedakah/charity is clearly a vitally important mitzvah, but the courtroom is not the place for it. The courtroom is the place for procedure and fairness—for championing the Law and not favoring the poor or showing deference to the rich. The mitzvah of helping the poor is properly performed in other arenas—in social policy or charitable giving—and not in a place dedicated to the Law. This division of realms is crucial to our system, and it can often be seen when judges themselves work in both worlds—ruling on the Law in their courtrooms and engaging as private citizens in civic and charitable efforts. Both realms should be respected—and kept discrete. So, though there may have been other legitimate criticisms for then-Judge Kavanaugh, his judicial opinions on matters of Law—especially since they were on the Appellate Level—should have only been evaluated in re legal issues. 

Many of us may not like to see Vice-President Harris and Rush Limbaugh mentioned in the same sentence, but I believe that both were laboring under a mistaken understanding of the way the court system is supposed to work. The role of the justice system is to rule on the Law. If we are unhappy with its results, our system provides elections to affect both the Legislative and Executive branches. Though we may yearn for a “white knight” to rescue us, each branch is supposed to “stay in its own lane.” The Torah’s command of “Justice, justice you shall pursue” is multivalent. There is a lot of work to be done, and there are many roles—with both possibilities and limitations—in our holy and long-term project.

Prophecy?

August 22nd: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Theologically, this is a pivotal week in the Torah/Judaism dynamic. Whereas the Torah and the rest of the Bible are based on the belief that God speaks to humans, this week’s Torah portion contains the “cut-off valve” for Revelation and sets up some interesting developments in the ways we Jews determine God’s Will for us. 

The passage seems simple enough:
“If there appears among you a prophet or a dream-diviner and he gives you a sign or a portent, saying, ‘Let us follow and worship another god’—whom you have not experienced—even if the sign or portent that he named to you comes true, do not heed the words of that prophet or that dream-diviner. For the Lord you God is testing you to see whether you really love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul. Follow none but the Lord your God, and revere none but Him; observe His commandments alone, and heed only His orders; worship none but Him, and hold fast to Him. As for that prophet or dream-diviner, he shall be put to death…thus you will sweep out evil from your midst.” (Deuteronomy 13.2-6) 

If we accept the Biblical chronology—that the Book of Deuteronomy was written/transcribed by Moses around 1400-1200 BCE, then this is just a cautionary warning about potential false prophets. However, if we accept the Documentary Hypothesis and its attendant theories, the passage has a vastly different implication. The term Documentary Hypothesis generally refers to a group of theories about the origin of the Torah, theories teaching that the Torah is not a single document, written/transcribed by a single individual and promulgated at the end of Moses’ leadership and the beginning of the Conquest. The Hypothesis/hypotheses suggest that the Torah is a composite work, woven together from several pre-existing Israelite documents that were composed/compiled between 1000 BCE and 600 BCE—that these tribal traditions were put together and edited around 500 BCE when many Jews returned from the Babylonian Exile. These returning Judeans reconstructed Judaism and built the Second Temple, and, scholars theorize, uniting behind a sacred text that represented the many Hebrew and Israelite traditions was an important part of that reconstruction.  

Scholars identify four basic pre-existing documents, and the latest of them is the Book of Deuteronomy. The theory is this book was written around 620 BCE during King Josiah’s religious revival and “found” in a storage shed around the Temple. It purports to be the final message of Moses, but, curiously and suspiciously, it gives advice that resolves several current (circa 620 BCE) issues and challenges—among them, the proliferation of “prophets” who advocate a variety of different national and religious policies.  

In a tradition that believed in revelation—that God communicates mitzvot/instructions to N’vi’im/Prophets who then bring the words of God to the population, the proliferation of many and conflicting prophetic views was both unsettling and disruptive. How could the leadership or populace know what God really wanted them to do when lots of different “prophets” were coming in from the wilderness and opening their proposals with, “Thus saith the Lord?”   

As Dr. Ellis Rivkin used to observe, the Deuteronomy 13 False Prophet passage effectively eliminated all prophecy. If some felt that God has spoken to him/her, either (1) the “prophet” could give a message that went along with the ways things had been done—a message that was therefore unnecessary, or (2) the “prophet” could give a message that deviated from the tradition and therefore risk execution. The passage was intended to calm things down and prevent prophetic cacophony, but the Deuteronomy’s influence was interrupted and delayed when, some thirty years after it was “found,” the Babylonian Empire attacked Judah and Jerusalem. In 586 BCE, the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed, and a good portion of the population was exiled to Babylonia.  

When, some fifty years later, many of the Judeans returned from Babylonia, they began to rebuild Jerusalem and the Temple, but they were faced with lots of different proposals for reconstruction—proposals that claimed to be prophecies from the Lord. This is where the False Prophet/anti-prophecy passage found its purpose, as the leadership struggled to solidify plans and quell alternatives. Though we moderns may think in terms of democracy and free speech, the conditions of the return involved unswerving loyalty to Cyrus, the Shah-en-Sharan/Emperor of the Persian Empire. He allowed the Judeans to return, but they were “on a short leash” and the leaders (perhaps Ezra and Nehemiah) realized that anything perceived as rebellious or too independent could endanger the rebuilding project and their lives. 

Some of these  alternative proposals (different priestly leadership, a restoration of the Judean monarchy, questions about the necessity of sacrificial worship) still have remnants in some books of the Prophets, but the leadership felt the need to squash them, and the False Prophet passage seems to be part of the strong hand that they felt was necessary for Jewish survival.  

So, around 500 BCE, Prophecy stops. The traditional/Orthodox explanation is that God simply stopped speaking: all relevant instructions are written in the Torah, and there is no need for additional mitzvot. However, the view of modern scholarship is that Prophecy was squashed by the leadership and that they used Deuteronomy’s False Prophet passage in their unification efforts. Rather than jeopardize Judea’s and Judaism’s future, the leadership made Prophecy either unnecessary or dangerous, and this venerable institution of Israelite religion faded away.  

How do we know what God wants from us? Tradition insists that all of God’s instructions (mitzvot!) are in the Torah. Though the Rabbis of the Talmud insist on the non-admissibility of Heavenly intrusions into Rabbinic deliberations (“Lo bashamayim hi. It is not in the heavens!” from Deuteronomy 30.12 and Bava Metziah 59b), the fact is that the Rabbis’ Oral Torah offers significant enhancements and expansions of what the Torah prescribes. Then there is the Reform Jewish notion of Progressive Revelation, the belief that God “speaks” to us through the ongoing development of Judaism. It is not the same as literally hearing a voice from Heaven, but Liberal Judaism believes that study of Tradition and some accommodation to the modern world can help our ancient and continuing relationship with God thrive and prosper. Modern Judaism (Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist) holds that Tradition and modernity can enform each other—as can faith and science. We can live piously in all of these worlds, walking with God and cleaving to holiness.

Memory, Tradition, and Wisdom

August 15th: Eikev 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

There are two opinions regarding ancient memory and the way that traditions were passed down from one generation to another. One opinion says that the ancients were very exacting in their memorized teachings, with each teller repeating what he/she received without any deviations or editorial comments. The other opinion doubts this and questions how literal the ancients were in their stories and transmissions.  

Feeding these doubts is the fact that almost all ancient texts have different versions—with differences in names, in numbers, in terminology, and in other details in “copies” of the same text. This is true for The Iliad and The Odessey, and this is true for the books of the Bible, the Talmud, and the New Testament. Are these variances the result of scribal or oral errors—like the game of “Telephone,” where a message passed around the room changes?  Or could the notion of an original and authoritative version be a false assumption—a misunderstanding of the thinking the ancients brought to Tradition and how it is to be transmitted?   

First, let us consider the notion of accurate and complete reporting. When an event or conversation takes place, reporters inevitably choose which details to include, and which details are unnecessary or extraneous. We do not know, for example, what color socks Abraham Lincoln wore when he visited Gettysburg. Nor do we know what kind of sandals Moses took off when he beheld the burning bush. We do not know, and, according to those who reported the events, such details are unnecessary. Already and inevitably, there is a certain degree of editorial discretion. The idea of a total rendition of an event or a conversation is unrealistic. 

Second, there is the fact that reporters, composers, or writers often tell their stories differently as time goes on. It is not uncommon to find variant manuscripts of famous compositions or literary works—all in the hand of the originator. Sometimes Bach played his Minuet in A Minor one way, another times (and in other manuscripts), he added ornamentation or changed notes. The same can be said for Liszt who apparently performed his Hungarian Rhapsody #2 differently every time he did a concert. Add to this the proclivity of artists—like Vladimir Horowitz—who have their own preferences and feel empowered to “adjust” the arrangements of the famous pieces they perform. (For fun, check out the various versions of the Liszt classic on YouTube. There is a lot of variety, and the notion of a “real” version becomes elusive.) 

My lesson in this compositional flexibility came several years ago when I attempted to learn a hauntingly beautiful Avinu Malkaynu I had heard on a CD of traditional Spanish Jewish Music. When I could not locate sheet music, I consulted two well-known musicologists of Jewish Music. Both were kind, but both dismissed my search. The Tradition, they explained, was that every chazan between Constantinople and Casablanca had his own version of the piece, and that the most “traditional” thing I could do was to listen to the recording and then sing my own version. (This is the setting with which we open our High Holy Day prayers.) 

In other words, the notion of an authoritative version of almost any text turns out to be a conceit. Actual history shows multiple versions of pretty much every text, and this is significantly true for our sacred literature (Bible, Talmud, Midrash) as well. 

One variant shows up in this week’s Torah portion, in Moses’ recounting of Israel’s history. In Deuteronomy 10, he talks about the second set of the Ten Commandments—the set that replaces the first set that he destroys in front of the Golden Calf. In the Exodus 34 version of the story (the “original?”), we read God’s instructions: “Carve two tablets of stone like the first, and I will inscribe upon the tablets the words that were on the first set that you shattered.” There is no mention of an Ark to hold the tablets—presumably because the elaborate gold-covered Ark of the Covenant is being prepared by Bezalel and other artisans.  

However, when Moses retells the story in Deuteronomy 10, there is a change: “The Lord said to me, ‘Carve out two tablets of stone like the first, and come up to Me on the mountain, and make an ark of wood.’” Moses does so and goes up the mountain. After God carves the second set with the same words as the first set, Moses remembers, “I went down from the mountain, and I deposited the tablets in the ark that I had made—where they still are, as the Lord commanded me.” (Deuteronomy 10.1-5) Still there? What about the elaborate Ark of the Covenant—which the Torah describes in great detail, and which presumably holds the tablets?   

The Bible has dozens of such inconsistencies—what Rashi calls koshis, and what we do with them is fascinating. The Sages use them to create Midrash, stories that comment on all sorts of peripherally/tangentially related subjects. Skeptics and heretics see them as proof that the Bible is untrue. Modern Biblical scholars use such inconsistencies to prove that the Torah is not a single work written by a single Writer/writer at a single time—that it is a composite text, woven together from several ancient scrolls.  

However, another way of looking at the inconsistencies is to reconfigure the way we understand the ancient practice of telling stories. Are the details important in and of themselves, or are they just settings for larger lessons? As I understand it, many of our ancient stories may be similar to the way modern jokes are created and transmitted. I am talking about those in which three people encounter a situation and respond in different ways. The first two always have conventional responses, but it is the third one who provides the amusement/the punch line. The identities of the first two are arbitrary—an Irishman, and Italian, a Cajun, etc. The key is the identity of the third person, whose amusing response somehow springs from his/her ethnic or professional identity. In such stories, the first two are merely set-ups for the third person, and their identifications can be changed without materially affecting the point of punch-line. The point is the punch line, not the details of the set-up. 

So, when we see two different Creation Stories in Genesis, or three versions of the Noah and the Ark story, focusing on the differences/discrepances may be beside the point—may be looking inappropriately at stories unconcerned about historicity. The point of the stories are theological and ethical lessons—how admirable people encounter the challenges of life and figure out their best responses. Wisdom is the goal, not a recitation of the details. In other words, inerrancy and literalism should be off the table in considering ancient texts, and we should look at texts like Deuteronomy not as false (or true) narratives but as literary meditations on our relationship possibilities with God and our fellow humans.

One More Chance for Moses to Inspire

August 1st: Devarim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though every death is sad, there is something about the death (and finitude) of our heroes that touches our hearts. Thus is there a profound sadness when we read about the death of Aaron:
“Aaron the priest ascended Mount Hor at the command of the Lord and died there, in the fortieth year after the Israelites had left the Land of Egypt, on the first day of the fifth month. Aaron was a hundred and twenty-three years old when he died on Mount Hor.” (Numbers 33.38-39: this is a repetition of the narrative in Numbers 20.27-29) 

It is also nearing the end of the road for Moses. God tells him in Numbers 20 (v.12), “You shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them,” and then gets more specific while also ordering the war against the Midianites: “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin.” (Numbers 31.1-2) Moses’ days are numbered, but he is not quite finished. He takes the little time remaining to him and gives a final set of lessons to his beloved Israelites: the Book of Deuteronomy which begins with, “These are the words that Moses addressed to all Israel on the other side of the Jordan…” (Deuteronomy 1.1) He hopes that reminding them of their history will help guide them into their future. 

As with all histories and reminiscences, there is a certain amount of editorial “spin.” Instead of just stating the facts, Moses adds in comments and lessons. One might worry about such interpretations until one realizes that all histories and stories—even the ones told in Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers—are the products of editorial decisions. Someone—whether Divine or human—decided which of the millions of things that happened in the world and in the lives of our ancestors should be included in the Torah—and how it should be told. Everything included involved a decision by God or human storytellers or editors, and every one of these decisions  had a purpose. Our job, as Children of the Covenant, is to study the holy words, try to understand their purposes, and find wisdom.  

As we mentioned last week, the Jewish way is to study Torah—not simply believe it. Rather than a literal record of God’s words to us, Torah is best understood as a locus for accessing the Divine. As Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradion put it: “When two people sit together and exchange words of Torah, the Divine Presence dwells with them.” (Avot 3.2)  

The dynamic of Torah study is fascinating. One approach suggests that every word of Torah has four meanings. Another says that every word of Torah has seventy meanings! Indeed, the Torah grows and grows with each generation. There is even this rather incredible story:
“Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: When Moses ascended on High, he found the Holy One, Blessed be He, sitting and drawing crowns on the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, why are You giving the Torah these additions? God said to him: There is a man who is destined to be born after several generations, and Akiva ben Yosef is his name. He is destined to derive from each and every thorn of these crowns mounds upon mounds of halachot. It is for his sake that the crowns must be added to the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, show him to me. God said to him: Turn around. Moses found himself at the end of the eighth row in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall and did not understand what they were saying. Moses’ strength waned, as he thought his Torah knowledge was deficient. When Rabbi Akiva arrived at the discussion of one matter, his students said to him: My teacher, from where do you derive this? Rabbi Akiva said to them: It is a halachah transmitted to Moses from Sinai. When Moses heard this, his mind was put at ease, as this too was part of the Torah that he was to receive.” (Menachot 29b)
Our Tradition represents Progressive Revelation, a Divinely inspired process in which we study God’s words and reflect on how they fit into the world. It is a developmental process in which God’s wisdom flows and grows and is enhanced by reality and human wisdom. 

This is where we get back to Moses and his farewell lectures and interpretations. Rather than simply repeat what happened in the past, Moses enhances the stories with what he considers pertinent insights. Two examples can be found in his restating of the Sabbath Commandment, Number Four from Ten Commandments in Exodus 20. The Exodus version begins with: “Zachor: Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy,” but Moses retells it in Deuteronomy as: “Shamor: Observe/Guard the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.” A Midrash tries to resolve the difference by suggesting that God’s miraculous Voice says one word that the Israelites hear as two words, Zachor and Shamor. (This Midrash is mentioned in the first verse of Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz’s famous poem, Lecha Dodi: “Shamor v’zachor bedibbur echad. Guard and remember in one single word.) However, we can also look at the difference as an attempt by Moses to persuade the Israelites of the importance of Shabbat: Merely remembering Shabbat is not enough; we must observe this holy time that God gives us—practicing it and guarding it against the distractions that can decrease our joy in the Divine. 

There is also the difference in God’s rationale for Shabbat. According to Exodus, God establishes Shabbat in remembrance and celebration of Ma’aseh V’raysheet, the Work of Creation: “For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the sabbath day and hallowed it.” However, Moses takes the opportunity to remind everyone of another significant and perhaps more personal connection: “Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe (to do) the sabbath day.” Moses urges memory, empathy, and compassion: since we were slaves, we should have compassion for our own servants and give them the day off. 

As Moses nears the end of his days, he remains steadfast in his faith in God and in the developmental holiness which he has worked so hard to inspire. With his final words, he hopes that his people, the Children of Israel, will rise to the occasions presented to them and continue to bring forth holiness.

The Messages and "Truths" of Torah

July 25th: Matot/Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our relationship with Torah is complex—with some passages speaking of truths whose profundity takes the breath away, and other passages troubling us deeply. We are taught to revere both the document and the relationship it represents (with God!), and we speak of Torah as the channel of truth and holiness from Heaven to Earth. And yet, when the text talks about slavery or the legal inferiority of women, many of us feel ambivalence. Do we take such passages literally? Do we still follow them? Do we consider them infallible instructions from God—or are they time-bound and culture-bound ideas of our ancient ancestors who were putting their customs into God’s mouth? Do such passages perhaps need interpretation? 

While the Reform Movement has been straightforward about disagreeing with (or interpreting out) such passages—making women completely equal with men, removing some of the ancient “purity” rituals, and formally welcoming LGBT+ individuals into the embrace of Judaism, even the Orthodox struggle with many passages. When the Torah says that only men can initiate divorce, Orthodox authorities can “urge” bad husbands to grant their wives divorces by various measures of persuasion (including physical intimidation and incarceration). While Torah insists that no fires burn on Shabbat, the Rabbis found loopholes (arranged workarounds) so as to allow fires lit before Shabbat to burn on into the Sabbath and provide warmth, hot meals, and Oneg Shabbat/Enjoyment of the Sabbath.  

My favorite example in walking back a problematic text is not from the Torah, but it is nonetheless instructive. In the Mishnah, Pirke Avot 1.5, Yossi ben Yochanan of Jerusalem says, “Do not talk to your wife too much.” Other translations expand it to, “Do not talk too much to women.” The problematic-ness of such a statement is staggering, and later readers are both struck by and stuck with a part of our sacred Tradition that cannot possibly be God’s word. Nonetheless it is there, and commentators struggle to interpret it (away). Rashi says that it only refers to one’s wife during her monthly period—that a husband should not bother her then. Maimonides treats “talking” as a euphemism for sexual activity and urges men not to let such thoughts dominate their thinking. (And the modern Sage Selma Harris teaches that this means that men should not presume to tell their wives how to run the household and do the cooking. Women know what they are doing and do not need the meddlesome assistance.) In any event, what we have is an outlandish statement that, whatever its meaning in the Second Century, needs to be contextualized and re-read. 

I mention such problematic verses because this week’s Torah portion presents a real doozy. In Numbers 33, we have one of several places where the Israelites are commanded to totally destroy the non-Israelite population of Canaan:
“When you cross the Jordan into the land of Canaan, you shall dispossess all the inhabitants of the land; you shall destroy all their figured objects (idols); you shall destroy all their molten images, and you shall demolish their cult places.” (Number 33.51-52) 

Earlier in the portion, we read about the total destruction of Midian and all of its population (except unmarried women). It is a bloodthirsty business, and yet these and other campaigns are cast as mitzvot from the Lord. In the case of the Midianites, the term used is vengeance. “Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites.” (Numbers 31.2) There are even statistics of the number of people killed and the number of people enslaved.  

Such instructions and records give us pause—until we realize that such destructions never happened. Though Numbers and Joshua record staggering destruction, there is no archeological record of this kind of invasion or devastation. And, according to the Biblical books that follow (Judges, Samuel, Kings, and the Prophets), all those “destroyed” nations and tribes were still around and neighbors of the Israelites for centuries. Why else would the Prophets rage about the idolatrous temptations they proffered? Why else would the Mishnah discuss how Israelite interactions with pagan neighbors could potentially enable idolatry? Why else would book after book and story after story talk about Israelites interacting—and sometimes marrying (Ruth!) non-Israelites? According to both the Bible and the archeological record, the Israelites moved into the Land of Israel and lived among and near the Canaanites, Moabites, Perizzites, Hittites, etc. It was a multi-ethnic, multi-faith society. 

In other words, the passages that command the destruction of the inhabitants and that record such destructions seem to be inaccurate. Why are they in the text? Could they be reflections of later generations finding “bragging rights”—discovering ferocity in their ancestors that bolstered their self-esteem? Could they be hyperbole attempting to turn a peaceful, generations-long migration into something victorious? We can only imagine the reasons for such inaccurate claims, but one thing we do know is that the various parts of the Bible were edited several times over the course of the centuries. Who knows how/why later generations enhanced the ancient stories—finding greatness, rooting traditions, expressing aspirations, or pre-resolving current conflicts?  

Another thing we know is that hyperbole and other figures of speech are used throughout the Biblical text. From Abel’s blood “crying out from the ground where it was spilled” in Genesis 4.10, to Abraham “falling on his face” in Genesis 17.3, to “ALL the people answering as one” in accepting the Covenant in Exodus 19.8, we see the Bible as very capable of using non-literal literary techniques to communicate its message. Indeed, perhaps this is a way to understand the scientifically improbable Six-Day Creation Story. Perhaps it is not meant as a literal record but rather as a theological summary of an obviously much more complex process. Whenever we read something improbable, it is useful to think of how it could be a metaphor or hyperbole for something else. 

The Biblical text presents us with a variety of messages—and some are to be taken more literally than others. Some are to be taken as timeless truths that emerge from our relationship with the Divine, and others are to be taken as human glosses inserted for a variety of less-than-heavenly purposes. This is why we study Torah—as opposed to simply believing it. Rather than a literal record of God’s words to us, Torah is best understood as a locus for accessing the Divine. As Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradion put it: “When two people sit together and exchange words of Torah, the Divine Presence dwells with them.” (Avot 3.2)

“Shopping for Prophets/Rabbis,” Part II

July 18th: Pinchas
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we (and King Balak of Moab) learned that God’s Prophets are not for hire. A Prophet (in Hebrew Navi, one who brings the word of God) can only prophesy what God tells him/her. So, though Balak tries to pay the Prophet Balaam to curse the Israelites, God orders a blessing, and that is just what Balaam does: “Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov, mish’kenotecha, Yisrael! How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob; your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24.5) 

That is the nature of Prophecy, but Halachah (Jewish Law) is a different kind of endeavor—one in which the already revealed wisdom of God must be understood, interpreted, and then applied to the vagaries and idiosyncrasies of human life. Sometimes Halachah is just followed, but sometimes adaptations are necessary. A case in point comes this week in Numbers 27 when Zelophechad, an Israelite who has already been assigned his piece of land in Eretz Yisrael, dies without a male heir. Though he leaves five daughters, the Biblical understanding is that daughters do not inherit. They are “taken care of” by marrying and then sharing in their husbands’ inheritances. So, when Zelophechad dies and does not have a son, his allotment in the Promised Land is forfeit—a situation his five daughters find unjust. Thus do Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milcah, and Tirzah approach Moses and ask for a Halachic adjustment: “Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen.” (Numbers 27.4) 

Moses consults God, and the final answer comes in Numbers 36 where the Lord essentially functions as the Posek (Halachic Judge). Modeling what is later called the Rabbinic or Talmudic Process, God looks into the matter, consults the affected parties, and issues a Halachic decision: The daughters do inherit their father’s allotment, but they must marry husbands from their own tribe, Manasseh, lest Manasseh land be controlled/owned by husbands from another tribe. It seems a just and straightforward solution, but more important is the dynamic: The Halachah gives a rule but following it in this case will be problematic. Someone complains to the authorities, and a Posek finds a way to adapt the Halachic principles and apply them with both righteousness and compassion. For some 2000 years, this how the Sages, Rabbis, and Poskim have worked for and with Jewish Law. Sometimes Torah is to be followed. Other times, it requires interpretation.  

Important in this process is approaching Halachah case-by-case, recognizing that changes in circumstances may require adjustments in practice. Last week, I mentioned an example taught by Reb Zalman about a Rabbi applying different degrees of strictness to people with different financial abilities. Similarly do some Rabbis prescribe adaptations based on different levels of knowledge and ability. When it comes to children, adults with intellectual or physical disabilities, or adult students working on their spirituality, the usually definitive rules for worship and prayer may be adapted. As much as Halachah involves obeying God, it is also a practical endeavor where Rabbis have room to focus more on what is helpful than on what is prescribed. 

Some adjustments are necessary because Halachah is not working as it is intended. 2000 years ago, Hillel noticed a problem with lenders, borrowers, and the seven-year Sabbatical Year Cycle. Since all debts were to be cancelled in the Sabbatical Year, lenders were reluctant to make loans as it approached. Even though the Torah prohibits such reluctance, they worried about getting their money back, and their hesitations made it difficult for borrowers to find needed funds. Hillel resolved the issue by altering the rules: instead of tying all loans to the standard Sabbatical Year Cycle, each loan was assigned its own seven-year cycle, giving a borrower six full years to repay a debt—and lenders better chances to be repaid. Called the Prosbul, Hillel changed the  “letter of the law” in order to better serve the “spirit of the law” and solve a problem.  

Of course, different human interpreters mean different interpretations—and Jewish Tradition is full of cases where one Rabbi disagrees with another. Some differences seem to stem from the personalities and dispositions of the Rabbis being asked, while others seem to be based on the Rabbis’ relative comfort with individuality and flexibility. Is flexibility a good strategy for Jewish observance and survival, or does it court danger and communal collapse? There are many examples of such disagreements, but one I find delightfully curious took place in Germany in the mid-19th Century. Some Orthodox Rabbis approved the modern style of men wearing short suitcoats, while others insisted that men’s suitcoats remain knee-length lest Jewish observance and survival be compromised. 

Our Tradition of multiple opinions is enshrined in the Mishnah and Talmud: minority opinions are recorded, respected, and often quoted in subsequent discussions. Thus do some modern disagreements continue ancient differences of opinion. This was the case in the early 20th Century when two prominent Orthodox Rabbis disagreed about the Kashrut of Coca Cola. Back then, the soft drink’s recipe included meat-based glycerin, a by-product of non-Kosher meat processing. One Rabbi ruled that the non-Kosher ingredient renders the beverage non-Kosher. However, another leading Orthodox Rabbi cited a Talmudic principle about substances being existentially transformed by chemical processing—and held that the animal-based glycerin had been changed from meat to merely a chemical—making the glycerin’s origin irrelevant and Coca Cola perfectly Kosher. Though diametrically opposed, both opinions were strictly Orthodox and based on ancient Halachic precedent. The Orthodox community was passionately divided on the subject until a change in ingredient-sourcing put the matter to rest. Coca Cola began using vegetable derived glycerin, and it has been unanimously Kosher ever since.  

A similar intra-Orthodox controversy created tension a hundred years earlier. During a time of real estate shortages and construction difficulties, some Orthodox congregations considered buying old church buildings. One Orthodox Rabbi ruled the possibility Kosher, ruling that former Christian worship places could be repurposed as synagogues. However, another Orthodox Rabbi prohibited such re-consecrations, and he cited Talmudic passages (Avodah Zara) about Jews not being too involved with their idolatrous neighbors. Are churches places of idolatry? Do such ancient categories still apply? Whatever the conclusion of each Posek, both were Orthodox, and both based their rulings on Halachic precedent. Thus were those new congregations put in a position of “Rabbi shopping,” looking for a Rabbi whose rulings they would choose to obey.  

The Halachic conversations continue in each generation, and the arguments take place both between our “denominations” and within them. Lots of Jews. Lots of principles. Lots of opinions. Above it all, however, is the One God Who watches, Who cares, and Who is endlessly patient.

"Shopping for Prophets/Rabbis," Part I

July 11th: Balak
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

There is an old joke about a fellow who goes to the local Rabbi and asks if he can become a Kohayn. Inasmuch as Priestly status is hereditary—passed down from father to son and going all the way back to Aaron the High Priest, the Rabbi tries to explain that one cannot be made into a Kohayn. The man is persistent and asks if a $10,000 donation to the synagogue will make the transformation possible. The Rabbi is both shocked and perplexed and tries explaining again. “I cannot make someone into a Kohayn. Either you are or you are not.” The man thanks the Rabbi but does not relent. “What if I were to make a $20,000 donation to the synagogue? Would that help?” Trying to maintain his composure, the Rabbi again explains the hereditary and Halachic facts. Undeterred, the man continues, “Rabbi, what if I made a $25,000 donation to the synagogue and a personal gift to you of $20,000?” The Rabbi hesitates and then says, “I’ll see what I can do.” At this point, the man breathes a sigh of relief: “This is wonderful. My father was a Kohayn. My grandfather, alav hashalom, was a Kohayn. And now I can be one, too.” 

There are those who think that they can cajole, pressure, or even bribe people in authority—police officers, judges, politicians, and even clergy—to get what they want, and our Torah portion this week gives an early example. 

King Balak of Moab is scared out of his wits at the approaching Israelites and, rather than making friends with them, decides to have them cursed. He sends emissaries to a well-known Prophet, Balaam son of Zippor, and offers him the job: “There is a people that came out of Egypt; it hides the earth from view, and it is settled next to me. Put a curse upon this people for me. (Numbers 22.5-6)  

King Balak thinks that a Prophet can be hired and directed, but Balaam knows better. As a  Navi/Prophet, he can only announce what God tells him to say. So, when he hears the king’s proposition, Balaam says that he will have to sleep on it—and see what the Lord says. The Lord answers him in a dream: “Do not go with them. Do not curse that people, for they are blessed.”  

The king does not accept Balaam’s refusal and sends more messengers and more incentives. Though they offer great riches for cursing the Israelites, Balaam explains that he can only prophesy messages from God. He does agree, however, to ask God again—something God apparently does not appreciate. In this next dream, Balaam is given permission to accompany the Moabites but is reminded that he must only prophesy what God tells him.  

This is when God starts playing with Balaam and utilizes a miraculous creation. As Balaam is riding along on his she-donkey, God places a sword-bearing angel in their way, but only the donkey can see it. Balaam does not understand why his donkey keeps deviating from the path and gets angrier and angrier. Finally, when the angel blocks the way completely, the donkey sits down and refuses to budge. Furious, Balaam beats his donkey and threatens to kill it. “Then the Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and she said to Balaam, ‘What have I done to you that you have beaten me…? (Numbers 22.28) Then the Lord opens Balaam’s eyes, and he sees what the donkey has been seeing all along. Chagrin and remorse ensue, Balaam learns his lesson, and he ends up blessing the Israelites instead of cursing them:
“Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov, mish’kenotecha, Yisrael!
How beautiful are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel!” (Numbers 24.5) 

The Book of Numbers also records several additional prophecies of Balaam, indications that he has a continuing relationship with God. In fact, as the Midrash explains, Balaam eventually achieves a rank parallel to Moses. Moses is God’s Prophet for the Israelites, while Balaam is God’s Prophet for the Gentiles. God wants all people to know the Divine Will, and thus God appoints and communicates through Prophets for both Israel and God’s other nations.

Prophets are not the same as Rabbis. Prophets merely repeat what God speaks to them, but Rabbis work with a less direct set of instructions. Though the Torah and the Talmud are full of God’s wisdom and wishes, humans must apply the holy texts to the practicalities of life—and this involves interpreting God’s words so that we can live just and Jewish lives. In the Talmudic discussions of Halachah (Jewish Law), the principles and general rules are always considered in the context of the cases under review. In these case-by-case discussions, the Rabbis weigh how best Halachah is to be applied—and often find that differing circumstances make adjustments necessary.   

An excellent example comes from Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi and the way he used to discuss and teach rebbe-craft—how Rabbis rabbi. Let us say that two women come to the local rabbi to ask about the kashrut of an egg with a blood spot. The Halachah says that a blood spot in an egg renders it non-kosher, but how big does a spot/dot have to be before it is officially a blood spot? When the questioning woman is wealthy, the rabbi may be more inclined to be strict and identify it as a blood spot and disqualify the egg. But, when the questioning woman is poor, the rabbi may be more inclined to rule that the spot is not big enough to be disqualifying. At one level, the Halachah is definitive. However, at another level, the Rabbi is aware of the women’s relative abilities to access more eggs. Since the wealthy woman can easily buy another egg, it is better to err on the side of caution. But, since the poor woman may not be able to cook dinner if the egg in question is not kosher, the Rabbi considers the case with compassion and is more inclined to be less cautious and more flexible.  

This is not to say that there are no Halachic standards, but the ritual rules are understood as means to an end: techniques for living in the Presence of God and for finding a balance between justice and compassion.   

Next week, we shall continue this conversation and look at:
(1)   How the “case law” approach of the Talmud and Responsa Literature leads to interpretations that combine both the general rules of Halachah and the particular needs of individual situations.
(2)   How differences of opinion in the ancient Halachic texts of Torah and Talmud result in differences of opinion in modern Halachic rulings. We shall also mention the phenomenon of “rabbi shopping,” where people search for Rabbinic authorities who agree with them.

Legends and Myths and How We Use Them

July 4th: Chukat and The Fourth of July
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion this week brings us into the stuff of legends—not of greatness told in legendary fashion, but of something simple spun into a rarified version and grand vision. The simple situation is the Biblical Red Heifer Ritual (Numbers 19), a curious mitzvah in which unholy things become holy. Note both the logic and the illogic:  
“Instruct the Israelite people to bring you a perfect red cow, in which there is no defect/blemish and on which no yoke has been laid. You shall give it to Eleazar the priest. It shall be taken outside the camp and slaughtered in his presence. Eleazar the priest shall take some of its blood with his finger and sprinkle it seven times toward the front of the Tent of Meeting. The cow shall be burned in his sight—its hide, flesh, and blood shall be burned, its dung included—and the priest shall take cedar wood, hyssop, and crimson stuff, and throw them into the fire consuming the cow.  

The priest shall wash his garments and bathe his body in water; after that, the priest may reenter the camp, but he shall be impure until evening. The one who performed the burning shall also wash his garments in water, bathe in water, and be impure until evening. A man who is clean shall gather up the ashes of the cow and deposit them outside the camp in a clean place, to be kept for water of lustration for the Israelite community. It is for ritual cleansing. (Numbers 19.2-9): 

In this pre-ritual ritual, the ancients prepare heifer ashes that will be used in future rituals of purification. The curious/illogical thing about it is that something repeatedly declared tame’/ unclean (the remains of the cow) becomes the agent for cleansing. How can something unclean make something else clean? The simple answer is that God decrees it. If God says it, it is so! Remember that the most important thing in rituals is how they connect us to God, and this means that following God’s instructions may be more important than any logical framework our mortal minds try to impose. The essential component of any ritual is how (and whether) it connects us with the Divine.  

In Temple times, this Red Heifer Ritual was not done on any regular schedule; it would only become necessary when the supply of cow ashes was used up. Of course, as with the other sacrifices, this preparatory ritual has not been performed since the Temple was destroyed. 

In modern times, however, some Messianic hopers—both Jewish and Christian— believe that breeding a red heifer will hasten the coming of the Messiah. If they can prepare for the rebuilding of the Temple and the reinstitutions of the sacrificial system, then they believe that God will send the Messiah. Toward this goal, a number of farmers have been working to breed a red heifer that can ritually be turned into ashes. Over the last several decades, a number of calves have been born completely red, but they have all developed some non-red hairs over the course of their first year—and thus have they been ruled “lo temimah/not perfect” and possessing a “mum/blemish.” I suspect that this is very different from Biblical times where the term “red heifer” probably meant a cow that was mostly red—or almost all red. After the Temple was destroyed, however, the Rabbis took a simple agricultural situation and elevated it to a Messianic (i.e., impractical) level. They interpreted “perfect” and “without blemish” to mean that every single hair on the cow’s body had to be totally and purely red. No black hairs. No blond hairs. All red! Inasmuch as they looked to a miracle as the only way the Temple would ever be rebuilt, they elevated a simple rule and rarified it beyond both reasonability and actual ancient practice. Claiming that there were totally red heifers in Biblical times, the Sages of the Talmud entered the realm of legends and took part of our religion out of practicality and into myth. Like Gilgamesh the King or the Golem of Prague or Paul Bunyan, such stories reflect our ideals and hopes but not our practical realities.  

Myths are significant in the human psyche, and they can be both helpful and a snare. They are helpful in expressing our paideia, our cultural ideals, and in fostering hopeful expectations. They can become snares, however, when we take them too seriously and forget that they are symbolic and aspirational—and not real goals that we should reach or have reached. In the case of the Red Heifer, the rarefication of insisting that every single hair be red means that preparing for the Temple ritual becomes impossible. And, if someone were to be serious about rebuilding the Temple, then perhaps a retreat from the myth would be necessary and helpful. There are times for myths, and there are times for practicality.  

I believe that this distinction is worth some thought this week of July 4th. Our United States of America has some wonderful mythic visions—that we are an exceptional nation with great and holy potential. Such mythic visions are powerful, inspiring, and spiritually innervating. They are at the center of our national spirit, and those who attack them often face vigorous and defensive responses—as though their criticism attacks what is good and pure in our potential. Thoughtful American realize that we are not and have never been perfect—that our sainted past was populated by imperfect people dealing with complex and controversial issues, and that the issues were not always resolved judiciously or well. However, we remain convinced that our nation’s promise—“conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal”—is exceptional and that we have potential for good. Within every misstep and tragedy, every sin and foible, lies the lessons of our national experience, the areas where noble ideals should spur us on to expand our understanding of what it means to be fully human and truly free. The genius of our Founding Fathers is that they established a democratic opportunity for national-formation and self-improvement. With every step along the way of offering the blessings of liberty to an ever-increasing set of individuals, we grow into the American dream. Ours is a mythic vision that our nation can partner with The Creator in blessing our inhabitants with “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness,” and thus our national mission is to bring these blessings to fruition. What is exceptional are our possibilities and the governmental mechanisms with which we craft our republic. We have made many steps toward our aspirations—and Independence Day calls on us to muster our moral strengths and continue on this holy path.

Two Views of Korach (and Reform Judaism)

June 27th: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In the Land of Israel, the Reform-versus-Orthodox Debate is ubiquitous and can break out in the most unexpected of places. Whether in grocery checkout lines or cafes, all one has to mention is that one is a Reform Rabbi, and the debate is on—with total strangers getting very involved. In one case, all it took was studying Mishna bare headed in a laundromat. The owner insisted that a yarmulke should be worn when studying holy texts, and, after a vigorous discussion, the Reform rabbinical student was banned from the laundromat (and had to do laundry in the bathtub). It is worse for female Rabbis who have to deal with both the Reform-vs.-Orthodox debate and the fact that modern Hebrew lacks an accepted word for female rabbis.  

For many of us, it is more convenient to avoid the debate and travel incognito. But there are times when one encounters ugly remarks about Reform Judaism that the temptation to argue is intense. To wit, here is an argument I did not have then and there—in an ultra-Orthodox synagogue near Jerusalem, but one that a more receptive audience may find interesting.  

It was the week of Korach (Numbers 16), and the Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) Rabbi’s D’var Torah made a point of calling Korach the “original Reform Jew.” Korach, as you may remember, is the evil rebel who attempts to overthrow Moses but who is instead swallowed alive by an earthquake. Perhaps I should not have been surprised, but hearing the claim that Korach and Reform Jews “hate God and Judaism” was a shocking reconfiguration of the Biblical story.  

As the Torah tells it, Korach is unhappy with the prominence of his cousins, Moses and Aaron, and mounts a rebellion claiming to be a champion of democracy and equal opportunity. He accuses them of taking unfair advantage of their leadership positions. “You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?” Though Korach already has high status as a Levite, he wants more, and he gathers some 250 followers for his rebellion. 

Judging Korach’s true motivation is tricky. His words seem to be calling for equality, but he could be using democratic rhetoric to seize power. He could be striving for egalitarianism, or he could be, like George Orwell’s Napoleon the Pig, orchestrating a new regime where “all animals are equal, but some (like him!) are more equal than others.”  

It is not a difficult decision for God—God Who knows Korach’s heart and Who squashes the rebellion with extreme prejudice. As Moses prophesies: “By this you shall know that it was the Lord who sent me to do all these things; that they are not of my own devising. If these men (Korach and his followers) die as all men do, if their lot be the common fate of all mankind, it was not the Lord Who sent me. But if the Lord brings about something unheard-of, so that the ground opens its mouth and swallows them up with all that belongs to them, and they go down alive into Sheol, then you shall know that these men have spurned the Lord.” The Israelites do not have to wait long. “Scarcely had he finished speaking…when the ground under Korach and his followers burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up…” (Numbers 16.28-32) Tradition takes a hint from God’s response and thus judges Korach as insincere and manipulative—as well as greedy, immodest, and bent on tyranny. 

Many Orthodox people consider us Reform Jews “enemies of Judaism” because their official position is that every word of both the Written Torah (Bible) and the Oral Torah (Talmud) were given to Moses at Mount Sinai—and that every jot and tittle of Judaism is exactly the same today as it was back then. Even though the holy texts bely this party line, they persist in the belief that their Rabbis’ decrees are exactly what the Lord God wants them to do. We, however, know better. In the Liberal streams of Judaism—Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist, we know that Judaism has undergone a number of reformations and reformulations over the millennia, the most significant being the move from Biblical Judaism to Rabbinic/Talmudic Judaism. We know that whatever God said back then has been filtered through centuries of human thinking and religious creativity. We Liberal Jews love God and understand Jewish history for what it is: the continuing effort of an ancient and continuing people to approach, understand, and learn to live in a conscious relationship with the One God of the Universe.  

I am not saying that the Orthodox do not love God, but their love for God is impossible to separate from their allegiance to Rabbinic authority. When confronted with some of Tradition’s problematic baggage—timebound and culture-bound thoughts and practices that are ungodly, Liberal Judaism helps Tradition improve itself, while Orthodox Judaism too often stands on Scriptural and Talmudic inerrancy and thus rejects out-of-hand new levels of holiness and wisdom. When beset with a choice between Rabbinic authority and making Judaism more holy, the Orthodox too often choose Rabbinic authority, and it is disappointing. 

The real conflict is not between God and Reform Judaism; it is between the Orthodox approach to Jewish Tradition and the path of Jewish religious development that is clearly reflected in our most holy documents. We are not like Korach and do not deny God or God’s authority in the world. What we are is open-minded enough to perceive Judaism’s developmental process: that we Jews have worked and crafted our religion to get closer and closer to God.  

An example of Tradition’s self-awareness and developmental dynamic is found in the Talmud (Menachot 29b). Even Moses’ words are not God’s final or definitive message.
“Rav Yehuda says that Rav says: When Moses ascended on High, he found the Holy One, Blessed be He, sitting and drawing crowns on the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, why are You giving the Torah these additions? God said to him: There is a man who is destined to be born after several generations, and Akiva ben Yosef is his name. He is destined to derive from each and every thorn of these crowns mounds upon mounds of halachot. It is for his sake that the crowns must be added to the letters of the Torah. Moses said before God: Master of the Universe, show him to me. God said to him: Turn around. Moses found himself at the end of the eighth row in Rabbi Akiva’s study hall and did not understand what they were saying. Moses’ strength waned, as he thought his Torah knowledge was deficient. When Rabbi Akiva arrived at the discussion of one matter, his students said to him: My teacher, from where do you derive this? Rabbi Akiva said to them: It is a halachah transmitted to Moses from Sinai. When Moses heard this, his mind was put at ease, as this too was part of the Torah that he was to receive.”

B'midbar / In the Wilderness

June 6th: B’midbar (continued) and Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

B’midbar, the Book of Numbers, tells stories from our forty years of wandering bamidbar, in the wilderness. Though the wilderness experience has its own sense of isolation, our people live alone in a very large group. The Torah says 600,000, but the Midrash claims 2,500,000! 

For many modern Jews, living “bamidbar/in the wilderness” or in Galut/the Diaspora means being one of a very few Jews in a predominantly non-Jewish place. We love the charms of small-town life, but being Jewish here is quite different from being Jewish in places like New York, Philadelphia, or Baltimore. We cling to our Jewishness and, with dedication and tenaciousness, seek to make a good Jewish life available here.  

I was born and raised bamidbar, in a similar but smaller Galut Jewish community, and I have served most of my career in small congregations—my goal being to bring Jewish spirituality and knowledge to places where some may not expect it. It is, of course, a group effort, and one of the most gratifying things in my life is how the spirit of Sinai continues at Brit Shalom and in so many other tiny Jewish communities across the country. 

This is one of the themes I explore in a dedicatory introduction for a Festschrift for Rabbi Dr. Mark Washofsky. A festschrift is a collection of scholarly papers done in honor of a great scholar, and I have been a part of putting together a festschrift for Dr. Washofsky, recently retired Professor of Jewish Law and Practice at the Hebrew Union College and my childhood friend. As we contemplate Jewish life b’midbar, I would like to share my introduction because it speaks to the perseverance and devotion of small-town Jewry. 

Festschrift for Rabbi Dr. Mark Washofsky
Personal Introduction by Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Mark and I were raised in the small Jewish community of Lafayette, Louisiana. Jews had been settled there—in Cajun county—since before the Civil War. The synagogue, Temple Rodeph Sholom, was founded in 1869 when lots for a synagogue and a cemetery were given to the local Jewish community by former Governor Alexandre Mouton. My family had been in Lafayette since the late 1920s (and in the South since 1848).  

Mark’s family moved from New Orleans to Lafayette when we were around seven. As is often the case when a new Jewish family moves to a small town, we were thrust together by our parents. My initial impression of Mark was good: he had an impressive baseball card collection and lots of comic books. Under Mark’s tutelage—he is six months older, I became a “DC Man” and learned about Superman, Batman, and all the DC superheroes. He also introduced me to Mad Magazine. This may sound like a whimsical reminiscence, but the fact is that Mad Magazine and the Washofsky household were significant in my intellectual development. The satire of the magazine touched on politics and the news and started us thinking cynically and analytically. As we talked about it all, his father, Ralph Washofsky, would often join us and guide our thinking. There was a wisdom in that household—and, in later years, a ping pong table. I learned a lot from Mark’s family.  

Mr. Washofsky also guided us in learning about our Judaism. When the Washofsky’s moved to Lafayette, we did not have a rabbi. There had been a rabbi in Lafayette some twenty years before, but those were the days before the Rabbinic Pension Board, and, when he got old and sick—and then died, the congregation was “stuck” supporting him and then his widow. The financial obligation soured the congregation on professional leadership, and our worship services were led by members. Mr. Washofsky was one of these lay leaders. He also started us in Bar Mitzvah lessons and taught us more Hebrew than was the custom.  

This extra Hebrew was controversial in our Classical Reform Temple: we had always said some prayers in Hebrew—Barchu, Shema, Mourner’s Kaddish, but they were very few. When he taught us the first line of Ve’ahavta and the first line of Avot and had us read them in Temple, more than a few eyebrows were raised. 

You see, Mark’s parents, Sonia and Ralph Washofsky, and my parents, Bertha Jean and Nathan Ostrich, were among those who were interested in making Classical Reform “more traditional.” They all had experienced a wider range of Jewish practice and, together with a few other young families, they banded together to bring more vibrancy and traditionalism to our Temple. Though there is a tendency to ignore small town Jewish communities, these far-flung assemblies of Israelites have a tenacious love of Judaism and are intense in their efforts to keep Judaism alive and healthy. Our parents and their friends had such a love, and they devoted themselves to Jewish life. Indeed, both Mark and I are examples of the spirit of these small communities. 

Among the changes our parents wrought was the hiring of a rabbi. In July of 1965, Henry Guttmann, a scion of a well-known Czechoslovakian/German rabbinic family, arrived in Lafayette just a few months before Mark’s Bar Mitzvah. Whereas Rabbi Guttmann’s brother, our teacher Dr. Alexander Guttmann, was rescued by the Hebrew Union College just before World War II, Henry and his wife, Irma, were not so lucky. They went through the horrors of the war in Europe and did not get to America until the late 1940s. Those traumas and then difficulties in adapting to the New World transformed a brilliant rabbinate in Germany to a succession of small, poorly paid positions.  

Nonetheless, Rabbi Guttman breathed a new life into the “return to Tradition” that our parents wanted, and Mark and I were the beneficiaries of the spiritual connection to the old ways that Rabbi Guttmann brought to our small, isolated Jewish world.  

As we look back on those days now, the “revolution” seems so trivial. The addition of a line or two of Hebrew or the wearing of a yarmulke seem insignificant now, but this change in Classical Reform Judaism was a big deal in Lafayette, Louisiana—as well as many other places. There were scars all around from the controversy our parents instigated.  

In high school, both Mark and I participated in forensics—debate, oratory, and extemporaneous speaking, though for different high schools. We both achieved a modicum of success, but his crowning glory was going to Nationals in 1970 and placing Second in Radio Speaking. We were both active in youth group, with Mark serving as president of MoNILaTY—the Morgan City/New Iberia/Lafayette Temple Youth—in 1969-1970.  

While Judaism was an important part of our lives, there was not much Hebrew. We knew our dozen or so Hebrew prayers, but the bulk of our worship at home and at youth group events was in English. Mark was always very, very smart, but who would imagine that he would blossom as a Hebrew scholar—taking to it during the HUC-JIR Year in Israel like the proverbial duck taking to water? 

Over the last fifty years, Mark has brought all of these elements together—his fine and well-trained mind, a heart filled with the love of Judaism, an innate ability with Hebrew and Aramaic, a wide-ranging interest, excellent communication skills, and a prodigious work ethic—to create a body of knowledge, understanding, and teaching that have blessed our Tradition and our Movement profoundly. 

Over the years, I have watched with great pride the development, contributions, and sterling successes of my childhood best friend, and that is why I have wanted to encourage this Festschrift honoring Rabbi Dr. Mark Washofsky, his work, and the spirit of small-town Judaism that sent us forth.

This is a personal story, but, with just a few name and date changes, it could be a story from other small Jewish communities—places like State College, Altoona, Lock Haven, McKeesport, Scranton, etc. In each place and over many years, our people have endeavored to keep God’s Voice at Siani reverberating in the world—and, in the words of Naso, “to put God’s Name on the Jewish People.” (Numbers 6.27).

Standing at Sinai?

May 30th: Bamidbar and Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

On Shavuot, we celebrate Matan Torah, the Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai, and there is a tradition that all Jews of all generations were there—even the people destined to convert to Judaism. Here is the passage whose interpretation leads to this teaching:
“Atem Nitzavim: You are standing this day, all of you, before the Lord your God…to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God…I make this covenant…not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Lord our God and with those who are not with us here this day.”  (Deuteronomy 29. 9-14) 

One figures that the original meaning had to do with those Israelites who were back at camp and not at Mount Sinai. Notice that the Torah talks about moving from the camp to the mountain: “Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain.” (Exodus 19.17) So, with 600,000 people, it only stands to reason that some Israelites were ill, or infants, or taking care of them, or even standing guard. The verse probably meant that they too were included in the covenant with God. All were part of the Israelite people, and all were included. 

However, the Rabbis see this verse as a spiritual and exponential expander in which those “not here today” include all future Jews, both those destined to be born into Jewish families and those destined to be born into non-Jewish families—who will work themselves toward Judaism and eventually convert. There is something mystical and beautiful about this incredible moment, a moment when we all stood at Mount Sinai and together encountered the Holy One. 

However, there may be other possible reasons why some Israelites were not there at the mountain that day. Given human nature, I can imagine some Israelites choosing to separate themselves from the community. God includes them, but they choose not to be too close. 

Think about the Passover Seder and the second of the Four Sons/Children. Tradition calls him the Rash’a, the Evil Son, but some wonder if evil is the best diagnosis. Could a better term for this son’s separation from the story be better characterized as standoffish or not-a-joiner? This modern question was incorporated into our congregational Haggadah in my rewriting of the traditional text:   
The Wicked (or Standoffish) Child asks, “What do you mean by this celebration?” The Rabbis interpreted the word you as the child saying, “This is your celebration, and not mine.” The Traditional answer is, “It is because of what the Lord did for me when I went free from Egypt.” By emphasizing the words me and I, the suggestion is that you would not have been included. Only those who included themselves as members of the Israelite people were saved. Would you have included yourself?
(We may also add, “If you do not feel part of us today, we shall miss you and hope that you will come back soon.”) 

There are those of us who, for a variety of reasons, do not feel part of the group. Some of those reasons may involve a lack of hospitality or inclusion, and we are obliged to change such impediments and welcome everyone. However, not every case of alienation is the fault of the community, and there are some people who just do not want to join in or affiliate themselves.  

Years ago, Joni and I were visiting two of my great-aunts. They lived in a Jewish neighborhood, belonged to a Jewish community swimming pool, shopped at a grocery that catered to Jews, and even went to an all-Jewish beauty parlor. However, they did not belong to a congregation or attend services. I asked them why, and they replied about a problem that prevented them from going to shul. Trying to be helpful, I offered a solution to that problem. At which point, they gave me another problem. Being both helpful and knowledgeable, I offered a solution to that problem. At which point, they proffered yet another challenge. This went on for a while, until Joni gave me a gentle kick under the dinner table. It was a cease-and-desist order. On the way home, she said, “Don’t you see? They don’t want to attend services. All their reasons are just excuses so that they don’t have to tell the real reason. Better to just leave them alone about it. They just don’t want to go; there is no problem to solve.” Smart lady, my wife.  

Over the years, I have spoken to all kinds of Jews and noticed a great variety of attitudes. Some join, pay, and attend. Others join, pay, and do not attend. Some attend and do not pay. Others feel a sense of Jewishness but do not have an interest in affiliating or paying or attending. There are lots and lots of variations on this theme, and our desires to affiliate or participate often change through the years. The vagaries of affiliation are expansive, and we in congregational life are not in control of the thinking or decisions of our fellow Jews. They are their own people. 

There may be things to fix in our congregation--ways to make people feel more welcome, but ultimately, the decision to affiliate, to pay, or to participate is an individual one and one that is not based on the way we run our synagogue.  

How do we live with this lack of control? Some congregations yearn for enticement strategies—sure-fire ways to “bring ‘em in” like the free caps or hot-dogs that baseball teams offer to fill the ballpark. Some of these can be fun or touching or both, but ultimately people join and attend synagogues for their own personal Jewish reasons. So, to me, the answer is to focus on the quality of what we do: meaningful services, sincere spirituality, real concern for people, thoughtful sermons, good religious school, engaging social events, stimulating programs, etc. If we do what we do well, we will create an atmosphere of spiritual and emotional engagement in our congregation, and life at Brit Shalom will be good.  

The Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai is neither the conclusion nor the definition of the Jewish story. It is a moment of meaningfulness that touches Jews in a variety of ways, and the panoply of Jewish responses to Sinai is the history of our people. Our synagogue is one of Judaism’s traditional responses to Sinai, and it is a precious vessel of holiness. People will come and go. Some will stay, and others will choose to be Jewish in ways other than congregational membership. That is their decision, and rather than focusing on those who are not here, our job is to make everything we do good, kind, and spiritual for those who are here--who choose to be part of our Jewish community and who find the Presence of God in this place.

Faith, Fear, and Hope

May 23rd: Behar/Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Faith, Emunah in Hebrew, has many dimensions. What do we believe? What does God want of us? How do we approach and know the Divine? What does it mean to trust in God? 

In this week’s Torah portions, the faith questions get seriously practical when we are presented with the laws of the Sh’mitah/Sabbatical Year. Every seven years, our ancient ancestors are instructed to let their fields lie fallow: no plowing, no cultivation, no harvesting. It is okay to pick enough for each day’s needs, but the whole year is to be one of non-production. The environmentalists among us can see the benefits of this practice for the land, but for the farm families who depend on the land for sustenance, this mitzvah requires great trust in God. Will enough food grow? Will the farm survive? Will we survive? How much faith must one have in order to give up a year of your livelihood? 

God tries to be reassuring: 
“Should you ask, ‘What are we to eat in the seventh year, if we may neither sow nor gather in our crops?’ I will ordain My blessings for you in the sixth year, so that it shall yield a crop sufficient for three years. When you sow in the eighth year, you will still be eating old grain of that crop; you will be eating the old until the ninth year, until the eighth year’s crops can be harvested.” (Leviticus 25.20-22)

Perhaps. But does the anxiety ever depart? How can one simply let go of things for a year? What if the big crop does not come in? What if we follow the rules and are then reduced to poverty and starvation? 

One might think that those who live in plenty may not understand such anxiety, but I disagree. The dread of not having enough lives and breathes and strikes fear in every human heart, even those of us who are privileged. Whether we come from impoverished backgrounds or have heard the stories of deep poverty in the Great Depression, the shtetls of Europe, and various other moments of desperation—and even though our problems are nothing in comparison to the starvation and hopelessness of refugees in places like Darfur, we all share in the ubiquitous and transgenerational human fear that we too could one day be without.   

The novelist Tom Wolfe approaches this troubling reality in his book The Bonfire of the Vanities in which a very wealthy and powerful man is reduced very quickly. For the main character, a Wall Street type who considers himself  a Master of the Universe, it only takes a few karmic happenstances to completely destroy his status and wealth, turning him from a master to a helpless victim. If we consider him arrogant—and he is, his downfall is perhaps poetic justice, but he is remarkably typical for middle and upper-middle class people whose personal safety nets are very limited. Lurking beneath our affluent skin is the fear that we could lose it all. Even though many of us live with abundance—abundance for which we should thank God every day(!), there is in the back of our minds and in the realm of possibility a chance that things could go terribly wrong.  

Why else would the Torah so frequently speak of God’s faithfulness? People are obviously worried about the future, and thus we need the assurance of Heaven’s love and care.
“If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments, I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. Your threshing shall overtake the vintage, and your vintage shall overtake the sowing; you shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land.” (Leviticus 26.3-5) 

While there is some comfort in God’s Word, anxiety may still lurk within our hearts, and our Tradition tries to help us with it—helps us hold the anxiety and examine it, helps us understand the fear and learn to live with it, helps us not to be mastered by the concerns that we inevitably and naturally share. Here are some of our Jewish insights:

(1)   Living with this constant fear can ruin the blessings we have. Thus, we are taught to pray for and attempt to learn satisfaction. “Sab’aynu mituvecha: Help us to learn satisfaction, and delight in the blessings we are given.” Or as Rabbi Shefa Gold interprets Psalm 145.16,  “You open Your hand; we open our hearts to this abundance.” One aspect of a relationship with God is keeping our eyes open enough to perceive abundance.

(2)   God has plenty of blessings to go around. When we “count our blessings,” we can feel a measure of tranquility and enough confidence to be generous with others.

(3)   There is a state of being in which other forms of abundance predominate. This is the point of Rabbi Judah in Pirke Avot: “Better is one hour of repentance and good deeds than all the life of the world-to-com. And, better is one hour of the world-to-come than all of the pleasures of this world.” (Avot 4.17) We can open our spiritual eyes and learn to see blessings that were formerly hidden.

(4)   Focusing on God’s abundance—both in this world and in the World-to-Come—can help us revel in the health and happiness of everyone, can help us find enjoyment when others are blessed too. While we each possess the inclination for self-preservation and assertiveness, we also have the equally powerful and holy urge for altruism and sharing the wealth. Both are important, and both can be sources of fulfillment. 

It is possible to put our hope in God, and our Tradition reminds of this fact constantly. One inspiring reminder is in Psalm 126—the psalm often chanted before Birkat Hamazon/The Grace After Meals:
“Shir Hama’alot: Beshuv Adonai…
When the Lord restores the fortunes of Zion—we see it as in a dream—
Our mouths shall be filled with laughter,
Our tongues with songs of joy.
Then shall they say among the nations,
‘The Lord has done great things for them!’
The Lord will do great things for us, and we shall rejoice. 

Restore our fortunes, O Lord,
Like watercourses in the Negeb.
They who sow in tears shall reap with songs of joy.
Though he goes out weeping, carrying the seed-bag,
He shall come back with songs of joy,
Carrying his sheaves.” 

Lag B’Omer: ? and !

May 16th: Emor and Lag B’Omer
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Lag B’Omer is a curious kind of holiday—with vague origins, diverse observances, and  spiritual insights. Even the name is less than straightforward. “Lag” is the acronym formed from the Hebrew letter-numerals for “30” (Lamed) and “3” (Gimel). It is the thirty-third day after the Omer/Barley Sheaf offering is lifted up to God on the Second Day of Passover.  

Omer also refers to the days we count between Passover and Shavuot. For all other holidays, the Torah assigns a date. However, for Shavuot, the Torah tells us to count fifty days.
“From the day on which you bring the sheaf of elevation offerings…you shall count off seven weeks. They must be complete; you must count until the day after the seventh week—fifty days; then you shall bring an offering of new grain to the Lord.” (Leviticus 23.15-16)
Many Jews continue this tradition of counting the days to Shavuot and announcing the “day of the Omer” each evening. This coming Thursday, the announcement will be that it is the thirty-third day of the Omer, and Lag B’Omer is celebrated that evening and all-day Friday. 

The story of the holiday hearkens back to around 130 CE, the time of the Bar Kochba Rebellion against Rome and the Hadrianic Persecutions that put it down. There are two main origin stories. One involves Rabbi Akiva, the greatest teacher of Torah in that period and his struggles to teach Torah during oppressive times. He persisted despite Roman prohibitions, and though he was eventually executed/martyred, he taught for many years and inspired thousands of students. At one point, when he and his students were hiding out, an epidemic struck. The Midrash says that 24,000 of his students died, but, on Lag B’Omer, the plague ended, and Rabbi Akiva and the surviving students came out of their hiding places and celebrated the survivors’ health. Other stories speak of a military victory or cessation of oppression on that day. 

Another origin story involves another hero of the period, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai. He too had to hide from the Romans, and he and his son spent many years in a cave, eating berries from a miraculous bush, drinking water from a miraculous spring, and receiving mystical wisdom (Kabbalah). When they eventually came out of the cave, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai taught the knowledge that he received, and, according to legend, it was eventually written down in the Zohar. When he ultimately died, it was Lag B’Omer, and the custom developed of mystics celebrating the light he brought into the world on his yahrtzeit. Thousands visit his grave on Lag B’Omer in Meron, just outside S’fat, and bonfires and mystical study mark what has turned out to be a festival. (Tragically, this gathering was the site of a deadly stampede several years ago. Overcrowding and inadequate crowd supervision resulted in the death of many pilgrims.)  

Ashkenazic Tradition holds that the days between Passover and Shavuot be treated as mourning days—mourning for Rabbi’s Akiva’s students who died from the plague. Among the restrictions, no weddings should be held, and no one should get a haircut. The only exception in the forty-nine days between Passover and Shavuot is Lag B’Omer, and lots of weddings are held on that day. Also, many little Orthodox boys get their first haircuts. By waiting for Lag B’Omer when they are three years old, they emerge with short hair but full payot/sidelocks.  

In Sephardi Tradition, the mourning period only last for thirty-three days, and from Lag B’Omer to Shavuot, weddings can be held, and people can get haircuts. 

What can we learn from this curious and minor Jewish holiday?
(1)   It shows us that religion—both worship and Torah learning—can continue in times of crisis and tragedy. Our religion is not just for happy times, and cleaving to God in times of tzoros/troubles can help us get through. God is with us always. 

(2)   It shows us that resistance to tyranny is worthwhile. Had not Rabbi Akiva and Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai and their many students braved the dangers of the Roman oppression, Torah would not have survived, and our precious mission from God would have been derailed. We pray and hope for easy lives, but Torah can also demand courage. 

(3)   It shows us the variety of Jewish expression. We mentioned above the differences between Ashkenazim and Sephardim in their Halachic rules about weddings and haircuts, but there are more Jewish variations on Lag B’Omer. Some have special mystical observances, while some Halachic authorities object to such parties on a great Sage’s yahrtzeit. The early Zionist chalutzim/pioneers developed their own Lag B’Omer customs, many reflecting their love and devotion to the land. Thousands of Israelis go outside, sit around bonfires, sing Zionist songs, and use the occasion to tell stories, debate Zionist philosophy, and consciously continue the Jewish story. 

(4)   It shows us how Judaism has built upon itself over the generations. Lag B’Omer is not a Biblical holiday, but it is built on the Biblical observance of the Omer Offering and of the curious way that Shavuot is set. None of the Lag B’Omer stories or observances are in the Torah (or Bible), but they are all built on this Biblical rhythm of the Jewish year and are thus representative of the way our Tradition has been built and crafted. We work on our relationship with God in every generation.  

(5)   It shows us, in the heroes of the various stories, a wide variety of Jewish role models. There are soldiers, scholars, outdoor types, inside types (caves!), farmers, brides and grooms, students, etc. All are part of our Covenantal Community, and each is celebrated on this very flexible holiday. 

A final lesson: the time of the Omer—from Passover to Shavuot—is also a time for considering and reconsidering Jewish wisdom. The Tradition calls for us to study Pirke Avot, the section of the Mishnah with Judaism’s most famous and profound proverbs. We read what the ancient Sages had to say, and we continue the conversations in our own lives and our own ways.

Am Yisrael Chai!

The Many Building Blocks of Holiness

May 9th: Acharay Mot/Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

There is a conceit among us in which complex subjects can be understood easily. No matter how large the situation, institution, or system, we believe that we can “get a handle on it” and fix it quickly. These kinds of summaries and generalization are part of our culture—sometimes in jokes, sometimes in proverbs. Think about how many of each begin with, “There are three kinds of people in the world…” or “two kinds of husbands/wives,” etc. The notion is that truth can be garnered by reducing great complexity into a few simple categories. 

Movies are famous for this kind of simplification. One excellent example is Dave, the Kevin Kline/Sigourney Weaver film where Kline plays both a corrupt president and a look-alike small businessman who is hired as a presidential impersonator. When the real president has a stroke and goes into a coma, the look-alike’s role expands significantly as he occupies the Oval Office. Frustrated with his political handlers and the complexity of the Federal budget, Dave and his small-business accountant (played by Charles Grodin) sit down at the kitchen table one evening and “go through the government’s books.” It takes them several hours, but they finally figure things out and know how to fix the country’s finances.  

It is very entertaining—and very alluring. Would it not be great if such complexities could be understood and solved after just a few hours of simple, honest, homespun common sense?! These kinds of scenarios sound great but are ultimately of limited value. Subject to platitudes, reductionist generalizations, and missed details, they are better understood as symptoms of frustration and impatience—or fantasy. They make great stories but not great management.  

Such thoughts may tempt some of us to comment on the DOGE chainsaws, indiscriminate firings, and misbegotten “solutions” that are currently “draining of the swamp” in Washington, but the foolishness is self-evident, and, sooner or later, our country will wake up from a bad dream and realize that expertise and homework are not mere formalities.  

So instead, let us look at our weekly Torah portion and how it approaches fixing the world. Leviticus 19.1-18, known as The Holiness Code, begins with one of the most important and challenging charges God gives our people:
“Kedoshim ti’h’yu ki kadosh Ani Adonai Elohaychem.
You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.”

Being Kedoshim /Holy like God is a noble aspiration, but it is more than a theme, a trope, or a style. As Rabbi Marcia Prager (The Path of Blessing) explains, holiness is the active importation or manifestation of God/godliness into places or moments where it seems absent. While God is theoretically omnipresent (everywhere at the same time), there are times when God seems far away. Holiness involves bringing God or the influence of God into those times or places, and the Torah completes the grand statement about Kedushah/Holiness with a working definition:
“Revere your mother and your father.”
“When you reap the harvest of your land…leave some for the poor and the stranger.”
“You shall not steal, nor deal deceitfully or falsely with one another.”
“You shall not defraud your fellow or commit robbery.”
“The wages of a laborer shall not remain with you until morning.”
“You shall not insult the deaf or place a stumbling block before the blind.”
“You shall not render an unfair decision—neither favoring the poor nor showing deference to the rich; judge your kin fairly.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
Notice how each mitzvah (Leviticus 19.3-18) breathes the spirit of God into our behavior. 

There are of course religious mitzvot which involve the conscious and active relationship God wants to maintain with us (“Keep My Sabbaths…do not turn to idols or molten gods…sacrifice your offerings with respect for God…revere the Lord your God…”), but, lest we think that Kedushah/Holiness is just about religious observance, note that most of the mitzvot are ethical. God is very invested is us and wants us both to be nice and to be treated nicely. As practically defined in the Holiness Code, Kedushah/Holiness is a profound combination of ethics, religion, and the love that emanates from our Creator. By the way, a similar mix of ethics and religion can be found in the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5) —with the ethical commandments again outnumbering the ritual. 

Kedushah is not just a feeling or a theme. It is a life-long succession of decisions and actions in which we build our godliness step by step, piece by piece, brick by brick, and moment by moment. This is not something to be done quickly or without a lot of thought and planning. It is a serious business and deserves the best we have. It is for more than just bragging rights or photo-ops. 

Holiness calls for us to devote ourselves to being vessels of God’s love in the world and requires a lot of thought and care—with lots of attention to details. It can be exhausting—can even give one a headache, but the alternatives of haphazardness, blind emotion, and anarchy cause headaches too. Admittedly, there is something very appealing about letting go of our responsibilities, but we might not be so happy with the decisions of those who end up making our choices for us. Thus does our nation call us to be part of a participatory democracy—a republic which is “of the people, by the people, and for the people.” And in a parallel and even more significant manner, thus have we been called by God to be partners in Ma’aseh V’raysheet, the ongoing Work of Creation, and Tikkun Olam, the fixing of whatever problems arise. The work is not simple. It is not easy. But it is very, very, very important.  

God is Kadosh/Holy and hopes that we can be, too. Let us pay attention to these mitzvot and practice them. They are action items for meaningful lives.