Seeing God's Face?

April 3rd: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The special Torah portion for the Shabbat during Passover is from Exodus 33-34 and speaks to the question of God’s visibility. Can we ever see God? This is Moses’ hope when he asks the Lord, “If I have truly gained Your favor, pray let me know Your ways…and let me behold Your Presence.” (Exodus 33.13-18). The Hebrew word translated as Presence is Kevodecha—which literally means Your Magnificence. However, God understands the request as Moses wanting to see God’s face—for, in half-turning down the request, God says, “You cannot see Panai/My Face because a human cannot see Me and remain alive.” (Exodus 33.20) 

That is the half-refusal. God’s half-agreement is: “I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim before you the name Lord—and the grace that I grant and the compassion that I show.” (Exodus 33.19) We do not know if Moses is disappointed, but I think that God’s offer is much better than simply seeing God’s Face. 

Why? First, there is the tradition that God’s “Face” is far too intense for human perception. In a famous story in the Talmud, we are told about four Rabbis—experts in Torah and apparently experimenting with mystical techniques—who somehow ascend to Pardes/The Orchard or Garden (apparently a euphemism for Heaven): “Ben Azzai looks at God’s Presence and dies. Ben Azzai looks at God’s Presence and loses his mind. Elisha ben Abuya looks at God’s Presence and becomes a heretic. Only one, Rabbi Akiva, survives by entering in peace and leaving in peace.” (Haggigah 14.b) Some knowledge and some images are just too much for the human mind—and the experience Moses craves may not be as edifying as he anticipates.

Second, there is the problem of appearances. Seeing something or someone does not mean that one automatically gains understanding. Too often, we only see things on the surface, and we can easily be fooled (or fool ourselves). As Rabbi Judah HaNasi counsels, “Do not look at the bottle but at that what it contains. A new bottle could be full of old wine, and an old bottle could not have new wine.” (Pirke Avot 4.20) Proverbs like this would not be repeated so often if the problem were not endemic to human experience. If Moses want to “know God’s ways,” then merely seeing God might not provide the information or inspiration he seeks.

Third is the problem of memory. When witnesses witness something, there are all sorts of possibilities for what they remember. Different angles, assumptions, and interpretations can make it difficult for judges, attorneys, and jurors to adjudicate their testimony. This also happens in conversation among relatives and friends. How many different memories can there be from a single event? So, though Moses’ curiosity about God is understandable, what would he remember—and how would he interpret/spin these memories? Again, seeing God might not provide the long-term information Moses wants.  

Fourth is the problem of idolatry. When seeing something so magnificent and overwhelming, Moses would inevitably have to focus on a small and limited part—and inevitably miss something important. Whatever he takes from the encounter would be an “idol,” a human representation of God conceptualized by Moses, a mere human. Notice the Prophet’s belittling of the idolatry process (from the Haftarah two weeks ago):
“The makers of idols all work to no purpose…The craftsman in wood measures with a line and marks out a shape with a stylus; he forms it with scraping tools, marking it out with a compass. He gives it the form of a person—human beauty, to dwell in a shrine.  

For his use he cuts down cedars; he chooses plane trees and oaks. He sets aside trees of the forest; or plants firs, and the rain makes them grow. All this serves a mortal for fuel: he takes some to warm himself, and he builds a fire and bakes bread. He also makes a god of it and worships it, fashions an idol and bows down to it!  

Part of it he burns in a fire: on that part he roasts meat, he eats the roast and is sated; he also warms himself and cries, ‘Ah, I am warm! I can feel the heat!’ Of the rest he makes a god—his own carving! He bows down to it, worships it; he prays to it and cries, ‘Save me, for you are my god!’” (Isaiah 43.9-17)  

Idolatry is the absurd attempt to reduce something infinite and ineffable (God!) to what we can create—artistically, intellectually, and theologically. Should Moses try to create from his perceptions of the proposed encounter, he would inevitably shortchange God—and his “construction” would be both inaccurate and an affront to the Divine.  

Fortunately, however, God makes a counter-offer, “I will make all My goodness pass before you,” providing Moses and all of his students a life-long offer of Divine manifestation to see and study. Moses and his students will be able to “know God’s way” by watching God’s manifestations in the world.  

This counter-offer also has a mysterious anthropomorphism:
“Station yourself on the rock, and as My Presence passes by, I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen.” (Exodus 33.21-23)

God’s hand? God’s face? God’s back?! The best way that I can understand this passage is to compare it to the wake of a ship or boat. After it passes, the environment is affected—sometimes for quite a while after the vessel is out of sight.  

Among the many lessons Moses learns is that seeing God is not the point. The point of a holy life is learning of God’s ways by listening to God and by observing God’s back—the aftermath and effects of godliness in the world.

Is Religion Worth the Trouble?

March 27th: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Tzav continues the Levitical instructions for the many different sacrifices offered to the Lord. While all the Israelites are commanded to bring animals, flour, oil, and wine, it is the Kohanim/Priests who officiate and need to know exactly how to do each ritual correctly. Much of Leviticus seems to be their technical manual.

 As such, Leviticus talks about the What’s and How’s of sacrificial worship, but, other than the fact that God commands them, there is little about the Why’s of worship. It is not until later in the Bible that Prophets and Psalmists discuss the psychology or motivations of worship—and our Haftarah this week gives us an excellent example.  

The Prophet Malachi (3.4-24) is concerned about some Israelites who are not following God’s commands, and he imagines a kind of courtroom confrontation in which God and the people exchange complaints and accusations. God’s contention is that the people cheat on their tithes. While God faithfully “opens the floodgates of the sky for you to pour down blessings upon you,” the people shortchange the offerings they are supposed to bring. This is both an affront against God and an economic assault on the Kohanim who depend on their share of the offerings for sustenance.  

The people’s complaint is that they do not see God’s moral stewardship. “It is useless to serve God. What have we gained by keeping God’s charge and walking in abject awe of the Lord of Hosts?” (verse 14) They continue with an argument later called Theodicy: “We see the arrogant happy: indeed they have done evil and endured; they have dared God and escaped.” Why should we serve God if God does not rule the world justly? 

The Biblical understanding of God’s Justice is that obedience to God’s commandments brings reward, disobedience brings punishment, and both reward and punishment come during our lifetimes. Malachi’s complainers believe that they have been promised justice, but they do not see it happening. They see the arrogant and evil doing fine (not being punished). And though not stated, they presumably see good people suffering and not getting the rewards they deserve. If God is not doing what has been promised, then bringing sacrifices is a waste of effort. 

Malachi’s answer is that God’s Justice will soon be seen—that God is preparing an “awesome, fearful day of the Lord.” Unfortunately, no schedule is given, and we are left wondering how soon this day will come. Will it be in our lifetimes or in the distant Messianic future? “Lo, I will send the prophet Elijah to you before the coming of the awesome, fearful day of the Lord!”  

The Book of Job attempts to tackle this issue, but its message is sort of a non-answer. Though Job is a completely righteous man, he suffers grievously and for no apparent reason. Despite all this, he keeps his faith in God, and the lesson for readers is that God’s ways are beyond our understanding. We cannot see the dynamics of the Divine, so we should just trust in God. 

This answer was good enough for many believers, but others continued to be troubled by the seeming inconsistency in Divine Justice. An answer came from the Perushim/Pharisees—scribes and teachers who were later called Rabbis. Wrestling with this Theodicy and with cryptic references like Malachi’s about a future day when God’s Justice will be seen, the Rabbis intuited an answer. If God is just, they reasoned, then the incomplete justice we witness in this world must be in only one part of the story—and the second part of the story must be when God makes everything right. The Rabbis intuited that this time will come after we die, and thus did they teach about Olam HaBa/The World to Come where the scales of moral justice will be righted. As Rabbi Jacob explains, “This world is like an anteroom before the World-to-Come. Prepare yourself in the anteroom so that you may enter the banquet hall.” (Pirke Avot 4.16)  

This notion of an eternal reward has comforted and inspired generations of Jews—as well as Christians and Muslims who got the belief from us. God is just, but the timeframe for that justice extends beyond this mortal life. 

Many people find this answer helpful, but many do not. They have doubts about God or about God’s record in the world—or about the ways that religions have managed themselves. They note differing religious opinions and are bothered by the lack of scientific proof. Thus are there those among us who speak the words of Malachi’s worship-reluctant complainers:  “It is useless to serve God. What have we gained by keeping God’s charge and walking in abject awe of the Lord of Hosts?” 

A modern approach to this problem can be found in Milton Steinberg’s historical novel, As a Driven Leaf. Set in Talmudic times, the main character (“Elisha ben Abuya”) struggles to ascertain ultimate truth mathematically. He turns away from Judaism, embraces Greek philosophy, and ultimately fails to find the certainty he demands, Though set in the Second Century, Steinberg’s story deftly parallels the challenges modern Jews have faced as we are caught between modern science and traditional wisdom. “What have we gained?” many ask, by following our traditional religion?  

Among the insights I draw from Rabbi Steinberg is that this kind of transactional question may not be the best way to approach religion or life. For many religionists, it is not a matter of choosing a God Who can be “proven” or Who serves us better. Rather, religion is about trying to figure out the cosmos around us. Despite what we know or do not know, much of our searching involves intuition. As philosopher William James explains, Religion is the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—to the“more”(an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence). We sense a Presence, and we yearn to understand it, to approach it, and to live in a conscious relationship with it. The exact nature of the Presence is ineffable—impossible to describe, but it is nonetheless remarkably appealing and innately good. Religion is the product of this intuitive process, and Judaism is one religious way to reach out for holiness.  

Religion is thus less a transactional relationship and more a holy seeking. We are beckoned to approach the Infinite and receive the influence of the Infinitely Good. What we “gain” is the experience of “walking in the awe and inspiration of God.”

Trying to Make Sense of Leviticus

March 20th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Greeks titled this book of the Torah Leviticus because much of it tells the Levitical Priests how to officiate at sacrificial worship. The Greek custom was to use titles that summarize a book. Thus did they choose Genesis for the book dealing with the origins of the world and of the Hebrew People, and Exodus for the book that records our miraculous departure from slavery in Egypt. They chose Numbers because the book begins with a census—though, after a few chapters, it tells stories from the forty years in the wilderness. And they chose Deuteronomy (second telling) because Moses’ farewell lectures summarize Israelite history.  

The Hebrew tradition is different, using the first significant word in the first sentence as the title:
(1) Genesis begins with the words “B’raysheet/At First, God created the heavens and the earth…” and is known as B’raysheet/At First.
(2) Exodus begins with “Eleh sh’mot/These are the names of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt…” and is thus known as Sh’mot/Names.
(3) We’ll get to Leviticus in a moment.
(4) Numbers begins with “Va’y’daber Adonai el Moshe b’mid’bar Sinai/And the Lord spoke to Moses in the Wilderness of Sinai…” and is known as B’mid’bar/In Desert.
(5) Deuteronomy begins with “Eleh had’varim asher diber Moshe el-kol Yisrael/These are the words that Moses said to all Israel…” and is thus called D’varim/Words. 

The Book of Leviticus begins with “Va’yik’ra el-Moshe va’y’daber Adonai elav/The Lord called to Moses and spoke to him…” and is thus knows as Vayik’ra/He called. It is perhaps the least auspicious title in the Five Books of Moses, but it can help to explain something very difficult for moderns. What’s with the sacrifices?! Why did ancient peoples believe that God wanted them to kill and cook a bunch of animals—and then eat them in a sacred banquet? 

The answer begins with two ancient stories, one from Babylonia and the other from the Torah. In both stories, a great Flood destroys almost all life on earth, but one man builds a large boat and rides out the flood with his family and some animals. When the waters subside, the humans come out and sacrifice some of the animals. In the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, Utnapishtim sacrifices some animals, and the gods hover around the cooking meat like flies—presumably getting sustenance from the smoke and fat. In the Torah’s story, Noah sacrifices some animals, and “the Lord smelled the pleasing odor” (Genesis 8.21). The Babylonians thought that their gods got nutrition from the cooking meat. The Hebrews thought that, since God enjoyed the aromas of the cooking meat, God would come around to smell it—and, with God present, they could speak to God with praises and prayers.  

This sacrificial approach to worship was the Jewish way from the Patriarchs to the First Century CE. However, when the Romans destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem, we were faced with a crisis. The Romans would not allow the Temple to be rebuilt, and the Bible’s rules prohibited relocating it anywhere else. How could we Jews continue to worship God?  

Fortunately, there was already a tradition of local non-Temple worship. In places called b’tay k’nesset or synagogues, Jews in far-flung villages and cities could prayerfully support from afar the sacrificial services in the Jerusalem Temple. The Rabbis never gave up the hope of eventually rebuilding the Temple and reinstituting sacrificial worship, but they did decide that these synagogues could function as temporary substitutions. Relying on a numbers of Biblical passages, they realized that God does not need the fire, blood, or meat—that what God really wants is our attention and piety.  

For example, in King Solomon’s prayer as he dedicates the Temple in Jerusalem (I Kings 8.44-53), he emphasizes the importance of prayer no matter where it is offered. In Jeremiah 29.12, Micah 6.6-8, Hosea 6.6 and 14.2-3, Amos 5.21-25, and Daniel 6.11, the Prophets speak of how prayer is what God really wants. And the message is reiterated in the Psalms (32.5-6, 33.1-5, 51.16-19, and 69.31-37). What God wants is our reverence, our obedience, and our attention. This could be communicated in the local synagogues.  

So, the Rabbis constructed a prayer worship service, and they made it a kind of conversation between Heaven and Earth. In each service, passages from the Bible—Psalms, the Shema and Ve’ahavta, and the Torah reading—represent God calling to us. Then we call back to God with our prayers—speaking of our admiration, our hopes, our disappointments and embarrassments, and our requests for Divine help. Torah is when God talks to us; prayer is when we talk to God. 

To make sure that we approach the Divine with godly attitudes and aspirations, the Rabbis peppered the prayers (our words to God) with Biblical quotations. We hope that by shaping our prayers with holiness, our prayers will be acceptable: “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” (Psalm 19.15) 

Thus does the Hebrew title of Leviticus—Vayikra/And God Called—reflect the ideal dynamic of worship. God calls, and we answer. Worship is where we encounter the Divine and develop and conduct our relationship with the Eternal Holy One.

In the ancient days, God called out to Moses and instructed the ancients Levitical rules. We then responded with gifts of livestock, grain, oil, and wine. Now we hear the call of the Lord in different ways—in Torah, in Tradition, and in the spiritual dynamics of Am Yisrael/Jewish Peoplehood, but we respond nonetheless. Our answers to God are with prayers, kavannah, morality, and Jewish Peoplehood.  

In our relationship with the Divine, we seek God’s Presence, yearning to draw the holy influence into our lives. As Isaiah prays (2.5): “O House of Jacob! Come, let us walk by the light of the Lord!”

Balancing Holiness

March 13th: Vayakhel-Pikuday and HaChodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Our weekly portion(s) and a seasonal portion present us with an interesting dovetail.  

Parshat Vayakhel begins with one of several versions of the Sabbath commandment:
“On six days work may be done, but on the seventh day you shall have a sabbath of complete rest, holy to the Lord; whoever does any work on it shall be put to death. You shall kindle no fire through your settlements on the sabbath day.” (Exodus 35.1)
It is pretty standard except for two differences:
(1)   The intensity of the punishment for breaking the sabbath. Sometimes, no punishment is mentioned. Other times, it is being cut off from the people. Here it is death.
(2)   The specific focus on “kindling fire.” The Mishna eventually identifies thirty-nine categories of work (M’lachah) prohibited on Shabbat, but this iteration focuses on one in particular: kindling fire. Other Biblical statements focus on other kinds of work—like plowing or reaping—or are more concerned with who/what gets the day off.  

Hold this Shabbat passage in your mind for a moment while we take a look at the extra pre-Passover portion from Exodus 12. It is called HaChodesh/This Month because it starts with, “This month shall be for you the beginning of months…of the year.” The month is Nisan, and Moses is given the instructions for the original Passover. The Israelites are to choose a lamb on the tenth day of the month and then slaughter it on the eve of the fourteenth day at sundown. The lamb’s blood is to be used to paint the doorposts of their houses, and the meat is to be roasted and eaten along with matzah and maror.  

The procedure is pretty straightforward, but God or Moses anticipates an interruption. What if a household is too small to eat a whole lamb? Note how the thought process is broken:
“On the tenth day of this month, each of them shall take a lamb to a family, a lamb to a household. But if the household is too small for a lamb, let him share it with a neighbor who dwells nearby, in proportion to the number of persons: you shall contribute for the lamb according to what each household will eat…”
Here they are, preparing for the biggest and most holy night of their lives, and all of a sudden, we are dealing with the size of portions and divvying up lambs among households!  

On the one hand, we can chuckle at our ability to lose focus of the big picture—the holy big picture—and allow ourselves to get mired in details. On the one hand, we can take pride in the way that our Judaism always combines the practical with the spiritual. And, on the third hand, we can notice how even the holiest of mitzvot comes up against the realities of the lives of those performing the mitzvot. As significant as the slaughter of the Passover lamb is, determining the right amount of blood and meat and not wasting any food are also important considerations. The practice of religion often involves balancing different priorities.

Now back to the Shabbat commandment—and an ancient argument. Though kindling fire is considered one of the thirty-nine prohibited forms of M’lachah/Work on Shabbat, a fire-less Shabbat is problematic on several levels. If it is cold outside, Shabbat can be a chilly and unpleasant experience. The same goes for eating cold food; it is less pleasant and celebratory. And there is the matter of light. Without candles, Shabbat observers have no recourse but to go straight to bed. This may seem to us overly strict, but it was the approach of the ancient Sadducees—and a later movement called the Karaites. They read the Torah literally, and no fire means no fire. The unpleasantness was just considered the cost of following God’s orders.  

Another group, however, disagreed. They believed that, in addition to not working on the sabbath, the sabbath should be enjoyed: Oneg Shabbat. As Isaiah explains (58.13), enjoying the sabbath honors God. Shivering in the dark and eating cold food is hardly the Oneg Shabbat God seems to have in mind. In other words, we Jews were faced with two conflicting religious principles: not working on Shabbat and enjoying Shabbat.  

This other group was originally known as Scribes, later as Pharisees (Pietists and Separatists), and still later as Rabbis, and they found their resolution in an even closer reading of the text. The Exodus 35.1 passage does not ban fire, but only the kindling of fire. So, if fire could be kindled before Shabbat and allowed to burn into Shabbat, then no prohibited work would be performed. Furnaces could be packed with fuel and lit before Shabbat. Food could be put in long-lasting ovens before Shabbat and allowed to stay warm. And candles kindled before Shabbat could burn on into the evening and give celebrating families illumination. Thus could the holiness of Shabbat be enhanced with heat and warm food and light—all kindled before Shabbat.  

While this seemed the perfect fix to the Rabbis, the Sadducees and later the Karaites objected strongly. They did not agree with the Rabbinic “enhancement” of the Torah—in which an Oral Torah (Torah She’b’al Peh) was used to interpret the Written Five Books of Moses, and they were fierce opponents. Eventually the Rabbis gained the ascendency, and they decreed that, not only is it allowed to let pre-kindled fires burn into Shabbat, but also it is required. And they created a new ritual to express this principle: they lit candles before sundown and let them burn into the sabbath. They even decreed that God has ordained such a practice and crafted a blessing which refers to the mitzvah (commandment from God) of lighting Shabbat candles. Though just ornamental fires, these candles symbolize the triumph of Oneg Shabbat over holy asceticism. 

So, every time someone says, “Asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu l’had’lik ner shel Shabbat/Who sanctified us with Your Commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath lights,” we are joining in a human adaptation of God’s commands in the Torah. When the holy mitzvah of Shabbat met reality, a resolution became necessary, and the Rabbis used a balancing religious principle to craft one of our institutions of holiness. They realized that God has given Torah to us (Deuteronomy 30.12 and Baba Metziah 59b)—and that we are empowered and encouraged to make it work in our earthly lives.  

P.S. A discussion for another time is the way the mitzvah of Lighting of Shabbat Candles has morphed into a different kind of spiritual observance—one less tied to labor and sundown and more reflective of our desires to bring God into our lives.

"In a Place Where There are No Human Beings..."

March 6th: Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we asked questions about the effectiveness of “speaking out” against oppression and wondered what other strategies may be more helpful. We also considered the ways that status and connections can affect such speaking out. We had two references. One is Purim in which a well-connected Mordecai and an even better-connected Queen Esther use their positions to help their people. The second is the well-known poem by Pastor Martin Niemoller: 
“First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist…”
The implicit message of the poem is that, had he “spoken out,” Pastor Niemoller could have stopped the Nazis, but I wonder about this. Whereas Mordecai and Esther had the “juice” to get things done, were people like Martin Niemoller in a position to stop the Nazi juggernaut? Could protests have stopped Hitler, or was the problem that the Germans with status, connections, and power thought that Hitler would save them? Could “speaking out” have stopped the evil, or was the storm inevitable? Could Pastor Niemoller have done anything effective? 

I am not devaluing the democratic process or public protests. One of the responsibilities and privileges of citizenship is to share our insights and opinions with those in power. However, there are times when political and social trends are beyond our control—when, no matter what we think, say, or do, injustice will rise or oppression will continue. We dread such circumstances, but they have too often been the human experience. For all sorts of oppressed people and throughout millennia, the question was what could be done in the midst of bad times. When oppression or injustice reigns, how do we respond?  

There is a kind of lesson in this week’s Torah portion, one taught by Aaron as he attempts and fails to stop the Golden Calf apostasy. Though a simple reading suggests that Aaron is a willing co-conspirator, the Midrash finds a number of clues that suggest a hidden anti-idolatry agenda. As you may remember, just before Moses ascends Mount Sinai, he leaves Aaron and a dignitary named Hur in charge. When Moses stays longer than expected, the people’s response is panic and apostasy, and, according to the Midrash, they besiege Hur, demanding that he help them build the idol. He refuses, but “…the people were out of control…and were a menace to any who might oppose them.” (Exodus 32.25) The mob murders Hur, and Aaron realizes that, if he refuses and is also murdered, there will be no one to officiate at the atonement rituals that will certainly be necessary. So, even though Aaron is against the idolatry, he pretends to take charge of the Calf’s crafting and tries several strategies to stop the communal sin:
(1)   He tells the people to donate their own jewelry—thinking they will not.
(2)   He throws their jewelry into the fire.
(3)   He works very slowly, hoping to delay things until Moses returns.
(4)   When the Calf is set up, he delays the festival until the next day.
(5)   He declares that the festival will be for the Lord—and not for the Calf. 

Though Moses yells angrily at Aaron, God is not angry with him at all, and God puts Aaron and his sons in charge of the Mishkan and sacred worship forever. God seems to understand that Aaron does his best in an impossible situation.

Though we can retrospectively imagine how Hitler and the Nazis could have been stopped, there was no way for many Germans to stop the gigantic wave of hate and destruction. For many, the more relevant question was what could be done in the midst of the nightmare—and there are hundreds of stories of heroism, self-sacrifice, and cleverness that show the human spirit standing tall, even when the forces of darkness dominate.

Among these stories is that of Rabbi Leo Baeck. A brilliant scholar and intellectual, the growing oppression of the Nazis led him to transition to the role of civic and charitable leadership. Whereas many Rabbis sought refuge outside of Germany, Rabbi Baeck stayed behind to help the community bear up under horrible pressure. Baeck could not change the Nazis, but he could help those who were suffering—promoting compassion, charity, dignity, faith, and courage.  

He excelled as a communal leader for many years, but, in January of 1943, he was deported to Theresienstadt. When the Gestapo came to take him, he asked them to wait for a few minutes while he paid some utility bills. He knew where he was going but did not want to depart without fulfilling his obligations. That he could show such composure and principle in such a moment is amazing, but more amazing to me is that the Gestapo let him. They allowed him to sit undisturbed at his desk and write those checks and then post them. 

What kind of presence must he have had? Rather than being roused from his bed and dragged off, his arrest was decorous and conducted with dignity. What kind of stature did this Rabbi present? What kind of reputation did he have that he was treated with such respect—even though he was being deported to imprisonment and possible execution? Here was a man with enormous stature, and yet his protestations about and to the Nazis could not stop the Shoah. Ultimately, his contributions were in helping his people face the unimaginable. 

In Theresienstadt, Rabbi Baeck continued his communal and spiritual leadership up. But as the War was ending and the Allies approached, the Nazis started executing “important detainees.” Baeck was on that list, but, there was an administrative mistake, and another man named Leo Baeck was taken in his place. After the War, Rabbi Baeck continued his moral and intellectual leadership, achieving an almost prophetic stature among Liberal Jews all over the world.  

Sometimes, we can affect or participate in the great waves that sweep over our lives. Democracy, civic engagement, and “petition(ing) the Government for a redress of grievances” have their places and may be strategically effective. But there are other times when “the moral arc of the universe” fails to wield enough influence, and we need to hunker down. The lessons from Aaron the High Priest and Dr. Leo Baeck teach us about this different level of influence and effectiveness. Perhaps it is on a smaller scale, but we do what we can do. As Hillel advises, “In a place where there are no human beings, strive all the harder to be a human being.”  (Avot 2.5)  

Speaking Out? Or Making a Difference?

February 27th: Tetzaveh and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to our weekly Torah portion, we have an additional portion that anticipates Purim. In Deuteronomy 25.17-19, we are reminded that our antipathy with Haman goes way back:
“Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all you enemies around you, in the land the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”  
According to genealogical passages in Genesis and Esther, the evil Haman is a descendant of Amalek, and thus are we instructed to “blot out his name” whenever it is read in Megillat Ester.  

Purim is a curious holiday because it is more sociological than religious. God does not speak in the Book of Esther—nor do any miracles nor even command the annual commemoration. The only “role” God plays is that Mordecai believes in God and piously refuses to bow down to any human. So, though God is our Creator and Redeemer—and perhaps pulls a few invisible strings, Purim is a festival of human qualities: faith, courage, self-defense—and political power. The prominence and connections of Esther and Mordecai put them in position to help our people.   

This makes me think about the various crises in which we humans find ourselves and our various options for effective response. When we see something unjust, we understandably have an emotional reaction, but merely shreying gevalt or protesting may not be the best strategy for stopping oppression. Public protests have their place, but simply flailing one’s arms may be more self-indulgent than helpful. Serious problems require strategic thinking. 

Many of us are inspired by the words of Lutheran Pastor Martin Niemoller in a poem he wrote after the Second World War.
“First they came for the Communists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Communist
Then they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Socialist
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a trade unionist
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out
Because I was not a Jew
Then they came for me
And there was no one left to speak out for me.” 

This poem is often used to inspire social justice protests, but for Martin Niemoller it was a statement of regret. He did not “speak out” against Hitler because he liked Hitler. An avowed anti-Semite, Niemoller voted for the Nazis in 1924, 1928, and 1933. It was only after several years of Nazi tyranny that he changed his mind, speaking out and helping found an anti-Nazi church. He “spoke out” and got sent to Dachau—and only narrowly escaped execution. After the War, he wrote the poem as a reflection of his remorse and repentance. 

But one may well ask, had he been of a different mind in the 1920s or early 1930s, what could he have “spoken out?” And to whom? Did Pastor Niemoller have the status, power, or connections to speak out effectively and make a difference, or is his poetic imperative to “speak out” more a matter of personal moral clarity? As important as self-expression is, there are times when it does little practical good.  

This reminds me of Aristotle’s definition of Rhetoric. An early observer and teacher of communication—and known as The Father of Rhetoric, Aristotle’s defines rhetoric as:
 “finding in any situation the available means of persuasion.”
Note how his emphasis is on the persuasive aspect of expression. Speaking out a message is only half the job; the other half is speaking so that listeners understand and are persuaded to constructive action. 

(This, by the way, is similar to the challenge of Kavannah, concentration in prayer. Merely speaking the words or making the gestures is not enough. Real Kavannah means mustering the sincerity, intensity, and prayerfulness necessary to engage the Divine.) 

When we communicate, many of us rely on “being right” or “having Science or History behind us,” but sometimes such insistences fall on deaf ears. Why is this? Is the message being communicated in a listenable manner? Are there cultural issues shadowing or impeding the reception? Or could we be “coming on too strong,” our stridency and repetition being perceived as nagging or harassment—or condescension? Could too insistent communications evoke a defensive posture—a siege mentality that actually shuts off both dialog and clear thinking? In other words, if our messages about social and policy goals are not getting through, what are we doing wrong—and are there perhaps other communication or political strategies that would serve us better?  

My point is not to devalue “speaking out” but to remind us of the possibility of other useful strategies. For example,  there are some people whose letters-to-the-editor or op-eds carry more weight than others—who by virtue of their status, connections, and reputations are more persuasive. It may seem undemocratic, but the fact is that connections and reputations matter. As we learn in the Book of Esther, reaching out to the Esther’s and Mordecai’s and even King Ahashuerus’ out there may prove more effective in advancing Tikkun Olam. “Finding the available means of persuasion” means developing relationships with those in power—and working with them, respecting them, listening to them, and cooperating with them. Not only are such relationships strategic, but they are also neighborly. Remember, our goal is not self-expression or political domination but persuading our neighbors and fellow citizens to improve our society.

God Dwelling Among Us

February 20th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

As our Torah portion opens, God asks Moses and the Children of Israel to build a Mishkan (a place of holy habitation): “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8) This is the Tabernacle, the Tent Temple that the Israelites use for worship for some 300-400 years until King Solomon builds the Temple in Jerusalem. One figures that the tent itself must have been abandoned in the transition, but the other ritual implements and furniture—the altar, basins, tongs, flayers, incense altar, etc.—would still be of use in the new space. Among these permanent holy things is, of course, the Ark of the Covenant.  

According to the instructions in Exodus 25, the Ark of the Covenant is to have a “cover of pure gold, two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide.” On top of and attached to the cover are to be two “cherubim of gold—make of hammered work…one cherub at one end and the other cherub at the other end…the cherubim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall face each other, with their faces looking downward to the cover.” (Exodus 25.17-20) One of the purposes of these Cheruvim is to provide God a place to “sit” when abiding with the Israelites: “There I will meet with you, and I will impart to you—from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Pact—all that I will command you concerning the Israelite people.” 

These cherubim/Cheruvim are one of the many varieties of M’lachim/Angels described in the Bible. Not at all like the chubby and cute little cherubim of Roman mythology and Baroque Art, these Cheruvim are fierce creatures with two wings who provide God with various services—among them guarding the entrance to the Garden of Eden, Other M’lachim/angels in the Bible include the fiery Seraphim in Isaiah 6 who each have six wings and who chant, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts; the fullness of the earth is God’s glory!” Ezekiel describes visions with angels who are (or ride) a fiery chariot, or who are burning wheels of fire, or who are Chayot Hakodesh/Holy Beasts. We do not get descriptions of the angels using the ladder in Jacob’s dream, or the angel with whom he wrestles, or the sword-bearing angel blocking Balaam’s way, or the Angel of the Lord who slays the Egyptian first-born or who blows the water of the Red Sea, but the point is that these M’lachim are present from time to time in our ancient stories. (In later Jewish literature, these angels  and their powers, limitations, and assignments are discussed in great detail.) 

And they are still around. We sing to them every Shabbat in Shalom Alaychem, greeting the angels who accompany us on the Sabbath and asking them to bless us. We sing about them on Shabbat morning in El Adon. Composed by the Yordey Merkavah mystics of the Eighth Century, this curious hymn accepts its time’s belief in astrology but emphasizes that it is God (El Adon) who puts the stars in their positions and uses them to direct human affairs. Part of the hymn describes the happiness of the celestial angels as they go about doing God’s work—apparently a hint to us that we should also approach our holy work with enthusiasm. The last line of the hymn mentions three kinds of angelic beings—Seraphim, Ofanim, and Chayot Hakodesh—who along with the sun, moon, and stars all join in praising their/our Creator. 

This notion of M’lachim/Angels doing God’s work was part of an ancient mentality that imagined God as a Monarch sitting in one place and thus needing agents to go out and do His will. However, once we began to think of God as omnipresent, angels became theologically unnecessary. A God who is everywhere at the same time can do everything personally—everywhere and all at the same time. Nonetheless, the belief in and images of angels persist. Perhaps it is a by-product of an invisible universal God who is far too immense to imagine. Or perhaps we use the word angel as an expression for our awareness of God’s Presence in a particular moment—like the way we refer to a wave or a current as an entity unto itself even though it is really just part of the ocean.  

In any event, we need to get back to the Cheruvim and the Ark of the Covenant; there may be a discrepancy. As attested by the Torah and Dr. Henry “Indiana” Jones, Jr., the Ark is small enough to be carried, and the Cheruvim on top are thus fairly small. It is an ornate and movable box, four-five feet long and two-three feet wide, and the Cheruvim fit on top. However, when King Solomon builds and outfits the Temple (II Chronicles 3), the Cheruvim are much, much larger: “Solomon made two sculptured cherubim in the Holy of Holies, and they were overlaid with gold. The outspread wings of the cherubim were 20 cubits across…” In other words, these were giant Cheruvim—with combined wings about thirty feet long. What gives? How could II Chronicles and Dr. Jones disagree? 😊 There are two possible answers. 

The first is that Solomon seems to craft some new items for the Temple—among them a pair of Cheruvim that are more befitting a magnificent and permanent home for God. Keeping the original Ark, Solomon places it under the new giant Cheruvim in the Temple’s Holy of Holies.  

The second is that these “smaller vs. bigger Cheruvim” accounts may be one more clue in a theory about the wilderness Mishkan being more legendary than historical. Think about how unlikely it would have been for a bunch of escaped slaves to fashion an elaborate “tent temple.” All is possible with God, but the account is so improbable that some scholars think that the Exodus Mishkan and elaborate Ark are anachronisms—stories created by later generations who frequented Solomon’s Temple and could not imagine their ancestors worshipping in anything less grand. Perhaps they enhanced the original story of a small and modest Tent of Meeting into the grand shrine described in Exodus. Among our clues is this passage about a small tent that one man can pitch: “Now Moses would take the Tent and pitch it outside the camp, at some distance from the camp. It was called the Tent of Meeting, and whoever sought God would go out to the Tent of Meeting…And when Moses entered the Tent, the pillar of cloud would descend and stand at the entrance of the Tent, while God spoke with Moses.” (Exodus 33.7-9) 

There are multiple threads in our Tradition, and not all of them agree with each other. However, what we have in every story is a record of our people’s aspirations to understand and live in relationship with the Divine. Whether stories of God acting through M’lachim or of our ancient and impoverished ancestors constructing an elaborate Tent Temple,  our Tradition is one of human beings trying to be holy. In worship, in sacred literature, and in godly deeds, our ancient and continuing goal is to construct, both physically and metaphorically, a sanctuary that invites God to dwell among us.

Hillel vs. Shammai: The Debate (?) Continues

February 13th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Every two years, I share with the Minyanaires (our program for 6th and 7th Graders and their Parents) a passage from the Talmud in which the Mitzvot are summarized and reduced from 613 to one. It begins with Rabbi Simlai:
“613 commandments were given to Moses, 365 Thou shalt nots, corresponding to the days in the solar year, and 248 Thou shalts, corresponding to the number of parts of the human body.” (Talmud Makkot 23b-24a)
Other than his breakdown of do’s and don’t’s, Rabbi Simlai is referring to the old legend that, if one were to count all the commandments in the Torah, one would come up with 613. It is a difficult number to verify, and the various listings of the mitzvot do not always agree with each other. Among the problems is the multiple iterations of some commandments. If the commandment about not “boiling a kid in its mother’s milk” is given three times, is that one mitzvah or three? If both versions of the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5) tell us not to murder, is that one mitzvah or two? And how do we count the mitzvot in Commandment #10?
“You shall not covet your neighbor’s house: you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male or female servant, or his ox or his donkey, or anything that is your neighbor’s.” 

Another question involves the applicability of these 613 to any particular individual. Many are only addressed to men. Many are only addressed to women. Many are addressed only to people living in the Land of Israel, and many are addressed only to the Kohanim (Priests) or worshippers bringing sacrifices to the Temple. Most commandments are just for Jews, but the seven Noachide Laws are incumbent on all humans.  

In other words, while there are hundreds of mitzvot—and thousands once the Rabbis of the Talmud apply them to the complexities of human life, the number 613 seems more legendary and inspirational. Rather than counting the list, what we should realize is that living a holy life involves lots and lots of details. The details may seem overwhelming but think about how actually performing a mitzvah can involve a number of factors. If we want to observe Commandment #4 from the Ten Commandments: “Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy,” we need to reconcile two conflicting sub-mitzvot. One says that we should not work, but the other says that we should enjoy Shabbat/Oneg Shabbat. Is heating coffee or soup to enjoy the Sabbath included in the category of work? What about going out to a restaurant or going to the beach? Are these not enjoying a day off? There is also the question of driving a car to synagogue—figuring that one can have a holier Shabbat at synagogue? Discussions like this have been going on for over two millennia because people who take the holiness of Shabbat seriously need to figure out exactly what they should and should not do.  

In last week’s Torah portion (Yitro), God speaks the Ten Commandments to all the Israelites at Mount Sinai. This week’s portion (Mishpatim) tells about an extended private session in which God reveals to Moses an additional fifty-three mitzvot. Less exalted than the big Ten, they are nonetheless very important—especially if you’re the guy who is getting gored by a neighbor’s ox, or if you are visiting the roof of a neighbor and it does or does not have a railing, or if you are the woman who tries to intervene in a fight between your husband and another man—and you get injured. When it comes to living the complexity of human life, there are lots of situations and factors, and thus these additional fifty-three mitzvot and the other 550 mitzvot in our legendary list are important. It is not just enough to say, “Be nice and fair.” How to be nice and fair requires lots of thought and specifics. 

There are times, however, when all those details can seem overwhelming—when we “get lost in the weeds.” For such times, our Tradition also offers more general statements—Tanach quotations about the broad brushstrokes of living holy lives. This is where the Rabbi Simlai passage comes in, beginning with the legendary 613 and then speaking more generally.  

Thus does the Talmud quote King David’s listing of eleven core values: “Lord, who shall abide in Your house? Who may dwell in Your holy mountain? Those who are upright; who do justly; Who speak the truth within their hearts. Who do not slander others, or wrong them, or bring shame upon them. Who scorn the base, but honor those who revere the Lord. Who give their word, and, come what may, do not retract. Who do not exploit others, who never take bribes. Those who live in this way shall never be shaken.” (Psalm 15) 

Also included is Isaiah’s notion of an ideal person in Chapter 33, “One who walks righteously and speaks uprightly; who that despises the gain of oppressions, who shakes away from bribes, who will not listen to plans of spilling blood, and who does not look kindly on evil”—and his even briefer advice in Chapter 56: “Keep justice, and do righteousness.” 

Among the most famous and inspiring summarizations is from Micah (6:8):
“It has been told thee, O human, what is good and what the Lord requires of you:
Only to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.” 

Amos, too, has a motto (5.4): “For thus says the Lord unto the House of Israel: Seek you Me, and live.” And there is Habakkuk’s (2.4): “But the righteous shall live by faith.”  

Perhaps the most famous summarization is from the ancient sage Hillel. The story (Shabbat 31a) begins with his colleague Shammai insisting on all the details.
“Once a heathen came before Shammai and said to him, “I will be converted if you teach me the entire Torah, all of it, while I stand on one foot.” Shammai instantly drove him away with the builder’s measure he had in his hand.  

The same man came before Hillel. “I will be converted if you teach me all the Torah while I stand on one foot.” Hillel converted him. He said to him: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah. All the rest is commentary. Now, go and study.”  

Hillel’s thinking is certainly profound, but why does the story include Shammai? Is he just a foil for Hillel, or does he represent something deeper? While generalizations are poetic, memorable, and inspiring, they are not substitutes for the details of living a godly life. Shammai is in this story to remind us eternally that the details also matter. And, as it turns out, his friend Hillel never disagreed: “Now go and study!” 

Being God's Chosen People: A Blessing or a Burden?

February 6/7: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Why does God give the Torah to Israel? Why choose the Israelites for a special covenantal relationship? “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagle’s wings and brought you to Me. Now then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.3-6)
Being God’s Chosen People is a singular honor, but it also turns out to be a heavy responsibility,  and the two themes live in a kind of holy tension in Jewish thought. In one Midrash, there even seem to be “dueling” endings—one focusing on the honor and the other focusing on the challenges that come from being “God’s people.”  

The Midrash begins with God’s desire to share Torah and holiness with humans. God begins with the greatest of the seventy nations of the ancient world and offers them the Torah. Instead of accepting the honor, that nation’s leaders ask for examples of the mitzvot. When God details the Ten Commandments, they turn down God’s offer. “But we love murdering, stealing, idolatry, and committing adultery; we cannot accept this law.” God then goes to another of the great nations, but the story is the same. They ask for examples and, when presented with God’s commandments, they say No to the Divine. God continues to try, offering the Torah to sixty-nine of the seventy nations, but no one will accept the Torah. Finally, God’s last resort is Israel—a puny and undistinguished nation, one mired in slavery for generations and whose hope has been lost. “When Moses spoke to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” (Exodus 6.9) Nonetheless, God offers the mitzvot to Israel. 

At this point, the story has two different endings. 

Ending #1 picks up on a figure of speech in Exodus 24.7: “Na’aseh v’nish’ma: We will do and we will hear!” The original usage seems to be as a hendiadys reflecting enthusiastic approval, but one ancient Rabbi takes the phrase literally. Noting that the Israelites say “Na’aseh/We will do,” before they say “V’nish’ma/We will hear,” the Darshan (Midrashist) perceives the Israelites’ intense piety and trust in the Lord. Rather than asking for examples or imposing conditions, they accept the Torah immediately, agreeing to God’s covenant before even knowing its contents. Our holy ancestors are exemplars of faith.  

Ending #2 picks up on a different figure of speech, one in Exodus 19 (v.17): “Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain.”  The Hebrew for “at the foot of mountain” is “b’tach’tit hahar,” words which literally mean, “under the mountain.” The intended meaning is that the Israelites were standing next to Mount Sinai and experienced the optical illusion that makes a tall object seem like it is looming overhead. However, one enterprising Darshan seized upon this idiom and crafted a very different approach to the story. After going from one nation to another and finding no one to accept the Torah, God turns to the last choice and resolves not to be turned down again. Holding Mount Sinai over the heads of the Israelites—so they are “tach’tit hahar/under the mountain,” God makes them an offer they cannot refuse: “If you accept My Torah, you shall be a ‘kingdom of priests and a holy people.’ If not, I’ll drop the mountain on you, and this shall be your grave.” Rather than accepting the covenant out of piety, we are forced into it. 

Why would someone craft such a tale? Why would a Sage claim that our holy covenant was made under duress—and suggest that our ancestors were victims instead of pious volunteers?  

It is helpful to remember that Midrash is art—a creative literary way of expressing thoughts and feelings. This means that Midrash is not history or fact, but instead an artistic and emotional comment about Biblical or religious concerns. While the first Midrashic author wants to bolster our pride and sense of purpose, the second Midrashic author seems concerned about the many burdens of being God’s Chosen People. While it is certainly a great honor, the mitzvot are numerous and challenging—and they prevent us from participating in things our non-Jewish neighbors get to enjoy. There is also the persistence of anti-Semitism, a plague that has threatened and victimized us for millennia. Our pride in our Jewishness is strong, but sometimes we need to give voice to our efforts and struggles—to vent emotionally the fact that our lot has not been easy. To me, this second Midrashic ending is an artistic form of catharsis and commiseration—of  “singing the blues” about the burden of being God’s people. We may be proud, but we also need to acknowledge to ourselves that our chosen-ness is quite a burden.  

Burden is an interesting way to characterize our chosen-ness, but that is exactly the way the Rabbis speak of it in the Talmud: Ol Malchut Hashamayim/The Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. The mitzvot are compared to the weight of an ox’s yoke and the load that the beast pulls. We are proud to be God’s “oxen,” but the work is very hard. Hillel uses this term in his instructions for conversion. The ger first immerses in a mikvah and then “accepts the Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven” to become Jewish. The term is also found in the prayerbook’s Al Ken N’kaveh, the third paragraph of the Alaynu that looks forward to a perfect world (and precedes Bayom Hahu):  
Al ken n’kaveh l’cha Adonai Elohaynu, lir’ot m’herah b’tif’eret Uzecha…Vikab’lu chulam et ol mal’chutecha…”
We therefore hope in You, O Lord our God, soon to behold glory of Your might…when every one will accept the yoke of Your Kingdom…”

We usually look for theology in our sacred literature, but being Jewish also involves the whole range of human emotions. I see both Midrashic endings as emotional responses to the lived realities of our chosen-ness. One crows about our ancestors’ great piety to bolster our own spirits, and the other sings the blues about how hard we must work for God. God is present in every aspect of life—in the spiritual, the intellectual, the emotional, and the physical, and our Tradition’s theological truths reflect every aspect of our relationship with God. We are holy and honored—and emotionally involved in keeping our sacred covenant.

Where is God's Presence?

January 30th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

“The length of time that the Israelites lived in Egypt was four hundred and thirty years; at the end of the four hundred and thirtieth year, to the very day, all the ranks of the Lord departed from the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12.40-41).
This passage from last week’s Torah portion seems to mark the end of our very tragic experience with the Egyptians, but it is not. Though we leave Egypt proper, the Egyptians come chasing after us, and God’s miraculous rescue of the Israelites at the Red Sea is the stuff of legends—and songs of victory:
“I will sing to the Lord, Who has triumphed gloriously;
Horse and driver have been hurled into the sea.
The Lord is my strength and might, and has become my deliverance.
This is my God Whom I will enshrine, The God of my family, and I will exalt!” (Exodus 15.1-2) 

There are lots of theological teachings that come of out of the Exodus story, but Psalm 114 provides us a very curious perspective. When we chant this Psalm during Hallel or at the Passover Seder, I usually focus on the humorous taunting of the water and hills:
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.
The sea saw it and fled; the River Jordan turned backwards.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.
What’s the matter, sea, that you flee away, you Jordan that you flow backwards;
You mountains who skip like rams, you hills like young sheep?
Tremble, O Earth, at the Presence of the Lord, at the Presence of the God of Jacob!
Who turns the rock into a pool of water, flint into a fountain of waters!” (Psalm 114)
The enormity of God’s miracles impresses everyone—even the topography!  

However, a closer look at the first two verses yields a slightly different message—one about God’s location:
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.”
After manifesting miracles in and around Egypt, God now seems to be present in and among our people. Not in a specific place, but in the midst of the Israelite People, Am Yisrael. 

Many stories in the Scripture focus on the places God is present and available. Jonah thinks that God is only in the Land of Israel—and that taking a ship from Israel to Spain will get him away from God’s Presence. The exiles in Babylonia wonder if God can still hear their voices so far away from Jerusalem’s Temple.
“By the waters of Babylon, there we sat, sat and wept, when we thought of Zion.
There on the poplars we hung up our lyres,
For our captors asked us there for songs, our tormentors, for amusement:
‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion.’
How can we sing a song of the Lord on alien soil?!
If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither.
Let my tongue stick to my palate.
If I cease to think of you, if I do not keep Jerusalem in memory even at my happiest hour.”  (Psalm 137) 

Judah Halevi continues this thinking in his classic poem of yearning (c.1141).
“My heart is in the east, and I in the uttermost west—
How can I find savour in food? How shall it be sweet to me?
How shall I render my vows and my bonds, while yet
Zion lieth beneath the fetter of Edom, and I in Arab chains?
A light thing would it seem to me to leave all the good things of Spain—
Seeing how precious in mine eyes to behold the dust of the desolate sanctuary.”
(Translation from the Hebrew by Nina Salaman, 1924)  

As Hatikvah summarizes it, the preciousness of our Land and of the spiritual and national possibilities there are defining themes of our Judaism:
As long as the Jewish spirit is yearning deep in the heart,
With eyes turned toward the East, looking toward Zion,
Then our hope—the 2000 year-old hope—will not be lost:
To be a free people in the Land of Zion and Jerusalem.”  

And yet. And yet, there has been a flourishing of the Jewish spirit in many places. Israel is wonderful and worth supporting. We should prize what is possible in a Jewish country, but some of the greatest cultural and spiritual accomplishments of our people have taken place in the Galut, the Diaspora. The Babylonian Talmud, the Halachic and philosophical work of Maimonides (in Spain and Egypt), the Commentaries of Rashi (in France and Germany), and the Halachic works of Sages in Babylonia, Morocco, Turkey, and Iraq, as well as Poland and Russia and Germany are all examples of where the people of “Judah became the place of God’s holiness,” and the People of “Israel the place of God’s power.” We could go on and on with the spiritual insights of Eastern European Hassidism, the philosophical clarity of Baruch Spinoza (Holland) and Moses Mendelsohn (Germany), and the cultural greatness of Jews throughout the Galut. In fact, Rabbi Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, the dean of American Jewish historians, would often talk about the ways that Jewish civilizations are judged and then conclude that the two greatest Jewish civilizations were both in the Diaspora:  (1) The Golden Age of Spain/Al-Andalus (8th-15th Centuries), and (2) Modern America’s Jewish Civilization.  

The point is not to de-emphasize the Land of Israel but to remind us that, wherever we are, the Presence of God is with us—a Presence that makes possible both holiness and power.
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.”  (Psalm 114)

If We are "Part of God," Then What About Miracles?

January 23rd: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we considered the panentheistic understanding of God. If we are “part of God,” then the whole dynamic of prayer and supplication has a very different complexion. Instead of standing before an Authority, begging and cajoling about things we need, our spiritual practices are instead exercises in actualizing or enhancing the energy of God in our lives and in the world.  

Also affected would be the miracle stories in the Bible—particularly this week’s story about the Ten Plagues. The Torah describes a miraculous God swooping in to correct a great injustice, punishing the Egyptians and making very clear that slavery and oppression are wrong:
“I will multiply My signs and marvels in the land of Egypt…laying My hand upon Egypt and delivering My ranks…And the Egyptians shall know that I am the Lord, when I stretch out My hand over Egypt and bring out the Israelites from their midst.” (Exodus 7.3-5)  

God speaks of communicating this moral message to Egypt, but the Psalmist sees God’s message having a wider audience:
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness, Israel the place of God’s power.
The sea saw it and fled; the River Jordan turned backwards.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.
What’s the matter, sea, that you flee away, you Jordan that you flow backwards;
You mountains who skip like rams, you hills like lambs?
Tremble, O Earth, at the Presence of the Lord, at the Presence of the God of Jacob!
Who turns the rock into a pool of water, flint into a fountain of waters!” (Psalm 114)
Pharaoh will know. The Egyptians will know. And everyone in the world—including the topography—will “know that the Lord is God!” 

A panentheistic approach looks at the story in terms of the inevitable implosion of an oppressive regime—of the moral energy in the universe (God) working against injustice and oppression and inspiring people to seek their own liberation. Less dramatic than the traditional theistic understanding, this view is perhaps more realistic and practical. In brings to mind the teachings of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, the sage of Reconstructionist Judaism. He thought that modern science has rendered the idea of a supernatural God unbelievable and taught instead that God is the power or process in which humans attain self-fulfillment or improvement. This notion of a Divine process also calls to mind the statement of the abolitionist Reverend Theodore Parker (popularized by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.): “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” One can argue about whether Reverend Parker or Dr. King were thinking about panentheism, but this notion of “the arc or the moral universe” certainly speaks about the Divine with less supernatural flavor than usual.  

In any event, we find ourselves in the middle of an ancient religious debate. Does faith in God mean waiting for God to solve our problems miraculously, or should we try to solve them ourselves? The answer may be obvious to us: of course, we should solve our own problems! However, we are several centuries into the philosophical dominance of humanism—both secular humanism and religious humanism, and we should remember that common wisdom has not always preached such self-reliance. For centuries, many pious Christians and Jews believed that faith in God means waiting for miracles—that the pious should pray and wait for God. If one suffers in the meantime, then that is God’s will, and one should suffer in pious acceptance. Many thus considered self-help to be an attempt at thwarting God, and this thinking continues well into the modern period. For example, Chaim Potok’s The Chosen dramatizes the opposition of some Orthodox Jews to the establishment of Israel. As the Chassidic Rav Saunders puts it, Jews should wait for the Messiah to come and take care of things. Pre-empting God’s plans is, to him and the many Orthodox Jews his character represents, disrespectful and anti-religious.  

However, even in that world of piety and faith, there has also been a strong balancing ethic that speaks of human agency and responsibility. A prime and ancient example is the Midrash about Nachshon “helping” the miracle of the Splitting of the Red Sea. This story—totally fabricated by an ancient Rabbi—represents a desire to balance Judaism’s strong belief in miracles with a reminder that we have a role to play in our own redemption. There is also an air of practical wisdom. The kind of miracles described in the Bible are so extremely rare that it is as though they never happen. So, while the faithful may wait and pray for God’s miraculous intervention, it is helpful in the meantime to work on solving one’s own problems. Rather than equating faith with helpless waiting, the Midrash about Nachshon speaks about the human possibility of helping in God’s work. Or, as the old adage counsels, “Pray to God, and row for shore!” 

Another setting for this debate is Chanukah. Some interpretations focus on God’s miracles—both the military victory and the miracle of the oil, while other interpretations highlight the activist and militaristic Maccabees who win the war with guerilla tactics, raw courage, and great sacrifice. Which lesson shall we teach? Since Chanukah is a post-Biblical holiday—without sacred texts to ground the discussion, it is more malleable, and different teachers in different times find themselves emphasizing one message over the other.  

Purim, on the other hand, is a Biblical festival, but the Book of Esther is shockingly free of miracles. God is not a “character” in the story, nor does God do or say anything. The only “religious” element is that Mordecai is loyal to the One God. When it comes to saving the Jews, it is not God but the Jews themselves—Mordecai, Esther, and the Jews throughout Shushan and the provinces—who fight against the thugs and mobs. Interestingly, this lack of Divine participation almost prevented the Book of Esther from inclusion in the Biblical canon. It was only accepted, according to Tradition, because of its popularity. Perhaps the people loved the story because it resonated with their experiences as an oft-threatened minority. One could argue that this makes Purim a “non-religious” holiday, but our tenacious belief in Judaism and our realization that sometimes we must take care of ourselves are in their own ways extremely religious. It is only through our faith and action that we can keep alive our sacred relationship with the Lord. 

By the way, this argument about human agency and Divine miracles is not just a Jewish concern. It has been addressed in many venues over the centuries—including ancient works by Sophocles, Euripides, Ovid, and Aesop. So, when Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard taught that,“God helps those who help themselves,” he was echoing an ancient and continuing discussion.  

"Inclusion in God?"

January 16th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we contemplated the subtle line between “us” and “them,” and compared the relative acceptance of various groups. This week, I would like to expand the conversation and speak of our “inclusion in God.” 

We begin with Moses’ encounter with God in Exodus 6, a communication that may come as a surprise to Bible readers. Though the Genesis narratives tell about “The Lord (YHVH)” speaking to the Patriarchs, God explains that they knew a different Divine Name: “I am the Lord (YHVH). I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai (God Almighty or God of the Mountains), but I did not make Myself known to them by My name YHVH.”  

What is this new Divine Name? As God explains at the Burning Bush (in last week’s portion), the Divine Name is “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh.” Or rather, that is what God answers when Moses asks how he should identify the God Who sends him. This answer, “Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh” is a bit cryptic because it means “I am that I am,” “I will be what I will be,” or simply “I am.” Is it a name, or simply a description of God’s Presence? In any event, the Torah presents us with a spelling or perhaps an acronym of this Name—one known as the Tetragrammaton: Yod-Hay-Vav-Hay. Out of respect, we do not pronounce this name, instead saying Adonai, a special form of Adoni/Sir. The usual English translation is The Lord, but some modern translators regard The Lord as a gendered term, so they prefer The Eternal. 

In any event, we are introduced to the notion that the One God may be known by more than one name. The main three in the Torah are (1) YHVH, purposely substituted with Adonai/The Lord,
(2) Elohim/God, and sometimes (3) YHVH Elohim/The Lord God.  

The many names could be a measure of the different kinds of relationships people have with the Divine. Think of the different ways people address you based on age or family or professional position. Or they could reflect different aspects or characteristics of the Divine. 

Some commentators believe that the word God/Elohim is used in relation to God’s relationship with everyone and everything—not just the Jews. Thus does God create the world: “When God began to create the heavens and the earth…” (Genesis 1.1) The Lord, on the other hand,  is used in terms of God’s particular relationships with us. “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the land of Egypt. I am the Lord, your God.” (Numbers 15.41) 

Another explanation is more mystical. It suggests that YHVH/Adonai/The Lord refers to the Infinity of God. The other term—God/Elohim/Elohaynu/Our God—refers to our limited (and thus incomplete) knowledge of and understanding of the Infinite. Though our finite minds can never approach understanding anything infinite, we can nonetheless know something of It and learn to live in relationship with It. So, though there is a lot more about God than we can ever know, Torah teaches us enough about God for our sacred relationship. To remind us that there is more to the Divine, the Kabbalists often refer to God as Ayn Sof/Without End/The Infinite.  

This interplay of the knowable and infinite dimensions of God can be seen in our most famous affirmation of faith, The Shema (Deuteronomy 6.4):
Shema Yis’ra’el, Adonai Elohaynu Adonai Echad.
Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.
Pay attention, you Jewish People, what we know as God (Elohaynu) is indeed part of the Infinity (YHVH/Ayn Sof), and though there are many different manifestations and understandings of the Infinite Presence’s infinity, it is all a cosmic Unity. All exists within The One. 

If we speak of God as Infinite—as having no limits and inhabiting everything, then we get to the question of where we are. Are we separate from God, or are we part of God? This is a tricky question and one that has generated lots and lots of debate. Though the dominant view in Judaism has been that God exists outside of the universe—and occasionally steps in for miracles, some mystics hold a view called Pantheism or Panentheism which speaks of everything being a part of God. This would mean that we are part of God. We exist within God and “participate in God.”  

In such a Panentheistic understanding, our prayers would not be pleas to a Supreme Being Who is separated from the universe, but rather ways for us to participate in the receiving and direction of God’s spiritual energy. Similarly, our good or bad deeds would not be matters of obedience or disobedience but rather energy flows within God that enhance or stifle God’s healing and creative energies. 

The panentheistic stream of Jewish thought has never been the majority view, but one can find hints of it in Biblical, Talmudic, and Midrashic passages. And, one can find much more full discussions in Lurianic Kabbalah and in some of the Hassidic Masters.  

The problem with a panentheistic understanding of God is that we may feel too important and too much in control—lording our abilities and authority over others. Of course, others are also “part of God,” and a strong dose of humility is thus deeply appropriate. Each of us is like an individual drop in the infinite ocean of existence.  

The advantage of a panentheistic understanding of God is that we can feel closer to our Creator—and able to participate in God’s Shefa, the Flow of Divine Energy. As Rabbi Shefa Gold and Cantor Jack Kessler express it in a creative Birkat Hamazon (the Blessing after a Meal), “You are the Source of Life for all that is, and Your blessings flow through me.” Though we often speak of “letting God in” and giving ourselves over to God’s Will, panentheism informs us that we are already close to God—that we are in God and part of God and have the innate ability to be godly.  

If God is Existence—“Ehyeh-Asher-Ehyeh/I will be what I will be,” then we can be a part of the Divine unfolding. Ours is a blessed possibility—a holy opportunity.

"Us" and "Them"

January 9th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion holds perhaps the most frightening words in Jewish history:
“A new king arose over Egypt who knew not Joseph.” (Exodus 1.8)
In an act of conscious “forgetfulness,” the Egyptian leadership denies our constructive involvement in Egyptian society—pushing the Hebrews from “us” to “them.” It is a precursor to oppression and enslavement, and, unfortunately, it has not been the only time we have been “othered” and persecuted.   

The line between “us” and “them” is subtle, but it can make all the difference in the world.  

For American nurses in World War I, acceptance by the military was conditional and mixed. Women were not allowed in the Army, and, despite significant training, nurses were often denied the designation of medical professionals. Nonetheless, many patriotic women organized in the Red Cross and traveled to Europe, braving the dangers of the war. They also faced continuing discrimination by the Army, administrative disrespect that far too often made their life-saving work more difficult. Nonetheless, they treated many soldiers, saved many soldiers, and returned to America “inferior” still. They considered themselves part of “us” even though the official “we” did not treat them with respect or fairness.  

The situation for Blacks was even more troublesome. Take the case of Dorie Miller, a black man from Waco, Texas, who served in the US Navy during World War II. On the battleship USS West Virginia, he was a mess attendant because Blacks were not considered good enough to be sailors. Nonetheless, when his ship was attacked at Pearl Harbor, he left the galley, took the place of a fallen sailor at an anti-aircraft gun, and—despite not being trained in gunnery—shot down several Japanese planes. He also carried several wounded sailors and officers to safety. Awarded the Navy Cross, his nomination for the Medal of Honor was rejected by Navy Secretary Frank Knox—who opposed Black sailors serving in any combat role. Who knows what kind of racial discrimination this hero would have faced when he returned home after the war, but he never made it back. Serving again in the galley—as a Cook Petty Officer, Third Class, he was lost when his ship, the escort carrier Liscome Bay, was sunk during the Battle of Makin in 1943. He was a patriot and a hero, but, for too many Americans, he was not one of “us.” 

The same can be said of many groups who contributed to the war effort—among them the “Code-Talking” Navahos and the Nisei (children of Japanese immigrants) who served with distinction and valor. When it came to defending the United States, they felt that they were part of “us,” but too many others did not agree. For a poignant portrayal of this twisted dynamic, take a look at the 1955 film Bad Day at Black Rock. Who is included in “us,” and what does it take to be accepted?” 

Such stories of our lack of inclusion and respect are a stain on our collective soul, but all is not bleak. Improvement is possible.   

Often, the beginnings of inclusion and equality involve a focus on rights. “They” should be included and granted rights. However, a beautiful change occurs when, rather than thinking about “letting them in,” we begin to recognize the gifts that “they” bring to “us”—when “we” are enhanced by the particular contributions of each of our members. This has certainly happened in the inclusion of women in the Rabbinate. Though the initial discussion was in regard to equality, the fact is that the women have brought in sensibilities and approaches that have improved the Rabbinate and Judaism. The same can be said of Gerim/Converts. While much of the Gerut process involves admitting “them” to Judaism, there have been palpable contributions that the thousands of converts have brought to Judaism over the last fifty years. The seriousness with which they approach Judaism has inspired many, and the expectations of spirituality they bring have added to the spiritual development of our entire movement. When People of Color, or LGBT+ individuals, or disabled people, or any other marginalized groups join formerly closed polities, it is not only a question of “letting them in,” but also of appreciating the gifts they bring. Our belief in equality should not blind us to the cultural and psychological gifts that newcomers offer.  

The hope, of course, is that “they” become part of “us,” but they are not objects to be accepted. They are new members who add to our communal blessings.  

This has been the story of so many inclusions. Formerly different or unincluded people join organizations or societies and share. Back in the early 1900s, there were discussions about whether the ideal is a “melting pot”—in which everyone becomes part of a new American identity—or a stew or salad—where everyone retains independence while being part of something bigger, but both options involve inclusion and appreciation. The opposite is true when divisive forces seek to slice into our polities and cast out friends, neighbors, and colleagues. “A new king arose over Egypt who knew not Joseph.” 

Let us beware such hateful forgetfulness, and let us beware drawing lines that do not have to be drawn. Though our ethnic and religious identities help to form us, we are more than the groups which sent us forth. Community inevitably involves the incorporation of many unique individuals, and our focus should be on the humanity each one manifests in the group. 

Let me conclude with two quotations about acceptance and appreciation. First, there is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.’s dream “that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.” They are not “they.” They are “us.” 

And second is President George Washington’s affirmation of the promise of America. Writing to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Island, he was both expansive and inclusive: “For happily the Government of the United States, which gives to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance, requires only that they who live under its protection should demean themselves as good citizens, in giving it on all occasions their effectual support….May the father of all mercies scatter light and not darkness in our paths, and make us all in our several vocations useful here, and in his own due time and way everlastingly happy.”
We are not “them.” We are “us.” 

Changeability and Hope

December 12th and 19th: Vayeshev and Mikketz
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We humans are remarkably changeable. Whether it is a matter of open-mindedness or gullibility, we are susceptible to persuasion and often change our opinions. Examples in popular culture are both amusing and telling. In the 1934 film, It Happened One Night, Clark Gable takes off his shirt, revealing his bare chest—a surprise that turned out to be a cultural event. The union suit he was not wearing was almost rendered extinct, and the men’s underwear industry changed forever. Then there was President John F. Kennedy who braved a cold inauguration day bare-headed—and inadvertently decimated the men’s hat industry.  

Sometimes our changeability involves more serious matters. In 1972, Gay and Lesbian Jews in Los Angeles organized the first “Gay Synagogue,” Beth Chayim Chadashim, and many leading Reform Rabbis did not approve. Explaining their reasoning in Halachic (Jewish Law) terms, they declared both homosexuality and a “gay synagogue” impermissible in Judaism. This formidable opposition did not stop Beth Chayim Chadashim or the organizers of other Gay-friendly congregations around the country, and less than twenty years later, the Reform Movement had completely changed its opinion. Openly Gay and Lesbian Jews were welcome at congregations, as students at the Hebrew Union College, and as members of the Central Conference of American Rabbis. One of the first “out” in 1990 was newly ordained Rabbi Denise Eger, who later became the President of the CCAR. Opinions held in the 1970s had changed radically.  

A Biblical example of such changes in perception comes in the tumultuous life of Joseph (Genesis 37-50). Adored by his father but hated by his brothers, he is favored, then enslaved, then appreciated and trusted, then sexually desired (by his master’s wife) and then cast out when he refuses her advances. He is imprisoned, appreciated, and then forgotten. Finally, he is whisked from the dungeon to prominence and power in Egypt—with his formerly hostile brothers appreciating his largesse in saving them from famine. Joseph believes that it is all part of God’s plan—saying to his brothers in Genesis 50, “Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good,” but, from an emotional and a public relations point of view, Wow!  

A lesson from Joseph’s saga is that reputations and situations are not permanent. Circumstances  and institutions may seem fixed, but surprises happen. Whether good or bad, “Gam zeh ya’avor./ This too shall pass.” The mighty may topple; the lowly may be raised high. And we should not forget about God’s influence in the world. This was the point of abolitionist Reverend Theodore Parker (1810-1860) who, in a statement later popularized by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., affirmed: “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”  

The problem, of course, is that this “arc” can sometimes be more like a rollercoaster ride. While we may be shocked at the recent rise of anti-Semitism, the fact is that the relative absence of anti-Jewish hatred in the last fifty years is a patchy and somewhat ahistorical phenomenon. Our Jewish story is an “up and down” tale of acceptance and rejection, permanence and exile, peace and conflict. The disparities in Jewish experience are multitudinous but consider these two from the Twentieth Century. In 1915, the Jewish community of Atlanta was terrorized and “othered” when a member of the community, Leo Frank, was falsely accused of murder and lynched, but, a mere year later, Louis D. Brandeis, a Jewish son of immigrants, was nominated and confirmed as a Justice on the U.S. Supreme Court. In the 1940s, the United States fought a world war to defeat Nazi hate, but returning Jewish G.I.s faced housing and job discrimination. (For a riveting look at this post-war irony, find a copy of Gentleman’s Agreement, the 1947 bestseller by Laura Z. Hobson, or its Oscar-winning film adaptation in which director Elia Kazan and actor Gregory Peck “bring home the fight against anti-Semitism.”) 

The disparities of America’s attitudes toward us continue—as does the anti-Semitic twisting of logic and history. Consider this painfully ironic observation by Charles Asher Small, a Jewish and Canadian scholar of anti-Semitism: “Think about this. In less than two generations the Jewish people have gone from not-white and worthy of extermination…to white colonizers worthy of extermination.” 

We could regard such hateful thinking as a cue for utter futility: humanity is hopeless. Why must we constantly “make our case” for acceptance and respect? It is absurd and remarkably frustrating, but perhaps this is just the way of the world. Victories at some points along the way do not obviate the need for continually taking care of ourselves—and continually proving that we are good neighbors and constructive citizens. Indeed, a possible lesson from our “up and down ride” is that “what goes down can also go up.” People are changeable and malleable, and perhaps a response better than despair is to redouble our efforts to convince everyone that we Jews are good—and that equality and respect for Jews and everyone else is a good move for humanity.  

Among those who advocate for this persuasive approach is Einat Wilf. A former Israeli diplomat and Member of Knesset, Dr. Wilf was a peacenik for most of her life, but after spending many years working on the peace process, she had a change of heart and mind. Among her insights:

(1) The “Palestinian Refugee” identity was created in the 1960s and foisted upon Arabs from all over the Middle East who had formerly been subjects of the Ottoman Empire. In any other conflict and migration situation, these people would have been re-homed in another part of the former empire, but “Palestinianism” was created and supported by agents of hate and dissatisfaction. However, what was created can be recrafted. The “permanent refugee” identity can be redefined to something more positive, something more peaceful and constructive.  

(2) The Arab and Muslim nations doing the best are the ones who have abandoned their foolish quest to destroy Israel and focused on making their own countries better—economically, socially, politically. If this fact can be communicated to more and more Arabs, then the anti-Jewish and UNWRA notion of a permanent and hostile refugee population can be replaced with what Dr. Wilf calls “Arab Zionism.” Arabs can build a good society if they focus their energies and resources on constructive goals.  

Israel is here to stay, Dr. Wilf reminds us, and Israel has time to influence its neighbors for good. Israel and World Jewry have the opportunity to remind and persuade the world that destruction is not only futile but also a waste of energy and resources. Constructive and hopeful Arabs can build a better Arab country, and, like the Jewish Zionists, they can save themselves.

The Limits (and Preconceptions) of Pacifism

December 5th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

I have been uncomfortable lately with friends who are pacifists. It is not that I am against peace, but some of them seem remarkably untroubled when it comes to the life-and-death struggles of others. While the Bible speaks of the blessings of peace, there is also an awareness that peace is not always the best path. In Genesis 14, Abram gets involved in the War of the Four Kings Against the Five Kings. While peace is a noble and serious goal, rescuing his nephew Lot is more important. In Genesis 21, we find that Abraham’s friendship with Abimelech, King of Gerar, is jostled when some of Abimelech’s shepherds invade Abraham’s territory and seize one of Abraham’s wells. The two meet and hash things out, but the Torah mentions that troops are present for the “peace talks.” Friendship is important, but strength is important too. 

In this week’s Torah portion, we have other examples of necessary and blessed force. The first begins with Jacob camping out alone and anticipating a stressful meeting with his twin brother Esau. Suddenly, a mysterious visitor appears—identified in some places as a “man” and in other places as an “angel,” and that “man wrestled with Jacob until the break of dawn.” (Genesis 32.25-29) Their encounter is not a discussion of philosophy nor a negotiation. Rather, it is a fierce and physical encounter in which Jacob emerges blessed and with a new name. As the angel explains, Jacob will be called Israel because he “has striven with beings divine and human, and has prevailed.” Sometimes, we are taught, we must wrestle with all our might. 

A second example involves the Rape of Dinah, Jacob and Leah’s daughter. Though Anita Diamant, in The Red Tent, portrays Dinah as a “liberated” young woman who voluntarily enters into a romance with Shechem, hers is a modern Midrash that clearly departs from the text. In the Torah itself (Genesis 34), Shechem takes Dinah by force, and Jacob/Israel’s family is faced with a crisis. Respond or acquiesce? Accept the assault and enter into an alliance with Shechem’s tribe—and be known as “pushovers,” or respond dramatically and forcefully and let everyone know that “you don’t mess with the Sons of Israel?” Jacob prefers to keep the peace at all costs, but Simon and Levi lead their brothers in a devastating attack on Shechem’s tribe, and everyone in the region presumably takes note.
 

Many of us remember the terrible event back in 2006 in which six Amish schoolchildren were murdered in Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania. The Amish, known for their pacifism, mourned for their fallen children, but then, in an example of grace that amazed the world, forgave the shooter and his family. There has been much written about this phenomenon, but much of what I have read seems to miss the point. The salient factor, it seems to me, is the Amish belief in an Afterlife—one earned by Christlike forbearance, pacifism, and forgiveness. Their religious path is ultimately of more importance than the lives of the murdered children—whose souls presumably went straight to Heaven and were embraced by God. I do not mean to suggest that the Amish do not love their children, but in a life devoted to their particular path of godliness, how and when that life ends is less important than following the path and earning eternity.  

This kind of thinking typifies the martyrdom literature of many religions—including Judaism. The pious do their best while alive, but this world and what happens in it pale in comparison to the joy and love that await in the Afterlife. Thus, do many believe that religious observance and loyalty are more important than earthly survival, and, for them, conflict is a completely different kind of experience. Submitting oneself—one’s pride, one’s anger, one’s life—to God is seen as redemptive, as the “price of admission” to heaven. This, by the way, is why many Eastern European Jews walked compliantly and tranquilly into Nazi boxcars and gas chambers. 

In Biblical and Second Temple days, the Children of Israel were fierce, and stories about our valor and military successes abound. Things changed however with the overwhelming domination of Rome, and, after three disastrous rebellions against Rome, our Rabbis decided that fighting back is not a good survival strategy. Meekness, piety, and praying for the Messiah were prescribed, and, from around 200 CE to modern times, non-violent forbearance became the Jewish way. In the mid-1800’s, however, some Jews started questioning this response and developed a different approach to conflict. In villages and cities across Europe, young Jews gathered and learned self-defense, standing up to the anti-Semites who had been having a field day for over a thousand years. In many ways, this Jewish Self-Defense laid the foundation for Zionism and the tenacious return to our ancestral home. Belief in an Afterlife was beside-the-point as more and more Jews saw this world and our lives in it as worth defending. Like the Biblical Israelites and the Maccabees, modern Jews could be strong and proud and self-reliant. 

Such fierceness does not sit well with our pacifist friends. It is not that they do not care for the victims of violence, but their caring seems to be subsumed by their belief in peace at all costs. My concern is that they can too easily be sanguine about consigning others to death.  

One of my pacifist friends recently wrote to me with words intended as empathetic. Mourning with us over the “continuing trauma we must feel after the Holocaust,” my friend sees our current defensive posture as “limbic” and a matter of “misaligned chakras.” Though intended as kind, it looked to me like a diagnosis, and I found myself wondering about the chakras in those Israeli peaceniks murdered and tortured by Hamas. At what point is our defensive posture a spiritual/Vedic sickness, and at what point is it fighting off a gunman rushing at my family?  

If one “does not care”—that is, believes that whatever happens in this life is ultimately unimportant, then dying with perfectly aligned chakras and a peaceful disposition is okay. But, the premise of such a position may not be acceptable to all, and, for many of us, self-defense and the will to live is not a pathology.  

Judaism believes in peace. We pray for peace, and we yearn for peace. In verse after verse and prayer after prayer, we express the urgency and necessity of peace, but we see it as an aspiration, a hope that must sometimes be temporarily shelved when imminent destruction knocks at the door. As we are counseled in Psalm 29:
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo va’shalom.”
“The Lord gives strength to our people,” and through that strength, “the Lord will bless our people with peace.”

A Dream of Holy Potential

November 28th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

While the larger story arc involves Jacob leaving home, dreaming about the stairway to heaven, falling in love, getting married, and raising a large family, one minor detail strikes me every time I read this Torah portion:
“Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran. He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night. Taking one of the stones of that place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. He had a dream: a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down on it. And the Lord was standing beside him…” (Genesis 28.10-13)
Why use a rock as a pillow?! 

One explanation is that the rock upon which he dreams provides him with a permanent reminder of the vision. “Early in the morning, Jacob took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up as a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. He named that place Beth El/House of God.” (Genesis 28.18-19) Not only is the stone a reminder; it is in a sense a witness. 

Another answer has to do with danger. Jacob is alone and out in the wilderness. Unlike his twin Esau, he is not an outdoorsman. “When the boys grew up, Esau became a skillful hunter, a man of the outdoors; but Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” (Genesis 25.27) This may be the first time he is away from home on his own, and he could be frightened. Sleeping on a hard stone could be his strategy of sleeping but not too deeply—so that he could respond to danger. Or the stone could be much larger than we imagine: sleeping on top of a boulder may be his way of protecting himself against dangerous ground animals. 

I sense, however, a deeper possibility. Perhaps Jacob is feeling alienated, estranged, and lost. Remember how quickly his life is disrupted. Living comfortably in the family’s tent compound, reconciled to his Dad’s intention of letting his stronger and more vigorous twin take over family leadership (and maybe even a little relieved), he is suddenly dragged into a palace coup. His mother Rebekah makes him dress in animal skins, pretend to be his hairy brother, lie to his beloved father, and steal Esau’s blessing. The plan works, but, when Esau finds out, he explodes with anger: “Let but the mourning period of my father come, and I will kill my brother Jacob.” Rebekah sends him away for his own safety: “Your brother Esau is consoling himself by planning to kill you. Now my son, listen to me. Flee at once to Haran, to my brother Laban. Stay with him a while, until your brother’s fury subsides…” (Genesis 27.41-45)  

He may be safe from Esau, but he is alone and in unknown parts, separated from his family and everything he knows. He does not feel safe. Manipulated, hated, and frightened, his confidence is very low, and he could be feeling very bad about himself. Some people with deep feelings of alienation or marginalization express themselves by self-harm. Some cut. Some stop eating. Some drink themselves into oblivion. Others try to overwhelm their sadness and anger with extreme and self-destructive behaviors. Archeologists report that some ancients ritualized self-harm and prescribed a mourning ritual in which close relatives ripped out their hair to show grief—a pagan custom that may have inspired Leviticus 19.27’s prohibition of “cutting the corners of one’s hair and beard.” The point is that choosing a stone for a pillow could be Jacob’s way of expressing inner angst with outer pain. Bereft and lost, Jacob is hurting badly and to his very soul. 

The irony—the blessed irony—is that this is the moment when God comes to visit. In the midst of this terrible crisis, God comes to Jacob and offers hope and purpose.
“I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants. Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land...” (Genesis 28.13-15) 

When we are immersed in a crisis, we may or may not receive such a vision or promise, but we certainly yearn for clarity and perspective—and purpose and love. Tradition reminds us to consider what we represent—how we are part of an ancient and continuing project, a project established by God, intended by God, and accompanied by God. Though they call us Israel because we wrestle with God, we are also called Israel because we wrestle with ourselves and with others, all for the purpose of Tikkun Olam, bringing Heaven’s blessings to the world. Jacob will one day be called Israel, but now he is at an impasse—a moment of doubt and pain. God is there to remind him that blessed potential awaits—and to comfort him, inspire him, and remind him that the Divine is always present. Always.  

I believe that we too sleep and stand at the portal between Heaven and Earth. We too can see the angels “going up and going down on the heavenly stairway,” but there is more. We are invited to join them—to be among God’s M’lachim/angels and to find holy purpose in God’s work.  

There are many texts that speak to us of our purpose—some traditional and other modern. Here is one of my favorites:  
“Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why. And yet, sometimes we seem to divine a purpose. From the standpoint of daily life, we know this: people are here for the sake of other people. Above all, we are here for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow humans, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received and am still receiving.” (Albert Einstein) 

More Than a Training Montage: We Need to Gird our Loins

November 21st: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
One of my favorite movie cliches is the training montage, a series of quick scenes in which a character or group of characters prepare for a mission or game (or heist). The goal is for the audience to get a gist of the process, but without spending too much time. There is a delicate line between so much training that the viewers’ attention will lag and so little training that the viewers will not adequately “feel” the character’s determination and struggle.  

The Rocky movies are famous for such training montages. Inspired by the famous Rocky theme—or Eye of the Tiger, or, in the case of Rocky IV, the two songs that accompany the dueling training montages of Rocky and Ivan Drago, we “train with” Rocky as he sweats, strains, worries, and struggles. And we are with him when he climbs the seventy-two stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art—or a nameless mountain in Russia—and yells to the universe that he is ready. We have struggled with him and know that victory awaits! 

As in all narratives, the idea is for us to get a glimpse of the characters’ reality—not to live it ourselves. The story teller’s task is necessarily reductive.  

Another cliché—delightfully parodied in The Muppets (2011)—is traveling by map. Rather than investing the movie time to show an actual journey—which could be long or difficult or impossible, the viewer is shown a map and a cartoon boat or plane moving across it. Reality is not the point; we just need the transition so we can get on with the narrative. 

I mention these unrealities because they represent fallacies into which we can sometimes fall. When the bad things in life come, we may wish that we could travel by map or be limited to a suffering montage, but alas. Real people must summon their patience and gird their loins. 

Think of the 400 years we spent as slaves in Egypt. Generations were born as slaves and died as slaves—the harshness of Egyptian oppression as all they knew. Reality for them was so much more than the bitterness of horseradish or parsley dipped in metaphorical tears. A deeper study of their suffering and perseverance would ask how they managed to find inner strength and faith. When it is our time to suffer, how can we learn from Tradition and find resilience? 

Another struggle comes to our attention this week. Rebekah and Isaac marry with great hopefulness, but they spend many years waiting for children. Though the Torah’s focus is on the birth of the twins Esau and Jacob—and the brouhaha of their rivalry, notice the time frame of frustration and hope:
“This is the story of Isaac, son of Abraham. Abraham begot Isaac…Isaac was forty years old when he took to wife Rebekah, daughter of Bethuel the Aramean of Paddan-aram, sister of Laban the Aramean. Isaac pleaded with the Lord on behalf of his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord responded to his plea, and his wife Rebekah conceived….Isaac was sixty years old when they (Esau and Jacob) were born.” (Genesis 25.20-26) 

When we celebrate Passover, we do just that. We mention the hard times but move quickly on to celebrating God’s miraculous rescue. Before we even start, we already know the eventual and blessed conclusion, but that was not the case for the ancient Hebrew slaves. They did not know when their nightmare would end. In the case of Isaac and Rebekah,  we know that the many years of infertility will eventually end and that twin sons will bless the couple. But what were Rebekah and Isaac thinking during those long years?  

My goal is not to plunge us into the despair with which previous generations wrestled. We have troubles of our own, and dwelling on their tzoros will help neither them nor us. This could be why Tradition doses us in remembering our past difficulties. Like training montages or traveling by map, we need enough to inspire appreciation, but not so much as to destroy hopes.  

And yet, we are more than just observers of life; we are livers of life and sometimes sufferers. While our Tradition often presents celebratory history, the fact is that Judaism has also helped Jews though dark days. It may be thus helpful for us to reflect upon our other sacred stories, the ones which tell of suffering, patience, and resilience. There is holiness in them, as well.  

We could think about how our mother Rebekah put on a brave face and found meaning in her life even as she wondered if she would ever be a mother. We could think about how the Hebrew slaves put foot in front of foot every day, trying to endure the oppression and trying to find meaning in life despite terrible conditions. We could think about how our European ancestors found meaning and hope despite poverty and the ever-present Cossack. While part of Faith includes believing that God will rescue us or grant us our fondest hopes, a large part of our Judaism also involves searching and finding the blessings that are present. 

Some guidance comes from the ancient Sage Ben Zoma in Pirke Avot (4.1):  Who is rich? He who rejoices in his lot,” or as I like to render it, “Who is rich? One who rejoices in blessings that are available.” More than just an insight about appreciation, Ben Zoma’s larger lesson involves working within the parameters of our limited circumstances.
“Who is wise? One who learns from everyone.
Who is mighty? One who controls his/her evil inclination.
Who is rich? One who rejoices in blessings that are available.
Who is honored? One who honors other human beings.” 

In the gap between our idealized lives and our real lives, Ben Zoma counsels us to seek meaning in what we can do. What are our opportunities for finding meaning? What are, in that gap, the possibilities for joy, for service, for appreciation, or for holiness?  

Judaism has always been a profound mixture of spirituality and practicality. We need to take care of ourselves and our world, but we also need to expand our vision and search for God’s Presence in our lives.
The Lord is present always:
Helping us, pushing us, lifting us,
Teaching us, guiding us, saving us.
God’s power can be seen in our lives, and we can feel it within.”

Family Matters

November 14th: Chayei Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

In this week’s Torah portion, we seem to have a lesson in parental overreach. After Sarah’s death, Abraham decides that Isaac needs a wife—and that someone other than Isaac should do the choosing. He sets his head servant on the task and gives these instructions:
(1) “Do not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell.”
(2) “Go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac.”
(3) “On no account must you take my son back there!” (Genesis 24.3-6)

The abnormality of such a situation begs for explanation. Some suggest that this strange course of action is just the way things were done back then: children did not choose their own spouses. Others wonder if there is perhaps a problem with Isaac. Could he be unduly susceptible to “bad” influences? If he falls in love with a local woman, she and her polytheistic and idolatrous family may lure Isaac away from God’s path. If Isaac travels back to the “Old Country” (Mesopotamia), he may be lured into staying there and abandoning the fate God has set for the family. Better to take care of things for him and bring him an appropriate wife.  

Another theory wonders if the trauma of almost being sacrificed by his father has left Isaac emotionally or socially disabled—that he may not be able to court and marry without assistance. If this is the case, it would mean that the family needs a wife who can take charge and guide Isaac and the growing tribe/religion. Or could he suffer from another disability? Though we hear about visual problems in his old age—“When Isaac was old and his eyes were too dim to see” (Genesis 27.1), some wonder whether they could have originated earlier. The Midrash speculates that, as he lies bound on the altar on Mount Moriah, the angels in heaven cry at the thought of Abraham sacrificing his son. Their tears fall into Isaac’s eyes, and his vision is permanently damaged. The point of all these possibilities is that Isaac is perhaps unable to travel on his own to find a wife. 

This notion of Isaac being weak and Rebekah being strong is one way of understanding their disagreement over which son, Esau or Jacob, should be the third Patriarch—a conflict which Rebekah “wins.” While the story speaks of Rebekah’s trickery, we should not forget that God sides with her by blessing Jacob and making him the Patriarch. My point is that Rebekah may be the more insightful leader in our ancient family. Even though men might be “in charge,” human nature suggests that, regardless of the official social practices, women nonetheless exercise leadership and influence. As Lainie Kazan explains in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck—and she can turn the head any way she wants.”  

One more clue about Rebekah’s spiritual power. When she has difficulty conceiving, Isaac prays for her. (Genesis 25.19-23) However, when the pregnancy is difficult—“the children struggled in her womb,” she herself goes to inquire of the Lord, and she herself gets a direct answer. No mere passive part of the story, Rebekah may be the spiritual leader of the family, and her “selection” into the family may be more than just social convention. 

Now let us look at Rebekah’s family. At first glance, Laban seems impressed with Abraham’s comparative wealth. Perhaps that is why he and Bethuel are so willing to send their sister/daughter off with Abraham’s emissary. However, notice the awareness of God’s Presence in both the interactions and the thinking.
(1)   Abraham’s servant speaks of God’s involvement when he recounts how Rebekah’s help at the village well provides the sign he has asked of the Lord: “I bowed low in homage to the Lord and blessed the Lord, the God of my master Abraham, who led me on the right way to get the daughter of my master’s brother for his son.” (Genesis 24.48)
(2)   Laban and Bethuel speak of complying with God’s will: “Here is Rebekah before you; take her and go, and let her be a wife to your master’s son, as the Lord has spoken.” (Genesis 24.51)
(3)   The Midrash speculates that Rebekah is only three years old—which would mean that her actions indicate an unusual giftedness and awareness. Watering the flocks, offering hospitality to Abraham’s servant, and agreeing to participate in God’s plan all indicate that she is fated for spiritual distinction and leadership. Thus, when Laban and Bethuel “call the girl and ask for her reply…‘Will you go with this man?’ And she said, ‘I will’” (Genesis 24.57-58), she seems ready, willing, and able to be God’s servant in our people’s unfolding narrative. 

In other words, what may first appear a case of Abraham’s over-functioning may in reality be a matter of God’s Hand at work in human affairs.  

A similar hidden dynamic may be a play in another example of questionable parenting. In Parshat Vayeshev, Jacob’s family experiences a number of crises, one of which begins when he favors Joseph over the other sons.
“When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father loved him more than any of his brothers, they hated him so that they could not speak a friendly word to him.” (Genesis 37.4)
Things get worse when Joseph has dreams of grandeur—and brags about them to his family.
“The brothers hated him even more for his dreams and for talking about them.”
Yes, “they were wrought up at him,” but Jacob seems to do nothing: “Israel kept the matter in mind.” Whereas Abraham seems to over-function, Jacob seems to be frozen and almost a non-presence. Should he not be in charge? Is he not the Patriarch? 

We should never discount the possibility of inadequate parenting. Even the best of us makes mistakes. However, there is another possibility: Jacob could be having a prophetic moment—could be beginning to sense God’s Influence in the family dynamic. “Israel kept the matter in mind” could indicate a growing awareness that this is all part of God’s plan: that the hostility will induce the brothers to sell Joseph into Egyptian slavery so that Joseph can eventually be in a position to have power in Egypt and save his family from the future famine. Far-fetched? Perhaps, but consider what Joseph himself says to his brothers, many years later and after the “plan” is fulfilled:
“Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” (Genesis 50.20) 

One of the lessons of religion is that we may not be the only ones acting in our lives. While Judaism teaches us to be responsible for our actions, we are also reminded that God’s Presence could be at work—that we could be part of the Divine Plan.

A Tale of Two Abrahams

November 7th: Vayayra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I did not like the film Lincoln by Tony Kushner and Steven Spielberg because the politics and wrangling were messy. Rather than the clear and clean moral victory that I learned in grade school, the political process portrayed was difficult and convoluted and unsettling. Much more to my liking was another 2012 film about Lincoln, a silly fantasy called Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter. While lacking in historical accuracy, that story was much easier to follow, and the conclusion was in a certain sense much more satisfying.

 Kushner’s and Spielberg’s lesson about the messiness of political change came back to me when I read a recent Smithsonian Magazine piece on Frederick Douglass and his love-hate relationship with Abraham Lincoln. In When Historians Rediscovered These Frederick Douglass Letters, They Were Surprised by His Candid Opinions About Abraham Lincoln, Lucas E. Morel and Jonathan W. White recount Douglass’ consistent and absolute moral demand: slavery had to be abolished. However, President Lincoln had other agendas and strategies on his mind—as well as lots of opponents and obstacles. He also seems to have had a less intense objection to the chattel practices that had become so entrenched in American society.

 As many commentators on Southern culture have noted (among them, our own Richard Kopely in his recent book about Edgar Allen Poe’s years in Richmond), the moral problems with slavery were just so “inconvenient” that otherwise moral people found ways to ignore them. It was “the way things were”—and ending Slavery would have been highly disruptive and “caused problems” for the people who benefited. Such concerns are embarrassing in the face of  slavery’s evil, but these “problems” made the political and practical abolition of slavery a long and complicated process.

So, as the rediscovered letters show, Douglass pushed and demanded—and was sometimes more and sometimes less appreciative of Mr. Lincoln’s leadership.

The Jewish world recently lost a Douglass-esque figure, Rabbi Arthur Waskow (1933-2025), who spent decades protesting injustice and calling for moral and political improvement. With his very long beard, colorful kippah, and provocative rhetoric, he attracted a lot of attention and brought significant intensity to whatever he taught or preached. Though personally a pleasant fellow, he was extremely forthright and demanding—and was not someone you wanted to oppose. He came at arguments with full force and guns (metaphorical) ablazing.

I compare him to Douglass—a comparison I suspect he would have considered a compliment—and wonder how to measure their success. Is their intensity the kind that gets things done, or does it alienate the people who lead and manage institutions and corporations? Or does their intensity and absolutism create an emotional and moral pole to which others are eventually drawn? In the world of social change, one can often see how the extreme positions of some advocates prove useful for the middle-of-the-roaders who make the deals and arrange for the practicalities of progress. While acknowledging and distancing themselves from their colleagues’ alienating rhetoric, the middle-of-the-roaders can also point to the wisdom and morality that lie beneath.

What do you do when a great problem cries out for a tikkun, a fix or repair? Even when on the wrong track, something as big as a society cannot turn on a dime. How does one move from objection to persuasion and organization—from grievous problems to solutions that are accepted and not counter-productive? Debating great issues is exhilarating, but how does one move from the parlor debate to practical solutions—all while not destroying the social fabric?

The irony of Douglass’ dissatisfaction—according to the Smithsonian article—is that a quick and decisive Union victory might not have freed the slaves. Though Douglass’ moral position was absolute (and impatient!), the eventual emancipation could only have happened after a long and messy conflict. So, we ask, do moral absolutes get things done, or are they more self-indulgent than helpful? Or do they garner the attention and inspire the energy necessary for progress?

Enter our God and problems with Creation. In Parshat Noach, God seems unable to fix the world and decides to flood everything. Starting over with Noah, God hopes for a better world, but some parts are just as bad as the old one. As we read, “the outrage of Sodom and Gomorrah is so great, and their sin so grave…” that God is ready to destroy them and their inhabitants completely. (Genesis 18.20)

 We do not know why God seeks Abraham’s opinion, but the Patriarch finds himself in the position of wrestling with God’s moral quandary. Abraham is clearly in a position much different than Douglass or Lincoln or Waskow, but there is a subtlety to the Patriarch’s thinking that gets God to hesitate. “Will you sweep away the innocent along with the guilty? What if there should be fifty innocent within the city; will You then wipe out the innocent and not forgive it for the sake of the innocent fifty who are in it? Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?” (Genesis 18.23-25)

As it turns out, there is not even a minyan of righteous people, and, after allowing the one righteous family to escape, God burns the whole place down. So much for Sodom and Gomorrah, but what about other “dens of iniquity?” Are they in any way salvageable? Is it possible to ferret out the good from the evil? How does one negotiate solutions that are both ameliorative and not unnecessarily disruptive or destructive?

 The problem with political and moral intensity is that its anger and impatience can lead to “burning the whole house down.” The problem with subtly and patience is that they can become so mired in preserving order and commerce that they are not insistent enough. Evil needs to be addressed, but immediate and dramatic “solutions” may bring problems of their own.

From a narrative point of view, Abraham Lincoln killing vampires with his silver axe is simple and dramatic. But it is a fantasy and silly entertainment. Kushner’s and Spielberg’s story is messy, frustrating, and much less entertaining, but it shows the way real progress is made—how great societal problems can be approached and how we can hopefully be put on the road to improvement. Thank God for those tenacious enough and patient enough to do this work.

Hebrew, Israelite, or Jew: Who are You?

October 31st: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Though the word Jewish is not technically and historically accurate for our people until around 500 BCE, we often generalize and say that “Judaism and Jewish History begin around 2000 BCE,” when, in Chapter 12 of Genesis,
“The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.
I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you;
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you and curse him that curses you;
And all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”
Abram responds to God’s call, and he and his wife Sarai and their followers travel to the Land of Canaan. God assigns it to them, and they sojourn there. It is the beginning of a long and holy relationship.   

Now here are the caveats:
Abraham and Sarah were known as Iv’rim/Hebrews, a term which probably meant that they were part of a group that moved back and forth between Mesopotamia and Egypt. It might have originally been more a description of semi-nomadic shepherding in the region, but it eventually became a kind of ethnic designation.  

This is all before the subsequent ethnic designation of Yis’ra’el/Israel—a name that emerges from the mysterious wrestling match between Jacob (Abraham and Sarah’s grandson) and the angel. In the Torah and in the rest of the Tanach, this new name—Yis’ra’el/Israelites/Children of Israel is used, but not exclusively. In the stories of our people’s time in Egypt—first as welcome guests, then as slaves, and finally as the beneficiaries of God’s miraculous rescue, both Hebrew and Israel are used. And sometimes Ya’akov/Jacob. Notice this poetic synonymity in Psalm 114:
“B’tzet Yis’ra’el mimitz’rayim, Bayt Ya’akov me’am lo’ez…
When Israel came forth out of Egypt, the House of Jacob from a foreign people…” 

The time of our enslavement in Egypt is hard to date, but many figure that the Exodus took place around 1300 BCE. One clue is on an Egyptian stone monument—the Mernepta Stele—which mentions Israel inhabiting the Eastern coast of the Mediterranean around 1200 BCE. 

There is another use of the term Ivri/Hebrew in the Bible, but it may not be helpful. In Jonah, when the ship from Jaffa to Tarshish is caught in a terrifying storm, the sailors and passengers cast lots to see who is at fault, and
“…the lot fell on Jonah. They said to him, ‘Tell us, you who have brought this misfortune upon us, what is your business? Where have you come from? What is your country, and of what people are you?’ ‘I am an Ivri/Hebrew,’ he replied. ‘I worship the Lord, the God of Heaven, who made both sea and land.’” (Jonah 1.7-9)
The Book of Jonah is hard to date—and hard to verify as historical (as opposed to allegorical), but it is of note that Jonah identifies himself as a Hebrew—seemingly after the word Israel had begun to be used. 

The words Jews, Jewish, and Judaism do not come into play until quite a bit later. Around 500 BCE, most of those returning from the Babylonian Exile were from the Tribe of Judah. Their country had been called Yehudah/Judah before the conquest in 586 BCE, and the Persians let them call their restored nation Yehudah/Judah. The people were thus called Judeans.  

This was an identifier for the people, but what we call their religion is another story. The Biblical Hebrew/Israelite religion was based on a sacrificial worship system and was led by Prophets and Priests. However, around 200 BCE, a new leadership group of scholars—the Rabbis—took charge and directed the Priests in their holy work. And then, the unthinkable happened: the Temple and Jerusalem were destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, and these Rabbis found themselves shepherding our religion though an existential crisis. The needs were twofold: (1) maintaining our covenantal relationship with God, and (2) figuring out how to reconfigure worship and piety. This reformulated and reimagined religion—developed and defined in the Talmud (200 BCE-500 CE)—is when the term Judaism becomes operative.  

Though these various caveats qualify and contextualize the words we use to describe our historical and continuing relationship with God, we can nonetheless trace our spiritual and communal endeavor back to that call to Abram. Throughout the years, ours has been an ever-evolving religious response as we continue to learn about God and how to live in God’s Presence. It is thus important, in every generation, to remember our original charge and our continuing possibilities. 
“I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you;
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing.
I will bless those who bless you and curse him that curses you;
and all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”

Afterthought:
Even in more modern times, our choice for a self-identifying term has varied. In the 18th and 19th Centuries, the word Jew was considered derogatory, and Jews preferred Israelite or Hebrew. Jewish institutions founded in the 1800s reflected this word choice: Hebrew Union College, Union of American Hebrew Congregations, and the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. It was not until after 1900 that Jews started self-identifying as Jews, and institutions founded after 1900 include: The Jewish Theological Seminary, American Jewish Committee, American Jewish Congress, and the Jewish Institute of Religion.  

Going back a little further, one can see the use of words-other-than-Jew in George Washington’s Letters to the six Jewish communities in the new United States (Newport, New York, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia, and Richmond). Known as Hebrew congregations, each wrote a letter of congratulations to President Washington, and he wrote back. The most famous is his letter to the Hebrew Congregation of Newport, Rhode Israel. Included in his remarks: “…May the Children of the Stock of Abraham, who dwell in this land, continue to merit and enjoy the good will of the other Inhabitants; while every one shall sit in safety under his own vine and figtree, and there shall be none to make him afraid…”