B'midbar / In the Wilderness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standing at Sinai?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith, Fear, and Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lag B’Omer: ? and !

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Am Yisrael Chai!

The Many Building Blocks of Holiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Religion Disappoints

May 2nd: Tazria/Metzorah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Recently, in the Centre Daily Times Clergy Column, my colleague Reverend Jes Kast (Faith United Church of Christ) wrote about her deep Christian faith despite the foibles and failures of religion. She mourns that some people-of-faith “bow down to power and prestige,” that they “have a hard time extending God’s love to others,” and that “people can be very mean in the name of their faith.” Nonetheless, when she goes “to the heart” of her faith, she feels “the essential truth” of her religion and relationship with God. 

She reminds me of another colleague of mine, Kathleen Cotter Cauley, a family therapist and lay leader in the Roman Catholic Church who has  been a part of the Church’s investigation into and adjudication of many clergy abuse cases. Well aware of so many of the Church’s failures and missteps in this tragic process, she is nonetheless a faithful and pious Catholic. She is still convinced of the essential truth of her faith and of the message of God’s Presence it can convey. Despite the Church’s failings, she believes in the essential message of her faith, and she is helping to structure her faith’s teshuvah.  

These two colleagues are self-critical of Christianity, but there are plenty of mea culpas to go around. Our own Judaism does not a have a perfect record, and we see egregious ungodliness in the name of so many other religions as well. Religion is supposed to be good, but too often it fails. 

Our Torah portion this week deals with diseases—leprosy and mildew and other contagious outbreaks—and the ways we can diagnose them, heal from them, and be purified. The Rabbis, however, see the Biblical diseases as metaphors for spiritual and social sicknesses. Thus do their comments on Tzara’at/Leprosy transcend the ancient science and attempt to address the spiritual and moral rot that can take hold in the human soul. We can make terrible mistakes. We can misread people and situations and misremember facts. We can give in to our most rank impulses and prejudices. We can join mobs to do evil. And we can misread the Word of God—and act as though God commands us to do terrible things. 

Some of this may come from the ambiguity of God. Though most religions speak of knowing God’s Will, psychologist and philosopher William James understands religiosity from a more practical perspective. For him, religion is the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—to the “more” (an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence). Though all religions base themselves on revelations of God’s Will, James suggests that they be more accurately seen as attempts by humans to perceive, understand, and live in relationship with this Presence. As such, there is a lot of room for interpretation and creativity—and, of course, inaccuracy, selfishness, and self-righteousness. The goals and possibilities of religion are wonderful, but sometimes it falls (we fall) short of the mark.  

Of course, sometimes it does not. As Rabbi Chaim Stern counsels, “If there is goodness at the heart of life, then its power, like the power of evil, is real.” Falling short of the mark need not be the end of the story. It can be the beginning of improvement, and it is for this reason that the Torah teaches us about atonement, repentance, and ethical cleansing.  

We are bidden throughout our Tradition to look deep within ourselves and our communities and ascertain our level of godliness.  

When we have done well, we should feel good. As Ben Azzai said, “One mitzvah leads to another…the reward for performing a mitzvah is that it is easier to perform the next mitzvah…” (Avot 4.2)  Being in sync with God has its own kind of moral and spiritual inertia. And there is great fulfillment in such moments of life—a kind of cosmic fulfillment. In the words of the Rabbi Stern, it is a blessing when “I make of my life an act of reverence—a prayer that is its own answer.” (Gates of Prayer, page 215) 

However, when we have fallen short—committing Chillul Hashem/a profanation of the Divine Name and bringing on a moral and spiritual Tzara’at/Leprosy, we are called to heal ourselves:
(1) to ask God for forgiveness,
(2)   to ask those whom we have wronged for forgiveness,
(3)   to make up for the damage we have done, and
(4)   to perform Gemilut Chasadim/Deeds of Lovingkindness.
As Rabbi Jacob said, “Better is one hour of repentance and good deeds in this world than all the life of the world to come.” (Avot 4.17) We can reclaim closeness to God, but we must bridge the gulf. And the first step in bridging it is in realizing that we have strayed. Even if a religious message has led us astray, God is waiting and beckoning us to return to godliness. 

Some believers are troubled when they think of religion as merely a human interpretation of God’s Will. They worry that it decreases their connection to the Divine. But it is a fact that there are thousands of different interpretations out there, and understanding the human component helps to explain why. It also explains those moments when our human religious leaders make mistakes—or miss the mark of godliness. Remember: we do not worship religion. We do not worship the messengers of God. We do not even worship Scripture. We worship God, and our mission is to ascertain and follow God’s ways. 

Faith, like bodies, can get sick. Faith can fail to get the proper nutrition, can be exposed to unhealthy contaminants, and can get run down and fail to thrive. But, like our bodies, faith can be healed, and the best in religion calls on us to rehabilitate ourselves and our faith and become the blessings we were created to be. Religion can access God and bring God’s Presence into the world. It is our most noble aspiration.

How Can Smart People Think So Poorly?

April 25th: Shemini and Yom Hashoa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

It was the early 1920s, and two young Reform Rabbis, Jacob Rader Marcus and Sheldon Blank, decided to enhance their educations with Ph.D. studies. At the time, American doctoral studies were in their infancy, and so they were told: If you want a real doctorate, you need to go to Germany. Both went, Marcus to Berlin and Blank to Jena, and two legendary academic and rabbinic careers were off to significant and prestigious starts. Both became major figures at the Hebrew Union College and in the fields of Biblical Studies (Blank) and Jewish History (Marcus). Their German doctoral studies prepared them for greatness. 

The point of the story—as told to me by both professors—is that, a hundred years ago, Germany was the World’s center of academic culture and scholarship. Germany was at the pinnacle of civilization, and yet, in just a few years, it became the pinnacle of evil. How could such a thing happen? What were the Germans thinking? 

As we commemorate Yom Hashoa this week and mourn the tragedies of the Holocaust, I am reminded of a story told by Dr. Franklin Littell, a Methodist minister and the founder of what we now know as Holocaust Studies. In his extensive research into the role of the Church both in supporting and in resisting the Nazis, he found this statement of a Protestant bishop in the 1930s who assured his flock, “Hitler is God’s man in Germany.” Hitler? God’s man? What was this bishop thinking? What was he smoking? 

In many ways, Dr. Littell’s entire professional life was devoted to refuting that statement, and, in his work as the founder and leader of the Anne Frank Institute in New York, he coined his own term for Christianity’s role in the Holocaust. Inasmuch as every perpetrator of the Nazis’ evil was a baptized Christian, the Nazi atrocities were A Shadow on the Cross. How could these Christians so brutally betray Jesus? What went so wrong in the Christian stewardship of Europe? How could so many smart people think so poorly? One could also ask what they were smoking. 

I mention smoking, a reference to the importation and use of opium in the late 1800s, because the phrase is often used as an ironic or sarcastic response to absurdity. A rational, reasonable person would never do such a thing. Post hoc ergo propter hoc, he/she must have been smoking some kind of intoxicant that impairs the intellect. 

Thus do we arrive at our Torah portion. In Leviticus 10, in the afterglow of the Tabernacle’s dedication, a great tragedy comes to the Israelites. Nadab and Abihu, Aaron’s two older sons who also serve as Kohanim/Priests, go into the Tent of Meeting and offer “aysh zarah / alien fire” to the Lord—“and a fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them.” They do something wrong and are immediately and violently destroyed. Unfortunately, the Torah’s term aysh zarah is so vague that the Tradition must struggle to figure out exactly what they do and why it is so bad.  

One possibility is that Nadab and Abihu are inebriated—that they approach their Priestly duties while drunk. This explanation is suggested by the passage that follows the story of their deaths:
“The Lord spoke to Aaron, saying: Drink no wine or other intoxicant, you or your sons, when you enter the Tent of Meeting…for you must distinguish between the sacred and the profane, and between the unclean and the clean, and you must teach the Israelites…” (Exodus 10.8-11)
Whatever they are drinking—or smoking, their judgment is impaired, and they are unable to distinguish between things that are significantly different. Thus are they unable to fulfill their most sacred responsibility: teaching the Israelites. 

When I look at our current crisis of anti-Semitism—especially as it has occupied so many campuses and academic organizations, I wonder about what some academic leaders have been smoking. Freedom of Speech has always been a conditional freedom, and responsible jurists have always understood that some expression is more than just speech—is more than just opinion, that it crosses a line into assault or worse and can therefore be restricted. That the leaders of prestigious universities and major academic organizations cannot tell the difference between free expression of opinions and the assault or exclusion of Jews is stunning and absurd. What are they smoking? 

My suspicion is that it is an ideological intoxicant—that certain positions have been so refined and exaggerated and then pursued ad infinitum and ad absurdum that they, much like crack cocaine, are more powerful, more addictive, and more capable of overwhelming rational thought. What started in the Enlightenment as the recognition that all people—even marginalized people like Protestants or Catholics, or Jews, “Mohammedans,” Blacks, women, homosexuals, etc.—are human beings entitled “by their Creator” with “inalienable rights” and civil liberties has morphed and been weaponized to create new categories of marginalization and to assault these new “enemies” under the banner of academic-sounding terms like critical race theory or intersectionality. When people who on October 5, 2023 held that “misgendering someone is violence” could not after October 7, 2023 recognize that “violence had occurred” when Hamas massacred, raped, and kidnapped hundreds and hundreds of Israelis at a music festival and in peacenik kibbutzim and villages, then something has really gone wrong with their thinking. They are ideologically inebriated and have ceased to “distinguish between the sacred and profane,” thus polluting their intellects and impairing the wisdom they claim to teach.  

One should not underestimate the alarm and agitation over their impaired thinking that has gripped so many in our nation—and how it has fueled the overblown reactions now being mounted or threatened by our new and angry President. He is right in calling out the failures of our intellectual stars, but I wonder if his solutions are more emotive than remediative. Is a “stick”—and such a big stick—necessary to get academia to return to wisdom? Does the Federal Government have to get involved, or are private donors adequately flexing their monetary muscles? And how long is reasonable in the repentance process of ideological detoxification that places like Harvard, Penn, and Columbia so desperately need?  

These are all larger questions than can be answered quickly, but it may be helpful to ponder the value and effects of philosophy and ideology. When are they wisdom and guidance, and when are they intoxicants that muddle our minds? When is philosophical consistency a useful discipline, and when is it the hobgoblin of formerly great minds? We need our intellectual “priesthood” to think clearly.

Compassion and Justice: Searching for Balance

April 18th: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

It should come as no surprise that our Tradition often finds itself at odds with itself. Or perhaps more accurately: it should come as no surprise that some of the voices in the chorus of Jewish Tradition find themselves at odds with other Jewish voices. Ours is a rich and multifaceted tradition—and the chorus of Jewish voices reflects the complexity of existence and the variety of our experiences. There are many “duels” between verses/voices in the Tradition, and, this Pesach, I would like to consider two. 

The first “duel” begins in Psalm 92 with the Psalmist expressing his faith that God will vanquish his foes—and he anticipates his joy when God dispatches them.
“The wicked may flourish like grass, all who do evil may blossom,
Yet they are doomed to destruction, while You, O Lord, are exalted for all time...
See how Your enemies, O Lord, see how Your enemies shall perish,
How all who do evil shall be scattered.
But You lift up my cause in pride, and I am bathed in freshening oil.
I shall see the defeat of my foes; my ears shall hear of their fall.”
The bad guys are going to get what they deserve, and we are going to celebrate. 

On the other hand, we are warned about hating others. As Leviticus 19.17-18 counsels:
“You shall not hate your fellow human being in your heart. You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your fellow. Love your neighbor as yourself.”  

This is a difficult standard, and among the issues Tradition addresses is that of how we classify other people. Some are achicha/your brother. Others are re’echa/your neighbor. Some are amitecha or b’nai amecha/your countryman. Some are ev’yon’cha/your destitute, while others are ger’cha/the stranger among you. Do our standards of respect and non-hate depend on the comparative closeness or affiliation or friendliness of other people? How wide is the circle of “brothers/sisters” and “neighbors” whom we are to love? 

And of course, there are the bad guys—oy’vecha/your enemies or po’alay aven/the workers of evil—whose actions put them beyond the pale of friendship and good treatment. Is it all right to hate our foes and eagerly anticipate their doom (as does one of the Psalmists)? Or should we somehow take a higher road—whatever that means? Consider this possible resolution:
“There were some thugs in Rabbi Meir’s neighborhood who were oppressing him, and Rabbi Meir prayed that they should die. But his wife Beruriah objected, ‘How can you think that such a prayer is permitted? Does the Scripture say, “Sinners will cease?” No. Scripture says that “Sins will cease.” Pray for an end to sins, and the thugs will stop sinning.’ Rabbi Meir prayed for them, and they repented.” (Midrash on Psalm 104.35 in Talmud Berachot 10a) 

We have principles, and we have reality. How does our morality work in the complexities of human relationships? 

Another conceptual duel begins with this week’s special Pesach Torah Portion (Exodus 14-15), the Crossing of the Red Sea. Though we celebrate on Passover, it is important to remember the genuine existential risk we faced back there on the Egyptian side of the sea. We were backed up to the sea with no path of escape, and Pharoah’s hate had inflamed a lust for blood in his charging soldiers:
“The foe said, ‘I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil;
My desire shall have its fill of them.’” (Exodus 15.9)

It could have been horrible, but thanks be to God, we were miraculously rescued. One can only imagine the jumble of emotions our ancestors felt as they walked on the far beach of the sea and surveyed the remnants of the mighty Egyptian cavalry. The Torah simply says, “Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the shore of the sea…and the people feared the Lord; they had faith in the Lord and in God’s servant Moses” (Exodus 14.30-31), but one suspects they must have also felt relief, revenge, shock, and maybe even grief at the wasted lives washed up on the shore. 

Did they imagine Psalm 92’s words?
“I shall see the defeat of my foes; my ears shall hear of their fall”?
Or were they sick to their stomachs at the devastation that God had found necessary? 

We cannot know whether our ancient ancestors felt this mixture of emotions—this ambivalence, but we know that it is something some of the Sages contemplated. And, as is common in the Midrash, they projected their own mixed feelings onto Heaven:
“After the miraculous crossing of the Red Sea, the Israelites rejoiced: Moses leading the men in the victorious Song of the Sea and Miriam leading the women in a dance of jubilation. The angels in heaven wanted to join in the rejoicing, but God silenced them. ‘The work of My hand, the Egyptians, are drowning, and you wish to sing songs?!’” (Talmud Megillah 10b)
God feels terrible, but destroying the Egyptians was necessary—and thus are we given a paradigm of conflicting emotions as we encounter evil and struggle to deal with it. 

There is a lot of conflict these days, and we are all experiencing lots of conflicting emotions. Some of the people whom we consider enemies have been brought low or will be brought low. It is only human to rejoice at the defeat of our foes—and to hope for and revel in their humiliation and disgrace. But…is there a better way? Is there a more godly way? Is there a way to channel our emotions to deal with significant conflicts in a humane and godly manner?  

I think that the polarization from which we are all suffering is not just societal or political. I think that much of the polarization is internal and spiritual as we struggle to approach the life and death, good versus evil battles that rage all around us. Can we, in Hillel’s words, behave like a mensch when no one else does? (Avot 2.5) Can we manage to bring in some godliness and grace while also maintaining our combat readiness and doing battle?  

This seems to be the struggle to which we have been called. And, as Rabbi Tarphon reminds us, “God is watching.” (Avot 2.15)

Our Annual Meetings (and Goals)

April 11th: Tzav and Shabbat Hagadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

There is an old joke often told at Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—the time when everybody shows up at shul. “Welcome,” the rabbi or congregational president proclaims, “Welcome to the annual meeting of the Jewish people.” (I’ll pause while you chuckle.) While we may feel a sense of unity with other Jews (K’lal Yisrael), we do not actually get together that often. The High Holy Days therefore become a kind of annual reunion.  

Rabbi Lawrence Kushner reflects on the deeper value of our sacred assembly in his essay “Wool Pants” (in Invisible Lines of Connection), “All those souls, together in that sanctuary, make something religious happen.” In many ways, he admits, “organized religion itches” (like the wool pants that boys in the 1950s had to wear), but what we may “fail to understand is the religious power of simply being seen and looking good…It is a way of appearing before God who we suspect is not beneath looking through the eyes of the community. Being seen by the congregation is like being seen by God.” 

Though Passover is not so much a synagogue holiday, it is a holiday where pretty much everyone shows up for a Seder somewhere. Surveys suggest that it is the most observed Jewish holy day, and however long or involved one’s Seder may be, most Jews eat some matzah, horseradish, and charoset, retell the story, and reflect on the miracle of our ancient freedom. So, in a conceptual sense, Passover may be “the annual meeting of the Jewish people.” We re-enter the lives of our ancient ancestors and try to make the rituals and narrative transformational. In a sense, we all gather around the same Seder table, and we all eat matzah together. 

Another kind of “meeting of the Jewish people” comes in the World Zionist Congress—held every several years since 1897 when Theodor Herzl convened us to consider our plight and our possibilities. The dream of a Jewish homeland was fraught with all kinds of doubt and conflicting opinions, but there was a consensus that the goal of restoring our ancient polity was worth the struggle. Whether moving to Israel or supporting the Zionist dream from afar, Zionists unite in the belief that Eretz Yisrael can shine as an expression of the holiness God commands us to bring into the world.  

Since that meeting in Basel, Switzerland in 1897—and going back to a larger gathering at Mount Sinai some 3300 years ago, the challenge has always been twofold: (1) to draw the influence of heaven into our world, and (2) to lift up our world to the holiness of heaven. Or, as the Midrash on Psalm 122 explains, there are two Jerusalems—one in heaven and the other on earth. God’s goal—and ours—is to knit the two Jerusalems together: “She’chub’ra lah yach’dav.”  

The challenges remain—and often occupy our concerns, our discussions, and the news. The issues are numerous, but, as Jerusalem itself is built stone by stone, the solutions to the challenges must be approached stone by stone, step by step, policy by policy, and program by program. This is why it is so important for us—Liberal Jews who yearn for the values of equality, justice, freedom, and peace to be manifested in Eretz Yisrael—to make our voices heard in Israel. This means registering and voting in the upcoming World Zionist Congress. 

The Congress itself will be in October, but the election for delegates is going on right now, from March 10th to May 4th. Now is the time to register and vote—and help elect delegates from the Reform Movement and guide the World Zionist Congress and World Zionist Organization.  

To vote, go to this website: www.vote4reform.org
Click the link to bring you to the American Zionist Movement Voting Website.
There you need to register. 

Once you register, they will send you a voting PIN.
Follow the prompts to the ballot.
There will be a series of questions in which they ask about residency, whether you voted in recent Israeli elections, etc.
On the ballot, there are quite a few options.
Please vote for Slate #3: Vote Reform.

There is also a payment section in which they charge $5 for administration of the election.
They take credit cards or Venmo or PayPal. 

The entire process takes about five minutes. 

Remember, this is a simple way to positively affect Jewish life in Israel. By choosing the Vote Reform, Slate #3, you will be helping to send Reform representatives to the World Zionist Congress who will help set policies and allocate a $1 Billion annual budget that affects Israeli society and Jews around the world. 

Sometimes we meet in shul. Sometimes we meet at the Seder table. At other times, we meet through representatives and congresses. In every gathering, however, we dedicate ourselves to our ancient and continuing mission: pursuing justice, lovingkindness, and holiness.  

Please vote now. Slate #3: Vote Reform
www.vote4reform.org

Lives of Service: Ancient and Modern

April 4th: Vaykra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Book of Leviticus (in Hebrew, Vayikra) seems to be a handbook for the Kohanim, the Priests. In fact, the Greek name, Leviticus, comes from the Hebrew for the Levites, the priestly tribe whose members have the responsibility of maintaining the holy Tabernacle and conducting the worship rituals.  

Tradition holds that the Kohanim, Aaron and his sons and male descendants, were the officiants at worship for both the Tabernacle (Tent Temple) and later the Temple in Jerusalem. The rest of the Tribe of Levi assisted them, chanting psalms, taking care of the sacrificial animals and foodstuffs before they were sacrificed, and carrying the (already wrapped up!) holy vessels when the Israelites moved from place to place. This is the traditional view, and it is reflected in the three categories of Jews and the order in which they are called up for Aliyot to the Torah: Kohanim first, Levi’im second, and Yisra’el (regular Israelites) third. 

However, the actual Torah text is not so clear. Some passages speak of the entire Tribe of Levi officiating at religious rituals, while other passages specify that only a subset of the Levites, the Sons of Aaron, officiate. Then there are questions about whether all sacrifices have to be performed by priests. Some passages suggest that individual Hebrews offered sacrifices for family worship settings—and only traveled to the Tabernacle for some holy days. Many modern scholars believe that these discrepancies/differences reflect an evolving religious culture and developing law—and some ancient give-and-take on how God is to be worshipped properly and who should be in charge. 

In any event, the priests seem to be in a privileged position. They get to be the important ones in worship, they wear special and exalted clothing, and they get some of the foodstuffs the Israelites bring to worship the Lord. They have status and sacred power—and are often the experts the people consult for medical, legal, moral, and ritual matters.  

However, privilege can often be a burden. First, while the Priests got to eat part of the sacrificial meals, they were dependent on the donations of the Israelite worshippers. There are passages in the Talmud reflecting how hungry they could be, waiting for the donated food to be cooked and available. Second, in order to work—and get that food, they had to maintain a state of ritual purity. This was not a matter of hygiene but a very strict separation from all kinds of de-purifying situations that crop up in daily life. And they were not allowed to marry divorcees. Third, the priests were not given a territory like the other tribes, and they were not able to raise crops and livestock. They were dependent. Fourth, as the population increased and the number of Kohanim increased, there was not enough Temple work for everyone. The Talmud describes families of Priests traveling to Jerusalem for six week “shifts” that only came a time or two during the year. Perhaps all hands were on deck for big holy days with lots of worshippers, but, other than the High Priest and his immediate family, the Priesthood was not a full-time job, and the Kohanim had to provide for their families in other, non-sacred ways.  

In other words, rather than seeing the Kohanim and perhaps Levites as high-status aristocrats, perhaps they are better understood as public servants. 

This is the point of Rabbi Jessica Kirschner in her recent Ten Minutes of Torah essay for ReformJudaism.org (or URJ.org). Clearly thinking about modern civil servants who are lately being vilified in some quarters, she speaks of the dedication and professionalism of the Israelites who crafted and assembled the Tabernacle. That was for last week. This week, we need to continue our appreciation and add the Priests and Levites who took what the Israelites prepared and offered and then made the holy system work. Their work was challenging and often quite dirty (slaughtering and butchering sacrificial animals), and yet it was crucial for the relationship of all Israel to God. Their diligence and efforts deserve our appreciation.  

This brings me to a personal mea culpa moment. Years ago, I heard a local politician being criticized as a “career politician,” and I nodded my head in agreement. He had served in the state legislature for many years and was now seeking local elective office as a township supervisor. “Get a real job,” the critique seemed to say, and, I am embarrassed to say, I agreed.  

A few years later, I ran into an old college friend, one whose brother had become a nationally known politician. In speaking of her brother’s fame, success, and eventual electoral defeat, she revealed a poignant insight from his experience. Though he was well-schooled in the rough and tumble of politics—and could “take a punch,” his feelings had really been hurt when an opponent criticized him for being a “career politician.” Politics had turned out to be his career, but he saw his role in terms of public service. He had started out on the local level and found that he was able to contribute to and improve his community. Then he ran for higher office and again found success and a sense of purpose. As he advanced to higher and higher offices, he continued this form of Tikkun Olam and eventually served with great distinction in Washington. Yes, he had been at it a long time, but his “career” had been for the purpose of public service. He had not pursued the work for personal aggrandizement and had eschewed more lucrative or less demanding professional opportunities in order to serve his community and nation. He understood the rough nature of political rhetoric, but it still hurt him that someone would not acknowledge his public service, his big-hearted and enthusiastic efforts and sacrifices for the common good. 

When I heard this story from my friend, I realized that I had fallen into a conceptual trap. Yes, the local “career politician” had spent a long time in elected office, but he was not running a swindle. He kept at it because he cared about his community and kept finding success in the legislative and election processes. In fact, after retiring from public life, he continues as a volunteer, building a better community and a better tomorrow. He is a good and generous man, and, even if one disagrees with some of his opinions, the generosity of his spirit and his efforts for the common good should never be disparaged. 

Fortunately, I never spoke aloud my agreement with the unfair criticism, but I regret (and repent) that logical and moral lapse. So, every time I see this local public servant, I squeeze his hand a little firmer in appreciation. Those who devote themselves to public service deserve our respect and appreciation. Like the ancient Priests, it is not their status or position or titles which distinguish them. It is their work and the energy they bring on our behalf.

More on the "Dolphin Skins"

March 28th: Pekude
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of my favorite Midrashim seeks to explain how some desert-dwelling, escaped slaves have in their possession dolphin skins—something God requests for the crafting and construction of the Tabernacle. The Hebrew term is orot techashim, and it is included in the original list of materials in Exodus 25 as well as the stories of the Mishkan’s construction. This week, we read it in Exodus 39.32ff:
“Thus was completed all the work of the Tabernacle of the Tent of Meeting. The Israelites did so; just as the Lord had commanded Moses, so they did. Then they brought the Tabernacle to Moses, with the Tent and all its furnishings: its clasps, its planks, its bars, its posts, and its sockets; the covering of tanned ram skins, the covering of orot techashim/dolphin skins, and the curtain for the screen, the Ark of the Covenant and its poles, and the cover…”  

In this Midrash, written by Rabbi Marc Gellman, we learn that the skins come from dolphins who are involved in the Crossing of the Red Sea. As Rabbi Gellman imagines it, the hallway of dry land in the midst of the waters is not only amazing and confusing for the Hebrews, but it is also something the fish have never encountered. Not understanding about the water ending in a wall, many fish swim right out into the air and fall to the ground, helpless and drowning. Some wise and helpful dolphins see the plight of their fish friends and start patrolling the walls of water and warning the fish away. Then, when the Egyptians pursue the Israelites into the Red Sea and get close, the dolphins flick their tales and knock water onto the dry ground—changing it into mud and slowing the Egyptian chariots. These kindly dolphins are so busy warning the fish and flicking water to stop the Egyptians that, when the waters of the Red Sea return to their normal state, some of them fall onto the spears of the Egyptians and are killed. When God sees the bodies of these brave dolphins on the shore of the sea, the Israelites are commanded to gather them, prepare their skins, and sew them together to make a tent cover for the Mishkan, the Tent Temple. As Moses explains, “Let this tent of dolphin skins remind us that we did not leave Egypt and become a free people without a lot of help.”
(Rabbi Gellman’s Midrash may be found at ReformJudaism.org. Search for “Dolphins Skins?”) 

This Midrash was first published in the 1980s, and its dating is significant and a commentary on Biblical translation. As you know, the Bible was almost all written in Hebrew (parts of Ezra and Daniel being Aramaic), but, as time went on and non-Hebrew readers wanted to know the Bible, God’s Word was translated into Aramaic, Greek, Latin, and many other languages. Translating can be a challenging process, especially as the years between the original text/context and the translation increase. Words and connotations change. Plant and animal species change or go extinct. Colloquial terms change as time goes by or people move from region to region. Though the stories and rules remain the same, details get harder and harder to translate with confidence. 

Such is the situation with “orot techashim”—a Hebrew term translated differently in various versions of the Bible.
The King James Version (1611) renders the term as badgers’ skins.
The 1917 Jewish Publication Society Version renders it sealskins.
The Revised Standard Version (1952) says it means goatskins.
The (Catholic) Jerusalem Bible (1966) translates orot techashim as fine leather.
The translation dolphin skins does not appear until the 1962 Jewish Publication Society “New Translation.”  

The first JPS Bible translation (1917) had continued the Elizabethan English of the King James Version but adjusted the translation to both (1) reflect Jewish understandings of the text, and (2) remove the KJV’s Christian biases. However, with the major archeological and textual finds of the 19th and 20th Centuries—as well as a desire to render the Holy Scriptures in modern (non-Elizabethan!) language, the Society mounted in 1955 a new Jewish translation, and presented it in three volumes: The Torah in 1962, The Prophets in 1978, and The Writings in 1982. The relevance for our discussion is that this new 1962 Jewish translation was a sensation in the Jewish world and would have been studied by Rabbi Gellman when he was in university and later the Hebrew Union College. So, whereas previous students of the Torah had considered badgers’ skins, goatskins, or fine leather, now Torah readers found themselves considering this new translation’s rendering of orot techashim as dolphin skins. I was not privy to Rabbi Gellman’s creative process, but one can imagine him thinking about these hides and what we know about dolphins being intelligent and friendly to humans—and the nearest source for such sea creatures. What emerged is a spiritual and social justice “backstory” that gives new meaning to the ancient list of building materials. Rabbi Gelman’s Midrashic vision takes that tent covering and uses it to teach us about selflessness, sacrifice, and appreciation. 

Meanwhile, there are other Midrashim and commentaries exploring this question, and some of them were taught by Rabbi Seth Goren in his recent Ten Minutes of Torah essay for the Union of Reform Judaism (urj.org or ReformJudaism.org). What exactly were the orot techashim? Some modern researchers think that the term refers not to a species but rather to a technique of preparing leather—thus leading to translations of “tanned leather” in Rabbi Everett Fox’s 1995 Torah translation or “fine leather” in the 1983 Birnbaum Chumash. Some Talmudic Rabbis (Shabbat 28b), however, teach that the tachash is a special creature that only existed in Biblical times. Some say that it had a single horn on its forehead and that it voluntarily presented itself to Moses. One Targum (an early Aramaic translation of the Bible) holds that the tachash was multi-colored and took pride in its rainbow-like appearance. The RAMBAN (Rabbi Moses Nachmanides) suggests that the tachash's skin was waterproof and used to protect the Tabernacle from rain. Other commentators write of its immense size—that it had enough skin so that the Israelite artisans could make curtains thirty cubits long! Many modern commentators are convinced that the tachash was a sea creature—leading to translations like dolphins, seals, duogongs, manatees, or sea cows. So, if it were a sea-creature with a single horn, perhaps the nachash was something like the modern narwhal.

It is an unsolved Biblical mystery that leads to all kinds of speculations and possibilities. But what is not a mystery is how the people take from what they have and construct a place of holiness and purposeful gathering. They invite God to dwell in their midst, and they seek to live in holiness.

Voting for a Better Zionism

March 21st: Vayakhel and Para
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

“Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them: ‘These are the things that the Lord commands…” (Exodus 35.1) The Lord commands, and Moses organizes: if we are to make the world habitable for God’s Presence, there is a lot of work to do. We need to gather together and get busy. 

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the upcoming World Zionist Congress—a modern day convoking of the Jewish people—and the importance of voting for delegates to the Congress. This is the continuation of the gathering called by Theodore Herzl almost 130 years ago in Basel, Switzerland. It was there that the World Zionist Organization—the Zionist movement – was founded. The Zionist movement, of course, led to the creation of Medinat Yisrael, The State of Israel, and the WZO continues as a non-governmental organization that is a major player in Jewish life in Israel and the rest of the world. In Israel, the WZO operates as the Sochnut, The Jewish Agency, an umbrella organization that funds and influences a host of cultural, religious, charitable, and education efforts. Though the government of Israel rules the country, the Jewish Agency plays a leading role in the civic life and social fabric of Israel—and, as such, its make-up is extremely important for Israeli society. 

In an effort to be democratic, the World Zionist Congress invites from all Jews in the world to vote for delegates, and the groups electing the most delegates have significant influence. Enter the decades old conflict between and among the various interpretations of Judaism. For years, Israeli society was divided between “Religious” (Orthodox) Jews and “Non-Religious/Secular” Jews. This stark divide was always a bit overstated for there are many varieties of Traditional Judaism under the rubric of “Religious,” and there are many varieties of Judaism under the rubric of “Non-Religious/Secular.” In fact, there is a lot of traditionalism and religiosity among the “Non-Religious.” Often their point is more that they are not Orthodox than that they have no feeling for or practice of Judaism. Funding the variations of “Non-Religious” Jewish religiosity in Israel has always been a challenge because the “Religious/Orthodox” have been so well represented in both coalition politics and the Jewish Agency. 

That all began to change some 30-40 years ago when the Liberal Jewish movements (Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist) began to organize and elect delegates to the World Zionist Congress—and thus to wield power in the Jewish Agency. Much progress was made in terms of offering Israelis Jewish religious options other than Orthodoxy. Synagogues and schools were funded, native Israelis were trained as Liberal Rabbis, and Israelis flocked to the more modern and liberal approaches to our ancient faith. It was still a struggle, but we were moving forward. 

Then there was pushback. Since every Jew in the world is eligible, some of the Orthodox movements started encouraging their people—including thousands of Yeshiva students—to vote for Orthodox delegates to the World Zionist Congress. At the last Congress, Liberal Judaism lost ground, and we are trying to regain that ground and influence in this election.  

The presence and influence of Liberal Judaism in Israel is dependent on Liberal Jews voting for Liberal Jewish delegates to the World Zionist Congress, and the time to vote is now. While the congress will be held in October, the voting goes only from March 10th to May 4th.  

To vote, go to this website: www.vote4reform.org
Click the link to bring you to the American Zionist Movement Voting Website.
There you need to register. 

(When I voted last week, I had trouble registering on my computer. However, it sailed right through using my iPhone. Apparently, there were some glitches on the website, but they have been addressed. So, hopefully there will be no glitches, but, if there are, please be persistent.) 

Once you register, they’ll send you a voting PIN.
Follow the prompts to the ballot.
There will be a series of questions in which they ask about residency, whether you voted in recent Israeli elections, etc.
On the ballot, there are quite a few options.
Please vote for Slate #3: Vote Reform.

There is also a payment section in which they charge $5 for administration of the election.
They take credit cards or Venmo or PayPal. 

Other than the false starts, the entire process took me less than five minutes. 

Remember, this is a simple way to positively affect Jewish life in Israel. By choosing the Vote Reform, Slate #3, you’ll be helping to send Reform representatives to the World Zionist Congress who will help set policies and allocate a $1 Billion annual budget that affects Israeli society and Jews around the world. 

It is also a way to make sure that our voices are heard as we reclaim Zionism as a Movement that champions equality, justice, freedom, and peace. Our Zionism is about protecting the body of the Jewish People and the State of Israel and about nurturing our souls.  

Please vote now. Slate #3: Vote Reform
www.vote4reform.org

Remembering...For a Purpose

March 14th: Ki Tisa and Purim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are several ways to approach the Golden Calf Incident (Exodus 32). First, it is a terrible embarrassment for all Israel, and as is often the case with scandals and shame, there is a tendency to try to reduce or eliminate culpability. The Midrash does not try to exonerate the people, but the Rabbis seem to work overtime “proving” that Aaron the High Priest is not to blame.
(1)   He only goes along with the mob because he needs to survive and officiate at the atonement rituals that will be necessary.
(2)   He only agrees to make the calf so that he can delay everything until Moses comes down from the mountain and stops the madness.
(3)   He agrees to make the calf but then demands that the people give up their gold earrings, thinking that they will refuse—and the calf will not be made.
(4)   He takes their earrings but then throws them into the fire—but then the calf miraculously pops out. (see Exodus 32.24).
(5)   He makes the calf but declares that the festival is to God (and not the calf).
Each excuse is more improbable than the last, but for those who believe that Biblical heroes are always heroic and right, it is important to wash clean a story that seems to besmirch our idealized High Priest. 

On the other hand, perhaps the Midrash is taking its cue from the Lord. Though the narrative seems to single out Aaron as a major and sinful actor, God does not seem to blame him at all. While lots of Israelites are punished by Moses and by God, Aaron is left completely alone—and he retains the priesthood! Notice how the chapters both before and after the Golden Calf Incident are full of verses affirming Aaron and his descendants as the Kohanim for all time. Complicity in the apostasy seems to be a non-issue for the Lord, and thus the Midrash may just be explaining God’s reasoning. Though it may seem that Aaron is guilty, in fact he is not.  

On the third hand, we could look at the story from a more realistic approach—one which sees Biblical figures as regular human beings who are capable of both good and evil, of both holiness and sin. The key to Biblical heroism is not perfection at every step but rather that the people who populate our Tradition realize their sins, repent for them, and improve. Why does Aaron fall into sin? Perhaps he is like the other Israelites whose faith is not as sure as God hopes it will be. When he sees the flaming top of Mount Sinai, “The Presence of the Lord appeared in the sight of the Israelites as a consuming fire on the top of the mountain. Moses went inside the cloud and ascended the mountain…” (Exodus 24.17), and when “the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain” (Exodus 32.1), perhaps Aaron is just one of those who think that Moses is dead. Despondent and in need of Divine leadership, the people ask Aaron to help them turn to the ways they knew before—and, whether they think the calf is a god itself or that the calf is a mount for El/God to ride, he acquiesces and forms the idol in a quest for Divine assistance.  

Alas that human memory can be so inadequate! One would think that, after witnessing all of God’s miracles, the people would feel eternally close to God—and obedient. They personally witness incredible miracles: the Ten Plagues, the Splitting of the Red Sea, eating manna every day, and the Revelation of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai! How many of us yearn for such an experience of God—so that we would really know that there is a God?! We may get an occasional glimpse of the Holy, but our ancient ancestors directly experienced God’s “mighty Hand and an outstretched Arm” over and over again. From a spiritual perspective, they are the most fortunate generation in history, and yet, they waver in their faith and give in to doubt. How can they be so untrusting—and forgetful? 

Yes, our memories are not as good as we wish they would be—even of wonderful things, and we need ways to keep memories alive. Think about the ways we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries—or observe Yahrtzeits—and bring past events to the fore of consciousness. And think about the way our holy days work—how they invite us to feel the emotions our ancestors felt. Whether they were in Shushan fasting for Esther, in Egypt huddled in their homes on the first Passover night, terrified at the Red Sea as the Egyptian cavalry thunders toward them, or glorifying God at the Temple in Jerusalem, our holy days call on us to relive our people’s greatest encounters with God. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel puts it: “We are a people in whom the past endures, in whom the present is inconceivable without moments gone by. The stories of Abraham and Sarah and our other ancient ancestors lasted just a moment, but it was a moment enduring forever. What happened once upon a time happens all the time.” (Quoted in Machzor Ki Anitani, page 90) 

Rabbi Heschel is almost right. These moments are eternal but only if we invoke the memories. As Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi used to teach, “Rituals are peak experiences domesticated.”  

Our Tradition comes to remind us of the pivotal moments of Jewish experience: our joy and our holiness, our fear and our weakness, our moments of godliness and the moments we have fallen into sin. Just as these things happened back then—at the Red Sea and Sinai and when we fashioned the Golden Calf, they happen again, “all the time.” God calls to us, and sometimes we answer. When we do, we find meaning in our lives and help in Tikkun Olam. When we do not, we detach ourselves from God and become untethered, unmoored, adrift. We may not realize it at the time, but distance from our Creator hurts and damages. God is always here, but sometimes God must beckon to us and invite us closer.  

Religion is not just an optimistic fantasy. It is a practical approach to human strength and weakness. Consider the mitzvah in Numbers 15.39:
“You should look upon the tzitzit and remember all of the mitzvot of the Lord and do them, that you should not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after you have gone wantonly astray.”
One way or another, we have all gone astray, and God wants us to remember those bad moments so that we can hopefully not go astray again. God knows our missteps but is nonetheless hopeful—and continually offers us acceptance, purpose, atonement, and love. 

We can read the Golden Calf Incident and appreciate the Midrashim that get Aaron off the hook, or we can read it as a reminder of our common human weaknesses—the weakness of memory, the weakness of resolve, the weakness of faith. We are imperfect, but God loves us, offering forgiveness and hoping for improvement.  

ARZA Election for the World Zionist Congress

March 7th: Tetzaveh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Torah portions in this part of Exodus focus on building the Mishkan, the Tabernacle or tent temple in which God dwells, but I would like to expand the discussion to a much larger dwelling place, the Land of Israel where both God and the Jewish people seek to live. The ancient goal was for the Israelites to “make a sanctuary so that God could dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8). The modern goal is for the State of Israel to be a place of holiness where the Jewish people can live both autonomously and Jewishly. As we sing in Hatikvah: “Li’h’yot am chof’shi b’artzaynu / to be a free people in our own land.” How best can this be done? 

Some Jewish self-governance in Israel began long before 1948 and independence. During both the Ottoman Empire and the British Mandate, a variety of Jewish organizations supervised and supported life for the Jews in Palestine. This included the charitable, educational, medical, and cultural realms. In addition to the Rothschild and Montefiore charities, there were three major groups. One was the Jewish National Fund that purchased land for kibbutzim and forests. Another was Hadassah which ran clinics, trained nurses, and eventually established hospitals. And there was The Jewish Agency—the Sochnut, funded by the forerunners of the UJA (United Jewish Appeal), that provided guidance and resources for the Jewish soul in Mandatory Palestine. This important social and civic work continued after independence, and all three are still very much active today. While the Israeli government obviously does a lot, the Jewish National Fund, Hadassah, and the Sochnut/Jewish Agency are so important that they function as quasi-governmental and play major roles in educational, cultural, charitable, economic, and health endeavors to this day. 

As in pre-independence days, the Sochnut/Jewish Agency functions as an arm of the World Zionist Organization—the one founded by Theodor Herzl in 1897. The WZO reconstitutes itself every five years in a World Zionist Congress where the members of that Congress make programming and financial decisions for how modern Israel fulfills the Zionist dream. Our concern today is representation. Who will be the delegates to the World Zionist Congress, and what kinds of decisions will they make? 

As you may know, the early years of Zionism saw the involvement of two very different groups of Jews—one focused almost solely on the Jewish religion and the other rejecting the religion and focusing on Jewish nationalism. In this binary approach to Judaism, the religious dimension was generally defined as Orthodox Judaism, while the nationalistic was defined as “secular.” Though there were other approaches and opinions, the politics of Zionism highlighted these two options, and alternative understandings of Judaism like Reform Judaism were largely ignored in Israel. Though there have been liberal Jews (Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist) involved in Israel and Zionism for well over a hundred years, their representation in the World Zionist Congress/Organization has been minimal, and funding for liberal Jewish endeavors has thus been very limited. Combined with the government monopoly over religion held by the Orthodox, liberal Judaism has had an uphill climb in Israeli society for many, many years. 

It has been uphill, but it has been a climb. The liberal Jewish movements in Israel have made remarkable progress, offering Jewish expression for thousands of Israelis who want to be religiously Jewish but for whom Orthodoxy is wrong.  

One way that liberal Judaism has “climbed” is by participating in the World Zionist Organization and demanding support for liberal Jewish causes and programs in the Jewish Agency. The more liberal Jews who join official Zionist organizations, the more votes the liberal Jewish organizations have in the World Zionist Congress, and the more funding and respect liberal Judaism gets in Israel. Among the liberal Jewish Zionist organizations is ARZA, the Association of Reform Zionists of America. 

We are now getting ready for the next World Zionist Congress, and it is therefore time for us to officially join ARZA and increase its/our ability to affect the Jewish Agency.  

The election of delegates goes from March 10th until May 4th—all in preparation for next October’s World Zionist Congress, and I am asking you to join ARZA. It is a simple process—only taking about five minutes to complete an on-line form AND paying dues of $5, and the instructions will be available (the website will be open) soon.   

For now, please realize that joining ARZA and thus increasing its delegates is an important way to influence Israel and to inculcate in Israeli society the Jewish and democratic values that are part of Reform Judaism. Please think about this and resolve to join ARZA. The instructions will be provided very soon. 

A Two-Fold Message from God

February 28th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The end of Mishpatim and the beginning of Terumah offer an interesting parallel. Mishpatim continues the revelation and adds fifth-three more mitzvot to the famous Ten Commandments. Then there is an invitation: “Then God said to Moses, ‘Come up to the Lord, with Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel, and bow low from afar.’” (Exodus 24.1) So, “Then Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel ascended; and they saw the God of Israel: under God’s feet there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity. Yet the Lord did not raise a hand against the leaders of the Israelites; they beheld God, and they ate and drank.” (Exodus 24.9-11) It is as though the mitzvot—the commandments of godly behavior—prepare and allow the Israelites to encounter God.  

The very next chapter begins Terumah and features the list of building materials the Israelites are to use when they build God’s Mishkan/Dwelling Place. Eventually God will dwell in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem, but in the wilderness and the early years in The Land of Israel, God dwells in the Tabernacle, a tent temple which can be transported as the Israelites travel. The list of materials is interesting—gold,  silver, yarn, and wood, etc., but the purpose is the most significant. “Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8)  

The Torah thus gives us two parallel ways to feel God’s Presence—to encounter the Divine. First, we must incorporate ethical behavior in our daily lives, and second, we must draw close to the holy through religious rituals. As it turns out, this combination of the ritual and the ethical is a consistent theme throughout Judaism, and we just saw it in the Ten Commandments. Some commandments tell us how God is to be treated, and others tell us how God wants us to treat each other. Look at the list and consider the main “beneficiary” of each. Is it God, or is it humans? And what does this double message teach us about God?
I.          I am the Lord your God; you shall have no other gods beside Me.
II.        Do not make any idols or graven images and worship them.
III.       Do not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.
IV.       Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.
V.        Honor your father and your mother.
VI.       Do not murder.
VII.     Do not commit adultery.
VIII.    Do not steal.
IX.       Do not bear false witness against your neighbor.
X.        Do not covet.

This lesson continues in that story about Moses and the leadership “seeing God.” Focusing on the “pavement of sapphire” upon which God is standing, the Midrash explains that it is what God builds when He is in slavery alongside the Hebrews in Egypt (Mechilta de Rabbi Yishmael, Piska 14). While the Hebrews are building Pithom and Raamses, God is building the pavement of sapphires. In other words, God is so invested in human welfare that, when people are oppressed and suffering, God is oppressed and suffering too.

Too Many Details!?

February 21st: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes we look at all the laws of Judaism and find them overwhelming and off-putting. Why does religion have to be so complicated? Why cannot we just be good people and think about God from time to time? Why must there be 613 commandments? Are not ten enough? 

Yes, the Torah does give us 613 commandments—603 more than the Ten Commandments we read last week. Just in this week’s Torah portion, Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24), we have fifty-three of the additional laws, and it can all be a bit daunting.  

And yet, we are not stupid people—incapable of dealing with complexity. Intelligent and sophisticated, we deal with a myriad of details on a regular basis and on all sorts of subjects. We deal with all the details because we know that they can make a big difference. I am reminded of an episode of the old sit-com Northern Exposure in which the main character makes dinner for some friends. Not wanting to trouble himself with clarifying the butter for a recipe or getting fresh mushrooms—and figuring that his Alaskan frontier guests will not know the difference, he melts the butter and uses canned mushrooms. Hah! “This is good,” one guest comments after tasting the dish, “But it would be better if the butter had been clarified.” “Oh,” asks another, “Are these canned mushrooms?”

We who are sophisticated enough to understand things like music, dance, cuisine, and fashion are certainly aware of the importance of details—how regular rice does not work in sushi, or how an off-tempo musician can really destroy a performance, or how certain clothing combinations “work” and others do not. My point is that we who deal with an amazing degree of complexity and subtlety must surely realize that leading a moral life requires a detailed consideration of exactly what that contains.  

So, for instance, while most of us assent to the principle of the Fifth Commandment: “Honor your father and your mother,” there could be some ameliorating factors. What about those whose parents who do not deserve honoring—who abuse or abandon their children? Or, what about the different between “honoring” and agreeing or obeying? Must one agree with or obey one’s parents in every instance? Do children have the right to their own opinions and a degree of their own autonomy? And, if this is true for children, how much the more so is it true for grown-ups –who may even know more about some subjects than their parents? My point is that we can take a simple principle and quickly see that it is not so simple. Further consideration of the context and implications are important if we are to take the mitzvah seriously. 

Perhaps the problem with sections like Mishpatim (Exodus 21-24) is that, while the Ten Commandments have a simplicity and elegance, the further list of commandments seems long and random. They are not memorize-able and easily understandable like the famous Ten. Going from the major principles declared from the heights of Mount Sinai to all the Israelite people, Mishpatim’s fifty-three mitzvot send our minds in all sorts of directions and on all sorts of subjects: marital rights and practices, animal husbandry, construction and farm practices, employment practices, and even some religious rituals.  

It might be better to think of Mishpatim as a reference book that contains advice to be consulted if and when it is relevant. If, for example, I am not digging a pit, then I do not have to worry about memorizing the mitzvah in Exodus 21.33: “When a man opens a pit, or digs a pit and does not cover it, and an ox or donkey falls into it, the one responsible for the pit must make restitution; he shall pay the price to the owner, but shall keep the dead animal.” I just need to have a general knowledge that this subject is covered—and I can consult it later if pit-digging is something I plan to do. Or, similarly, if I am not in the habit of seeing wandering livestock, I do not need to worry about the mitzvah in Exodus 23.4: “When you encounter your enemy’s ox or donkey wandering, you must take it back to him.” I just need to know where the rules are should I find myself in that position.  

If and when we find ourselves in these situations, the fact is that the standards and laws make a lot of sense. If my wandering ox falls into someone else’s open pit, it seems only fair that the pit owner owes me something. And it seems only fair that, once he/she has paid for my now dead ox, he/she should get to keep the carcass. The same logic applies if someone lets his/her livestock loose to graze on my land. As Exodus 21.4 holds, “he must make restitution for the impairment of that field or vineyard.” In such situations, just saying that we will be “nice” or “fair” may not be enough. We need to address the details and make sure that the social fabric is maintained with real fairness and neighborliness. 

Though the ancient discussions—in Talmud and other legal works—seem to continue infinitely, the fact is that there is always more to consider. There are always new situations that may or may not parallel the ancient scenarios and principles. Are swimming pools and construction sites, for instance, analogous to the ancient open pit, and are there safeguards that responsible pool owners or construction companies should put in place to protect against a wandering ox or donkey or child?! Or, if my brakes fail, and my car damages someone else’s property, is this not similar to the wandering flock that grazes in someone else’s vineyard? 

The myriads of laws that follow the famous Ten may seem obscure or overly detailed, but the fact is that true fairness and true responsibility have many facets. In a religion in which God wants us to be nice to each other, we need to think about exactly what that means. 

A final quasi-relevant story. We recently marked the thirty-ninth anniversary of the Space Shuttle Challenger disaster. There is much to be said about the tragedy. Among other things, one of the deceased astronauts was Jewish, Judith Resnik. She was the fourth woman, the second American woman, and the first Jewish woman to fly in space—logging 145 hours in orbit on previous flights. The space shuttle was perhaps the most complex and highly sophisticated machine in the history of the world, and yet its undoing was the result of a “minor” detail: the O-rings that sealed the fuel tanks were designed for warmer temperatures. That morning, it was chilly in Florida, and the rubbery O-rings contracted just a little bit. Those few degrees ruined everything. Sometimes, sweating the details makes all the difference in the world.

How Close is Too Close to God?

February 14th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

One of the most iconic and misleading images of a Jew is Michelangelo’s Moses. Sculpted for the tomb of Pope Julius II in Rome, it shows Moses seated and holding the Ten Commandments on his lap. It is perhaps the greatest sculpture ever done, but the horns on Moses’ head make the masterpiece problematic.  

The horns are based on a mistranslation of Exodus 34 which describes Moses’ appearance after the revelations on Mount Sinai. (There were several. First is the one we read this week, when Moses is up on the mountain as God proclaims the Ten Commandments to all the people. Second is the one described when the laws of Mishpatim and the instructions for building the Mishkan /Tabernacle are given—and when God gives Moses the first set of the Ten Commandments. Third is when Moses reascends the mountain to carve the second set of the Ten Commandments and hopefully “see God’s Face.”) When he descends from God’s presence—with the second set of stone tablets, he is changed.
“As Moses came down from the mountain bearing the two tablets of the covenant, Moses was not aware that “ki karan or panav b’dab’ro ito / that the skin of his face was radiant since he had spoken with God.” (Exodus 34.29)

The Hebrew word karan means beams as in beams of light. However, karan or keren can also mean horn—as in the horn of an animal or a cornucopia, a horn filled with plenty. (In modern Hebrew, this keren/cornucopia image is used for various charitable funds—like Keren Kayemet, The Jewish National Fund which in in charge of reforestation in Israel as well as agricultural development, and Keren Hayesod, The United Israel Appeal which funds and augments cultural, educational, and charitable efforts in Israel. Lots of our UJA money goes to this Keren Hayesod.) 

The Vulgate (the Latin translation of the Bible used by the Roman Catholic Church) renders karan as horns. Whether this was due to a mistake or to anti-Semitism is a matter of historical debate. However, in a Christianity working very hard to distinguish itself from Judaism and to vilify the Jews (and get the Romans to hate the Jews instead of the Christians), turning the most famous Jew into a horned creature seems a little convenient. Countless generations of Jews have been suspected and examined for their horns—and vilified as non-human demons. We do not know how Michelangelo felt about this, but he was clearly at the mercy of the Catholic Church and was forced to reflect their views in other works. A glaring example is his amazing sculpture of David in which the very Jewish boy is uncircumcised. An otherwise amazing work, the detail reflects a de-Judaizing tendency in mediaeval Christianity. The Brit Milah, the Covenant of Circumcision (also known as the Covenant of Our Father Abraham) is a Jewish sacrament long and continually practiced from the days of the Patriarchs—and specifically mentioned as a Hebrew custom in the Biblical books from David’s time.  

In any event, the real issue is the radiance that Moses picks up on the mountain and apparently keeps for the rest of his life. Being in close proximity to God has its lasting effects. 

Though Moses asks God for a closer relationship—and gets the radiance as a result of the encounter, the rest of the Israelites population is of divided opinions on the matter. In Exodus 19—the story of the Revelation of the Ten Commandments, some of the Israelites are attracted to the proximity of the Lord, and others more frightened.
“Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” (Exodus 19.18-19)
Apparently, many Israelites begin to rush to the mountain—a development which concerns God, and so Moses is sent running down the mountain to warn them off.
“Go down, warn the people not to break through to the Lord to gaze, lest many of them perish.” (Exodus 19.21)  

After God pronounces the Ten Commandments, the people seem suitably overwhelmed.
“All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance. ‘You speak to us,’ they said to Moses, ‘and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die’…so the people remained at a distance, while Moses approached the thick cloud where God was.” (Exodus 19.15-18)  

There is a curious ambivalence among most people in re proximity to God and the holy. Most of us are attracted to the holy to some degree, but there is also the fear of too much religion. For many of us, a lot of time and thought go into figuring out for ourselves the right dosage of religion and tradition. We want enough because religion and God are important, but we do not want too much because there are other things in life which are important and perhaps fun. It is not even an irreligious thought: God gives us the world to tend and enjoy, and it seems inappropriate to spend all of our time praying. Or, as God says to Moses, “You have stayed long enough on this mountain.” (Deuteronomy 1.6) There is a time to pray and study, and there is a time to work and play. 

This ambivalence between holiness and practicality—and the attraction to and fear of God—is reflected in a mysterious tale from the Talmud:
“The Sages taught: Four entered the pardes (Divine Orchard), and they are as follows: Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, Acher (Elisha ben Abuya), and Rabbi Akiva…Ben Azzai glimpsed at the Divine Presence and died. Ben Zoma glimpsed at the Divine Image and lost his mind. Acher beheld the Divine Image and lost his faith—became a heretic. Only Rabbi Akiva came out safely.” (Chagigah 14b) 

How did Akiva emerge unscathed—and with secret wisdom revealed only to him? One answer is that “he entered in peace, and he departed in peace.” He approached the Divine with equanimity and humility, treading the road with both the spiritual and the practical in mind. Another explanation: “he entered, and he departed”—meaning that he dosed himself and did not try to drink it all in at once. He absorbed the amount of holiness he could handle and knew when it was too much. He dosed himself and was able to live a

The Art, Process, and Charm of Midrash

February 7th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The story of the Splitting of the Red Sea (Exodus 14-15) gives us a good opportunity to review the process, wisdom, and charm of Midrash. The term midrash comes from the Hebrew root D-R-SH which involves searching. Midrash is a kind of Rabbinic Literature which searches Biblical texts for meaning. Some examples of Midrash can be found in the Mishnah and Gemara—and are usually called Aggadah / stories. Other Midrashic stories are collected in works from the later Rabbinic Period: the Mechilta of Rabbi Ishmael, Midrash Rabba, Midrash Tanhuma, and Pesichta d’Rav Kahanna. Often, stories—or variants of stories are found in more than one source. For example, the story about Nachshon walking into the Red Sea to “jump-start” the miracle is found in both the Babylonian Talmud (Sotah 37a) and Midrash Rabba on B’midbar (13.7). 

The classic form for a Midrash has three parts. First is a koshi, a difficulty in the text. It could be a contradiction with another verse in the Bible, or something that does not make sense, or something that begs for more explanation. Second is an explanation that resolves the contradiction or provides the detail. Third is the moral of the story. A Midrash always has a moral or spiritual lesson. 

So, for example, in the Midrash about Nachshon, the koshi is in the phrase, “They went into the sea on dry land” (Exodus 14.22). It seems pretty obvious that what was the sea becomes dry land after God does the miracle—that the Israelites walk through a path in what was formerly water. However, one ancient reader thought more literally. To him, “the sea” meant water, and he realized that it is impossible to walk in water and on dry ground at the same time. This is the koshi the story attempts to fix.  

The answer—with Nachshon leading the people into the water until they are up to their noses—is an attempt to resolve the problem by making the phrase sequential. They go into the sea AND THEN it becomes dry land. It is a totally made-up story—a fanciful creation crafted by an ancient thinker. While the Torah does mention a Nachshon son of Aminadab, a leader in the Tribe of Levi and the brother-in-law of Aaron the Priest, the Torah does not say much about him. But, as an important leader, he is a potentially appropriate candidate/victim for this made-up story that “resolves” the koshi AND TEACHES A MORAL LESSON. 

In studying Midrash, it is important not to take the stories as history—to realize that they are not “in” the Torah. Additions that provide complementary “details,” their real purpose is as vehicles for moral lessons. In this case, the lesson involves the debate between belief in God’s miracles and solving our problems ourselves. Throughout Jewish history, there has been a tension between the two. On the one hand, we are taught that God can intervene, and that God sometimes does intervene and miraculously fix earthly problems. On the other hand, sometimes God does not intervene—and wisdom teaches us to find our own solutions. The Rabbis—the pious scholars who created Midrash—believed in miracles, but they were realistic in realizing that we humans can and need to solve many of our own problems. This Midrashic story presents a slight alteration to the most famous Biblical miracle and uses it to remind us that humans have a role to play in God’s solutions.  

A similar lesson comes in a modern Midrash by Rabbi Marc Gelman. His koshi is the dolphin skins that the Israelites are asked to contribute to the Mishkan/Tabernacle project in Exodus 25. Among the gold and silver and yarns and dyes and precious stones needed for the Mishkan, one of the building materials requested is orot techashim—translated as dolphin skins. Actually, translators have been a bit stumped by the word techashim. The King James translators rendered it badger skins, and the 1916 Jewish Publication Society translation rendered it sealskins. It was not until the 1962 Jewish Publication Society translation where, based on more and better knowledge of ancient Hebrew, techashim is translated as dolphins. Sometimes, it is hard to decipher ancient nomenclature—especially for flora and fauna that may have changed significantly over the centuries. In any event, since the 1960s, the standard Jewish translation has been the orot/skins of techashim/dolphins—which leaves us with a koshi. Why would the Israelites—escaped slaves wandering in the Sinai desert—have skins of sea creatures like dolphins? Logically and historically, there must have been ancient commerce that provided all sorts of things, and some Hebrews could have purchased them in Egypt and brought them along. However, the koshi opens up the possibility of a Midrashic tale and a moral. Enter the modern Midrashic mind of Rabbi Marc Gelman who offers this possibility:   

When the Israelites were walking through the Red Sea, “with the waters forming walls for them on both their right and their left” (Exodus 14.22), it was not only a miracle for the people. It was also a miracle and something completely unexpected for the fish. They did not know what to do, and many were just swimming out into the air, falling on the dry ground, and gasping for air. Fortunately, the dolphins were both intelligent and helpful, and they started patrolling the water side of the walls, warning the fish away from the air and death. Many fish were saved by these brave and kind dolphins. Then, when the Egyptians started pursuing the Israelites into the sea, the dolphins realized that the Israelites were in danger, so they started flicking their tails and splashing some of the water down onto the dry ground. This made it muddy and harder for the Egyptians to chase down the Israelites. “They moved forward with difficulty.” (Exodus 14.25) The dolphins were so busy protecting the fish and stopping the Egyptians that, when “the waters returned to their normal state” and “covered the chariots and the horsemen—Pharaoh’s entire army that followed the Israelites into the sea” (Exodus 14.27-28), many of the dolphins fell onto the upturned spears of the Egyptians and died.  

So, when “Israel saw the Egyptians dead on the shores of the sea” (Exodus 14.30), they also saw the dead dolphins and realized the brave sacrifices of these wonderful sea creatures. They decided then and there that they would honor the dolphins and use their skins for the holiest of the Israelites’ tents, the Mishkan in which the Shechinah, the Presence of God, would dwell.  

Made up? Certainly. Invented by a creative storyteller in the 1980’s? Yes. It is a fictional story but one that helps bring the Torah to a higher level and that teaches us the value of bravery and sacrifice and honoring those whose efforts bring blessings to the world.  

Midrash is an ancient and continuing Jewish Tradition as we search our sacred texts for meaning and for lessons that are continually blossoming forth.

Patience, Part III

January 31st: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

When we speak of faith and patience, there are many perspectives. One is the patience of a Joseph who hopes for and is eventually gifted with redemption. After enduring the betrayal of his brothers, enslavement, the betrayal of his employer, and the betrayal of his fellow prisoner (the cupbearer who somehow forgets him for two years!), Joseph is lifted high and given great status and power. Perhaps those years of suffering are formative—that he has learned that his talents are not his but God’s: that he is a mere vessel for God’s blessings, and that ego is a distraction from God’s work. In any event, Joseph’s patience “pays off.” 

Another kind of patience in transgenerational. Though the blessings may not come in one’s lifetime, there is the hope that endurance, sacrifice, and faith will yield results for one’s family or group. I remember a family discussion years ago in which my two great-aunts and grandfather were talking about their father, Lazar Stein. His was not an easy life. He immigrated from Kovna in Lithuania and never quite “made it” in America. He peddled and moved from town to town, back and forth between the Ohio River Valley and the Mississippi Delta. A resourceful and resilient man, he endured much and struggled his whole life. While the “American Dream” was always in his sights, it was always just beyond his reach. But, as my aunts reflected to my grandfather, “Wouldn’t Papa be proud? He has seven great-grandsons in college!” The blessings that I have received could only have been possible with the struggles of my great-grandfather. Our family’s blessings are the fulfillment of his hopes. 

Another more dramatic example comes from the days of the Chalutzim/Pioneers in Israel. One of the early Zionist leaders was Yosef Trumpeldor, a man who had fought in the Tzar’s army before moving to Eretz Yisrael and defending the pioneering settlements near today’s Kiriat Shemona. In one battle with marauders, he was fatally injured, and as he lay dying, he uttered these words: “Tov lamut b’ad artzaynu. / It is good to die for our country.”  

(Apparently, Trumpeldor was quoting the Roman poet Horace who, in the Odes, 111.2.13, writes a line known by and quoted by warriors for centuries: “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. / It is sweet and proper to die for one’s own country.” Trumpeldor’s word artzaynu/our country spoke to his deeply held belief in Zionism—that Eretz Yisrael is his patria/homeland.) There can be satisfaction in the hope that one’s actions will bring blessings to the future—and in patiently trusting that the blessings will come. 

A third kind of patience comes when we realize that we are not in control—that things are going to play out at their pace regardless of what we do or say. Who would have imagined the last several months in Syria—that the utterly failed “Arab Spring” revolution would somehow, all-of-a-sudden succeed? Who would have imagined, back in the 1980’s, that the Iron Curtain would come crashing down? I think of this unknowability particularly in regard to the continuing conflict between Israel and her Arab neighbors. Though many of us may know a lot about the matzav (situation) and hear from all kinds of experts, I suspect that we are all in the dark about what is really going on—and what will happen from month to month and year to year. Though we have our opinions, at a certain level, the only realistic approach is patience—and faith. 

A fourth kind of patience is eternal—though it may be uncomfortable to discuss. When we die—when whatever we have done in this life is complete, and we “shuffle off this mortal coil,” hope can continue. Our Tradition tells us that God will be with us forever.
From Gevurot: Um’kayem emunato li’shaynay afar.
God keeps faith with those who sleep in the dust.
From El Maleh Rachamim: Ba’al Harachamim yitz’ror bitz’ror hachayim.
The God of compassion binds up the souls of the departed in the bond of eternal life.
From the Torah Blessings and Gevurot:Note’ a b’tochaynu chayeh olam.
God implants within us eternal life.
Though we try not to die, and endeavor in all sorts of ways to survive and continue, there is the sensibility in our faith that God implants within us immortal life, that we continue, and more importantly that God continues. Psalm 90 reminds us of the eternality of eternity—that’s God’s perspective is for the very long term: “For in Your sight, a thousand years are like yesterday when it has passed, like a watch in the night.” (Psalm 90.4) The Psalmist reminds us that God’s view—as well as God’s purposeful will in the universe—is on a much larger scale than we can imagine. Though what happens to us is important, there are greater agenda’s afoot, and a fitting response for us is to patiently trust in God and in God’s long-range and ultimate goals. As we counsel ourselves in Adon Olam, “Adonai li, v’lo ira / When God is with me, there is no fear.” Trusting in God—really trusting in God—can render our worries less worrisome.  

And finally, there is a kind of patience that comes with a change in perspective. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a Jesuit, a mystic and a scientist, offers the following: “We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a physical experience.” I find this sensibility both alluring and counter-intuitive. Yes, I believe that God has imbued within us eternal life—Note’a b’tochenu chayeh olam. And, as such, this physical life which is so central to us is inevitably limited and finite. It will end one day, and we will continue in another form. The details and concerns of our daily lives are therefore of limited value. However, we should not discount their importance. What we do matters. We were put on this earth for a purpose, and achieving holiness through the details of our lives is clearly a God-assigned task. And yet, we can get so wrapped up in the trivialities of life that we forget our higher and more eternal reality. We can be too focused on the tiny details of personal preference or pleasure, and at those moments, it is helpful to remember Teilhard’s words. There is a higher purpose for our lives, and patience can help us slow down and focus—and become not the grabbers of everything on earth but the blessings we were created to be.

Patience, Part II

January 24th: Va’ayra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

To quote myself, “The thing about cliffhangers is that they inspire a kind of creative anxiety.” The creativity part can be entertaining. The anxiety part can be plaguing, but it can also help us to bridge the gap between literary voyeurism and deeper empathy. Just as we do not know what will happen, so do the people involved in the story not know the ending. 

While we know—even at the beginning of Exodus—that the terrible enslavement of the Israelites in Egypt will end, the actual Israelites do not know. For some four hundred years, they suffer and do not know what will happen next.  

If we were Israelites lucky enough to live during Joseph’s days or in their immediate aftermath, things would be rosy. The Egyptians are happy to have us, and we have a refuge from the famine and other difficulties of our homeland in Canaan. This happiness, however, is only as long as the first paragraph of Exodus.  

In the second paragraph, a “new king” arises over Egypt, one “who did not know Joseph…” Everything changes—and for the worse. “He said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them…so they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11) 

If our ancestors were scholars of Torah, they might consider a relevant prophecy. In Genesis 15, in a dream, God tells Abram his people’s future: “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years; but I will execute judgments on the nation they shall serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.” (Genesis 15.13-14) This is sort of good news—except for that four-hundred-year part. 

And there is a problem with the number. Though God seems to say that the four hundred years will begin when the Israelites are enslaved, the usual Biblical chronology puts the Exodus as four hundred years after Abram’s dream. (This is one of many problems with the Biblical chronology—a problem exacerbated by the absence of any outside/non-Biblical corroborating references). In any event, the Israelites themselves have no idea what will happen to them and for how long this oppression will last. While we can look with joy at the eventual Exodus and redemption, our ancestors for most of those four hundred years face terrible conditions. “The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression.” (Deuteronomy 26.6-7) 

I have entitled this series of essays Patience, but I hesitate to be too sanguine about what our ancestors endured. Theirs was a difficult and tragic life, and, though we all experience difficulties and tragedies, I do not know how they could hold up and maintain any sense of hope—any sense of humanity. 

The Midrash offers us three possible ameliorative insights. The first comes from Leviticus Rabba and speculates that the Israelites’ survival as Israelites was dependent on four practices. First, they kept their Jewish names. Second, they kept speaking the Hebrew language. Third, they did not gossip (participating in lashon hara / the “evil tongue).” And fourth, they were not sexually promiscuous (like the Egyptians). While one wonders how the Rabbis of the 5th-7th Centuries CE (some 1700 years after the Exodus) could know such things, their point makes sense. In order for Jews to survive persecution and a world that is not particularly friendly, we need to maintain our both our Jewish faith and our Jewish moral values. Though the Midrash speaks about the time as slaves in Egypt, the Rabbis’ advice is something every generation of Jews should consider as we face our own share of challenges. 

The second insight comes in a discussion of theodicy—how God could let the Israelites suffer for so long. The Torah says in numerous places that God was aware of our suffering—hearing “our plea” and seeing “our plight, our misery, and our oppression.” Why did the redemption have to wait? One answer parallels questions about our long wait for the Messiah. If God is aware and good and powerful, what is the delay? The answer? God waits for the Israelites to redeem themselves—to break free of the Egyptians. As long as there is a chance, God holds back. However, when the Israelites’ spirit is finally broken—when “they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage” (Exodus 6.9), then God decides that only a miraculous rescue will work. As we learn in the Midrash about Nachshon “jump-starting” the splitting of the Red Sea, God empowers us and wants us to pursue our own redemption. 

A third insight speaks more about God’s comforting Presence. In the aftermath of the Revelation at Mount Sinai, Exodus 24 offers a curious passage about Moses and the elders “seeing God.” “They saw the God of Israel, standing on what looked like a pavement of sapphire, pure and clear like the very sky.” (Exodus 24.10) Other than the obvious question of such anthropomorphism, the Midrash focuses on the pavement and teaches that the sapphire pavement is what God builds while in slavery to the Egyptians. When the Israelites are suffering, God is right there with them, sharing their burdens, accompanying them, feeling their pain because it is God’s pain, too. 

We all experience suffering in our own ways. Some is clearly less severe than others, and some is less visible/knowable than others. However, we are bidden to remember that God is with us. In whatever befalls our people, our families, ourselves, God is with us—and God is continually reminding us of our holy potential. Even in the midst of difficulty, we can maintain our Judaism and our morality, we can work for our own liberation and redemption, and we can feel the supportive and loving Presence of our God.
Baruch Atah Adonai, Shom’renu, Go’alenu, v’Tzur Yish’enu.
Blessed is the Lord, Who protects us, Who helps us when we are in difficulty,
and Who is our eternal and everlasting hope.