God Dwelling Among Us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hillel vs. Shammai: The Debate (?) Continues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At this point, the story has two different endings. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where is God's Presence?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Inclusion in God?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Us" and "Them"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Changeability and Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Limits (and Preconceptions) of Pacifism

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Dream of Holy Potential

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family Matters

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Tale of Two Abrahams

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hebrew, Israelite, or Jew: Who are You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avodah: What Kind of Work is Holy?

October 24th: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A number of years ago, I got involved in an interesting argument. It was in Minyanaires, our monthly program for 6th and 7th Grade students and their parents, and we were discussing the familiar quotation from Shimon HaTzaddik (Simon the Righteous) in Pirke Avot 1.2:
Al sh’loshah d’varim ha’olam omed: Al ha-Torah, v’al ha-Avodah, v’al G’milut Chasadim.
 “On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Loving Kindness.”  

The argument started when one of the parents—someone born and raised in Israel—corrected my translation. Avodah does not mean Worship, he explained. Avodah means work. He was sort of correct. 

Avodah is a Hebrew word for work, and it is common in modern Hebrew. However, in the ancient Biblical and Talmudic world, Avodah/Work was used in the specific context of the work done by the Kohanim/Priests in sacrificial worship. The Biblical word for daily work is M’lachah, and one can see this word used in the Torah’s prohibitions of work / m’lachah on Sabbaths and Holy Days—days on which Avodah/Worship Work is commanded. There were thus two kinds of work: Avodah, the work done by the Priest in worship services, and M’lachah, the work done by craftsmen, farmers, and other workers. 

So, in the context of explaining what Shimon HaTzaddik meant, I was correct. He was emphasizing the importance of Torah study (the Rabbis’ job), Worship (the Priests’ job—supported by the regular Israelites), and Deeds of Loving Kindness (everybody’s job!). 

However, the Israeli parent was also correct. He knew from speaking modern Hebrew all his life that the word Avodah is used in modern Hebrew for all kinds of work. And, as a kid growing up in Israel, he had been exposed to a particular reinterpretation of that ancient word—one important to modern Zionism.   

A.D. Gordon was one of the philosophical fathers of Zionism, and he believed that building a Jewish State was more than just a way to provide Jews safety from anti-Semitism. He believed that the physical labor in/on Eretz Yisrael would benefit Jews spiritually. The Jewish problem, as he saw it, was that Jews had been alienated from the land in Europe. Banned from land ownership for well over a thousand years, we had been forced to earn our livelihoods from “un-natural” labors—labors not connected to the land. Much like the ancient Greek myth of Antaeus, our separation/alienation from the earth had left us weak and in need of spiritual and cultural rejuvenation. Working the Land (especially our homeland of Israel) would reconnect us to the earth and feed our souls—as well as build up a Jewish State. Many early Zionists followed Gordon’s thinking and saw their labor as a spiritual endeavor—indeed as a modern version of the ancient Avodah/Worship Work. Note how the Labor Zionist folk song, Zum Gali Gali explains the dynamic:
“Hechalutz lema’an avodah. Avodah lema’an hechalutz.”
“The pioneering settlement of the Land requires work,
and that work benefits the Pioneers themselves.” 

And there is this poignantly phrased Zionist motto:
 “Livnot ul’hibanot!” To build and to be built.
The purpose of Zionism is to build the Land of Israel, and the builders themselves will be spiritually rebuilt by the work.  

Shimon HaTzaddik (circa 200 BCE) lived in a world where the Temple was still operating, and thus he spoke of the value of that kind of Work/Worship. However, in the Zionist movement, the ancient proverb had been adapted to reflect the modern Avodah to which the Labor Zionists dedicated themselves: building Zion was their holy work. On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on the sacred labor of working and reclaiming Eretz Yisrael, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness. 

In other words, our Minyanaires argument was one where both sides were right! 

The connection to the story of Noah (this week’s Torah portion) lies in a detail from the aftermath of the Great Flood. In Genesis 8, when Noah, his family, and all the animals emerge from the ark, we have one of the earliest Biblical mentions of Avodah/Sacrificial Worship:
“Then Noah built an altar to the Lord and, taking of every clean animal and every clean bird, he offered burnt offerings on the altar. The Lord smelled the pleasing odor, and the Lord said, ‘Never again will I doom the earth because of humans…’” (Genesis 8.20-21) 

It was common knowledge in the ancient Near East that people were created to offer sacrifices from which the gods got sustenance. Thus, in the Babylonian version of the Great Flood Story (in The Gilgamesh Epic), the gods regret killing all the humans because there is no one left to feed them. So, when Utnapishtim (the “Noah” character) comes out of his big boat and immediately offers sacrifices, the hungry gods “hover around the cooking meat like flies.”  

The similarities with our version of the story are striking, but so are the differences. While the Babylonian gods send the Flood because people are too noisy, the Lord God’s complaint is human immorality: “The earth became corrupt and was filled with lawlessness.” (Genesis 6.11) And while the Babylonians thought that their gods got sustenance from the greasy smoke of the barbecuing meat, our version has the Lord God just enjoying the aroma. As the Jewish understanding of sacrificial worship developed, the idea was that the aroma of the cooking meat attracted God’s Presence—and, with God present, we could then offer our prayers of praise, thanks, and petition.  

Judaism has changed over the millennia; we have not done animal sacrifices for almost 2000 years. However, we still work at attracting God’s Presence—drawing the Lord’s attention with our piety, kavannah (prayerful intentions), and good deeds.  

Building a better world; drawing God close: both kinds of work can be holy.

Wrestling with the Matzav

October 17th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur Morning Sermon: Wrestling with the Matzav 

There are many issues for us to think about today—a day intentionally filled with self-searching, but one, the Matzav in and around Israel, weighs heavily on many a Jewish soul. 

Matzav is the Hebrew word for situation, and it has become a shorthand term for whatever crisis Israel is currently facing. Unfortunately, the Matzav has been a perennial concern, as the Zionist dream has always hung by a thread. From its beginnings in the 1890s, through the early settlements under the Ottoman Empire, through the British Mandate, and from the 1947 U.N. Partition Plan and 1948 War of Independence, the Matzav has continually been fraught with controversy and anxiety. During times of both peace and war, the challenges for Israel have continued intensely. Why? Because building a Jewish and democratic state in a dangerous neighborhood is not an easy task. Though our present focus is on the massacre of October 7, 2023 and its tragic aftermath, the latest crisis is in some ways nothing new. There have always been those standing in the way of Medinat Yisra’el, and even those who love and support the Zionist dream have disagreed and fought about all kinds of decisions and strategies.  

The current Matzav is certainly unique, but it may not be as unique as we imagine. We are struggling with (1) competing Jewish values, (2) different points of view, and (3) neighbors with varying degrees of unfriendliness, and thus find ourselves in a Matzav very similar to other generations of our people. 

There are certainly different levels of involvement in our current crisis. Some are literally fighting the war between Israel and Hamas et al or sending their sons and daughters to battle. Others are dashing for bomb shelters when the sirens blare. But even those of us physically far away from Israel find ourselves connected to the situation over there. Regardless of our opinions on Zionism, Israel, Bibi Netanyahu, or anything else, many of us feel immersed in the war’s dynamics—and the political, philosophical, and spiritual maelstroms have left us battered and bruised. Indeed, many of us are seized by a disquiet that is both deep and profound. What are we to do? 

It is not my intention to weigh in on the various issues of the War. However, I believe that our tradition of faith, endurance, and holy survival can guide us as we struggle with the complexities, anger, and anxiety that grip us so. Here are some insights I find helpful. 

(1) Some people speak falsehoods.
This is not an accusation but a fact. Not all that is spoken is true. Whether the falsehoods are lies, motivated by various agendas, attitudes, or fears, or whether they are spoken from ignorance and a lack of knowledge, they are severe impediments to truth and understanding. Who is speaking and upon what do they base their views? We need to be discerning.   

(2) Some people believe the falsehoods.
Our people has been plagued by false accusations for centuries. From the Blood Libel which has been leveled against us for some 1500 years (and is still used in anti-Israel propaganda), to the Protocols of the Elders of Zion (which is still being published in Arab countries), to Nazi Racial Theory, people have believed all sorts of absurdities about Jews. In fact, people have believed all sorts of absurdities about all kinds of things. We hope that education will help them see the truth, but humans have a kind of multi-faceted gullibility that is incredible, and embarrassing, and often self-destructive. We cannot control other people’s gullibility—even when their misinformation threatens us. And, then there are those who brag about how their “Big Lies” can become “accepted truth.” Just because something is said does not make it true. 

(3) The public relations war is not the only or most important war.
There is a tendency to look at politics like a horse race, focusing only on who is ahead. This may or may not make sense in sports, but such an approach obscures policy decisions and intelligent analysis. Has Israel lost the public relations war? In some circles, Yes. But in many circles, No. Regardless, I believe that there is a fallacy in thinking that the publicity war is the real war. Proverbial wisdom does counsel that “a good name is prized above all,” but, at some point, there are other and more pertinent considerations. Though we all hope to avoid misleading or untruthful news coverage, the fact is that bad publicity is not as bad as death or destruction. 

We often hear warnings about how one or another Israeli policy will get the Arabs angry—or make Israel a pariah among the nations. Angry?! A pariah?! Has this not already been the case for decades? I cannot imagine anything that Israel could ever do to “de-pariah” itself or garner Arab support. When perpetually confronted with existential hate, it should be no surprise that many Israelis prioritize survival over publicity.  

(4) We are not Jewish because we agree with all other Jews on every issue—or because we like them.
We are Jews because Judaism touches our souls and gives us grounding, meaningfulness, and a sense of connection to the Divine. We unite with some Jews for some purposes, but the fact is that there are lots of Jews and lots of Jewish opinions on pretty much every subject under the Sun. We agree or disagree, but we not responsible for what other people do—even if we share a religion or ethnic background. And, just as we learn in our families, it is possible to love someone even when we disagree—even when their behavior is embarrassing or sinful. An example: I am a committed Zionist, but I am very unhappy with the Ultra-Orthodox chokehold on Judaism in Israel as well as the attitudes and behaviors of some West Bank settlers. I am angry with them. I argue with them or about them. I am opposed to much of what they say and do. But their behaviors do not define me or my Judaism. Nor do they make me want to stop being Jewish. Indeed, my Jewish identity and values are what inspire much of my opposition. 

(5) Going against peer pressure is no easier in adulthood than it was in middle school.
Though the cool kids, the powerful kids, the popular kids have a tendency to dictate styles, activities, and opinions, we are not obliged to take on their opinions. We have the right to think our own thoughts and to determine what we think is true. God gave us brains and judgment and expects us to use them. May God also give us courage—courage to stand up for our own principles and judgments, and to explain the subtleties that real wisdom requires. Courage is possible. Courage!

(6) It is possible to agree with and work with people on some things while disagreeing with them on other things.
Allyship means agreeing and working together on mutually agreeable goals. It does not give one ally the right to dictate what the other ally should think or do. A famous example is Martin Luther King’s Letter from Birmingham Jail. He is not addressing opponents of Civil Rights but arguing with allies about particular strategies and schedules. His arguments reveal the collaborative nature of working together and often debating the best courses of action. In my own interfaith experience, I have worked with clergy from some denominations on some social justice issues—and worked against them on others. Think of the people you know who are wrong on some subjects, but right on others. Working with them on good causes does not mean agreeing with them on other things. It is in the nature of democracy—and tolerance and neighborliness.  

(7) Hopefulness can slide into naiveté.
No one likes to be called naive, but think about how our hopefulness and idealism can run amok—how we can somehow think that our generation should be spared the challenges, tragedies, and unfairnesses previous generations have faced. We laugh at the slogan that World War I was the “war to end all wars,” so why would we think that winning World War II or the Cold War would prevent future armed conflicts? Why would we think that winning one social justice battle would prevent future battles? An example, why would people think that the election of Barak Obama would mean the end of racism?  

We hope and work for Tikkun Olam and the Messianic Age, but there is a lot more work to be done. We are proud of our high levels of civilization, tolerance, and democracy, but we are called to reverse undemocratic and oppressive tendencies that have been around for thousands of years. We have made wonderful medical and technological advances, but there are still imperfections in the human soul. We encourage optimism and hope, but it might be far-fetched to think that we will be the ones to cross the “Messianic finish-line.” Hopefulness and aspirations are great, but they are always in a kind of tension with the harshness of reality. We may be unique, but we are not so unique as to be spared the challenges of life.

This, by the way, is where religion has a role to play. Faith and courage can help us as we navigate these tricky waters. This is why and how religions developed, and Judaism gifts us with assistance and support in dealing with the difficulties of life.  

The most elemental problem is our finitude. We have infinite hopes but limited possibilities, and, when we hit the wall of those limits, religion is here to help us gain perspective and figure out the best and most holy responses. It is also here to help us find and appreciate the blessings of life—even when our infinite yearnings can imagine more. One of the prayers I say with great hope is: /שַׂבְּעֵֽנוּ מִטּוּבֶֽךָ,“May we learn satisfaction, and delight in the blessings we are given.” This lesson is often difficult, but it is necessary every day. 

We aspire to peace, calm, and prosperity. Isaiah prays (2.4)
לֹא־יִשָּׂא גוֹי אֶל־גּוֹי חֶרֶב וְלֹא־יִלְמְדוּ עוֹד מִלְחָמָה:
“Nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.”

And Micah (4.4) adds:  וְיָשְׁבוּ אִישׁ תַּחַת גַּפְנוֹ וְתַחַת תְּאֵנָתוֹ וְאֵין מַחֲרִיד:
They shall sit, everyone, under their vines or fig trees, and none shall make them afraid.”
But these are prayers—lovely visions and hopes, and until those miraculous times, we must attend to the hard work of life, with courage, principle, and determination.  

The verse that helps me through the day is from Psalm 29:
ה' עֹז לְעַמּוֹ יִתֵּן ה' יְבָרֵךְ אֶת־עַמּוֹ בַשָּׁלוֹם:
“The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.”
To me, this is a call to summon my strength and my courage. It is through the strength that the Lord gives us that the Lord will bless our people with peace. And so, I need to get a grip—to gird my loins and be strong.

I also need to let God in. As Hillel (Avot 2.5) reminds me:
וּבְמָקוֹם שֶׁאֵין אֲנָשִׁים, הִשְׁתַּדֵּל לִהְיוֹת אִישׁ:
“In in a place where no one is a mensch, be a mensch.” 

God has given us both brains and strength—and Divine inspiration. There can be goodness in life. There are blessings to find. There is holy work for us to do.

When We Are Guilty, and When We Are Not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"If I Had a Hammer"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jewish Music and Our Souls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[1]   Mekhilta de Rabbi Ishmael

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

[3]   1969-1992

God's "Chosen People?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you soon.
L’shanah Tovah Tikatayvu!