Reading Difficult Parts of the Torah, Part II

August 12th: D’varim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we considered violence in the Bible—particularly the stories in which God commands us to destroy other nations. The theme continues this week, as we begin Deuteronomy and hear about other instances of violent engagements: the massacre of Sihon’s kingdom of Heshbon (2.30-34) and of Og’s kingdom of Bashan (3.1-7). In both cases, according to the stories, there were no Amorite survivors.

We know about the wonderful and inspirational parts of our Holy Scriptures, but is not the whole document—perhaps our whole religion—tainted with these horrible, embarrassing, and manifestly unholy passages? Last week, I discussed some mitigating considerations: (1) the massacres described in these Biblical passages did not actually happen, and (2) though violence is sometimes necessary, it is not the only response to conflict the Bible teaches. Indeed, the Bible counsels peace and respect, leaving violence only for extreme situations. I also promised a third way to approach these passages, one which considers the evolution of human thinking. Improvements have occurred during the last 3000 years, and these affect the way we should regard our ancient Tradition.

The ancient understanding of cause and effect—the scientific knowledge of the day—was different than ours. In the case of the Midianites (from last week), think of the situation our ancestors faced. When our wanderings brought us to Midian and many of our men engaged with Midianite women in pagan religio-sexual rites, we were hit with a sudden and mysterious plague that killed thousands. The wisdom of the time saw this plague not in terms of germ theory or public health shortfalls, but rather as a punishment from God for religious misbehavior and rebellion. We can speak in our modern world about tolerance and mutual respect for other religious or philosophical systems, but only because we judge them not to be dangerous. If they are dangerous, then the discussion of affirmation and multi-culturalism takes a very different turn. Indeed, many discussions in our modern world deal with the question of whether different is just different or potentially dangerous. You can see this dynamic in the word used for people who are opposed to GLBT rights: homophobic. Homophobic people, say the GLBT rights proponents, are needlessly fearful. The same dynamic is at play in discussions about Islam—and, in particular, refugees from Muslim countries. Is the whole religion—and all of its adherents—dangerous, or is just a small minority of “radicalized” Muslims dangerous?

In the ancient mentality, the Midianites were considered a danger—possibly cultural, possibly religious, but definitely viz. the wrath of the Lord! They were a danger requiring an extreme response. Though we may view it differently today, it is important to remember that humanity has taken a long, long, long time to progress to the kinds of tolerance and mutual respect that we hold precious today. Do we not think—and give thanks—that human progress has occurred, that enlightenment has slowly/finally dawned?

When I try to reconcile the positive and negative aspects of our sacred texts, I think of how we can love people (relatives, friends, and ancestors) even if some of their attributes and qualities are problematic or offensive. Not everyone we love and respect is perfect in every way, and we do not have to agree with everything they think or do to nonetheless feel a sense of kinship and even pride at the good things they do/did with their lives.

The same can be said of our nation’s Founding Fathers, many of whom can be indicted for a number of moral failings. Slavery, adultery, racism, and misogyny are not faults to be justified or excused, but these terrible social mores are not the reasons we revere people like Washington, Jefferson, or Franklin. What we revere—and what we hope to continue—are their efforts to outgrow the moral limitations of their time and to set in motion principles that eventually brought liberation and a measure of equality.

When I look at the Bible, I see it as an ancient document reflecting what our ancient ancestors thought was wisdom. Much of it, we judge today, is wisdom—wisdom that is profound and sublime and eternal. These are the parts we revere and consider the essence of our encounter with God. But, some parts are not reflective of what we have come to understand as moral or even spiritual. The treatment of women—regarding them as property and denying them equal participation in society and religion—is something we moderns regard as time-bound and culture-bound attitudes that, thank God, we have outgrown. The same goes for the treatment of people with skin diseases, people who are physically malformed or mentally deficient, or people who simply choose not to be religious. The same goes for the Biblical insistence that the only way to approach God is through a sacrificial system, killing, butchering, and cooking animals in a sacred setting. The presence of these things in the Bible does not mean that we must take these ancient attitudes as marching orders. Rather, they show us how much we have grown morally, socially, and even spiritually.

The Bible reflects the beginning of our relationship with God, and it expresses what people back then thought was good and proper. Many of their principles and ideas were magnificent. Some were problematic, and the process of Judaism’s development every step along the way has been figuring out what should be kept and what should be interpreted away.

As much as our Tradition is defined by our ancient texts, it is also defined by the developmental process of adapting and mediating Biblical attitudes and practices. One can see this process in the many reforms and reformulations within the Bible itself, and one can see it in the Talmud and every subsequent stage in Judaism’s continuing growth and improvement.

Am I shocked to read stories of massacres and violence in the Bible? Of course. Am I happy to read some of the primitive and oppressive ideas held back then? Of course not. And yet, in the context of human history and in the process of finding both our moral grounding and our moral purpose, I rejoice at the stirrings of moral perception and strength that have been active in our holy community since its beginning, and I rejoice at the progress we have made. Torah is not the verbatim repetition of the ancient text; Torah occurs when we search the ancient text, mining it for its insights, its wisdom, and its goodness.

Reading Difficult Parts of the Torah, Part I

August 5th: Mattot/Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

If you were to read Chapter 31 of Numbers, you would be shocked. It tells the story of a massacre—a massacre commanded by God and executed by the Israelites. “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Avenge the Israelite people on the Midianites; then you shall be gathered to your kin.’ Moses spoke to the people, saying, ‘Let men be picked out from among you for a campaign and let them fall upon Midian to wreak the Lord’s vengeance on Midian. You shall dispatch on the campaign a thousand from every one of the tribes of Israel.’”(Numbers 31.1-4) By the end of the story, every Midianite man and boy and every female Midianite who was not a virgin was killed.

 No massacre is good, but the rationale for this one grates even more against our modern sensibilities: the Midianites were guilty of seducing many Israelites into their pagan sexual practices, and this was manifestly unacceptable. The Midianites needed to be stopped permanently, i.e., wiped out.

 Shades of ISIS—or the Crusaders! How can we, who have too often been the victims of genocidal rampages, deal with such a barbaric text in our Torah? How can we read such a text and reconcile it with the profound morality and holiness of our Tradition?

 Let me suggest three answers—answers that speak to the nature of the Biblical text and the way that we find meaning in our Holy Scriptures

 First, this and other stories of Biblical massacres are not borne out by evidence—neither archeological evidence nor from later books of the Bible. The kind of destruction that would have had to take place—“The Israelites destroyed by fire all the towns in which the Midianites were settled, and their encampments”—is not indicated by the archeological record. This is not to say that fighting did not occur or that the Israelites might have been victors, but the Biblical claims seem to be greatly exaggerated. Add to this the fact that later books of the Bible speak of these supposedly destroyed people, living in their supposedly destroyed places, and continuing to have relationships with Israelites/Jews. The Prophet’s ongoing complaints about the pagan and idolatrous religions testify to the persistent presence of these non-Jewish religious activities/temptations centuries after the alleged massacres.

 Could these ancient stories be some kind of hyperbole about a legendary past? Or, were these ancient stories told to further the agendas of later generations of Jews—building up or tearing down the reputations of various peers or competing groups? One needs to remember that the stories which present themselves as happening in the 12th Century BCE were not edited in their final form until the 6th Century BCE, and, with that much time and historical process, lots of editorial revisioning could have taken place. The one thing we know is that there is a disconnect between some of these Biblical stories and the political, military, religious, and sociological reality of subsequent periods. They do not seem to accurately reflect our actual history, AND, more importantly, they are not precedents or marching orders for modern behavior.

 Second, though we aspire to eschew violence and destruction, even we civilized moderns sometimes find it necessary to resort to extreme measures. Look at the massive forces we have assembled over the last few centuries to enforce our sense of righteousness (the Civil War) or to ensure our survival (World War II). Look at our response to the attacks on September 11, 2001. Whether or not we all agree with decisions made back then, the fact is that our country decided to send overwhelming force against those whom we judged to be our mortal enemies. Even today, look at the way people talk about stopping or “getting rid of” ISIS and Al Qaeda. And, I do not recall hearing any objections to the way Osama bin Laden was “taken out.”

 We may not like the fact that evil exists—or that there are enemies out to destroy our way of life. We may wish for, pray for, and work for peace, but the sad fact is that violence and destruction are sometimes the best or only option.

 We should also remember that the Bible presents many different ways to deal with the issues that humans face, and many of them did not involve violence. It is therefore important for us to look at the whole panoply of Biblical life and the many ways that the Bible teaches us to relate to each other. Violence is certainly a possibility, but the Bible counsels us that it is a last resort. Remember what King Solomon used to say, “Unto the counselors of peace there is joy.” (Proverbs 12.20)

 A third way to understand this and other problematic Biblical texts will have to wait until next week—though I shall give you a hint: progress has been made in human thinking and morality over the centuries, and the Bible gives us examples of both good and bad behaviors.

 In the meantime, let us look at our ancient texts expansively and with perception and moral judgment. 

 

The Process of God's Blessings

June 17th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, we read about the Nazir (Nazirite), a curious role that some Jews chose to take back in Biblical times. We do not know what they did, but it had something to do with dedicating oneself to a special level of holiness. A Nazir could be either male or female, and he/she got to choose the length of Naziriteship. (An exception was Samson—whose mother dedicated his whole life to being a Nazir.) We do not know what they did, but we do know what they did not do: (1) cut their hair, (2) drink wine or any grape products—not even vinegar, and (3) approach or tend to the dead. Otherwise, we just figure that they set aside a period of time to devote themselves to holiness, and the above requirements were signs of their special temporary status.

Perhaps some of them felt a special urge to develop their spirituality. Perhaps some of them wanted to repay God for special blessings. Perhaps some of them sought to make up for sinfulness and find some purity. The reasons for choosing this practice and the details of the practice itself are part of the fabric of ancient Jewish life that has just not been passed down through the generations. All we have are the rituals for initiating the status and the ritual for concluding it.

I wonder if deciding to be a Nazirite is like the decision that many modern Jews make to immerse themselves in Jewish organizational life or spiritual life. Many people are very dedicated to their Judaism, but, busy with the million other concerns of modern life, they are not particularly active in congregational or charitable activities. There are times, however, when they wish to draw closer and to take a more active role. They may start attending services more frequently. They may join a committee or the synagogue board. They may adjust their lives so that they can devote themselves to God and Jewish life in a more intense way, and they engage in this holy service for a while. Some volunteer for a program or event. Others stay active in the synagogue for a few years—or for many decades. Whatever their declared period of modern Naziriteship, they all deserve our appreciation and grateful thanks. Their presence and efforts make a world of difference in our Jewish community.

The most famous part of the Torah portion comes immediately after the rules for the conclusion of a Nazirite’s commitment. It is the Priestly Benediction—or, in Hebrew, Hab’rachah Ham’shuleshet, The Three Part Blessing. Here is the whole paragraph from Numbers 6.22-27:
“The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak unto Aaron and his sons:
This is how you shall bless the people of Israel. Say to them:
May the Lord bless you and protect you.
May the Lord shine upon you and be gracious unto you.
May the Lord smile upon you and bless you with peace.
Thus shall the priests put My Name on the people of Israel, and I will bless them all.”

This idea of God “putting the Divine Name on the people of Israel” is both interesting and important, but I shall not address it here. Our Bar Mitzvah this week, Oliver Paulson, will discuss this, and I’ll just say Amen to his teaching.

My interest is in the process of the blessing: that the Torah sees it as something the kohanim (priests) must say in order for the blessing to be dispensed. Of course, God can bless anyone God wishes to bless, but this system seems to require human transmission. And, it’s not just that the kohanim who are part of the process: they are functionaries in a communal structure in which everyone has a role. The priests officiate at the sacrificial meals; the Levites support the holy work, and the Israelites participate both in prayer and by bringing the foodstuff for the sacrifices. In other words, it is only through a functioning society where everyone plays a part that the blessing of God comes.

We often focus on the special status of leaders, but, as any leader knows, real leadership does not take place without the support of the community. As much as we live individual lives, we are also part of groups, and many of the blessings we receive flow because of the communities in which we are a part.

Let us give thanks that we have a Jewish community. Let us give thanks that various members—at various times in their lives—devote themselves to communal service, doing God’s work and Judaism’s work. And let us give thanks that our synagogue community can be the conduit through which we communally as well as individually approach God and live in holy relationship.

Rabbi Ostrich's Weekly Torah Commentary will be on vacation for the Summer, 
but look for new teachings in August.

Living in a Relationship with God

June 10th: Bemidbar and Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the Book of Numbers begins with a census of the Israelites (hence its Greek and English name), the bulk of the book tells stories about our forty years of wandering in the desert. As such, Bemid’bar is a book about our relationship with God, a relationship that turns out to be much like those between people—with both high and low points.

The event which we celebrate on Shavuot (this coming Sunday) is clearly a high point: after our multi-miraculous freedom from Egyptian bondage, we are brought to Mount Sinai and into a covenant with God. This bond is the purpose of our freedom, and the Ten Commandments and the Torah are handbooks for this continuing relationship. As God explains it:
“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 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 19.4-6)

One of the metaphors used throughout the Holy Scriptures speaks of God and Israel being married, and our various episodes reflect the joys and challenges of marital life. A prime example is the traditional Haftarah for this week, Hosea 2.1-22. Hosea is married to Gomer, a woman who loves him but who also continues to ply her trade as a prostitute. Hosea loves her despite her infidelity, just as God continues to love us despite our immorality and spiritual infidelity, and the Haftarah speaks to the angst that both Hosea and God feel.

In this metaphorical construction, Matan Torah (the Giving of the Torah) is seen as the wedding between God and us. One could then see the stories in the Book of Numbers as accounts of the challenges of living together—episodes in which loving partners can be pushed to their limits. Just as relationships between humans need work, our relationship with God requires continual attention. There is much work to do as we learn and adjust and seek to treat each other respectfully, fairly, and with sensitivity. An early crisis in our honeymoon is God’s decision to make us spend forty years wandering in the desert, and I would like to share with you three traditional explanations for this decision. Each, in its own way, speaks to the dynamic of living in relationship with the Divine.

One explanation comes directly from the text in Parshat Shelach Lecha (which we’ll read in a few weeks). God’s plan is for Israel to go immediately into the Land of Israel, but, of the twelve spies sent ahead to reconnoiter, ten come back with a fearful and pessimistic report, and the people fall into despair and reject God’s commission. God regards this as a lack of faith and a kind of disqualification. This generation does not deserve the Land, and God sentences it to wander in the desert until everyone is dead. Perhaps their children will be faithful enough to inherit the Land. Some commentators, however, wonder whether this is an outright punishment or simply God’s realization that the former slaves are not adept enough psychologically or spiritually to take the Land. The slave mentality handicaps aspirations, and God’s promise to give the Land to Abraham’s family has to wait for a while.

A second explanation approaches the issue of the Canaanites and the various tribes already living in the Land of Israel. There is an awareness of their “ownership,” but the Bible’s point of view is that the real Owner of Canaan and everywhere else is God. As a result, the Torah, the Prophets, and the Rabbis all approach this question asking about God’s allocation/assignment of various territories. A key to this line of thought comes from some verses that speak of the sins of the Canaanites “not being complete”—as though God’s tenants are allowed a certain amount of misbehavior before they are evicted. These passages lead to the Prophets’ belief that God’s gift of the Land of Canaan is conditional—and dependent on morality and religiosity. Yes, the Land is promised to us, but it is also promised to the Canaanites, and their sinning gets them dispossessed. Therefore, what’s true for the Canaanites is true for us: if we don’t follow God’s commands and behave ourselves, we could lose the Land, too. In fact, a frequent theme of the Prophets is that the conquest and exile of the Israelites and the Judeans are actually punishments by God for their immoral and irreligious lives. The great empires of Assyria and Babylonia are not challenges to God, but merely chastening rods with which God punishes us for our sins. In other words, the forty years in the wilderness can be seen as a delay God puts into the Divine justice system. Will the Canaanites behave properly, or will they use up their “last chances?” 

(What happens if they repent? According to the logic of the Book of Jonah, they would be allowed to stay in the Land—and live side by side in peace with the Israelites.)

A third reason for the forty year delay takes a very different tack. Instead of seeing the delay as a punishment or a waiting period, this approach speaks of the time in the wilderness as a kind of intense spiritual retreat. Freed from the burdens of farming, making a living, and even cooking, the Israelites are free to study Torah all day. They learn it from Moses himself—just after he hears it from HaKadosh Baruch Hu! In this environment of pure holiness, they explore and experience the full range of spirituality and Torah consciousness, and their intensity has been passed down through the generations. Our own spiritual sensibilities, thus,  come from a very deep cultural and psychic place. The forty years of spiritual nurturing and development prepare our people for lives of holiness. Likewise, our own times of prayer, study, and spiritual reflection can help us to prepare for our roles in tikkun olam, the ultimate repair and perfection of the world. Remember what Simon the Righteous used to say, “Upon three things does the world stand: on Torah, or Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” (Avot 1.2) What begins with Torah and worship continues in tikkun olam.

God and the Weather

June 3rd: Bechukkotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As much as the Torah is a theological and religious book, it is also an agrarian book. Though the stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob suggest semi-nomadic shepherding origins, once we arrived in the Land of Israel, our ancestors were farmers. This destination was the goal of God’s promise in the Patriarchs’ time and in the message to Moses at the Burning Bush. Other than, of course, our relationship with God and the Torah, the acquisition and possession of the Promised Land, “a land flowing with milk and honey,” is expressed as the purpose of the Exodus: the blessing of the relationship with God is a place of agricultural abundance.  Thus it should come as no surprise that the enforcement clauses of our covenant with God are also expressed in agrarian terms. Here is how this week’s Torah portion begins:
“If you follow My laws and faithfully observe My commandments, I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. Your threshing shall overtake the vintage, and your vintage shall overtake the sowing; you shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land.” (Leviticus 26.3-5ff)

The concomitant curses section—“But, if you do not obey Me and do not observe all these commandments, if you reject My laws and spurn My rules…”—mixes natural disaster with conquest by cruel enemies. Not only will the land be infertile, “I will make your skies like iron and your earth like copper, so that your strength shall be spent to no purpose. Your land shall not yield its produce, nor shall the trees of the land yield their fruit,” but any produce that somehow grows will be eaten by the enemy!

Though our ancient ancestors thought of reward and punishment in terms of nature and its ability/willingness to help us live, there is a tendency for us to feel far away from this agrarian world. Industrialization and urbanization have changed our locations and our sensibilities. Rather than the farmer’s existential concern with rain and sun and the natural world, for most of us, Nature is a matter of scenery, farmers’ markets, and our AccuWeather® Apps. But, of course, we cannot escape the natural world, and many people are concerned with what seems to be the increasing violence of the weather and its effects on human habitation and agriculture. In previous generations, extreme weather was often seen as a plague from God (see the 1927 flooding in the Mississippi River), but today many attribute our weather problems to human induced global warming.

There is a lot spoken and written about global warming, and it is has become a kind of political football. Almost every week, someone makes a provocative statement and incites another round of arguing about the “evidence” or the “science.” What is interesting to me is how important the question of belief has become. Do people believe in the climate scientists’ conclusions, or do people not believe (or refuse to believe) them? There’s a lot of hot air expended on this debate, but, at a certain point, I wonder why belief matters so much. If all the climate change deniers would change their minds and start believing that human produced CO2 emissions are indeed causing global warming, would this change in belief result in changes in action?

Would we all stop using electricity and driving our cars? Would we all sell our gas guzzlers and buy Prius’ or Tesla’s—or bicycles? Would we all install solar panels on our roofs? It seems to me that all these solutions are already and gradually gaining steam. Saving money on energy costs, minimizing waste, and maximizing efficiency are natural and obvious goals in a capitalist system. Would we really be able to pursue strategies a lot faster without causing other very serious problems?

Would we shut down our industrial capabilities? Would we make gasoline so expensive that people cannot afford to drive? Would we shut down coal mining any faster than natural economic forces are already doing? And, what would we do to/for the people who make their livings mining coal or working in polluting industries—or simply driving to work? Would we stop jetting around the country and the world for business or pleasure (or sporting events!)? Look at the millions of people who travel and who find it necessary and/or pleasurable despite expense and inconvenience. Even if we all would agree that human activities are causing global warming, how much faster and more could we decrease all these CO2 emissions?

Would we jettison our nation’s military and economic superiority and let nations like China or India or the entire Third World catch us and surpass us? Yes, Americans may use more resources and emit more per capita, but, other than the gradual decrease in American CO2 emissions that seems to be happening anyway, what would/could/should we really do?

(We’ve all heard the doomsday predictions: “If we don’t cut CO2 emissions by 50% next Tuesday, it’s too late!” Even if we believe them, we know that the country will not cripple itself and our lifestyle, so I’m seriously asking the question: if everyone suddenly believed in global warming, what would we really do differently? And, if this belief is really not that important, what’s with all this consternation over opinion?)

In the ancient world, people thought of good and bad weather as reward or punishment from God—dispensed on the basis of obedience or disobedience to Divine Law. Today, we are discussing whether we humans can affect the weather. If there are natural consequences to the decisions we make, then it would behoove us to make good decisions. The question is, however, what decisions would we make differently?

Tzedakah: The More Things Change, The More They Remain The Same

May 27th: Behar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I began my education in political economics when I was on the high school debate team. Not only did we research and argue the issues of national policy with our teammates and opponents, but also we had great discussions with the parents who were inclined to chaperone our debate team trips. I remember, in particular, the political opinions of one mother—an oil-country Republican—who challenged mightily my liberal-minded heart. Most of the discussions—on the bus and in lobbies and auditoriums—centered around the proper role of government in the economy and in solving human problems. There were the Liberals who spoke of compassion and the need for the government to step in and help people. There were the Conservatives who spoke of the inevitable problems with government bureaucracies and how interventions in the free market create more problems than they solve. These debates were as stimulating and illuminating as the more formal competitions.

What strikes me today, almost five decades later, is how little the argument has changed: how the same questions and the same answers bounce back and forth like ping pong balls on an eternal table. If it weren’t for my baby-boomer conceit that our experience is particularly and uniquely unique and special, I would suspect that the argument hasn’t changed for centuries (since Adam Smith in the 1700s)—and maybe not even in millennia! Look at the Bible and how it addresses questions of ownership and assistance. Look, in particular, at the way the Torah addresses the plight of the poor and vulnerable and how the prosperous are commanded to help them.

In this week’s Torah portion, the subject of what we now call economic justice is approached in the two rather curious customs of the sabbatical year and the jubilee year. The sabbatical year is every seventh year, and it is one in which no agricultural work is allowed. Fields are to lie fallow, owners are only able to harvest what they can eat themselves, and the rest of the unharvested produce is available to anyone who wants to come and get it (for their own personal consumption). It is a Sabbath for the land dedicated to the Lord—Producer and ultimate Owner of the land. It is also a time for debts to be cancelled. If someone cannot pay back a debt after six years of trying, the system says that the creditor should simply write it off, leaving the debtor free to start afresh and hopefully have a better go at it this time around. All in all, the year is an exercise in building empathy and appreciation among the people and in grounding their sensibilities in the Divine Source of both their blessings and their moral code.

The jubilee year (Yovel) is the fiftieth year and comes after the seventh of seven sabbatical years. The Torah stipulates that all land should revert back to the original owners (or their families) and provides a kind of long-term economic stability and renewal of opportunity. No matter how much disaster or poor decisions have devastated one’s financial situation, there is a chance for a clean slate. It also minimizes the drama of land speculation. Whatever one determines to be valuable, there is a limited amount of time to reap its benefits. Again, underlying the whole system is the awareness that the real Owner of the land—and the Source of all blessings—is the Lord God. Grounding, humility, empathy, and appreciation are the “produce” of this jubilee year.

Some scholars think that the jubilee year was never actually practiced—that it was more an idea of an ideal society that proved too difficult and too problematic to practice. The sabbatical year, on the other hand, was practiced, and the Talmud discusses cases both theoretical and actual in re the various needs and adjustments for this complex of mitzvot.

Do these ancient Biblical prescriptions prescribe modern solutions to our economic and political problems? Not really. I think it would be manipulative to try to identify any modern policy with what the Bible says, but I do think it important to recognize that the Bible does instruct us to help the poor and the vulnerable. Whether it is with government programs, infrastructure development, higher or lower doses of capitalism and free enterprise, or lots and lots of charitable giving, the bottom line of Jewish morality is that “the bottom line is not the bottom line.” In addition to our economic pursuits, we should pay attention to the less successful among us and help them with the basics of a decent and safe life.

If you are interested in studying some of the Talmudic texts that get specific about helping the poor, you may want to consider the OLLI (Osher Lifelong Learning Institute) course I’ll be teaching next Fall. Among the passages we’ll be considering is Tractate Ketubot 67b-68a from the Babylonian Talmud. How far does our obligation to help the poor go? How much is enough? How much help is enough? What do the poor deserve? Look for the OLLI catalogue on line (http://sites.psu.edu/olli/) or in the mail to see about the offerings.

The Eternal Lamp

May 20th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In this week’s portion, Emor, we read the mitzvah which has developed into the mitzvah of the ner tamid, the eternal light burning in the front of all Jewish synagogues. “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Command the Israelite people to bring you clear oil of beaten olives for lighting, for kindling lamps regularly. Aaron shall set them up in the Tent of Meeting outside the curtain of the Covenant to burn from evening to morning before the Lord regularly; it is a law for all time throughout the ages. He shall set up the lamps on the pure lampstand before the Lord to burn regularly.” (Leviticus 24.1-4) Though the mitzvah originally called for a menorah of seven lamps to be lit every night (“from evening to morning”), the sacred practice developed into a single light burning all the time in synagogues by the Holy Ark.  (By the way, this week’s passage is a repetition of the original instruction in Exodus 27.20-21.)

As the practice developed, the eternal light has symbolized the eternal presence of God in our synagogues, in our lives, and in the world. It also symbolizes, inasmuch as we are the ones who cause this ritual light to shine, our role in helping that light shine—indeed in spreading the light of God’s wisdom and love to all the world.

In Leviticus Rabba Leviticus 31.4, the Rabbis of the Midrash have an interesting view of God’s intentions for this mitzvah: “As you shine your light on Me, I will shine My light on you,” which Etz Hayim, our sanctuary Chumash, explains in terms of our relationship and reciprocity with the Divine: “As you shine your light on Me (i.e., teaching the world about Me), I will shine My light on you (making you special among the nations).”

 Etz Hayim also has an interesting note on the Hebrew word tamid. The usual translation is eternal, but the modern archeological and historical understanding is that eternal is a mistranslation. The original sense of the ancient mitzvah was that the menorah should be lit regularly—every single night and not kept burning all the time. Of course, the word tamid also means eternal, and later generations elevated and enhanced this ancient Tabernacle/Temple mitzvah into an even more spiritually meaningful practice. Ours is, after all, a developing and ever-aspiring spiritual enterprise.

Whereas most eternal lights in synagogues have self-contained illumination, ours at Congregation Brit Shalom is a sculpture with three spotlights shining on it (one of which is always on). Apparently there was a significant discussion on this unusual design back when the synagogue was built, but the essential quality of a ner tamid is presented: the light in the synagogue burns eternally to represent God’s eternal presence.

The sculpture itself is the work of the late Rob Fisher, a local sculptor with an international reputation. I never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Fisher—and asking him about the thinking behind his sculpture, but, when I look at the work, I see the tohu vavohu, the “unformed confusion” of Genesis 1.2 that preceded Creation. One view of the creative process has God wrestling the unformed chaos into form, and I see the light of God shining onto this tohu vavohu, considering, forming, and continuing the Work of Creation. It speaks to me of how the light, wisdom, and inspiration of God work in the world, and I am reminded to do my part in helping. 

The Chosen People?

May 13th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The “chosen people” idea has been problematic for a long, long time. First spoken by God back in Exodus 19 (leading up to the Ten Commandments), it has been both inspiring and morally difficult almost from its first utterance. On the one hand, it is an amazing proposition: that the Creator of the Universe has chosen our people for a mission of moral example and education to the world. This notion of election and responsibility is one that should fill us with a sense of purpose and a sense of connection to the Divine. On the other hand, it could make us think that we are better than other people, and that does not seem to be what God had in mind.

(On the third hand, the Bible’s teaching that we Jews are the chosen people can inspire non-Jews to hate us and think that we are self-centered, selfish, and unconcerned with all of humanity. An example would the very unflattering way 19th Century French Sociologist Emil Durkheim defined religion—the kind of definition that might have inspired the term self-hating Jew. “Religion is an aspect of totemism for which God becomes an expression of the deification of the group.”)

I have spoken before about the various Rabbinical texts that try to turn our people’s collective ego away from an air of superiority, but the efforts go further back than the Talmud and Midrash. In this week’s Haftarah portion, the Prophet Amos (8th Century BCE) addresses the issue, and he is quite specific:
“To Me, O Israelites, you are just like the Ethiopians—declares the Lord.
True, I brought Israel up from the Land of Egypt,
But also the Philistines from Caphtor
And the Arameans from Kir.”  (Amos 9.7-8)
Lest we think that we are somehow connected and thus insulated from God’s judgment, the prophet reminds us that God’s standards apply to everyone—even the Jewish people!

When I read this Haftarah at my Bar Mitzvah, back in 1966, the message that God loves black people (Ethiopians) just as much as Jews and other white people was important in bolstering the moral and religious position of the Civil Rights Movement. This element of Universalism in the Bible was a message people needed to hear when one part of humanity was being treated as inferior. The message of the Bible is clear: God loves everyone—and no one more than another!

On the other hand, it is possible to misread and misapply the Bible’s Universalism and think that the value of all humanity is the only value—that the cultures and religions of various groups are somehow obstructions to peace, harmony, and respect. In both the Bible and the Rabbinic texts, there is a balance of Universalism and Particularism, a balance in which God loves everyone and also the various groups, nations, ethnic groups, or religions that make up humankind. God’s love for everybody and God’s universal standards of behavior do not conflict with God’s individual relationships with various groups or the roles God assigns to them. Note the way the Amos passage makes it clear that, in addition to whatever purposes God has for Israel, God’s purposes also require the Philistines to play their part and the Arameans to play their part. It is not an insult to one child that a parent loves and has great or different hopes for another child.

In other words, there is nothing wrong with celebrating our special relationship with God and reveling in the religious approach our people has developed for understanding and manifesting God in the world. It does not demean any other group or suggest that they are unimportant or unloved/unguided by God. Indeed, one of the joys of a multicultural perspective is the realization that beauty, wisdom, and spiritual reach can come in many different forms.

It has often been noted—in criticism—that “the most racially segregated hour of the week is Sunday morning,” when blacks and whites go to their own separate churches. To some, this is an indictment of religion’s morality, but I differ. Is there not a beauty to the various styles and nuances of worship one finds in different worship settings? Why should white Baptists not be allowed to pray in their style? Why should black Baptists not be allowed to pray in their style? The same can be said for all of the other denominations and ethnicities in Christianity. Choosing a particular worship ambience and attracting like-minded people is not segregation or discrimination; in this day and age, almost all churches are open to people of different races and ethnicities. The so-called segregation is actually individuals choosing particular kinds of worship—staid or exuberant or traditional or contemporary—and meeting the God Who, we are told in Amos, has a relationship with every people and with different styles of worship.

I believe that we can fully embrace our Jewishness and at the same time appreciate, respect, and work with people of other religions. Particularism and Universalism are not necessarily exclusive. God can speak in many languages and cultures, and God can be approached in many languages and cultures. We can appreciate other religions as well as celebrate our own—and thus follow God’s example. 

The Jewish People and Humanity

April 29th: Conclusion of Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH     
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As we well know, after experiencing the Passover Seder year after year, our Festival of Liberation speaks to us about both the joy of liberation and the empathy we should feel for all humans—especially the ones who are suffering or oppressed.

Indeed, with the symbolism of Elijah and our prayers that he will come soon and announce the Coming of the Messiah and the perfection of the world, our focus on Passover should be twofold:
     (1)   The unique destiny of our people and how our rescue from Egypt was for the purpose of receiving the Torah.
     (2)   God’s love for and interest in the whole world because our selection and holy mission is to bring godliness to all of humanity.

We are certainly taught that God loves us—that there is a special relationship between God and the Jewish people. This is our tif’arah, our glory. But, lest we think that we are the only people God loves, our Prophets remind us of God’s universal interest and affection. In just two weeks, the Haftarah from Amos (9.7) will proclaim:
“To Me, O Israelites, you are Just like the Ethiopians, declares the Lord.
True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt,
But also the Philistines from Caphtor
And the Arameans from Kir.”

The Midrash makes a similar point in commenting on the location of Mount Sinai and why God chooses that place for the revelation of the Ten Commandments. Mount Sinai is out in the middle of nowhere, in a place owned by no one. This is so that the nations of the world will not think that God’s word is only for Israel. The Ten Commandments and the Torah’s holiness are given in a public place so that everyone will know that it is God’s gift and hope for everyone in the world.

The result is that universalism is as important a theme for Passover as is Israel’s particular good fortune (in being freed by God from Egyptian slavery) and destiny (being God’s messengers of Torah). One can even link this thinking to a Midrash on the Hebrew word for Egypt.

In Hebrew, Egypt is known as Mitzrayim, a name which can be translated as the Narrows. This makes geographical sense because the habitable part of Egypt is quite narrow—just a strip on the two banks of the Nile. Other than a few oases, the rest is desert. So, if Egypt is the narrow place, one way to look at the Exodus is as an escape from narrowness. It was not just slavery we left; it was the narrowness of thinking that allowed a sophisticated people to enslave and oppress other human beings.

Are there other kinds of narrow thinking from which we need to escape? A few come to mind: bigotry, intolerance, close-mindedness, penuriousness, arrogance and self-centeredness. The message of Passover’s liberation can remind us that we need to break the bonds of narrow thinking if we want to appreciate the world and if we want to perceive the world fairly and with understanding.

In our day, one of the great projects is learning to live with people who are different from us—different in re nationality, culture, religion, and even gender orientation. It’s one thing to affirm the value of different people, but the experience is not complete without actually getting to know these other individuals who, though quite different, are also created by God in the image of God.

For many generations, in America, we Jews were the different ones, and our leaders worked very hard to show the Christian majority that we are decent, law-abiding, God-fearing, and constructive people who can take on the responsibilities of American citizenship as well as its privileges. The Jewish community has spent a significant amount of energy on this work—and, in an interesting way, this public relations work has informed our own process of Americanization. We have been affected by the expectations of American citizenship, and our fulfillment of civic standards has helped to make us part of the social fabric of this country we love and celebrate.

As a result, we now have the opportunity to help welcome people who are different and who are trying to find their place in America. I am speaking now of our local Muslim citizens and visitors, people who are trying to figure out how to be true to their cultures and religions while also becoming a part of America. Fortunately, State College has had, for the last several years, an excellent organization that reaches out to Muslims and makes them a part of our religious community. Started by Dr. Sarah Malone (a member of the University Baptist and Brethren Church), the Interfaith Initiative Centre County has put together a variety of programs in which people of different religions meet, discuss religious issues, and get to develop relationships of respect and understanding. Some of these programs are formal presentations—some of which we have hosted here at Brit Shalom, and some are more informal.

Just this week, Sunday May 1st, the Interfaith Initiative is putting on its annual Spring Interfaith Picnic, and you are invited! It will be at Sunset Park from 1:00-3:00 PM, and everyone is invited. A good portion of the food will be donated by Pita Cabana, and participants are invited to bring something to share. If you do bring something, please make sure that it is vegetarian (or that the meat is Kosher).

I’ve been to several of these picnics, and they are always a treat. Join us as we manifest the lessons of Passover and share culture, food, and good will. “Let all who are hungry come and eat!”

Passover, Heritage, and Destiny

April 22nd: Passover
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

My message this week is simple and, hopefully, fairly familiar. The Passover Seder is a combination of mitzvot derived from dozens of passages in the Torah and all designed to do one thing. As Rabban Gamliel taught, “In every generation, each person should feel that he/she personally went out of Egypt, as it is commanded in Exodus 13, ‘You shall tell your child on that day, “I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.”’” (Pesachim 10.5)

When we get to that state of mind, we undergo a kind of moral transformation: we feel the heart of the stranger (because we were strangers in the Land of Egypt), and we know that godliness requires three responses: (1) We should appreciate the blessings of freedom and acceptance that we have. (2) We should be sure never to oppress or alienate another human being. (3) We should do our best to help the oppressed escape the narrowness of their predicaments—and extend the blessings of freedom and acceptance to all.

Notice, of course, that Rabban Gamliel’s lesson is based on the proof text from Exodus 13—which is one of the four which tells us to tell the story of the Exodus to our children. (Remember: four instructions means four types of children….)

Everything else in Pesach—from eating of Matzah and Maror to the not-eating of Chametz—are designed to help us tell the story and to listen to the story ourselves. In this narrative, with all of its interpretations and angles, is the essence of our ancestral endeavor.

As we read in the Shema (Numbers 15.41): “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt to be your God: I am the Lord, your God,” and, as God explains in Exodus 19: “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Passover is our origin, our mission, and our communal raison d'être.

Happy Passover!

Moral Priesthood

April 15th: Metzora (and Shabbat Hagadol)
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, I spoke about the latitude afforded to religious authorities in making the relationship with the Divine fit our human needs and sensibilities. There are clearly limits to this flexibility, but our Tradition teaches that both structure/strictness and accommodation/understanding are vital parts of our relationship with God. 

An example would be the way that the ancient priests had to use their judgment in diagnosing leprosy—a term used for certain skin diseases and also for outbreaks of mold in a home. Like modern physicians, the priests had to observe phenomena and then apply various standards and parameters in deciding whether or not an outbreak of tzara’at/leprosy had occurred. As you read the following instructions (Leviticus 14.34-38), notice how both exact and inexact the description of tzara’at is: When a homeowner thinks his house may have nega’ tzara’at, an eruptive plague, “The owner of the house shall come and tell the priest, saying, ‘Something like a plague has appeared upon my house.’ The priest shall order the house cleared before the priest enters to examine the plague, so that nothing in the house may become unclean; after that the priest shall enter to examine the house. If, when he examines the plague, the plague in the walls of the house is found to consist of greenish or reddish streaks that appear to go deep into the wall, the priest shall come out of the house to the entrance of the house, and close up the house for seven days.” Though one figures that the priests were well-trained, one can imagine that, while some possible infestations were clearly leprosy and other were clearly not leprosy, some were hard to call.

In our times, the diagnosis of physical ailments in both our bodies and our homes has been removed from the religious realm. However, the imperatives of the religious life can charge us with a kind of moral priesthood. We are moral people, commanded by Heaven to behave in a godly manner and to “let justice well up as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream” (Amos 5.25). As such, we feel a responsibility to make moral judgments about a variety of people, causes, and institutions. Are they social or moral lepers, and should everyone steer clear, or are they just different and not a threat?

I first learned this lesson about our moral priesthood from Dr. Eugene Mihaly, a great Talmudist and Midrash scholar at the Hebrew Union College. The moral question that day was over a plan in Cincinnati to place a group home for developmentally disabled adults in a residential neighborhood. Some neighbors objected to the group home, citing danger. The word lepers was not used, but the same sense of peril was invoked. Dr. Mihaly, however, invoked the ancient power of the priesthood and asked—in a moral sense, “Are these developmentally disabled people lepers, or are they not?” Knowing what we know about these citizens and the supervision the group home would afford them, Dr. Mihaly called on us to declare them clean and not leprous. I have always been struck how he combined this principled social justice stand with the methodology of Torah.

If one were to review the history of social activism over the last 200 years, one could see a similar kind of struggle or process. For a variety of reasons, certain persons have been considered less acceptable in society and democracy. Led by our moral priesthood, however, we have been called to re-examine some of these discriminations. 

Was the enslavement of Africans in the New World reasonable or fair—or even necessary for their own good (!)? Were they incapable of freedom and personal responsibility? Or, was the particular institution of slavery a kind of moral leprosy that needed to be declared unclean and dismantled? There were many religious leaders who rose up as moral priests, and, among the abolitionists was Rabbi David Einhorn, a father of the Reform Movement. His first posting in the United States was at Congregation Har Sinai in Baltimore, but an angry mob chased him out of town, and he continued his career at congregations in Philadelphia and New York. As an architect of what came to be called Classical Reform Judaism, Rabbi Einhorn spoke about our obligations to be modern-day prophets and to make judgments that proclaim God’s justice in the world.

After Emancipation, there were voices that questioned Black people’s ability to participate responsibly in the democratic process. Similar arguments were voiced about women, and the prevailing opinion was that Blacks and women were intellectual and hormonal lepers who were therefore unsuitable for professional pursuits and voting. In this case, the moral priesthood rose up and—though it took many years—declared that skin color and gender are not impediments to full participation in society. Socially, intellectually, and economically, they are not lepers.

One can also see the struggle for equality and empowerment for the disabled in these terms. The problem here was the belief/assumption that one form of disability makes one unsuitable for all kinds of work. The practical wisdom of the American with Disabilities Act and similar legislation is that job qualification is tied to ability, and reasonable accommodations have enabled many disabled citizens to participate much more fully in society—rather than being cast out and kept from the world of service and fulfillment.

In the case of the liberation of Gays, Lesbians, Bisexuals, and Transgender individuals, the parallel with the ancient situation with leprosy was/is a fear of contagion—sometimes the contagion of disease and sometimes the contagion of influence. Fortunately, our moral priesthood has risen—in Reform and Reconstructionist Judaism as well as other religious denominations—and declared unequivocally: GLBT persons are not lepers. These gender and sexual orientations may be different, but they are not dangerous.

One other group that fits this scenario may surprise you—since it is often seen as opposing the full affirmation and incorporation of other groups. What we now call Evangelical Christians have had their own struggle for acceptance in mainstream society. Prior to World War II, the Evangelicals were by and large rural people, practicing their forms of Fundamentalist or Charismatic Christianity in places that were considered insignificant. With post-war urbanization and education financed by the G.I. Bill, thousands of former country people found themselves in population centers, prosperous and civically powerful. Many observers thought that the explosion of Fundamentalist and Evangelical Christianity in the second half of the 20th Century was growth in this form of religion, but the eminent religious scholar Martin Marty sees it as no more than a population movement—from the hollers and hills and farms of obscurity into mainstream places: their sudden prominence is a result of their new-found wealth, status, and technological acumen. What I find interesting is how, despite their social importance and political power, there is still among many Evangelicals a defensiveness against persecution and dismissal—a sensibility developed during all those years when people who mattered thought of them as intellectual lepers.

We can continue this kind of analysis for a variety of different groups and individuals—some of whom are unjustly shunned and others who are actually dangerous. There are people who threaten us and our communities, and it is right and just that we protect ourselves against them. However, justice and righteousness require that we look carefully and exercise good judgment. Is it leprosy, or is it not? Are differences dangerous, or are we just looking at diversity? Fairness and accuracy require a moral priesthood that is judicious—and willing to do the hard work of careful examination.

The Practicalities of a Relationship with God

April 8th: Tazria and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When people come to Judaism for gerut (conversion), they often remark how practical Judaism is, and how this practical approach to religion is very appealing. I have always felt that the practicality reflects our understanding that the Divine and humans are partners in the ongoing process of creation. Thus, in the midst of the great profundity and inspiration of our Tradition, we often find little adjustments and accommodations.

Here are some examples. In this week’s special reading to usher in the month of Nisan (Hachodesh: Exodus 12), God instructs Moses on the procedures for the very first Passover. “Speak to the whole community of Israel and say that on the tenth of this month each of them shall take a lamb to a family, a lamb to a household. But, if the household is too small for a lamb, share one with a neighbor who dwells nearby, in proportion to the number of persons; you shall contribute for the lamb according to what each household will eat.” The big message is about painting the doorposts with the blood of the lamb and eating the roasted meat with bitter herbs and unleavened bread, but, then again, someone has to deal with the practical details of planning dinner and not wasting food.

Another example is in the weekly Torah portion, Tazria (Leviticus 12), where we read the instructions for purification after the birth of a child. “On the completion of her period of purification, for either son or daughter, the woman shall bring to the priest, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, a lamb in its first year for a burnt offering, and a pigeon or a turtledove for a sin offering…If, however, her means do not suffice for a sheep, she shall take two turtledoves or two pigeons, one for a burnt offering and the other for a sin offering. The priest shall make expiation on her behalf, and she shall be clean.”

 A similar kind of accommodation was included three weeks ago, in Parshat Vayikra (Leviticus 5.15): “When a person commits a trespass, being unwittingly remiss about any of the Lord’s sacred things, he shall bring as his penalty to the Lord a ram without blemish from the flock, convertible into payment in silver by the sanctuary weight, as a guilt offering.” The procedure calls for a guilt offering, but, if the penitent does not have a ram or lives far away, the Torah provides a reasonable accommodation. The main purpose of the sacrifice is the relationship with God, and, in the interest of nurturing the relationship, practical considerations are included.

In Reform Judaism—and Conservative and Reconstructionist Judaism, we pride ourselves on working such accommodations into our religious practice. However, even the Orthodox are aware that the vicissitudes of life and the vagaries of human experience call for some adjustment to the strictures of Halachah. Here are a few examples.

In Traditional Halachah, divorce is a prerogative for the husband only. A wife can only be divorced; she cannot divorce her husband. What, then, happens if a woman is mistreated by her husband? The Halachah allows that she can approach the Bet Din (Rabbinical Court) and ask the court to intervene and persuade the husband to grant the divorce. How the court persuades him can get interesting. Medieval authorities suggest sending a few large fellows over to discuss the situation with him—hinting that the discussion may get physical. Some courts have even imprisoned the husband, keeping him incarcerated until he grants the divorce. The prerogative remains with the husband, but the Bet Din can bring a lot of pressure on him to do what they consider right.

Another example is in the discretion afforded to rabbis in interpreting situations and even physical evidence. If a housewife runs to the rabbi with an egg that might possibly have a blood spot in it, rabbis have been known to weigh the housewife’s wealth (i.e., ability to get another egg) in determining the nature of the discoloration.

A third example comes from the Hassidic Tradition and a story about how the Baal Shem Tov taught Reb Yechiel Michel of Zlotchov the craft of being a rebbe. Reb Yechiel Michel once reported to the Baal Shem Tov about how he held his students to a strict sense of accountability. When one asked for a tikkun (spiritual remedy) for breaking the Sabbath, he had imposed a severe regimen of penitence on him. The Baal Shem Tov’s response was to send Reb Yechiel Michel on a journey many hours away with an errand that had to be performed on Friday afternoon. In addition, the Baal Shem Tov, instructed, Reb Yechiel Michel had to return before Shabbat. Reb Yechiel Michel eagerly performed the errand, but his return trip proved too long, and he arrived in his village well after sundown—after Shabbat had started! He was horribly embarrassed and totally remorseful, and he begged the Baal Shem Tov for his own tikkun. The Baal Shem Tov asked him if he were truly repentant, and, of course, he said that he was. “Fine,” said the Baal Shem Tov. “That’s enough.” “That’s enough?! But what about my student who had to do all that repentance? Does not a great sin require great penitence?” “The real work of penitence,” explained the Baal Shem Tov, “Is in the heart. Focus on the hearts of your students when prescribing penitence—and not on the volume of the punishment you impose.”

Throughout the Tradition, from Biblical times to modern, there is an awareness in Judaism that the religion is to be practiced by people—people with individual needs and situations—and that God understands our humanity. Within and throughout it all, our religion is essentially a way to relate to the Divine. As serious as God is about propriety and justice, we are also taught that God is infinitely understanding and compassionate and interested in how we humans can manifest holiness in our own and particular ways.

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TUI: Thinking Under the Influence

April 1st: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the midst of the excitement and inspiration of the newly consecrated Mishkan (Tabernacle), a great tragedy occurs. “Now Aaron’s two sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the Lord alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord.” (Leviticus 10.1-2).

Though some mystics see the fate of Nadab and Abihu as a kind of a mystical union with the Divine, the general response of the Tradition is that they do something very wrong and are punished. What is their sin, and how do we avoid it? The only information the text gives us is that they offered esh zarah, alien fire or strange fire, a term whose vagueness has given commentators free rein in finding lessons.

Some suggest that the two new priests tried something creative—that is, something other than what God had prescribed. Others suggest that they entered the holy place with too much ego—that they were focused on their status as priests rather than on the holy offices they were filling. Others suggest frivolity and use this as an object lesson for the importance of concentration and seriousness. And then there is the one identified by Rashi some 1000 years ago. He noticed that the paragraph immediately following the incident warns about the problems of inebriation: “And the Lord spoke to Aaron, saying, ‘Drink no wine or other intoxicant, you or your sons, when you enter the Tent of Meeting, that you may not die. This is a law for all time throughout the ages, for you must distinguish between the sacred and the profane, and between the impure and the pure, and you must teach the Israelites all the laws which the Lord has imparted to them through Moses.’”

The lesson about the dangers of wine and strong drink is pretty obvious and, unfortunately, one that still needs to be learned by many. However, I want to focus on the second half of the passage—the one about the important of distinguishing between sacred and profane and between impure and pure. The problem is not just being drunk; the problem is that being drunk impairs our judgment, and the Torah reminds us that judgment needs to be precise and accurate.

This should not be a big surprise, but there is a tendency in our current social environment to emphasize drama and excitement over accuracy and truth. We find ourselves in an atmosphere of competitive hyperbole that treats serious issues as entertainment and militates against the sober consideration of facts.

I understand the rhetorical value of exaggeration, but I am a million percent sure that hyperbole only works properly when people understand the actual facts that are being exaggerated. When this is the case, the emotional energy can be noted, but, when this is not the case, the deliberative process is impaired, and the solutions to real problems are harder to find.

I would like to suggest a number of issues that are falling prey to this unsober drama, and I would ask you to consider whether the drama helps or obscures the real issues. I would also ask you to think about how the emotional energy may enrage one side to fury and the other side to dismissal—how realistic solutions are rendered harder to find.

(1)   Was the “Ground Zero Mosque” really at the site of the former World Trade Center? Was the mosque new construction or just a remodeling of a section of a long-standing Islamic community center?

(2)   Does any serious thinker believe that Black Lives do not Matter? Is there really a campaign by police to kill black people? On the other hand, is it possible that some police conduct may be misconduct?

(3)   Are undocumented aliens a drain on our economy? Do any of them work in industries that are important to us?

(4)   Is the presence of a transgender person in a public restroom a danger?

(5)   When the Supreme Court recently heard the dispute over who has to fill out an exception form—the employer who objects to artificial contraception on religious grounds OR the employee of such an employer, was the “health care of women” really threatened?

(6)   What is carpet bombing, and how will carpet bombing the Middle East help matters?

(7)   Did the political spinning of the attack on the U.S. Consulate in Benghazi cause the deaths of the four American diplomatic personnel?

Each of these subjects deserves serious discussion, but serious discussion can get left behind when the entertainment value of a good story becomes more important that facts. Lying is not good for the public discussion. Truthiness is not truth. Hyperbole is only honest if the audience understands what it is. Otherwise, our civic and political life is just as impaired as the drunken King Ahasuerus, and the story of Megillat Ester shows us what can happen when public policy is combined with continually inebriated thinking.

Managing Ancestral Memory: Is Amalek Attacking?

March 18th: Vayikra and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Ancestral memory is a curious quantity. We Jews certainly have it, and we invoke it in a variety of ways—in our prayers, in our cuisine and music, in our use of languages like Yiddish, and even in our mannerisms. Much of what we call Jewish Identity involves our sense of what our people have thought and experienced over the centuries.

We are not the only group to have ancestral memory, but we are certainly adept at it, and our Torah gives us a number of prompts to keep this process going. An example is this week’s special reading for the Shabbat preceding Purim. Called Zachor, Hebrew for remember, it reminds us of an ancient and permanent conflict: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” (Deuteronomy 25.17-19)

Started back in the days of the Exodus, this mistrust and hostility between the Israelites and the Amalekites became a tradition—one which we remember religiously. In fact, some Rabbis saw every enemy we Jews have ever faced as being a descendent of Amalek. He is, in a sense, our perennial foe; against him and his children, we should be ever vigilant. QED: Haman, the villainous villain of Megillat Ester, who is understood to be from Amalek’s line. But, whether we take the genealogy provided by the Rabbis literally or not, it has been the Jewish experience that there have been and are a continuing line of people trying to hurt us or oppress us or worse.

One could call this kind of fear paranoia, but, then again, the dangers and challenges we have faced have been real. Sometimes, the conflicts have been just differences of opinion or rival claims to property or hegemony, but far too often, the attacks have been murderous in intent, and our very existence has been threatened.

The distinction between these kinds of opponents is very important. When we face opposition and our ancestral memory kicks in, we should pause to think. Are our opponents anti-Semites (or “self-hating Jews”), or do they just have different opinions? We need to be vigilant for danger, but, when the challenge is not Amalek, over-reacting is neither fair nor helpful.

Bowen Family Systems Theory talks about this multigenerational transmission of anxiety and sees it as an important factor in every family and group. Sometimes, it can manifest as a valuable survival tool, while, other times, it brings about unnecessary and counterproductive behavior. It’s like the old comedy question: Am I paranoid, or are they really out to get me?

When we work at managing our ancestral memory—distinguishing between legitimate wariness and instinctual paranoia, we have some thinking to do and some choices to make. How, for example, should Jews respond to the current BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions) movement against Israel? Some in the BDS movement are concerned about Israel’s policies in re the West Bank and the Arab population and would like Israeli policy to change. Others, however, are opposed to the very existence of a Jewish State and consider it colonialist and racist and undemocratic. They want Israel to be disassembled, dismantled, and destroyed. Given such a wide divergence of motivation, Jewish responses to BDS supporters need to be perceptive and nuanced. Some BDS people may be Amalek, but many others are not, and mistaking this distinction is neither fair nor helpful to Israel’s cause.

Another example comes from Jewish responses to Pope John Paul II’s visit to Miami in 1987.  One item on the Pontiff’s itinerary was a meeting with American Jewish leaders—most of whom jumped at the opportunity to have a public and substantive encounter with the Roman Catholic Church. They saw it as an important opportunity for improving interfaith relations. One small Jewish group, however, officially and loudly boycotted the meeting, citing objections to Catholic anti-Semitism over the years (centuries). They refused to meet with the Pontiff.

I have always wondered at that response. It did get the small group a lot of publicity, but it seemed to me self-indulgent and a needless display of hostility. There is no doubt that the Roman Catholic Church has been an enemy of the Jews over and over again, but, after 1000 years of really horrible behavior, the Church seems to be involved in sincere repentance. Is this the time to refuse to meet with them? Or, is this the time to work with them on improving their attitude? Was the Church Amalek? Is the Church still Amalek? And, even if that is the case, is it possible for Amalek to repent? There is nothing wrong with remembering the evil wrought by Catholic leaders. There is nothing wrong with helping them to remember their own misguided behavior—sort of like reminding an alcoholic that his/her drinking led to ruin. But, our belief in the possibility of repentance—and the efforts of the Church in recasting its views of Judaism—suggest to many of our leaders a relabeling of the Church from Amalek to Potentially Good Neighbor.

I believe in ancestral memory. I honor it and use it and see it as an essential part of our religious modus vivendi. However, it is only one of the lenses through which we need to see the world. Against Amalek we should be forever vigilant. However, not every challenge is an existential threat. Survival—as well as fairness, righteousness, and progress—require clear thinking and an ability to figure out who is Amalek and who is not.

Scenes from the Infrastructure of Religion

March 11th: Pekude
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Scenes from the Infrastructure of Religion
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following story is told of the late Rabbi David Wolfe-Blank:  

Reb David was ordained as a Chabad rabbi and specialized in working with young Jews who had strayed into Buddhism and Hinduism. He was able to convince many to return to Judaism. One day, he got a call from a mother who was desperate for her son to become Jewish again, and Reb David set out for the Zen monastery where the young man lived. As it turned out, the former Jew was no neophyte in Buddhism. He had been practicing it for a long time, and he was now the head of the monastery! The two spiritual teachers spoke of many things, but finally it got down to idolatry. How, Reb David protested, could a Jew practice the idolatry of bowing down before statues of the Buddha and praying to them? The Zen teacher explained that statues were not idols, and he proceeded to pick up a Buddha statue and toss it out the window. He then asked Reb David why Jews make the Torah an idol and bow to it. This question really challenged Reb David, and he began to doubt his own faith. He ended up leaving Lubavitch and entering Zen Buddhism.

A few years later, he happened to see a procession of Jews carrying their Sefer Torah from the synagogue to the Sofer, the Scribe who would fix the scroll and make sure all the letters were intact and distinct. They held their Sefer Torah with great affection and respect and with great feeling handed it over to the Sofer who received it and promised to take good care of their holy possession. The former Reb David noted this and thought about the idolatry they did not realize they were practicing. After the congregants left and returned to their daily routines, Reb David looked in through the window of the Sofer and saw something quite surprising. Though the Scribe had reverentially received the Sefer Torah from the congregants, he now unceremoniously plopped it onto a table filled with other scrolls waiting to be repaired. Reb David realized the difference between respect and idolatry—that our Torahs are not idols, and he returned to Judaism. He became a disciple of Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi in Jewish Renewal and a great and beloved teacher.

I was reminded of this story when I was visiting Safed, the city in northern Israel known for its mystical tradition. In the studio of photographer Yaacov Kaszenmacher, I saw a piece with a whole bunch of Torahs stacked on top of each other. I had to ask what it was, and here is what he told me. He was walking around in Safed one day and chanced into a synagogue while they were cleaning the Aron Hakodesh (the Holy Ark). They took all the Torah Scrolls out so they could go to work with cleaning supplies. They needed a place to put the scrolls, and a table seemed a good and safe spot. As holy as the Torah and the Ark are, they are physical items that need cleaning and maintenance. The spiritual value is paramount, but the physicality and practicality is necessary in order for the spiritual to be presented. (You can see this photograph in my office.)

In any spiritual endeavor, a lot of behind-the-scenes activity is necessary to keep things operating. In the case of our synagogue, there is much to do, and our whole religious enterprise depends on the officers and volunteers and employees who devote themselves to making sure that this holy place is open and ready for (holy) business.

I know all this from the Jewish perspective, but several years ago, I got a glimpse of the workings of another religion’s infrastructure. I was attending a funeral at an Episcopal Church, and it was extremely crowded—standing room only! In fact, the crowd had spilled out of the sanctuary into vestibules and storage rooms. I found myself in a group huddled in a side room with a bunch of cabinets. At one point in the service, they ran out of wafers and wine for communion, and they had to hurry through the crowd into this little storage room to get more Eucharistic materials. So, in addition to mourning for the deceased and trying to feel the holiness of the Christian service, I also found out that they kept their communion wafers in Rubbermaid plastic containers and that they used Gallo wine in half gallon bottles. In order for the spiritual to take place, practical matters needed attention.

Our Torah portion this week gives us a glimpse of the ancient religious infrastructure. While the portion concludes with the Presence of God coming down and filling the Mishkan, the bulk of the portion tells about crafting the tent, its furniture and utensils, and the uniforms for Aaron and his sons. The final chapter has Moses personally assembling the Tabernacle, “placing its sockets, setting up its planks, inserting its bars, and erecting its posts…spreading the tent over the Tabernacle, placing the covering of the tent on top of it.” He puts the Ten Commandments (both sets) into the Ark of the Covenant and sets up the Menorah and the table with the showbread. It’s all got to be done—physically, and the stretching and straining and lifting and maybe even jamming his finger or scraping his arm are all necessary for the holiness to take place later. Indeed, this physical labor is holy itself because it is part of the holy process.

These k’lay kodesh (holy vessels/utensils/tools) Moses assembles and arranges have a dual quality—being both holy and practical. At some level, their ceremonial role has to be temporarily suspended as the physical functioning is addressed. Sacred silver needs polishing. The Menorah needs to be cleaned out and filled with oil. Aaron’s vestments need to be brushed and inspected. And yet, there is also an ambiance of holiness when doing this physical labor.

When we work with our k’lay kodesh—doing the things necessary to provide and maintain our synagogue, we can share in the holiness of Moses and the Levites who made the Mishkan ready for God’s entrance.

Aspirations and Realities

March 4th: Vayakhel and Shekalim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There’s a sense of déjà vu in this week’s Torah portion—or more accurately, a sense of repetition. All those instructions for the Mishkan that God gave Moses up on Mount Sinai—the materials needed and the plans for the tent, its furniture, and holy utensils—are now being given by Moses to the people. In Exodus 35, we read: “Moses then convoked the whole Israelite community and said to them…This is what the Lord commanded: take from among you gifts to the Lord; everyone whose heart is so moved shall bring these gifts for the Lord: gold, silver, copper, blue, purple and crimson yarns, fine linen, etc.”

 While it is repetitive to us, it is not for the Israelites. This is the first they are hearing of the plans for the Mishkan, and the appeal is successful. The people bring the materials because their hearts are moved: they want to make God welcome in their midst. The special reading Shekalim (Exodus 30.11-16) makes the same point: motivations in our hearts can only become real when we back them up with constructive behavior—in this case, the shekels needed to keep the worship system operating.

With the necessary resources in hand, the next job is constructing and crafting the Mishkan. For this, God inspires and Moses appoints the artisans led by Bezalel and Oholiab. In both cases—Moses relating God’s instructions to the people and the artisans working God’s plans into reality—we are looking at a chain of transmission. Does Moses repeat God’s words exactly, or does he express them in his own words—with emendations, explanations, or adjustments? The same could be asked of the craftspeople. Do they do exactly as Moses and God instruct, or is there some adjustment—practical or aesthetic—that the actual crafting requires?

 Most of us find it hard to follow instructions. Sometimes, it is our hard heads: we don’t like being told what to do. Often, however, it is a matter of having to adjust the theoretical instructions to the realities of the project at hand. To follow the military model, the general gives general orders and trusts the people down the chain of command to make the specific decisions that will make the general order a reality. Ultimately, I have been told, it is the sergeants who make or break any mission.

One of the biggest challenges in large organizations is for decisions in the upper echelons to be communicated effectively throughout. This challenge also operates in reverse: sometimes the realities of the workers are not properly understood up the ladder, and instructions and policies may not be as good as they need to be. This was the point of W. Edwards Deming and his Total Quality Management: people at all levels of the organization have knowledge of how the operation works, and their opinions and insights need to be factored into decisions.

My point is that not everything desired at every level can reach fruition. Not every dream or plan gets fulfilled. The chain of transmission results in changes, and the difference between drawing board and execution inevitably causes some level of disconnect.

 Some commentators suggest that this is behind one of the first koshi’s (difficulties) in the Torah. Notice how Genesis 1 and Genesis 2 each tell a different version of the Creation. Modern scholars point to two separate and disagreeing sources, but some literalists speak of Genesis 1 (the Six Days of Creation) as God’s theoretical construction of the universe—the Divine drawing board—and Genesis 2 (the Garden of Eden) as being the actual execution of the plan. The differences are results of the move from design to construction.

One can see a similar dynamic in Genesis 3, with the story of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Though the Garden was designed as a place of permanent habitation, the humans could not follow the instructions (which, given our nature, may have been impossible), and God had to resort to Plan B. Not every intention goes according to plan.

I find this important to remember during the current political season. Politicians say all kinds of things during campaigns, but the reality of governing is often a mitigating factor. Many people expected President Obama to get rid of the Patriot Act’s security measures that some considered “a tyrannical assault on civil liberties pushed down our throats by the evil George Bush.” However, once in office and responsible for the security of our nation, President Obama oversaw not only a re-approval of the Patriot Act but a significant enhancement of it. Was the President a liar, or did his perceptions or perspective change? Was it the generally inevitable disconnect between plans/aspirations and practicality, or was it a nefarious betrayal? The same questions could be asked about the President’s current efforts to close the detention center at the Guantanamo Bay naval base. Was he lying when he said he would close it? Are the Republicans just playing politics? Or, is the problem just really hard to solve—really and truly hard?  I remember reading remarks by both President Lyndon Johnson and Justice Lewis Powell about how their opinions on many issues changed once they assumed the mantle of power. Speaking for themselves and their peers was significantly different from acting on behalf of the whole country.

What about the promises being bandied about by the current Presidential candidates? Can Bernie Sanders’ utopian vision find any kind of expression beyond the rhetorical? Can the Republicans really push back the clock on Roe versus Wade and abortion rights? (A hint would be to look at Ronald Reagan’s record. Fervently anti-abortion and armed with two terms and lots of congressional support, he did nothing to stop abortion rights.) Will any of the other promises—both outlandish and reasonable—see fulfillment? Should they be filed under the label Hyperbole or perhaps the label Aspirational, and thus relieve us of any real hope or real concern? Will the craziness of the current campaign be matched by craziness in the Oval Office, or will the realities of governing mediate and bring the candidates back to earth?

Many Jewish commentators (and the Masonic Order) speak of the construction of the Mishkan and Solomon’s Temple as being an allegory for the construction of God’s Kingdom on earth. Jewish mystics speak in terms of making the earthly Jerusalem as perfect as the heavenly Jerusalem. There are dreams, and there are realities. May we keep our dreams realistic and work toward the godly here on earth.