Yir'at Adonai

February 17th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When it comes to dramatic narratives, the author of the story of the Revelation at Mount Sinai is clearly calling out its importance. We all know the importance of the Ten Commandments, but, lest we not be sure, the Biblical narrator goes all out to remind us of the monumental significance of our encounter with the Divine. In Exodus 19, we have this lead up to God’s words: 
“Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down up on it in fire; the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the horn grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder. The Lord came down upon Mount Sinai, on the top of the mountain, and the Lord called Moses to the top of the mountain, and Moses went up.” (Exodus 19.18-20)

Then, after God has spoken, we have this concluding and emphatic description:
“All the people perceived the thunderings, and the lightnings, and the sound of the horn, and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they trembled, and stood afar off. And they said to Moses: ‘You speak with us and we will hear, but let not God speak with us, lest we die.’ And Moses said unto the people, ‘Fear not; for God is here to prove you, so that the fear of God will be upon you and you sin not.’ So the people stood afar off, and Moses drew near unto the thick darkness where God was.” (Exodus 20.15-18)

If the notion of God speaking directly to the people is not enough, the narrator intensifies the magnitude of the meeting with these vivid and fantastic images.

A useful analogy can come from electricity: when Infinite power voltage is reduced/transformed into something a home electrical outlet can handle, there are bound to be some sparks and noise—and things could get scary. But, was fear the point: was frightening everyone God’s intention? Sort of.

Note the double use of the word fear in the second passage: “Fear not; for God is here to prove you, so that the fear of God will be upon you and you sin not.”

Some would interpret the concept of the fear of the Lord as being frightened of God, and there are certainly some religious thinkers who tremble in fear and try to spread that fear to others. However, the words of Moses tell us exactly the opposite. God’s dramatic and frightening presentation is not supposed to make us scared; rather it is to imbue us with a healthy understanding of the nature of things—that the decisions we make and the way we live our lives matter.

There is actually a semantic discussion about the Hebrew term Yir’a (yod resh alef). Sometimes it means fear, but other times it means awe or reverence. In the case of the term Yir’at Adonai, The Fear of the Lord, some people think of fear, but others think of a kind of reverence—a deep and abiding appreciation of the great power and complexity of the Creator and the creative process.

I read the incredible drama of this narrative as indicative of two lessons. First, the Infinity of God is ineffable—beyond the ability of human words and human thoughts to describe. So, all we can do is get as dramatic as possible and pull out all of our larger-than-life images. It is our human way of saying that this ultimate reality is beyond us and really awesome. Second, though we can only see the finite, we are bidden to perceive the Infinite within and around everything else. We are part of a greater sensibility, and we are fortunate when we can realize this. There is no reason to fear, but there is great reason to feel incredibly connected to both the finite and the Infinite. We are a part of both.

Partnering with God in Miracles

February 6, 2017: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The ancient Jewish art form called Midrash is a combination of Biblical commentary and application to modern concerns. Of course, the “modern concerns” of the Sages are now 1500-2000 years old. One of the enduring gifts of Judaism is that their “modern” often fits our “modern” very well.

A Midrash always starts with a Koshi, a difficulty or curiosity in the Biblical text, and then moves to some kind of moral lesson. In the case of the Crossing of the Red Sea, Exodus 14 and 15, the ancient Sages picked up on an interesting phrase in the narrative, “And they went into the sea on dry ground.” This may not seem weird to you—because we think of “the sea” as a place on a map. However, one ancient Sage suggested that “the sea” is actually water, and this makes the verse impossible. If one goes into the water, how can one be on dry land?

The result is a story utilizing a Biblical character who, while well-known and respected, is not usually at the center of the Exodus narrative: Nachshon son of Amminadab, a leader of the Tribe of Levi and the brother-in-law of Aaron. (He is one of those ancient figures who was very important, but, other than his prominence, we do not know much about the details of his life. Who better to use as an example of faith and insight?)

The story goes like this: “When the Israelites stood on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, terrified at the onrushing chariots, Moses lifted up his rod to divide the waters, but nothing happened. Then Nachshon, an Israelite filled with faith and bravery, jumped into the water and started walking. ‘By our faith shall these waters be divided,’ he shouted, and everyone followed him in. When all the people were in the sea—with the water up to their noses— only then did the sea part, and the Children of Israel could walk through on dry land.” (Babylonian Talmud, Sotah 37a, and Numbers Rabbah 13.7)

The “explanation” or solution to the Koshi is cute: the phrase “they went into the sea on dry land” is read as sequential. First, they went into the sea/water, and then it became dry land. However, the moral dimension of the Sage’s lesson is much more profound: some of God’s miracles require human participation.

The notion of God’s miracles has always been difficult. One the one hand, the Holy Scriptures is full of descriptions of truly miraculous events. On the other hand, such miracles are rare. Though we celebrate the many miracles of the Exodus from Egypt, remember that the Hebrews endured 400 years of slaver—waiting. The same could be said for the Holocaust: though many were saved, many were not. Miracles do not always come on our preferred schedule. Thus there has always been a tension in religious thinking about the nature of miracles and how we are supposed to factor them into our plans.

I would suggest that there are three kinds of miracles. First are the everyday miracles of life. The sun rises, the plants grow, the body heals, and our existence is possible. Though this may seem to be the natural order of things, there is something miraculous about the Creation and the principles and dynamism that give us life.

Second are those times when the impossible happens, when the overwhelming Presence of God intervenes in the natural world and awes us with the unexpected. These are very rare, but the Bible and subsequent experiences tell us that they do happen.

The third kind of miracle is the variety to which our Midrash alludes. Though human action is probably not going to cause the splitting of the sea, we can help God along in many sacred tasks: feeding the hungry, healing the sick, teaching the ignorant, freeing the captive, and searching for the Presence of God in each and every human being. We can help in God’s work. We can be God’s partners. We can participate in miracles.

Sharing God

January 27th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I would like to share two practical lessons this week—one from an obscure verse in last week’s Torah portion, and another from the opening passage of this week’s portion.

Last week, we read about the enslavement in Egypt (began by the Pharaoh who “knew not Joseph”), the birth and early life of Moses, and his call by God at the Burning Bush. Among the issues facing Moses’ decision to obey God and return to Egypt is the fact that Moses is a “wanted man.” After killing the taskmaster who was beating a Hebrew slave, “Pharaoh sought to kill Moses; but Moses fled from Pharaoh. He arrived in the land of Midian...” (Exodus 2.15) In case Moses is thinking that he’ll be arrested as soon as he sets foot in Egypt, God tells him, “Go back to Egypt, for all the men who sought to kill you are dead.” (Exodus 4.19)

I think of this verse, from time to time, when people feel the need to explain to me why they do not belong to the congregation or attend services. Often, the explanation involves someone or something that drove them away many years before. In one particular case (in another state and many years ago), a man was explaining to me that he didn’t attend services because he didn’t want to encounter his estranged sister. I did not know what to say at the time, but the fact is that he would have been quite safe attending services. His sister was never there either! As for the obnoxious things or people from years ago, there is an excellent chance that they are no longer here or active or the same. It’s just a shame to let bad memories or experiences prevent us from a place or activity that could very well be very different—and very worthwhile.

A second lesson comes from the opening passage in this week’s Torah portion. In Exodus 2.2-4, we read, “Elohim/God spoke to Moses and said to him, ‘I am the Lord/Adonai (the Four Letter Name we do not pronounce). I appeared to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob as El Shaddai, but I did not make Myself known to them by My Name Adonai (the Four Letter Name we do not pronounce).”

In other words, the One God reveals Itself to humans through different names—different persona. This is true for the Jews, and, as our Tradition teaches, it is true for the non-Jews. The Prophet Amos (9.7) is quite clear in teaching that God loves all peoples and actively participates in their fates. “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.”

As for the religious truths of the Gentiles, they can come from God just like ours. This is expressed in the Midrashic treatment of the Biblical character Balaam. Though in Numbers, he is a little sketchy—a prophet for hire who must be threatened by God and educated by his donkey before relenting from cursing the Israelites, the Midrash turns him into a respected religious leader. The Rabbis speak of him being on the same level as Moses—with Moses being God’s representative to the Jews, and Balaam being God’s representative to the Gentiles. In other words, God loves everyone, and God wants everyone to know the One God and Divine Truth. This is also why, the Midrash explains, God gives the Ten Commandments out in the middle of nowhere: it was given to the whole world, and not just the Jews. This is why the Talmud teaches (Sanhedrin 105a) that, “The righteous of all nations/religions have a place in the world to come.”

A modern lesson from these Traditional insights is that, though there are differences of opinion among different religions, there are nonetheless truths and values that we share. This is the basis of interfaith work, and this can lead to understanding, mutual respect, and cooperation.

One of the challenges facing our society today is the concern that those on the other side politically have lost their values (honesty, righteousness, compassion, etc.). This doubt and suspicion is seen on all sides. Though there are significant political differences, I believe that many of the common values we treasure can be found among people of all political opinions. There are a number of religious leaders who join me in this belief, and we are committed to working on our community’s sense of conscience and shared sensibilities.

Among the many programs being planned is one we are going to host at the synagogue.

On February 24th, our Friday evening worship service will be an interfaith event called: A Sabbath Service for the Community and for Our Communal Aspirations. We shall use our regular prayer book, showing our visitors the way a Jewish Service works, and we shall choose the readings that speak of our universal commitment to justice, righteousness, and kindness. I shall lead the service, and I shall invite some Christian clergy to read some of the prayers. The Torah portion (Mishpatim) will be read, and then the sermon will be given by our neighbor (and a native Louisianan), Reverend Dean Lindsey of the State College Presbyterian Church. As his starting point, I suspect he will be using the verse from the parashah, “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the feelings of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23.9)

God speaks in many voices and to different people differently. This is not to say that every opinion or action is godly, but rather, there is a great diversity in the ways that God is understood and the ways that godly virtues are pursued. The key in a multicultural, multi-religious, and democratic society is to keep our shared moral values before our eyes and to work together to pursue them.

I hope that you will join us at this community event and invite your non-Jewish friends to join you.

"Knowing" God

January 20th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, as we begin the Book of Exodus, it may be helpful to look forward to the climax or purpose of the journey the Torah describes. In twenty chapters, we shall be at Mount Sinai, witnessing God’s Revelation and receiving the Ten Commandments. I believe that it can be helpful to see this story as a whole: that our journey into and out of slavery sets the stage for Mount Sinai. A hint about this unified message comes in a linguistic note on page 318 of Etz Hayim, the Chumash and Torah commentary we use in our sanctuary. We are told that the Hebrew word ידע / to know appears more than twenty times in the first fourteen chapters of Exodus. Apparently knowing/knowledge are central to the Torah’s message.

The first use of ידע / to know comes just eight verses into the book. “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise, in the event of war, they may join with our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground.’ So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11) Know, in this case means paying attention to and being aware of the historical significance and loyalty of Joseph and his family. Whether the ignorance is a matter of social disruption or dynastic change or willful disregard, the lack of knowledge leads to immorality and oppression. Pharaoh’s ignorance leads him to sin.

(This passage also presents us with the archetypal Jewish nightmare—that our neighbors and fellow citizens will not pay attention to the active and constructive role we play in every country in which we’ve lived—and then turn against us. Chas v’shalom!)

God gets involved in this issue of knowledge because of Pharaoh’s belief that he (Pharaoh) is god. This Egyptian tradition leads these dynasties of leaders to think that they can determine morality—that they can treat people without justice or compassion, and God’s decides that this grievous impiety needs remediation. Most of the other instances of the Hebrew word  ידע / to know in the first half of Exodus are in regard to God’s efforts at teaching Pharaoh and all Egypt and all the world. They need to know that God is God—and they need to know that God wants humans to treat other humans with respect, justice, and kindness.

Notice, as we progress through the next fourteen chapters, how this instruction about God’s Sovereignty is repeated over and over again. At some points, the intended student is Pharaoh. At other points, the message is for Pharaoh and his court. At other points, the audience is expanded to the whole world, and, in a few places, even the Egyptians’ gods are included in those who need to know Who is really in charge.

Of course, Israel is also included in the intended audience, and this brings us to the climax of the story, Mount Sinai and the Ten Commandments. Such a profound moment has led to countless commentaries and lessons, but the lesson about knowledge of the Divine comes in the very first verse (Exodus 20.2): “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage.”

Some consider this a prologue rather than a commandment because nothing is actually commanded. They would add the next phrase, “You shall have no other gods besides Me,” to get a commandment: the prohibition of other gods. These interpreters would then consider the Second Commandment to be the prohibition of all idols, whether of pagan gods or even the One God.

However, there is another opinion that sees the opening sentence as a commandment in itself—a commandment to  ידע / know that God is God. We are commanded to know God and to act accordingly. What can this mean in modern life?

For some, knowing God is a description of the religious life—that combination of prayer, study, and meditation we employ to develop our awareness of and our relationship with the Divine. As Reb Mendel of Kotzk teaches, “Where is God? Wherever we open our hearts.”

For some, knowing God is a matter of ascertaining God’s agenda (or a godly agenda) and making it our own. Thus does Rabban Gamliel, son of Rabbi Judah HaNasi, teach, “Make God’s will your will, so that God will make your will the Divine will.” (Pirke Avot 2.4) This notion is elaborated by Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi when he teaches about our possible role as “the hands of God.” We can do God’s work in the world.

For some, knowing God is the process of understanding the many religious perspectives of humanity and sensing the dynamics and stimuli for religious belief. They may appreciate the definition of religion offered by the philosopher George Santayana: “Religion is an expression of aesthetic value as are poetry and myth; God is the highest symbol of humanity’s highest ideals.”

Or, they may prefer the approach of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan: “God is the life of the universe: immanent as the parts act upon each other, transcendent as the whole acts upon each part.” Or, they may find meaning in the suggestion by William James that religion is the response of people who sense the Divine, that is, “an undifferentiated sense of reality”—an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence.

Some people approach the question of God as a choice, but I think that, for people of faith, there is no choice. If one senses that there is a Divine Presence, then one has no choice but to yearn for clarity and hope for a conscious relationship with It. When one senses the Divine Presence, one feels the imperative to seek understanding and connection—to know God.

Joseph and Decency: Doing the Right Thing

January 13th: Vayechi
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though Joseph toys with his brothers for a while when they come begging for grain—perhaps testing their characters, he ultimately treats them with decency and kindness. Even after their father Jacob dies, Joseph displays a basic morality that shows his development as a person. He begins as an egotistical and spoiled child and grows into a wise and decent man. Note this character-revealing passage in this week’s conclusion to the Joseph saga: “When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead, they said, ‘What if Joseph still bears a grudge against us and pays us back for all the wrong that we did him!’ So they sent this message to Joseph. ‘Before his death your father left this instruction: So shall you say to Joseph, “Forgive, I urge you, the offense and guilt of your brothers who treated you so harshly.” Therefore, please forgive the offense of the servants of the God of your father.’ And Joseph was in tears as they spoke to them.

 His brothers went to him themselves, flung themselves before him, and said, ‘We are prepared to be your slaves.’ But Joseph said to them, ‘Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people. And so, fear not. I will sustain you and your children.’ Thus he reassured them, speaking kindly to them.” (Genesis 50.15-21)

Part of Joseph’s thinking is theological and long-range. After his excruciating experiences—kidnapping, slavery, false accusation and imprisonment, he finally reaches prominence, wealth, and purpose, and he sees his fate as a plan of God. He is an instrument of the Divine Will, and this greater purview gives him peace and allows him to extend that peace to his brothers.

But there is also another level of his thinking. Given his maturity and his security, his bruised ego has room for kindness and basic decency. The voice of his conscience can be heard above the din of other feelings.

I believe in the presence and power of conscience—in the basic decency that exists in every human heart. Though it is obscured in some hearts, it is there nonetheless, and we hear fairly often how, in the midst of great inhumanity, goodness somehow makes an appearance.

As Rabbi Chaim Stern puts it, “There is evil enough to break the heart, good enough to exalt the soul.” He also reminds us, “If there is goodness at the heart of life, then its power, like the power of evil, is real.” 

It would be so easy for Joseph to punish or torture his brothers. He has the power. He has the status, and, though Jacob and his other eleven sons are important to us, they are of little account to the great Egyptian Empire. And yet, they are Joseph’s family, and they are human beings, and Joseph’s conscience bids him treat them with fairness, with kindness, and with tolerance.

There is much fear in our country these days—fear that basic decency is in short supply. Many who voted for Hilary Clinton are fearful of what Donald Trump will do. And, yet, in talking to people both before and after the election, one could see that same kind of fear among the Trump supporters about Hilary Clinton’s basic decency. Both groups were frightened about the other side’s lack of conscience—which means that, whichever side lost, the fear and despair was bound to be present for about half of the electorate.

However, there are decent, intelligent people are on both sides of this political divide, and I believe that their/our basic human decency—this common conscience—will prove to be a very important factor as we negotiate the future.

Who can say what Mr. Trump will say or do? He cultivates an image of unpredictability and bravado, but I think that whatever he tries to do will be filtered through the checks and balances of decency and practical patriotism. Remember: he is not the only one in charge, and, though there are some scary people in his camp, there are also millions of loyal Americans who want the best for our country and whose understanding of our national interest is filled with the basic American values of fairness and respect. There are also many decent people in the Congress, the Judiciary, the Military, and the Civil Service who feel very strongly the responsibility to do things right. I do not believe that the equality that has been so long in coming—for women, for African Americans, for LGBT individuals, etc.—will be lost. There may be some reconfiguration of legal lines, and one suspects the debate over how best to achieve equality for all will continue and with vigor, but I do not believe that decency and conscience have left our shores.

As comedian and commentator Jon Stewart recently observed, “The same country—with all its grace, and flaws, and volatility, and insecurity, and strength and resilience—exists today as existed (before the election). The same county that elected Donald Trump elected Barack Obama.”

In the Torah portion, Joseph understands that he is a vessel of God, and that the presence of God within—his conscience—guides him to do the right thing. Though some may question the notion of American exceptionalism, it has been a central part of our national aspiration for over 240 years. Despite our limitations and missteps, there is a central belief that we are destined to be vessels of God in the world, and I believe that this decency and belief in fairness has been at the heart of all of our progress. I do not believe it has evaporated, and I believe that, even in this much divided country, there is a common commitment to doing the right thing.

Chanukah Thinking

December 24th-January 1st: Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s teaching is not specifically tied to the weekly Torah portion, so I use the term Torah in a more expansive sense. Actually, the word Torah has six definitions.
(1) The Five Books of Moses
(2) A scroll of the Five Books of Moses (Sefer Torah)
(3) The Tanach or Hebrew Bible (Torah she’Michtav / Written Torah)—called "Old Testament"  by Christians
(4) The Talmud (Torah she’Ba’al Peh / Oral Torah)
(5) All of Jewish Learning—which begins with the Torah
(6) A lesson from Jewish learning, as in “Here’s a Torah I learned from Reb….”

What I want to address this week are two lessons on the festival of Chanukah, a holiday that is not in Torah according to Definitions #1, #2, and #3, but whose origin and practice exemplify Torah in the sense of Definitions #4, #5, and #6.

Remember our Jewish Time Line. Moses lived around 1200 BCE, so whatever he wrote (The Five Books of Moses) speaks of the time up to the end of his life. The rest of the Hebrew Bible concludes around 500 BCE, and the Chanukah Rebellion does not happen until around 165 BCE. Everything about Chanukah is post-Biblical, which means that what we have is a case of the development of Judaism beyond its Biblical roots.

This notion of the development/invention of a totally new holiday is the first lesson. According to Jewish Tradition, God stopped Prophecy—talking to humans---around 500 BCE. Whatever God had to say was already said and written down in the Bible—and there is no mention of Chanukah in the Bible. Therefore, we have no record of God commanding us to light the Chanukah candles. What is the basis, then, for saying, Asher kid’shanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu l’had’lik ner shel Chanukah/Who sanctified us through the commandments and commanded us to kindle the Chanukah lights?

The basis is the reformulation of Israelite religion that the Rabbis developed over several centuries, building what we call Rabbinic Judaism on the foundation of Biblical religion. In other words, they took Definitions #1 and #3 and used them as the foundation for creating Definition #4. From roughly 200 BCE to 500 CE, generations of Jewish scholars wrestled with the realities of life and their religious traditions and crafted a magnificent religion which we are still practicing today. They believed that God had given them the authority to keep Torah and the Jewish relationship with God alive and healthy and vibrant. To this end, various new rituals and holidays needed to be created, and Chanukah is one very important example. We say Asher kid’shanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu because God empowered the Rabbis to speak on God’s behalf and to manage our sacred relationship.

The second lesson involves the timing of Chanukah. Does the holiday seem to have “more energy” this year? That was the theory of the late Professor Alvin Reines of the Hebrew Union College. He figured out that the original Chanukah was observed on the Winter Solstice and absorbed the special energy of that time of year, and he believed that Chanukah celebrations closer to the Winter Solstice are qualitatively better than when they occur early in December or late in November. When he first broached this idea in class, many in our class thought that he was attributing Chanukah’s strength to the energy of Christmas—that Chanukah “piggy-backs” on Christmas’ power. That was not his point, at all. He suggested that the placement of Christmas at the Winter Solstice was a strategic move to capture the cosmic energy at this time of the year. It is well known that the actual birthday of Jesus of Nazareth was in the Spring, but the Church authorities setting up the observances of Christianity moved it to coincide with Saturnalia, a big Roman festival at the Winter Solstice. At one level, the move was necessary so that Jesus’s birth could be celebrated at a time other than the Lenten and Easter season—which, theologically, is much more important than Christmas. At another level, the move was an attempt to co-opt the popularity of this light-in-the-midst-of-darkness festival. Dr. Reines’ point is that the energy in the midst of Winter darkness is especially poignant and fertile for religious celebration, and that part of Christmas’ popularity is as a result of this seasonal cosmic and emotional energy.

He also added that the materialism of both Christmas and Chanukah is the result of a harvest festival sensibility that has been an important part of human culture for thousands of years. We who do not live on farms do not have the seasonal rhythm of the agricultural cycle. For 6000 years, human communal life developed patterns of release of anxiety and celebration that have been expressed in various harvest festivals—and modern urbanized society is missing this psycho-social pattern. We need to find something to replicate this seasonal pattern, and it seems that we have subconsciously developed a harvest festival for the end of our tax year and our financial harvest. Thus do Christians and Jews and everyone else regardless of religion go into a kind material frenzy at this time of year. The existential holiday, according to Dr. Reines, is the real source of energy at this time of year, and the fact that religions cannot control the materialism shows how powerful this financial harvest festival is.

Dr. Reines’ theory is hard to quantify or prove, but I have noticed—in the decades since he broached this analysis—that there is indeed a tremendous amount of energy in the air at this time of year, and I always wonder how it inspires, evokes, or innervates our celebratory urges.

Enough thinking! Have a Happy Chanukah and a Wonderful New Year!

The Possibility of Good Choices

December 23rd: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I’ve always been intrigued by the way people use the term Caveat Emptor, Let the Buyer Beware. Properly used, it is a warning to buyers to be careful. Not all sellers are honest, and, once a transaction is completed, one may have no recourse. It can also be used as an explanation. “Caveat emptor: you should have been more careful before buying that.” However, it should never be seen as a justification or moral defense for cheating or dissembling. It is not morally defensible to say, “According to the principle of caveat emptor, it is permitted for me to be dishonest.” Cheating or lying or any kind of dishonesty is wrong, and the fact that, caveat emptor, some people are unscrupulous does not make bad behavior okay.

I think we can take a similar approach to family dysfunction.

Family dysfunction is present, more or less, in pretty much every family—in every familial emotional process, and the dysfunction in which we might have been raised can often explain some of our quirks and bad habits. Given the emotional milieu of our lives, we often tend to behave in certain ways. However, family dysfunction should never be a justification or moral defense for bad behavior. We always have the option to choose better behavior.

A number of examples can be found in our ancient family—particularly in the parshiyot we’re reading at this time of year. Though the families of our Patriarchs and Matriarchs sometimes display significant dysfunction, many of our ancient forebears nonetheless manage to see their way clear to act decently.

We can only guess at the residual effects on Isaac of almost being slaughtered by his father, but the Torah does explain that he favors one of his twin sons, Esau, while Rebekah favors Jacob. Favoring one child over the other is a problem—a sure sign of family dysfunction, but Isaac and Rebekah might improve in their parenting as the years go by. This seems to be the view of some readers who look at the story of the “Stolen Blessing” in a different way. This reading starts with the un-believability of the story. Is Isaac really fooled by Jacob’s disguise? He recognizes Jacob’s voice, and there’s no way that Esau could be as hairy as a goat. Could it be that, after whatever favoring they did in the boys’ early years, Isaac and Rebekah now realize that each young man is suited for a path uniquely suited to his personality and strengths? We know that Esau and Jacob are vastly different. Could the story of the “Stolen Blessing” really be the story of how Isaac has two innermost blessings, one for each of his sons? Jacob receives the blessing of religious leadership, while Esau’s great strength and ability make him suitable for a different kind of leadership and wealth. Perhaps the initial favoring by each parent of a different child develops into an awareness of each child’s potential, and both Isaac and Rebekah end up guiding each of their beloved sons toward his best path.

In the case of Jacob—whose conniving nature begins in his mother’s womb, he appears to think that he can “fast talk” his way through all kinds of situations and control them. He even tries to finagle God. After God appears to him in a vision (The Ladder to Heaven) that would completely win over any other human being, Jacob’s reply is: “IF God remains with me, IF He protects me on this journey that I am making, IF He gives me bread to eat and clothes to wear, and IF I return safe to my father’s house, THEN the Lord shall be my God.” (Genesis 28.20-21) It takes a while and a lot of maturity, but Jacob eventually learns not to over-function in his relationships. In this week’s portion, after Joseph manages to insult everyone in the family, Jacob does not try to interfere in his grown children’s relationships. In Genesis 37.11, we read about how Joseph’s brothers were “wrought up with him, but Jacob kept the matter in mind.”  He is certainly part of the problem: in his grief at Rachel’s death, he favors her son, Joseph, over the all the other sons and makes him an ornamented tunic (or a Coat of Many Colors). However, the boys are now all grown, and only they can manage their own relationships. While some consider Jacob’s inaction paralysis, others see it as wisdom: one cannot fix other people.

In Joseph’s case, the special love his father shows him is certainly a kind of family dysfunction, but his obnoxious behavior in re his dreams is his own mishegaas. Is the ability his, or is it a gift from God? As a conceited youth, he mistakenly thinks that it is his, and he lords it over his brothers like a bludgeon. Notice the brother’s reaction to his dreams. It is not just the dreams that insult them: “they hated him for the dreams AND for him telling/bragging about them.” (Genesis 37.8) Of course, eventually Joseph learns some humility and some appreciation. When he is in the prison and Pharaoh’s Cup Bearer and Pharaoh’s Baker have no one to interpret their dreams, Joseph does not brag about his abilities. “Surely God can interpret! Tell me your dreams.” (Genesis 40.8) He prayerfully offers to be the conduit for God’s messages.

There are more examples in this week’s portion, but let us conclude with Reuben’s attempt to save Joseph’s life. When Joseph approaches his brothers in Dothan (Genesis 37.18ff), there is a discussion among the brothers as to how best to “teach Joseph a lesson.” Some want to kill him. “Here comes that dreamer! Come now, let us kill him and….see what becomes of his dreams!” But, Reuben realizes that this is terrible, and he tries to calm everyone down. “Let us not take his life. Shed no blood! Cast him into that pit out in the wilderness, but do not touch him yourselves.” Reuben’s idea is to give the brothers their moment of revenge but to go back later and rescue Joseph. In the midst of this very heated situation—genuine family dysfunction (!), Reuben controls his own outrage at Joseph’s obnoxious attitude and works for some decency. It is their bad luck (or God’s providence) that some Midianite traders pass by and kidnap Joseph before Reuben can get back to him. “When Reuben returned to the pit and saw that Joseph was not in the pit, he rent his clothes. Returning to his brothers, he said, ‘The boy is gone! Now, what am I to do?’”

Most people wrestle with family baggage and learned emotional responses that can exacerbate problems and damage relationships. It is part of the human phenomenon. Sometimes, we can look back at our choices and feelings and realize how they came to be. Sometimes we can even extend understanding to others who continue problematic patterns and continue the damage of the generations. However, past dysfunction does not dictate future dysfunction. We have choices as to how we respond and how we behave. We have urges and impulses we can resist. We have wisdom and understanding we can muster. We also have a treasure trove of guidance in the form of our Torah and Jewish Traditions and examples of menschlichkeit. We can outgrow our own worst inclinations. We can make good choices. May we search for the goodness within and bring it forth to shine in the world.

Resilience and Resourcefulness

December 16th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are two ways to look at the story of the “Rape of Dinah” (Genesis 34). The traditional way speaks of an assault on a member of Jacob’s family and the strategies adopted by the family to deal with it. Dinah, the daughter of Jacob and Leah, is raped and kidnapped by Shechem, the son of the local Hivite chieftain. Claiming love and a willingness to marry, Shechem tries to cover his guilt and maliciousness with an offer of tribal unification, but Jacob’s sons realize that such a person is not to be trusted. The massacre that follows prevents any further abuses by Shechem and his people.

A second way sees the story of the “rape” as an attempt to stifle the freedom of Dinah and all other women. Could it be that Dinah is not raped at all—that she goes out on her own and enters into a relationship with someone she chooses, and not someone her family chooses? Could the whole terrible story be a kind of face-saving effort to cover up unacceptably assertive female behavior?

Traditional Judaism uses the opening verses as a warning to young women: “Now Dinah, the daughter whom Leah had borne to Jacob, went out to visit the daughters of the land. Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite, chief of the country, saw her, and took her and lay with her by force.” “See what happens,” the Traditional advice goes, “When young women go out. Better to stay at home and let your father arrange your life.” Of course, the feminist/egalitarian opposition to this paternalistic view states that young women should be able to go out and make their own decisions about romantic attachments and every other part of life.

The Midrashic novel, The Red Tent, by Anita Diamont, retells the Biblical story from a more feminist perspective: Dinah is raised by the women of her family to be assertive and responsible for herself. She boldly decides to enter into a relationship with Shechem, but their relationship is rejected and violently destroyed by her brothers. The novel’s context is a sub rosa world in which women in the Patriarchal Period exercise a surprising amount of autonomy and power. Their world is certainly controlled by men and male prerogative, but it posits the view that men thinking of women as objects of their decisions and actions does not mean that women necessarily think of themselves the same way. If we want to understand the often unwritten history of our female ancestors, accounts of the way that women negotiate a male-dominated world can be very illuminating.

For example, the Biblical Scholar and Archeologist Carol L. Meyers of Duke University has written about the power given to women in Biblical times. In a subsistence economy, where nutrition was not guaranteed, the person given control over food was very powerful. The Bible and Talmud may not emphasize it, but think about the responsibility and empowerment women had when they were in charge of storing, rationing, and preparing food. Whatever meager provisions existed had to be guarded and allocated and prepared carefully, lest the supplies not last until the next harvest (if the harvest came in!) Rather than women being relegated to the kitchen, Meyers suggests that Biblical women’s food-oriented duties carried significant status.

So often, in our pursuit of equality and justice, we focus on the relative inequality of women in the past, and this is clearly important. However, let us not short-change the resourcefulness and strategic thinking of the women who came before us and worked within the systems of inequality they inhabited. Let us also not be distracted by the fact that history is written by the men—and generally the men in power. Just because something is not written does not mean that it did not happen. If one were to take two modern tales of hierarchical societies, Downton Abbey and My Big Fat Greek Wedding and imagine them written by the people in charge, the relative role and influence of the women might be untold. However, in both tales, it is clear that the women work the system and influence life in significant ways. The aristocratic women in Downton Abbey are definitely part of the dynamic of decision making, and, in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, the mother (played by Lainie Kazan) even explains to her daughter how it is done. The husband thinks he is the head of the house. “The man is the head, but the woman is the neck. And she can turn the head any way she wants.”

And, in hierarchical societies, it is not only the aristocratic women who display relative empowerment. Notice how, in Downton Abbey, the lower class downstairs servants—both male and female—guide the affairs of the Great House in all sorts of ways.

One can see a similar dynamic at play in any case of an “inferior” group working “under” the dominant group. Has this not been a constant effort of Jews in the Diaspora? Is it not also the case among other groups who are not fully enfranchised: African Americans, Hispanics, American Indians, LGBT individuals, etc.?

This is not to understate the injustices of the past, nor to suggest that there is not a lot of work to be done on the road to full justice. However, we should never let our disapproval of inequality blind us to the resilience and the relative successes of the people living under less-than-fair conditions.

So, when looking at the story at hand—the Rape of Dinah, I believe that both interpretations speak of our people’s dealing with relative weakness.

If what happened to Dinah is indeed a rape, then Simeon and Levi use subterfuge to stop a group with pretentions of treating us all as Shechem has treated Dinah. Jacob senses his relative vulnerability among the Canaanites and worries that his family’s savagery will invoke hate and fear. Simeon and Levi agree, but they see such hate and fear as a protection for their vastly outnumbered tribe.

If Dinah’s experience is not a rape but a disapproved romance—as portrayed in Diamont’s The Red Tent, then, as much as we disapprove of the paternalistic control ancient families exercised over women, let us celebrate the ways our ancient mothers must have carved out autonomy in their limited circumstances.

Life is not easy, and so we must rise to challenges that come our way. May we have the strength and resilience and creativity that have kept our people going for some 4000 years.

Alienation, Fear, and Purpose

December 9th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our weekly portion begins with these words: “Jacob left Beer-sheba, and set out for Haran. He came upon a certain place and stopped there for the night, for the sun had set. 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 it. And the Lord was standing beside him and said, ‘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…’” (Genesis 28.10-14)

Our usual focus is on the amazing dream—with the stairway or ladder connecting heaven and earth and, of course, God’s Presence and promise. Though Jacob is leaving home, he is not leaving God or the destiny God has planned for him.

However, the context of the dream is also worth noting. When the Torah says, “Jacob left Beer-sheba,” it is a bit of an understatement. Jacob escaped Beer-sheba. Remember how Esau threatened to kill him after the stolen-blessing incident. This is why Rebekah (the orchestrator of the whole situation) said, “‘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 27.42-44)

In other words, we have a frightened Jacob, on the run from his very strong and very angry brother. He may also feel alienated, wondering at the price he is now paying for listening to his mother and fooling his father. Add to this the fact that he may not be accustomed to being out in nature and alone. Remember Genesis 25.27’s characterization of young Jacob: “Jacob was a mild man who stayed in camp.” I’m thinking that Jacob is very uncomfortable psychically, and that putting a rock under his head is an expression of this inner angst.

When we humans feel angst, there is a tendency to cause ourselves physical pain as an outward and controllable way to express the inner pain. The Bible speaks of this in terms of Hittite mourning customs, where people would cut themselves on the sides of their heads and bleed onto their faces as a sign of grief. Religious people in many traditions fast and wear sackcloth to expunge their inner impurity. Some even torture themselves with hair shirts or self-flagellation. In our own days, I wonder how many piercings and tattoos may be similarly inspired: outward ways of expressing inner pain.

There is also the tendency, when we feel alienated or grief-stricken, to plunge into despair and to over-estimate the difficulties we are facing. Just look at Rebekah’s statement (in Genesis 25.22) in the midst of a difficult pregnancy. “The children struggled in her womb, and she said, ‘If so, why do I exist?!’” When things get bad, it is often difficult to see that they can get better. Sometimes, we feel so overwhelmed that we just want to give up.

There are also times when we year to do something—anything!—and we may choose destructive actions that are more expressions of anger than solutions to our problems. What do we do when hope is hard to find and tragedy and despair threaten to swallow us whole?

When we can step back from our disappointment and anger and hopelessness—and this may take a while, we may find it possible to remember that we are a resilient species, one capable of enduring and soldiering through dire and catastrophic situations. This is particularly true of our Jewish people, a nation well acquainted with grief and persecution. Ours is a sacred congregation that has maintained our commitment to God and holiness through some of the darkest nights in human history. We have an inner strength and a holy destiny. As Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel put it, “We are God’s stake in human history.” Despair is not the only option, but it may take some time to see our way clear.

There is an interesting passage in Pirke Avot (4.18) where Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar says, “When your friend becomes angry, do not try to calm him. When he is recently bereaved, do not try to console him. When he is about to make an oath, do not ask him questions. Just after he has been disgraced, do not try to see him.”  This does not mean that we should ignore our friends in their times of need, but rather that we should not be among the “fools who rush in” too quickly and without due regard for the emotional difficulty our friends are experiencing. Sometimes, they (and we) just need some time to feel the hurt and process it. Support is helpful, but there is no talking someone out of anger or sadness or frustration or grief.

Once our heads have cleared, we can consider our options more carefully and act in a more thoughtful manner, and that is the part God plays in Jacob’s crisis. After giving Jacob a while to suffer—to run away, sleep with a rock under his head, perhaps consider getting drunk or a tattoo or beating someone up, God comes to him when he is finally and peacefully sleeping and reminds him that he has a purpose.

We have a purpose, too. We can be blessings to our families and to the world.

In the calm that follows the storms of our lives, let us search ourselves and our Tradition for direction and strength and faith. Even in the midst of great trouble, despair is not our only option. We can find a constructive and holy direction.

Yetzer Tov and Yetzer HaRa: Working Together

December 2nd: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of Rabbinical Judaism’s most interesting teachings regards the reason why humans sin. We each have, the Rabbis teach us, two inclinations: Yetzer Tov, the Good Inclination, and Yetzer HaRa, the Evil Inclination. Something inside us wants to do good, but something else is often/always urging us to be selfish or disrespectful or rude, etc. It is like those old cartoons with a little angel whispering in one ear and a little devil whispering in the other. Throughout our lives, we are poised between these two urges and trying to make good choices.

As presented, one would think that the Yetzer Tov is good and Yetzer HaRa is evil, but one Midrash leads us to a different understanding.  In Yoma 69b, we find the curious story about a time when someone managed to catch the universal Yetzer HaRa and lock it up—like in Pandora’s Box. The Sages thought that this would solve every problem in the world, but this turned out not to be the case. Without the inclination to acquire and assert and win and procreate, the world basically ground to a halt. No one would get out of bed in the morning. No one attended to chores or work. Even the animals were lackadaisical: roosters were not going after chickens; bulls were not pursuing cows; neither eggs nor milk were being produced. The things that the world needs were simply not being done, so the Sages had to let the Evil Inclination out.

The suggestion of this Midrash is that the terms Good and Evil are not the best ways to describe our two basic urges. Perhaps Yetzer Tov is better described as the altruistic inclination—that part of us that wants to give and help. And, perhaps Yetzer HaRa is better described as the assertive or self-protective inclination—that part of us which we need to make sure we take care of ourselves. Self-care is not evil. We need to put ourselves at the top of our priorities. As Hillel said, “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me?” The problems come when we get carried away with self-care and share our energy and resources and prerogatives with no one else. “But, if I am only for myself, what am I?” Both self-assertion and altruism are necessary; our challenge is to learn to live in balance.

This lesson can be seen in this week’s Torah portion and in a particular interpretation of the saga of Jacob and Esau. The p’shat /literal meaning of the Torah is that Rebekah gives birth to twins. This is after twenty years of trying and a difficult pregnancy. She and Isaac are overjoyed, but the boys are at odds with each other even before birth. “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. But the children struggled in her womb, and she said, ‘If so, why do I exist?’ She went to inquire of the Lord, and the Lord answered her, ‘Two nations are in your womb, two separate peoples shall issue from your body; one people shall be mightier than the other, and the older shall serve the younger.’ When her time to give birth was at hand, there were twins in her womb. The first one emerged red, like a hairy mantle all over; so they named him Esau. Then his brother emerged, holding on to the heel of Esau; so they named him Jacob.” (Genesis 25.21-26)  There is a lot to be learned from this story in re family relationships, sibling rivalry, and overcoming conflict.

However, another, more psychological interpretation suggests that the “twins” are really one person—one person with two divergent inclinations. One side of Esau/Jacob is a wild man who revels in his strength and exuberance and has little control over his emotions. The other side of Esau/Jacob is quiet and studious and always looking for a subtle way to achieve victory.

Each aspect of this “child’s” personality tries its approach to the world but with incomplete, unsatisfying results. It is not until they wrestle (in Parshat Vayishlach) that the personalities learn to work with each other, and the result is the Patriarch Israel, the one who is smart and pious and strong and assertive enough to wrestle with an angel and prevail.

The message of this psychological approach is for us recognize the value of our wild and dominant side but also to realize that its strength and vigor should be used responsibly. It should also remind us that our soft and giving side is wonderful, but sometimes we need to call upon our inner Esau to get things done.

May we learn to embrace all that God has given us—and learn to live in holy balance.

Graciousness and Rights

November 25th: Chaye’ Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to the main themes of Chaye’ Sarah—the purchase of a burial place for Sarah and the acquisition of a bride for Isaac, our Torah portion gives us a glimpse into the etiquette and social mores of the ancient Land of Israel. When Abraham wants to buy the Cave of Machpelah from Ephron the Hittite, he does not just walk up to Ephron and propose the purchase. He goes to the Gate of the City (of Hebron), a place of public commerce, and importunes the entire business community. The business leaders treat him with great respect. “The Hittites replied to Abraham, saying to him, ‘Hear us, my lord: you are the elect of God among us. Bury your dead in the choicest of our burial places; none of us will withhold his burial place from you for burying your dead.’”

Abraham is exceedingly respectful in return, “bowing low to the people of the land, the Hittites.” When he and Ephron finally get down to business (though Ephron is there all the time), there is great politeness and deliberate courtesy. They do a little posturing in the style of Middle Eastern bartering, but the respect and consideration is displayed in the Biblical account as an important part of the transaction.

In the case of Abraham’s servant (unnamed in the text) seeking out a wife for Isaac, etiquette is a big part of the story as well. The servant behaves with great respect and devotion to Abraham and to Abraham’s family up in Syria. The family—even though they do not at first know that the servant is from their cousin—behaves with deliberate courtesy and hospitality. First, Rebekah helps the servant with water from the communal well and offers to water his camels. Second, she acts on behalf of her family—and their apparent custom of hospitality—and invites him to their home. There is respect and hospitality on all sides. The only pushiness is that, instead of letting Rebekah spend ten days getting ready for her journey and new life, the servant begs them to let them/her leave immediately. Rebekah consents, and they travel back to the Negev. We even see the practice of modesty when Rebekah first meets Isaac: she alights from the camel before approaching him and covers herself with her veil.

Etiquette is not the main theme of either story, but it is an important part of the narrative’s fabric. The same could be said of the story of God’s visit to Abraham and Sarah in Genesis 18. The headlines are that the elderly couple will soon be blessed with a baby, but the details of gracious behavior and enthusiastic hospitality are indispensable to the holy context of the encounter.

I think that there may be a lesson here for the modern world. In so many contexts, we seem to be suffering from a lack of graciousness, lovingkindness, and respectful behavior. One possible response is assertiveness, and we often see individuals go into a kind of combat mode and demand respect and insist upon their rights. I believe in rights, but I notice how often the invocation of one person’s rights inspires the other side to go into their own combat mode over their own rights. The result is less than gracious, and I wonder how such conflicts could be avoided or mitigated.

Here is an example. There was once a rural school district where some Jewish students were troubled by Christian prayers on the loudspeaker in the morning and at football games. I realize that such a practice is contrary to Supreme Court decisions, but this custom nonetheless persists in many locations. What could the Jewish family do? One option was, of course, to resort to courts or court orders—threatening to bring in the ACLU, while another option was to try an appeal to fairness or simple lovingkindness and gracious hospitality to newcomers/outsiders. In this particular case (in a school district in Florida), the legal threat was attempted, and it was quite striking how a discussion of rights for one side quickly devolved into a discussion of rights for the other side: “We Christians built this country and we have the right to practice our religion, and these foreigners (Jews from Chicago) have no right to come in here and change our way of doing things….”

I’ve always wondered if an appeal to the noble tradition of Southern Hospitality and the Biblical value of kindness to strangers would have helped matters more than the row that the rights approach provoked. I also wonder at how egregious the violation of the Jews’ rights were—and whether the anger and defensiveness invoked in the local community ended up being more damaging than listening to the Christian prayers. One level of the situation involved rights and civil liberties, but another level involved the social fabric of the community and the perceived assault on local sensibilities. Was this a battle worth fighting?

What I am saying is that there is a difference between law and lovingkindness. When we focus on law and on our rights, we immediately go to a place of authority for one side and impotence for the other. If the state or the court makes a legal determination, it empowers one person and subjects the other person to the will of the court. We don’t like that feeling—the feeling of being forced to do something we don’t want to do, and we often respond defensively. I’m not downplaying the importance of rights, but rather I’m focusing on the emotional process of the situation—and on attitudinal consequences.

Sometimes, it is necessary to resort to legislative or judicial intervention, and some civil-liberty deprivations are worse than others, but I believe that we also need to keep in mind the warp and weave of the social fabric and how best, in any given situation, it can be worked.

The Justness of God

November 18th: Vayera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though both Judaism and Christianity see themselves as religions of the Holy Scriptures (a.k.a. “Old Testament”), the fact is that both represent significant re-interpretations of the religions of the Tanakh (Jewish acronym for the “Old Testament:” T for Torah, N for Nevi’im/Prophets, and KH for Khetuvim). 

Judaism is the religion of the Old Testament as seen through the lens of the Talmud. Christianity is the religion of the Old Testament as seen through the lens of the New Testament. 

In the Talmudic reinterpretation/reforming of the Tanakh’s religious teachings, one of the most striking changes is the introduction of The World to Come—a place of reward or punishment after we die. Though the Tanakh speaks of Sheol, a place where dead people dwell, there was no sense of reward or punishment after death. As we learn in Deuteronomy, the rewards for obedience to God’s Will—as well as the punishments for disobedience to God’s Will—come in this world/life.

This Deuteronomic Theology is problematic for obvious reasons: all too often, the good suffer, and the evil prosper. As Oscar Wilde wittingly put it (in the words of Miss Prism in The Importance of Being Ernest): “The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.” 

A less recent struggle with the unjust state of things comes in the ancient Book of Job. Despite the fact that Job is totally just, he nonetheless endures all kinds of suffering. Why? The text considers a variety of possible answers but ultimately concludes with a question mark and a statement of faith. We may not know why the good suffer and the evil prosper, but God has a much larger purview and a greater purpose.

This answer satisfies some, but not all, and one can see the introduction—by the Rabbis and their “Oral Torah”—of an afterlife with reward or punishment as a response to the incompatibility of Deuteronomy with the unjustness of the world. If God is just, then God simply cannot let the evil prosper and the good suffer. The greater purview in Job must mean that God rights the scales of justice after we die. It is a matter of simple deduction.

One may ask, however, about the assumption that God is just. Do we know this to be the case? Most ancient religions taught about the power of the gods and not their goodness. Indeed, in most ancient religions, the gods were seen as capricious, and much religious effort was devoted to assuaging them and cajoling them—sometimes even pitting one god against another.

Though we differ in our understanding of the Divine—sensing a Divine Unity instead of many gods, our ancient texts too emphasize God’s power and hegemony. In so many stories in the Torah and the rest of the Tanakh, we are reminded/warned to pay attention to and obey God because of God’s great power. How, then, do we know about God’s goodness and righteousness? We know because of this week’s Torah portion, Vayera, and the discussion in Genesis 18 between God and Abraham in re Sodom and Gomorrah.

The narrative tells us of a visit God makes to Abraham and Sarah. One purpose is to inform them that, despite their advanced ages, they will soon be parents. The other purpose is to discuss with Abraham God’s plans for Sodom and Gomorrah. In a kind of Biblical soliloquy, God considers the discussion:  “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and al the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him? For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right…” God wants Abraham to understand the Divine judgment so that Abraham can explain it in the world.

This is why God so tranquilly endures Abraham’s objections: “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 place 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?”

God wants Abraham to understand the Divine ways, and Abraham insists on certain standards for the Divine. Interestingly enough, God accepts Abraham’s expectations, and the famous bartering process begins. Though Sodom and Gomorrah do not even have the minimal ten righteous people (a minyan!), God refuses to “bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty,” and rescues Lot and his family.

What we have here is the very clear statement that the Judge of all the earth will deal justly. It is a definitional statement of God’s goodness—in the Torah!

If we believe that God is the Source/Writer of the Torah, then we have this standard declared by God Itself. God is just and will not do anything unrighteous. If, on the other hand, we believe that people wrote the Torah based on their experiences and understanding of the Divine, then we have the Jewish belief stated very clearly: our understanding and expectation is that the God of the Universe is just and righteous and good.

Thus do our Sages (Rabbis) proceed in the years after the Bible and intuit or deduct the existence of a World to Come, a place where the Just and Righteous God of the Universe rights the scales of justice which may not have been fairly balanced in this world.

Lech Lecha and Our Jewish Journies

November 11th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There were many things that made Debbie Friedman (1951-2011) a great song-writer. She began with the musical energy of the Reform Youth Movements (Temple Youth Groups and Summer Camps) and developed into a composer who helped many generations to experience the power and kavannah of Jewish texts and wisdom. When we were growing up, the choices for young people involved Israeli folk music (often with a Labor Zionist sensibility) and American folk-rock music (often with a social justice sensibility). The contribution of Debbie and her whole cohort of song-leaders-turned-composers was to combine the folk music energy of the 1960s and the words of Jewish texts and prayers. This process—which continues to this day—has transformed the music of the synagogue and helped many in increasing their attachment to Judaism and their kavannah in prayer.

A case in point comes in the song L’chi Lach which is taken directly from this week’s Torah portion. Here is the text from Genesis 12:
“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;
All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.”

 Here is the song (written by Debbie Friedman and Savina Teubal):
L’chi lach, to a land that I will show you.
Lech l’cha, to a place you do not know.
L’chi lach, on your journey I will bless you.
And you shall be a blessing (3x) l’chi lach.

 L’chi lach, and I shall make your name great.
Lech l’cha, and all shall praise your name.
L’chi lach, to the place that I will show you.
L’sim’chat chayim (3x) l’chi lach

And you shall be a blessing (3x) l’chi lach.

Notice how the Torah is quoted throughout—with the song pretty much repeating many parts of God’s call to Abram.

Notice also how the lyrics expand the Divine instructions to include both Sarah and all subsequent generations. The actual Hebrew in the Torah is Lech l’cha, the imperative to a male to go, get going or go forth. The double form is a Biblical way of intensifying the command—and is often translated as surely. L’chi lach is the imperative to a female of the same words. We are thus reminded that God’s instruction to Abram was also to Sarai. Together they went forth and began the religion we now know as Judaism.  

And, as spiritual and tribal and spiritual descendants of Abraham and Sarah, we too are included in the Divine imperative (mitzvah). Just as Abram and Sarai were sent forth on a “Jewish” journey, so are we bidden to continue the ancient Jewish journey in our own lives. Just as they were sent forth to be a blessing, so are we challenged to do the same. Thus does this lovely song become an anthem of Jewish purpose, speaking of both our heritage and our destiny.

Despair or Hope? Part II

November 4th: Noach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We don’t spend much time, in the Genesis account of the Great Flood, thinking about the people or animals that did not make it onto the Ark. We focus on Noah and his family and all the lucky animals and the way they survived the great calamity. For them, there was trepidation but hope, while, for those other people and animals, despair was the only option. My question, last week and this, regards the despair we hear so passionately expressed across our society. Are things really that bad? And, no matter how bad they are, is despair the best response?

Last week, I challenged the narrative that our “failed system” is destroying a “way of life” and the ethnic and economic group of working class White people. This week, I want to turn to the political Left and consider some of the despair expressed in the Black Lives Matters Movement.  I begin with the obvious moral position that, of course, Black lives matter. All human lives matter, and, if individuals or groups suggest—in words or policies or actions—that the lives of People of Color are less worthwhile than those of White people, such unconscionable bigotry needs to be identified and stopped. 

That being said, I find myself wondering why this new movement has come on the scene, and why it has appeared now? Have things changed in recent years? Is the situation of racism so different as to warrant a new movement and a new strategy? 

Racism has been a persistent blight on humankind since pretty much the beginning, and its particular effects in America have been tragic and unrighteous and an inconsistency in the American Dream. However, I wonder if the despair expressed in some quarters is appropriate. 

Some examples: reporter Wesley Lowery looked at the narrative of genocide against the African American population in a book entitled They Can’t Kill Us All. Poet and singer Jamila Woods recently commented that the Afro-Futuristic vibe (a style of music) is radical: “Part of Afro-Futurism is the idea that, because Black History has had so many struggles, it is radical to imagine ourselves in the future.” Writer Vann R. Newkirk II recently wrote (in The Atlantic) that, given the oppression of Black people in America, the odds have been against his existence. 

Are they/we really trying to kill them all? Though the cultural prompt for this seems to be the spate of shootings of Black citizens by police, the facts of the individual cases do not reveal a vast campaign or conspiracy. At worst, there seem to be some poorly trained or trigger happy police officers—and they deserve to be disciplined/punished appropriately. But, in systematic investigations, the narrative of a campaign to murder African Americans in the streets has not been confirmed in any way whatsoever. An example is the Ferguson, Missouri shooting of Michael Brown. The U.S. Justice Department investigation was ordered by an African American President and supervised by an African American Attorney General, and it did not find the officer to be at fault. The report cited a pattern of racial harassment which needs to be addressed, but the narrative of trying to kill them all was simply not verified, supported, or even alleged. 

And so, I ask again. Why this new campaign—Black Lives Matter, and why now? I think three factors may be at play. First, the term can be seen as a rebuttal to an unintentionally pernicious phrase that has peppered crime statistics for a number of decades. When murder rates alarm local populations, they are often calmed by the clarification, “Don’t worry, it’s Black on Black crime.” I think I understand the motivation: the murder rates are not a matter of roving marauders, indiscriminately murdering people. Citizens should not be worried. On the other hand, the implication is that the murder of African American citizens is somehow less tragic—that their lost lives matter less. This is a horrible suggestion, and, after years of this absurd and obnoxious logic, the phrase Black Lives Matter is a direct rebuttal. 

A second possible factor may be the aftermath of the Obama Presidency. Though it may seem naïve or absurd now, there was the thought—the audacious hope—that the election of an African American man to the highest office in the land would mean the end of racism. It is one thing to hope, but it is another thing entirely to believe that President Obama would signal the end of a plague that has afflicted so many for centuries. When viewed in the context of history, as many old people are wont to say, the struggle for Civil Rights has seen much progress over the last 50-100 years. But, in the ahistorical mentality that is so pervasive among young people, the focus is not on the advancements made but rather on the inequities that still exist. The young people are not wrong, but neither are the old people who see the fight for Civil Rights as a long term and slow process. Add to this two Millennial characteristics, the demand for immediate gratification and the need to remake the world in their own image, and you have a sense that things are different and worse now, and we need a new immediate solution.

(We Baby-Boomers should cut them some slack because we, too, felt the need to remake the world in our own image, and we, too, have difficulty being patient.)

The third factor in the appearance of this new Civil Rights movement—and perhaps the most significant philosophically—is the limited shelf-life of Affirmative Action, racial quotas, and other ameliorative strategies to right the wrongs of racism. From the very beginning of Affirmative Action and racial quotas in the late 1960s, there has been a disconnect between traditional American notions of equality and the remedial steps taken to redress historical inequality. Saving places for Blacks or Women or any other disenfranchised group inevitably means discriminating against White Men. This was seen as necessary to make up for centuries of prejudice, but the implicit understanding—from the very beginning, was that these quotas were temporary—until the “playing field was level.” The length of time these therapeutic strategies would be necessary was never specified, but everyone understood that eventually they would no longer be necessary. There is evidence that this temporary social therapy may be approaching its terminus—the end of its shelf-life, and the big question for our society is: Is the playing field level yet? 

What has changed in recent years is the belief that, with a Black President and with the substantial progress in Civil Rights, the playing field is getting close to level. This general sensibility found a legal expression in the recent voting rights case involving Shelby County, Alabama. For almost half a century, the traditional anti-Black penchant of Southern governments was remedied by the Federal Justice Department overseeing local elections. Changes in district lines, rules about who represents whom, and who gets to vote were supervised by the Justice Department, and localities were forced to let Black people participate, vote, and serve. It was one of the ways that the South was changed. In recent years, however, some local governments have come to believe that Federal oversight is no longer necessary: that what was broken has been fixed. This was the case in Shelby County, and, in a case that went all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, their contention was affirmed. Federal oversight is no longer required.

Are they fixed? Is the playing field now level? The progress made, as exemplified by the two term Presidency of Barack Obama, suggests that it’s time to declare the problem fixed and trust good people to behave righteously. The persistent and pernicious racism that still plagues American society, however, suggests that the shelf life of government-ordered anti-racism policies needs to be extended. Stepping back from the fray, I wonder how much of the Black Lives Matter sensibility is based on the belief that we still have a long way to go and that sanguine self-congratulations on solving racism is way, way premature.

I see the injustice and frustration. I understand the need for continual attention and persistent demands for justice. I recognize the need to examine the system and fix its many problems. What I do not see, however, is a conspiracy to commit genocide against our African American population or to destroy the Black Soul. I see problems and I see smart people whose minds are better utilized working on solutions rather than eloquently spreading the narrative of despair. 

Sometimes, drama can help stimulate our emotions and focus our minds of the immediacy of the problems at hand. But, sometimes, drama can warp our perceptions and create despair in times and places where creative problem solving is a much better response.

We are not the people and animals Left off the Ark. We are on the Ark. We all have a future. It’s a matter of figuring out how to craft and live that future.    

Despair or Hope? Part I

October 28th: Beresheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Torah does not tell us much about God’s thought process in deciding to create the world, but that didn’t stop the rabbis of the Midrash from imagining the heavenly deliberations. In one Midrash, we hear the description of a debate among the angels about whether God should create humans. One group of angels is absolutely against it. They talk about how cruel people will be to each other and to the world. Holding up the specter of gossip, oppression, murder, etc., they beg God not to create this inevitable disaster. The other group of angels looks instead to the wonders that people can bring forth: kindness, cooperation, creativity, justice, art, music, etc. They beg God to bless the world with the gifts that humans can potentially bring to the creation. God listens to the debate for a long while but then God slips out the back of the council house, creates humanity, and comes back with this announcement. “Whether I should or should not create humanity is now no longer the question. Now the question is: How can humanity best live life?”

In other words, from even before the beginning, there has been both despair and hope. We may do better. We may bring great destruction. We may be blessed. We may crash and burn.

In our society today, hope is not dead, but there seems to be an awful lot of despair. There is despair is every corner, and some of it is excessive. I sympathize with the problems and challenges that people face, but sometimes I wonder if the depth and tenor expressed is appropriate for the actual difficulties. Both Left and Right see themselves in a kind of life and death struggle, but I find myself wondering if things are really that dire.

In these next two weeks, I would like to examine the despair on the Right and the despair on the Left, hoping for some clarity and constructive hope. The link to our Torah portion, this week, is the Creation and God’s decision to create us even if we may not turn out perfect. The link next week is the story of Noah and the Flood—where destruction and hope live in stark comparison.

Many people on the political Right are very concerned about the economic and social difficulties facing poor and working class Whites. Perhaps this political concern was fueled by a study a few years ago showing a growing suicide rate among this demographic group. The “surprise” was because most social justice attention has been directed to non-White poor people, and the study came to remind us that depression, unemployment, and drug addiction are equal-opportunity scourges. The problem is particularly acute in the Rust Belt, our region where manufacturing jobs and coal mining jobs are harder and harder to find. There is some real suffering going on. The question, however, is whether the suffering we see now is different from the suffering the working class has experienced before. If we are talking about “the system,” the American political, economic, and social system—which, of course, is always the subject of politics, comparing the hard-scrabble life of lower class people today versus 20 or 50 or 100 years ago seems an important task. If things are worse now than they were in the past, then perhaps we need to revisit assumptions and structures of our system. On the other hand, if things have always been hard for coal miners and farmers and factory workers, then the problems they face need to be addressed with a different kind of attention.

From my knowledge, life has always been hard for the lower and working classes. Coal miners have traditionally had marginal incomes, been at the beck and call of coal companies and the vagaries of mineral deposits. Their jobs were dangerous at best—with coal dust, poison gasses, and possible cave-ins always hanging over their heads. In other words, I’m not sure there ever were any “good old days.” Farmers have always lived a precarious existence—working hard but ultimately not controlling their fates. Temperatures, precipitation, insects, weeds, not to mention soil fertility, crop prices, and transportation issues have made the fortunes of farmers a melodramatic affair—for the last 6000 years! As for factory workers—and craftsmen, the Industrial Revolution has been going on for over 200 years, and relocation, dislocation, and (hopefully) adaptation has been the unceasing pattern. One would like to think that hard work determines a good future, but life for working class people has always been full of challenges.

Is it different now, or are we just seeing a different presentation of the traditional problems—and a manipulation of their angst for political purposes?

Amidst all this talk of a “vanishing way of life,” (something people have been complaining about since prehistoric times), consider the following evidence. Look at the visible consumption habits of this threatened class. Take a ride on the highway and notice the fancy pickup trucks, SUVs, Harley Davidson motorcycles (@$20,000+), and Recreational Vehicles being driven by working class people. Talk to the people who spend a week and a thousand dollars at the Grange Fair. Listen to them talk about their microwave ovens, their 50 inch televisions, their cable sports and movie packages, their cell phones, and their vacations on cruise ships and to Disney World. This is not to say that there are not real people suffering real problems, but the fact is that there is money and enjoyment of life in this ethnic and economic class.

So, when I hear that an entire class or ethnic group in America is being destroyed by a failed system, I wonder about the accuracy or the helpfulness of the despair.

As with many serious subjects, drama and emotional outrageousness obscure the real issues and make it harder to plot a better course. Do we really want to go backwards economically and technologically, or is the better answer to figure out strategies to help people adapt to new and changing conditions? There are individuals facing despair in our country. There are certainly large groups of people in other parts of the world facing mass despair, but the challenges of working class White Americans need to be put in perspective—if we, as a nation, are to approach the future and their future in a considered and constructive way.

Next week, the despair on the Left.

Hoping to Get a Glimpse of God

October 21st: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Shabbat in the middle of Sukkot has a special Torah portion, one telling about a rather curious encounter between Moses and God. In Exodus 33, we read about how Moses pleads with God to behold the Divine Presence. God sort of agrees, but the revelation does not seem to be what Moses expects. Here is what God says, “I will make all My goodness pass before you, and I will proclaim before you the name Lord, and the grace that I grant and the compassion that I show. But, you cannot see My face, for humans may not see Me and live. See, there is a place near Me. Station yourself on the rock and, as My Presence passes by, I will put you in a cleft of the rock and shield you with My hand until I have passed by. Then I will take My hand away and you will see My back; but My face must not be seen.” (Exodus 33.19-23)

 When this happens (two paragraphs later), God’s passing Presence proclaims the words from which we get the Eleven Attributes of God: “The Lord! The Lord! A God compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in kindness and faithfulness, extending kindness to the thousandth generation, forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin…”

 It is clearly a major revelation—up at the level of the Burning Bush and the Giving of the Ten Commandments on Mount Sinai, but the striking and almost nonsensical anthropomorphism of the passage begs for some kind of metaphorical relief. God’s hand? God’s back? What are we to make of these images?

 Rabbi Ira Eisenstein, a student of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan and one of the founders of the Reconstructionist Movement, approaches this question and sees God’s back as the aftermath or effect of God’s Presence—as the wake of God’s passage through the stream of the cosmos. God’s goodness is that which God influences us to do. Here is what Rabbi Eisenstein wrote in What We Mean By Religion:

“Now, we cannot actually picture goodness. It is not a being; it is a force, like electricity. Nobody ever actually saw electricity. We know that it exists. We can see and feel what electricity does. If we have an electric bulb and connect it with an electric wire, we get light. If we have an electric heater and connect it, we get heat. If we have an electric motor and attach it to a vehicle, we get the vehicle to move. In other words, we get to know what electricity is by what it does. In the same way, we get to know what God is by what God makes us do: when a person is connected with God, that person does good things. We call that person a godly person, and his/her act is a godly act. Whenever this force is active, we say that God has exercised influence and power.”

 Judah HaLevi, the 12th Century Spanish physician, philosopher, and poet (such nachas!), approaches this quest for knowledge of and intimacy with God in the following poem. The original was, of course, written in Hebrew. The translation which follows comes from the 19th Century, though the identity of the poetic translator is unclear. Where can we find God? How can we know God? Here is HaLevi’s insight.

 O Lord, where shall I find You, when hid is Your lofty place?
And where shall I not find You, when Your glory fills all space?
You formed the worlds and also live within our souls alway,
You are a refuge to them that seek You, ransom for them that stray.

 O, how shall mortals praise You, when angels strive in vain,
Or build for You a dwelling, Whom worlds cannot contain?
Longing to draw near You, with all my heart I pray,
Then going forth to seek You, You meet me on my way.

 I find You in the marvels of Your creative might,
In visions in Your Temple, in dreams that bless the night.
Who says we do not see You? Your heavens refute their word;
Your hosts declare Your glory, though never voice be heard.

 In the “old” Union Prayer Book of the Reform Movement, the authors combined HaLevi’s poem with the passage from Exodus 33 in what I believe to be one of the most important creative prayers of the 20th Century. By the way, the editorial guiding hand of this 1940 prayer book was Rabbi Solomon Freehof of Pittsburgh’s Rodef Shalom Congregation.

 “O Lord, how can we know You? Where can we find You? You are as close to us as breathing and yet are farther than the farthermost star. You are as mysterious as the vast solitudes of the night and yet are as familiar as the light of the sun. To the seer of old You did say: You cannot see My Face, but I will make all My Goodness pass before You. Even so does Your Goodness pass before us in the realm of nature and in the varied experiences of our lives.

 When justice burns like a flaming fire within us, when love evokes willing sacrifice from us, when, to the last full measure of selfless devotion, we proclaim our belief in the ultimate triumph of truth and righteousness, do we not bow down before the vision of Your Goodness? You live in our hearts, as You pervade the world, and we through righteousness behold Your Presence.”

 In other words, when we, with Moses and so many others throughout time, wish to encounter the Divine, we are given two pieces of advice:
(1) Look for God’s signature in creation and in the godly acts of others.  
(2) Participate in God’s work and thus get to know God affectively.

We may not be able to see God’s Face, but we can be close to God and feel God’s wonder and love and influence.

Humility and Repentance and the Love of God

Yom Kippur Kol Nidre Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though it is a serious occasion, I would like to begin with that old joke about the rabbi and the hazan praying on Yom Kippur. Each was really getting into the Hineni, “Here I am, standing before the Holy Ark, hoping to be a pure vessel for the congregation’s prayers but knowing that I am unworthy. I am unworthy. I am unworthy. I am unworthy.”

The rabbi said it with full kavannah. The hazan chanted it with full emotional flourish. And, then they noticed on the side that the shamas praying fervently, too. “I am unworthy. I am unworthy. I am unworthy!”

At which point, the hazan whispers to the rabbi, “Look at that schlemiel! He thinks he’s unworthy, too!”

Though the theme of this day is our unworthiness, we can often get distracted. We can focus on a hundred other things, avoiding the real issue at hand:

חָטָֽאנוּ, עָוִֽינוּ, פָּשַֽׁעְנוּ.
We have gone astray. We have sinned. We have transgressed.

Most of us realize intellectually that we are not living our lives as well as we could or should, but moving us from that intellectual nod to the fullness of teshuvah takes some work. We can only begin this holy process when we realize the fact that we could have done better, and it is the work of our Machzor to coax us along this path.

One of the techniques is to get us to remember our indiscretions. Notice the wording of the mitzvah about wearing tzitzit on the corners of our garments: 

 וְהָיָה לָכֶם לְצִיצִת וּרְאִיתֶם אֹתוֹ 
וּזְכַרְתֶּם אֶת־כָּל־מִצְוֹת יְהֹוָה וַעֲשִׂיתֶם אֹתָם 
“They should be tzitit for you so that you see them and remember all the commandments of the Lord and do them,”
וְלֹא תָתוּרוּ אַחֲרֵי לְבַבְכֶם וְאַחֲרֵי עֵינֵיכֶם 
אֲשֶׁר־אַתֶּם זֹנִים אַחֲרֵיהֶם:
“that you should not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you used to go wantonly astray.”1

The mitzvah assumes a history of misbehavior and uses it. Though we may try to put our mistakes behind us and focus on the future, the sense of this passage—and, of course, our High Holy Days—is that remembrance of our sins is really important. It is not just enough to say “I made mistakes.” We are instructed to confess our sins: to list them and to think seriously about the damage our indiscretions and evil have wreaked upon the world. When we pray the words “after which we used to go wantonly astray,” we are being instructed to reflect upon our shameful memories and use them as inspiration for improvement.

Sometimes, we see this repentance theme of our High Holy Days as a negative or unpleasant part of the experience and prefer Rosh Hashanah and  Yom Kippur to be more uplifting. “Give us reasons to feel good about being Jewish rather than yelling at us.” Fair enough. No one wants to get yelled at. And  yet, is there not a poignant connection between these two themes? Is not repentance one of the best ways to feel God’s love—and the special positive power of Judaism?

To make my point, I would like to bring in an unexpected source, Pope Francis. I recently had the opportunity to read his book, The Name of God is Mercy, and found some insights that, while Christian, are also very compatible with our own Jewish spirituality. What he says about God’s compassion and the nature of repentance is both close to what our own sources teach and instructive in a charmingly spiritual way.

In speaking of God’s interest in us and our repentance, Pope Francis quotes one of this predecessors, Albino Luciani (later Pope John Paul I) who writes: “God waits. Always. And it is never too late. That’s what he’s like, that’s how he is...he’s a father. A father waiting at the doorway, who sees us when we are still far off, who is moved, and who comes running toward us, embraces us, and kisses us tenderly....Our sin is like a jewel that we present to him to obtain the consolation of forgiveness... Giving a gift of jewels is a noble thing to do, and it is not a defeat but a joyous victory to let God win!”

Hold that image for a moment: our sin is a gift that we can give to God, allowing God the joy and pleasure of granting us forgiveness. And, of course, there is the metaphor that God is our parent--as we would say אָבִינוּ שֶׁבַּשָׁמַיִם orאָבִֽינוּ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ . A parent wants to love his/her child--does love the child and wants desperately to be in meaningful contact. And, the parent wants the child to live up to his/her potential for goodness. It is a natural and beautiful and loving desire.

Sin is never a good thing, but the possibility of rapprochement with God can turn a moral failing into an opportunity. Continuing from Pope Francis’s book: “At times I have surprised myself by thinking that a few very rigid people would do well to slip a little, so that they could remember that they are sinners and thus meet (God). I think back to the words of God’s servant John Paul I, who during a Wednesday audience said, ‘The Lord loves humility so much that sometimes he permits serious sins. Why? In order that those who committed these sins may, after repenting, remain humble. One does not feel inclined to think oneself half a saint, half an angel, when one knows that one has committed serious faults.’” A few days later, on another occasion, the very same Pope reminded us that Saint Francis de Sales spoke of ‘our dear imperfections,’ saying, ‘God hates faults. On the other hand, however, in a certain sense he loves faults, since they give him an opportunity to show his mercy and us an opportunity to remain humble and to understand and to sympathize with our neighbors’ faults.’”

This last sentiment sounds very Jewish to me, but, of course, ours is not the only religion that teaches empathy and sympathy and loving our neighbor. (We might have invented it, but others have wisely picked up on our theme!)

As the Pope explains it, “The more conscious we are of our wretchedness and our sins, the more we experience the love and infinite mercy of God among us...”

This is all to say that perhaps our laundry list of sins deserves another look. When we say

 עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ,

we are not only speaking of what we or our neighbors have done wrong; we are also being given an opportunity to realize our wretchedness, to feel God’s love and yearning for our companionship, and to draw close to the possibility of holiness.

You may be surprised at my use of the word wretchedness. I am a little surprised myself. Though we Jews readily admit our sinfulness, most of us do not employ this kind of terminology. It is harsh and perhaps demeaning. It does not speak to the image of God in which we are all created. And, yet, is not the great disconnect between our holy potential and our less-than-perfect performance the very reason we gather in prayer and repentance? As we shall read in our machzor:

"There is that in us which darkens the soul. Called to a life of righteousness, we rebel: arrogance possesses us. The passions that rage within us drown the voice of conscience: good and evil, virtue and vice, love and hate contend for the mastery of our lives. Again and again we complain of the struggle, forgetting that the power to choose is the glory and greatness of our being. When we succumb, life loses its beauty, and within us sounds the voice of judgment: Where are you? How you have fallen, O children of the Most High!"

When we recite our sins—each category beginning with

עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ ,

what kind of attitude do we bring to the process? Do we approach the list of sins with a kind of confidence that can border on arrogance? “These sins don’t apply to me.” Or, do we read them from the depths of our neuroses, self-indulgently assuming guilt for every evil in the world? Or, do we read them carefully, slowly, considering the ways that these general categories touch on our own indiscretions and moral failings?  

Traditionally, the word חֵטְא/sin referred to disobedience to the Divine will, to the mitzvot that God commanded. In the modern Judaism of personal autonomy, we understand it differently. We are given the freedom to decide which mitzvot help to us connect to God—and which ones do not, but this does not mean that we cannot sin. For us, sin is deviation from the best path, the path we know to be true and righteous. Sin is when we fall away from our higher selves, when we fail to live up to our own standards and belief. 

Some devotional writings speak of sin as separating from God: from the consciousness that we are a part of God. We have it in us to be God’s hands in the world. When we fail in this holy undertaking, it is a sin—a separation from godliness.

How do we know when we have sinned? For many of us, we hear an internal voice, the one ingrained in our minds by our parents and teachers and God—the ones who raised us, trained us, and expect the best from us. Elijah described this as the still, small voice of conscience. 
At a certain level, we could think of this persistent moral voice as a kind of spiritual personal trainer. Sometimes, the continual nudging can be too much, and sanity or practicality needs to set limits to our aspirations. But, sometimes, we need a nudge, or a wake-up call, or a moral kick in the pants. Only we can make the necessary judgments—about when we are doing okay and when we need to put some more energy into living a moral life, but we are blessed with a variety of reminders, and the High Holy Days is one of those blessings. 

The spiritual message for our souls today is twofold. We can do greatness, and we can really mess things up. The tzitzit on the tallit remind us of both. We should not go about so wantonly, sinning the ways we used to do. Rather, we should be holy unto our God: קְדשִׁים לֵאלֹהֵינוּ!
Is is possible—despite our wretchedness.

Personal Autonomy and the Community

Yom Kippur Morning Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Life is full of compromises—both in our families and in our communities and in our own individual thinking. So often, we are presented with two or three equal goods or necessities and must somehow adjudicate their values and come up with a way to proceed. According to Tradition, it is the same for God. On the one hand, we are taught, God has a sense of absolute justice and desperately wants for justice to prevail absolutely. On the other hand, God loves us profoundly and realizes that we are not perfect. If God were to insist absolutely on justice, God’s precious creation could not continue. So, we are taught: For what does the Holy One pray? That מדת רחמים the Divine sense of Compassion will always be stronger than מדת דין  the Divine Sense of Justice.1 That’s what God is praying today.

A Biblical example of compromises comes in the story of the Daughters of Zelophechad in Book of Numbers. In Chapter 27, we learn that Zelophechad was an Israelite man who died in the wilderness before the portions of the Promised Land were assigned. Since women did not inherit land, his five daughters faced landlessness and approached Moses to see if an exception could be made. Could they inherit their father’s anticipated allotment in order for his memory be preserved in Israel? Moses approached God, and God agreed with the women. The five daughters of Zelophechad would be allowed to inherit the land intended for their father. This was in Chapter 27.

However, by the time we get to Chapter 36, the leaders of their tribe, Manasseh, realize a potential problem. Since land generally is inherited by sons, and since a son’s tribal identity comes from his father, if one or more of the daughters married someone from another tribe, their portion of land would eventually become part of that other tribe’s territory. They were not just being greedy or picky. The whole sense of tribal identity and community would be threatened. So, Moses consulted God again and came up with a compromise. The daughters, Machlah, Tirtzah, Hoglah, Milkah, and No’ah, could still inherit their father’s land, but they had to marry someone from their own tribe, and that is just what the five daughters did. 

What we do not know is whether this was okay or a problem for any or all of the women. It is possible that marrying men from the tribe was perfectly fine—that this is what they would have preferred anyway. But, it is also possible that one or more of the women would have had to cede some of her personal autonomy for the sake of the community. 

I think most of us agree that freedom and individual liberty are of utmost importance. Personal autonomy is one of the greatest gifts of the modern age, and it is something we defend furiously. None of us like being told what to do, and one can often detect this principle at the heart of many political arguments. It is why some people do not like socialized medicine. It is why Americans are grievously offended at the European practice of evaluating children at young ages and then pushing them in various non-academic directions. It is why many of us feel perfectly comfortable exceeding the speed limits on highways. We do not like anyone telling us what to do. And yet, sometimes we find ourselves in situations where sacrificing personal autonomy is necessary—necessary for greater goals or even for our own long-term happiness. 

When these demands confront us, how do we respond? Do we acquiesce and voluntarily make sacrifices for the sake of the greater good, or do we stand on our autonomy? Sometimes, of course, we are forced to cede our autonomy—by governments or bosses or family pressure. But often, the only force involved is from our own moral sensibilities. Do we please ourselves, or do we do some things for the sake of the group?

There are also various gradations in these kinds of situations. It is one thing to pay an extra $5.00 over the internet price so you can patronize a local merchant and keep that local business in town, but it is another thing entirely to say that you cannot marry someone from another tribe. Moreover, in each given circumstance, there are complexities to consider as we value the various goods we seek. Throughout our lives, we find ourselves striving for balance—sometimes working for ourselves and other times sacrificing something of ourselves for a greater good. It is like Hillel counseled so long ago:

אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. 
“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” 
We need to take care of ourselves. On the other hand,
וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. 
“But if I am only for myself, what am I?”  
Something of our value as human beings depends on how much we devote ourselves to others, to communal concerns.
And, of course, the Yom Kippur kicker:
וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתָי:
“And if not now, when?”
If an improvement needs to be made, perhaps the time is now.

Each individual decision has its own specifics, and each of us has our own situations to manage. Nonetheless, we can be guided by certain principles from our Tradition, and I would like to share three of them with you this evening.

First: There is value in the process of inclusion—in gathering everyone into the fabric of belonging. A text for this principle will come in the afternoon’s Torah reading, from Deuteronomy 29. When we stand before God to comprise our covenant community, everyone is included: 

אַתֶּם נִצָּבִים הַיּוֹם כֻּלְּכֶם לִפְנֵי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹהֵיכֶם רָאשֵׁיכֶם 
שִׁבְטֵיכֶם זִקְנֵיכֶם וְשֹׁטְרֵיכֶם כֹּל אִישׁ יִשְׂרָאֵל: טַפְּכֶם נְשֵׁיכֶם 
וְגֵרְךָ אֲשֶׁר בְּקֶרֶב מַחֲנֶיךָ מֵחֹטֵב עֵצֶיךָ עַד שֹׁאֵב מֵימֶיךָ: 
“You stand this day all of you before the Lord your God; the captains of your tribes, your elders, your officers, all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and the strangers in your camp, from the hewers of wood to the drawers of water.”
Moreover, even the absent are included in the communal pact: 
כִּי אֶת־אֲשֶׁר יֶשְׁנוֹ פֹּה עִמָּנוּ עֹמֵד הַיּוֹם לִפְנֵי יְהוָֹה אֱלֹהֵינוּ 
וְאֵת אֲשֶׁר אֵינֶנּוּ פֹּה עִמָּנוּ הַיּוֹם:
“It is not with you alone that I make this covenant and this
oath—but with those who stand here with us this day before the Lord our God, and also with those who are not here with us this day.”
This sense of affiliation—of being part of a sacred community—
is precious, in and of itself. It is a blessing worth experiencing, and it is a blessing worthy extending to others.

Second: Some effort is required to keep the community together. Hillel speaks of this in a simple but profound piece of advice:    

            אַל תִּפְרוֹשׁ מִן הַצִּבּוּר.
“Do not separate yourself from the community.” 

As a member of a family or a community, there are times when we are needed. Whether it is our time or attention or prosperity or good will, we are urged to join ourselves to the goals of the group and to enhance both ourselves and the group. 

It can be demanding, like when the Talmud counsels,

שֶׁכָל יִשְׂרָאֵל עָבֵרִים זֶה בַזֶּה.
“All Israel is responsible one for the other.”

We can regard this kind of responsibility as an onerous invasion of our personal space OR we can see it as an opportunity for significance—for doing something meaningful in our lives. 

The payoff of group participation can be described in an old saying of the early Zionist philosophers:   לִבְנוֹת וּלְהִבָּנוֹת  By building the Land, the builder himself/herself will be built into a better human being. Being part of a good and holy group is good for us. That’s why we should endeavor to find such a group and to join ourselves to its purpose.

Third: Our Jewish notion of a sacred covenantal community is not just philosophical. The principles are developed and expressed in concrete actions. Some examples:

We should practice respect for the elderly, as we read in Leviticus (19.32):

מִפְּנֵי שֵׂיבָה תָּקוּם וְהָדַרְתָּ פְּנֵי זָקֵן וְיָרֵאתָ מֵּאֱלֹהֶיךָ אֲנִי יְהוָֹה:
“Rise before the aged, honor the elderly, 
and revere  your God.  I am the Lord.”

We should insist upon justice and righteousness. In Deuteronomy (16.20), we read:

 צֶדֶק צֶדֶק תִּרְדֹּף.
“Justice justice shall you pursue.”

This is not talking about some justice some of the time. We should live lives of justice all the time.

We should pursue peace and an atmosphere of neighborliness, 
as Hillel said:

הֱוֵי מִתַּלְמִידָיו שֶׁל אַהֲרֹן, אוֹהֵב שָׁלוֹם וְרוֹדֵף שָׁלוֹם, 
אוֹהֵב אֶת הַבְּרִיּוֹת וּמְקָרְבָן לַתּוֹרָה:
“Be of the disciples of Aaron, 
loving peace and pursuing peace, 
loving all people and bringing them close to Torah.”

This weaving and caring for the social fabric is so important that the Sages spoke of it in eternal terms: 
“These are the things, the fruits of which a person enjoys in this world, while the principal endures for the World-to-Come: to honor father and mother; to perform acts of love and kindness; to attend the house of study daily; to welcome the stranger; to visit the sick; to rejoice with bride and groom; to accompany the deceased to their rest; to pray with sincerity; to make peace between one another. " 

This is the holy life. This is a way we can find meaning in our lives. This is the way our sacred community can work.

We do not know if the limitation of potential marriage partners was a problem for the daughters of Zelophechad. In that ancient world—that ancient tribal social scene, it could have been a problem, or it could have been no imposition at all. So it is with us in our negotiations with autonomy and communal responsibility. Sometimes, it’s easy to be supportive of the community; our autonomy is barely ruffled. Sometimes, however, it may be a problem, and it is in those situations where we must seriously weigh inconvenience or difficulty or even sacrifice against the real value of supporting and participating in a community. There is value in pleasing ourselves. There is value in helping others. 
 

אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. 
וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתָי:
“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?  
But if I am only for myself, what am I?  
And if not now, when?”

A Fair Burden of Caring

Rosh Hashanah Morning Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the ways the ancient Sages described our role and responsibility as Jews is with the phrase, עוֹל מַלְכוּת הַשָּׁמַיִים the "Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. " Part of being Jewish is shouldering the burden of God’s work in the world. It is both a great honor and a formidable challenge—and sometimes we do better than others. One of the most important settings for our holy work lies in our families and our communities. We are called upon to help and care for others—to share life with them in love and in compassion. This is part of our divine service—carrying the Yoke of Heaven.

We know that carrying God’s Presence in the World is important, but how much of that holy burden should each of us undertake to bear? If we’re carrying enough, then we can feel good about a job done well. If we are not carrying enough, then we need to feel some guilt and then embark on teshuvah. As Rabbi Tarphon taught, some 1900 years ago (Avot 2.16):

לֹא עָלֶיךָ הַמְּלָאכָה לִגְמוֹר, 
“You are not required to do all of the work, 
וְלֹא אַתָּה בֶן חוֹרִין לִבָּטֵל מִמֶּנָּה.
but neither are you permitted to ignore it.”

My question for today is then: How much of the burden should we carry? How much is enough, how much is too little, and how much is too much?

Some of us may be carrying too little, and we need to be reminded that God needs our help in tikkun olam. Perhaps we need a kind of personal trainer for morality, calling us out, inspiring us, and getting us more involved in the holy work for which we were created. 

There are other people, however, who may hear this message of moral insistence and take on guilt they do not deserve—taking on guilt they do not deserve. It is, I suspect, a particularly Jewish problem, and, at this season of our guilt, many of us may be particularly vulnerable. 

Though we may start with honest self-evaluation, sometimes our noble aspirations can get out of control, and we can misinterpret our limitations as a kind of moral deficiency. The fact is that acknowledging the limits of our abilities—physically, financially, and emotionally—is part of the discipline of self-management and personal responsibility. But those of us with good hearts can get trapped in a quest for infinite compassion and inevitable and irresolvable guilt. We may joke about perpetual guilt being good for the soul, but I do not think that this is what God wants.

Caring is good. Empathy is good. Helping is good. But, we can go too far. We can let our altruism run wild, and, compounded by our natural propensity for guilt, we can push ourselves to take on stress and anxiety and responsibility that are not ours.

Part of this comes from our media culture which turns reporting the news into a kind of empathy fest where reporters try to plunge themselves—and us(!)—into the depths of the emotional distress of the people in the stories. This leaves us with an interesting question of appropriate intensity. If someone experiences a catastrophic event, how much attention from us is appropriate or respectful? Is it important to know about the event—and in what detail? Is it important to know the emotional effects of the event—on victims, survivors, and witnesses? Do we need to feel their loss as though it were our own? Or, is it morally acceptable to maintain some distance?

I believe that I cannot carry the grief of every sadness in the world. It is just not something I can do. And, yet, I often get the message that turning off the story or not delving into the intricate and tragic details indicates a moral failing on my part. It is as though my sin is not caring enough.

How much of other people’s pain or anxiety is it reasonable for a human—a good human like me or you—to carry? Given that we have responsibility for our own mental health and the responsibilities of our own lives, how much extra can we carry? Moreover, how helpful is it to those other people when we voluntarily take on their pain and anxiety? Does it actually help them? If my life falls apart when people far away from me experience grief or tragedy, does my heartbrokenness do them any good? 

It is not a matter of dismissing the real pain that real people feel. Nor is it a matter of minimizing the very real help that we can offer to others. The issue here is the pull of infinite caring and infinite responsibility which I feel acutely, how I can feel okay about stepping back and not taking on the sadness of their lives.

I am talking about a kind of moral balance and how we can be relieved from anxiety and guilt that are not ours to carry. Lest I focus too much on limits, however, let us remember the ways we can be helpful and how we can grow spiritually when we join in supporting others. Here is a poem from the late and exceedingly compassionate Rabbi Alexander Schindler: 

Our lives are a wildnerness,
uncharted and unpredictable—
untimely deaths, unexpected blows,
unsuitable matches, unfulfilled dreams.

And yet, by gathering our heartaches
into a house of worship,
we find something transformative happening—
our sorrows become windows of compassion.
Paths through the wilderness,
hewed and marked by past generations,
give us our bearings.
Patterns of meaning and significance emerge.
We are moved from self-pity to love.
Our individual heartbeats merge with the pulse
of all humankind.
Suddenly we no longer tremble
like an uprooted reed.

Human care and companionship is good and necessary and holy—both when we help others and when others help us. And yet, does this mean that there should be no limit to caring—-that “the more we care, the better it is?”

Reb Nachman of Breslov told a story about a giant heart—the Heart of the World—that feels every single person’s every pain. This heart has total empathy and is a metaphor for the infinity of God’s love. It is wonderful to contemplate the infinity of God’s love—the Divine Embrace that holds us and soothes us at every moment, that dries every tear, and reminds us that we are precious. It is wonderful, but this immeasurable love is God’s, and we are not God. We aspire toward the godly, and we may have some success, but we are limited creatures. There is a limit to what we can bear, and there is a limit to what is actually helpful to those in pain.  

Many of us carry burdens of anxiety and guilt that are nobly assumed but inappropriate. I am here to make the point—a point from Jewish tradition—that limiting our emotional involvement in other people’s grief and challenges is okay. It is part of responsible self-management and self-preservation.

We can find guidance for this balance in the traditional laws of mourning. Halachah prescribes various mourning customs for various people in a set of concentric circles of proximity to the deceased. Only the immediate relatives—parents, siblings, spouse, children—cut the k’ri’a ribbon, say Kaddish, and sit shiva. Others may accompany them or attend them, but grandchildren, cousins, and friends are not included in these customs and rituals. 

Sometimes, secondary family members are frustrated about not being able to do these things to express their grief. I remember, in particular, a good friend who really wanted to say Kaddish for his grandfather, but it was not allowed in their Orthodox world. My friend was looking at Kaddish from a Reform perspective in which rituals are forms of expression, whereas the Orthodox concern is for the proper and commanded forms of behavior. This is not to say that grief is not expressed in the Orthodox forms. Grief takes place within and alongside the prescribed behaviors, but Halachah is designed to tell each person—based on his proximity to the deceased—what he/she is supposed to do and not supposed to do. 

Part of the Halachic motivation is to guide us with limits. When someone close to us dies, there is inevitably a feeling that we haven’t done enough, or are not doing enough. No matter what we do—or what we did, that feeling of deep emptiness does not go away. In the face of this bottomless emotional pit, Halachah comforts us by telling us exactly how much is enough: respectful and enough. Once we’ve done what Halachah prescribes, we can feel a kind of satisfaction that we have at least given our loved one the proper respect. We’re still sad, but we are not left wondering what more propriety and love and respect require. According to the Rabbis, this is why the Children of Israel mourned for Moses for thirty days and then moved on with their lives. If the great Moses was properly mourned in thirty days, then that should be good enough for us. We’re still sad, and we never forget our loved ones, but we are given the comfort of a limit for our formal mourning rituals

The Halachic exclusion of some people from the formal mourning is really a kind of release so that they can help the primary mourners. They obviously feel sad, but they are freed to be supportive and to keep the world turning. Think about what would happen if everyone in a family or community would be totally consumed in mourning at every death. Life would grind to a halt, and it would actually make it harder for the primary relations to do their mourning. The Halachic prescriptions tell us what is appropriate and respectful and give us guidance both in mourning and in knowing when it’s okay to attend to the other needs of life.

When it comes to bearing the weight of the pain of the world, I do not have a magic formula or a quantitative measurement, but I know that it does no one any good if I plunge myself into the despair and grief of people far away from me. I can care, but too much empathy and identification with their suffering increases my burden to the point where I am unable to deal with the anxiety and difficulties of my own life—and of my own people.

I also know that vicarious suffering of other people’s pain is of limited value. Acknowledgement, respect, and prayers are good, but it does them no good when we take on their pain and anxiety as our own. It does them no good, and it does us no good, and it impedes our ability to be God’s agents in the tasks that are standing before us—right here, right now.

It is a matter of balance, and this is something Hillel reminded his students and himself all the time.
אִם אֵין אֲנִי לִי, מִי לִי. 
“If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” 
וּכְשֶׁאֲנִי לְעַצְמִי, מָה אֲנִי. 
“But if I am only for myself, what am I?”  
וְאִם לֹא עַכְשָׁיו, אֵימָתָי:
“And if not now, when?”

Our Jewish Stories

Erev Rosh Hashanah Sermon 5777/2016
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As I survey our assembled multitude on this holy evening, two thoughts come to mind.

The first is a sort of corny line that a rabbi or congregational president might use: “Welcome to the Annual Meeting of the Jewish People.” It’s sort of funny—with allusions to the fact that our multitude tonight is a little more multitudinous than on a weekly Shabbat service. It’s also sort of true. This is when gathering and making a showing in Temple is a way of showing everyone that we are a part of   עדת בני־ישראל the congregation of the Jewish people.

The second is an image from the Rosh Hashanah when Joni and I were living on a kibbutz in Israel. As we went into the dining hall, the foyer was filled with displays showing the kibbutz annual report. There were charts about the cotton, avocado, and grape harvests, reports on milk production in the dairy, photos of new machinery and facilities, and some financial tables showing expenses and income. My favorite board had the photos of the babies born that year—a kind of human production report. Rosh Hashanah was, for the kibbutz, a time of summing up and considering the current state of their communal story.

At our Rosh Hashanah gathering, we too should consider our communal story and think about how it is going. Clearly, the High Holy Days are focused on our personal stories as we reflect and repent and hope that our pages in the Book of Life are good ones (לשנה טובה תכתֵבו!). Our fates, the Tradition counsels, is a combination of what God writes and what we write. This makes us active participants in our own stories. 

I would maintain, as well, that we are active participants in the Jewish story. We Jews, as individuals and as a group, have the opportunity to write our own pages in the Book of Life. 

This combination of identities is always interesting. We have our individual identities and paths through life, and we are also members of various tribes—our families, our social groups, our religion, our nation. We often feel a kind of tension as we are pulled by different loyalties, divergent imperatives. Sometimes we feel great solidarity with our cohorts, and sometimes we feel differentiation. I would think that, for most all of us, Jewish gatherings can bring a kind of ambivalence as our individual identities and various tribal identities vie for attention. I also believe that part of our work as Jews involves developing and negotiating our relationship with our Jewishness.

What I would like to do, then, is to remind us of three Jewish stories—Biblical stories which point to the essence of this holy endeavor that calls to us and draws our attention. Each has a different theme, and each speaks to a different aspect of what it means to be Jewish. How we each relate to each story gives us an understanding of what Jewishness can mean. 

The first story is from Deuteronomy 26, and it involves a ritual from ancient times, a religious rite that includes a story. The mitzvah is bringing the first fruits of the harvest to the Tabernacle. Our ancient ancestors were to put the produce in a basket and give the basket to the priest on duty. The priest was to place the basket on the altar, and the worshipper was to say:
“My father was a wandering Aramean, and he went down into Egypt and sojourned there, few in number, and there he became a great nation, great, mighty, and populous. And, the Egyptians treated us harshly, and afflicted us, and laid upon us hard bondage. Then we cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our voice, and saw our affliction, our toil, and our oppression. And the Lord brought us out of Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with great terror, with signs and wonders, and brought us into this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. So behold, I now bring the first of the fruit of this ground which You, O Lord, have given me.”

The theme of this story is appreciation—appreciation for God helping us through difficulty and appreciation for the abundance with which we are blessed. Part of Jewish Identity is this sense of thankfulness for our history, our community, and the blessings we enjoy.

A second story is a little more directive. It is from Exodus, chapters 19 and 20. Chapter 20, of course, has the Ten Commandments, but the lead-up to the revelation sets the emotional, spiritual, and communal stage.
“Israel encamped there in front of the mountain, and Moses went up to God. The Lord called to him from the mountain, saying, ‘Thus shall you say to the house of Jacob and declare to the children of Israel: “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ 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.”

Then, after some housekeeping about where everyone is to stand for the revelation and a description of the indescribable descent of the Infinite God to the finite world, we have the Ten Commandments: 

(1) I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage; you shall have no other gods beside me.
(2) Do not make idols and worship them.
(3) Do not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.
(4) Keep and observe the Sabbath day; make it holy.
(5) Honor your father and your mother.
(6) Do not murder.
(7) Do not commit adultery.
(8) Do not steal.
(9) Do not bear false witness.
(10) Do not covet your neighbor’s house or wife or anything that is your neighbor’s.

It is a story with purpose. God rescued us from travail—but for a reason. Our communal existence is thus put into the context of a holy mission, and we are then given our orders—all ten of them.

The third story comes in two episodes that comprise the Torah readings for both days of Rosh Hashanah. They may seem like two separate stories, but I think they should be seen as a unit. In both cases—the expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael and the almost sacrifice of Isaac, our ancient family unit was threatened with tension and alienation. You may remember that, after many years of hoping for a child, Abram and Sarah resort to a curious custom. Sarah offers her handmaid Hagar to Abraham, with the idea of considering any eventual children Sarah’s contribution to the family’s future. Hagar gets pregnant and gives birth to Ishmael, but Sarah is less than happy. Things get worse when, miraculously, Sarah gets pregnant herself. Little Isaac brings laughter to the family, but Sarah worries about what it will mean for Isaac to have an older half-brother. When she demands that Abraham throw Ishmael and Hagar out, Abraham is mortified. He goes to God for help, but God tells him to follow Sarah’s demands. How can God command him to abandon his own son—and the woman whom he presumably has loved? We may not be satisfied with the resolution, but what God seems to be doing is establishing separate destinies for Ishmael and Isaac. Isaac is to be the Patriarch of the Hebrew religion, while Ishmael is destined for wealth and power and the leadership of his own tribe. Though Hagar and Ishmael are expelled from Abraham’s compound, they are still in God’s.

The story of Isaac is both more famous and more horrifying. This time, God asks Abraham to sacrifice his son, and Abraham—in a hard-to-understand devotion to God—agrees. He almost does it, but, at the last possible second, God’s angel stops him. Abraham offers a ram in Isaac’s place, and we have a ram’s horn ritual every Rosh Hashanah to recall this story in all of its complexity.  

How do these stories define our Jewishness? Sometimes, in this sacred endeavor, things do not go smoothly. Not only did our ancestors face truly heart-wrenching decisions, but also subsequent generations may have felt uncomfortable with the choices our people have made. 

Both stories have nechemta—ameliorating “happy endings.” Isaac is saved, and Ishmael is given greatness, but these holy destinies come at the price of great personal sacrifice. No one likes personal sacrifice and so therefore the stories represent the discomfort we often feel at what God’s holy mission requires.

The question before us tonight is how we connect to our Jewish stories. Do we see ourselves as active participants in these stories, and how do we want to continue them? As I said, I believe that a certain amount of ambivalence is inevitable as we balance our individuality, our communal membership, and the many different behaviors that can be found in our communal past. We can feel very Jewish in some ways and very distant in others. 

There is usually some common ground, but an open-minded, honest approach will certainly involve reservations—some of them serious. I would beware any tendency to sweep away legitimate concerns in the interest of group solidarity. Our communal moral presence has never been unanimous or un-debated. Indeed, part of what makes us Israel, the God wrestlers, is our willingness and moral commitment to work for both truth and wisdom, both justice and compassion, both holiness and holy practicality. We gather to feel the power of our tradition and to be reminded of the potential that our Jewishness can bring, but the details are ours to work out. We are called by a great unity in the universe and by the conviction that there can be a connection between heaven and earth, but we have to figure out how that connection is to be made. What we think and say and do make a difference, and so therefore we struggle. 

Let me conclude this reflection upon our Jewish stories with a piece in our prayerbook about one more definitional narrative:

We Jews who are called “The Children of Israel” should always remember how we got the name. It was the name given to our grandfather Jacob—Jacob who wrestled the angel, Jacob who would not let go. “Israel” they called him for he was a wrestler. “Israel” they call us for we are wrestlers, too. We wrestle with God as we search for wisdom. We wrestle with people as we struggle for justice. And, we wrestle with ourselves as we make ourselves better and more holy. Yes, we Jews are the Children of Israel, the children and grandchildren of a man who wrestled an angel.