The Strangers Among Us

February 1st: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the Rabbis’ rules of thumb is the belief that God is not redundant. If the Torah says something more than once, it is not mere repetition. Rather, the double or multiple expression of a thought or mitzvah is for a reason—and the Rabbis’ task is to figure out what God has in mind.

 A prime example of this Midrashic work is the number of cups of wine we drink at the Passover Seder. The purpose of the Exodus was to save us from Egyptian slavery, but God does not just say this once. Instead, in Exodus 6.6-7, God uses a bunch of synonymous statements to speak of our redemption:
1)      “I will bring them forth from their suffering in Egypt,
2)      I will rescue them from their slavery,
3)      I will give their lives meaning with My outstretched arm and great actions,
4)      I will take them unto me as My people.”

The Rabbis see each phrase as a different dimension of the salvation, and they prescribe a different cup to celebrate each one.

 (There is, of course, a slight complication. While the Exodus 6.6-7 passage identifies four dimensions of redemption, the very next verse gives what could be considered a fifth: “And I will bring you into the land.” Does this verse mean that we should add a fifth cup of wine? There were divergent opinions among the Sages, and the debate raged for years. Finally, the Rabbis realized that a resolution is currently impossible, so they decided to wait until the end of days, when Elijah will herald the coming of the Messiah, and all questions will be answered. In the meantime, we pour five cups, drink four, and leave one for Elijah.)

 The Four Children section of the Seder is similarly based. Four times God gives the instruction that the Israelites should tell their children about the Exodus—in Exodus 12.26–27, Exodus 13.8, Exodus 13.14, and Deuteronomy 6.20–21. Is God just being emphatic, or is there a subtle difference in each mitzvah that suggests a different kind of telling. The Rabbinic answer is that there are four different types of children, and that each one needs the message to be communicated in a particular way.

 This principle of God is not redundant comes to bear in this week’s Parshat Mishpatim where we hear a single message spoken twice. First, we read Exodus 22.20: “You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.” The mitzvah seems obvious and simple enough. Why, then, would God repeat the message just nineteen verses later? “You shall not oppress a stranger, for you know the heart of the stranger, having yourselves been strangers in the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 23.9)

 The commentary in Etz Hayim suggests that the two mitzvot are directed at different audiences—the first being an instruction for individual Israelites in their daily lives, and the second being a specific instruction to judges. Just as a judge should not favor people he knows, so should he not show judicial prejudice against outlanders/strangers. This is a principle approached several times in the Torah. In Exodus 12.49, Leviticus 24.22, and Numbers (15.29), we read that the same laws and rules should apply to both native born and resident aliens.

 One could also interpret these two mitzvot as referring to two types of strangers—two types of strangeness. Some are strange because they come from other places—from other cities, states, countries, religions, or cultures. When we encounter these strangers, we are bidden to find the common humanity we share and to treat them with respect and fairness. As the Prophet Amos reminds us, (9.7), God loves all humanity and has a special relationship with every people. “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.”

 How are we to treat people from other places? Within our country, there are often differences with which we need to contend, but what happens when people seek to join us from other countries? Though we certainly have the right and the responsibility to maintain our borders and to protect our country, we also have an obligation to respect the humanity of the immigrants who arrive upon our shores or at our borders. The Torah reminds us that they are human beings and not political footballs, but the political process seems more focused on politicking than approaching these human beings with respect and fairness. The solutions to our immigration debate have been obvious for some thirty years, but our administrators and legislators have allowed themselves to be paralyzed by political gamesmanship, and the immigrants and the many citizens who depend upon them have been forgotten in the politic haggling.

 The other strangers among us are individuals who are not foreign but who are strange in their appearance or abilities. Most of us have enough manners not to publicly berate or make fun of someone with a developmental disability, but do we extend the same awareness and respect to those who are unattractive or socially awkward? And, what about the people with disabilities? We have laws mandating accommodation for them in employment and public facilities, but do we treat them as human beings and welcome them into our conversations and social circles? One of the most upsetting things about adulthood is the realization that we never outgrow middle school and the dynamics of socializing and ostracizing.  Oh, how we need the wisdom of the Torah when we are tempted to focus on someone’s strangeness and not on the image of God residing within.

 We are given guidance in this sensibility by the second version’s psychological clause: “for you know the heart of the stranger, seeing that you yourself have been a stranger…” Though we work very hard to find places where we belong—where we fit in, the fact is that we have all experienced social alienation, and we know the awkwardness and psychic pain of being strange. Let us take these painful memories and use them for good. Let us pay attention to our social dynamics and endeavor to make everyone feel at home. We know the heart and the pain of the stranger; let us take the Torah to heart and extend to every stranger the warmth and the welcome we all need.

 

 

At the Mountain: Intensity and Purpose

January 25th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is the portion where we stand at Mount Sinai and hear the Eternal One thunder the words we know as the Ten Commandments. Beginning with, “I am the Lord your God who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage: you shall have no other gods besides Me”  (Exodus 20.2-3), the Torah makes it very clear God’s words are at the center of our Divine purpose—and our relationship with the Divine.

 Shortly before the actual revelation, the Lord explains to Moses the nature and purpose of the relationship which is now being made official: “…I bore you on eagle’s wings and brought you to Me. Now, then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.4-6) The Ten Commandments are not just words; they are the basis of a covenantal partnership.

 The intensity of the experience at the mountain—a volcano like fire at the top and God’s words thundering from On High—frightens the people, and they shrink back from the Divine. “All the people witnessed the thunder and lightning, the blare of the horn and the mountain smoking; and when the people saw it, they fell back and stood at a distance. ‘You speak to us,’ they said to Moses, ‘and we will obey; but let not God speak to us, lest we die.’” (Exodus 20.15-16)

 This is an early case of people dosing themselves with religion—a process in which all human beings are involved. Whether consciously or unconsciously, we decide how much religion or spirituality is helpful, inspiring, perhaps even challenging? How much, on the other hand, is too much for us—too much or unnecessary or perhaps even distracting from other important components of life? All of us need some spiritualty, so the key is determining how much we require.

 Some of us thrive on more religion; it is just the way we are. So, as much as our Tradition urges us to increase our religious thinking and observance, the Tradition also teaches us limits. Notice the famous proverb from Simon the Righteous in Pirke Avot (1.2): “On three things does the world stand: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” This ancient founder of Rabbinic Judaism certainly sees religion—Torah and Worship—as important, but it is not the only important component of life. As Reb Shimon instructs us, going out into the world and doing good deeds is also vital.

 Perhaps this is what God was thinking when God repeatedly tells Moses to descend from the mountain—or from the intimacy of a direct encounter with God—and return to the people. This is not to say that God does not enjoy Moses’ company but rather that God sees the relationship with Moses as a conduit for a greater relationship with the people.

 This comes out again in Moses’ review of Israelite history in Deuteronomy (1.6-8): “The Lord our God spoke to us at Horeb (another name for Mount Sinai), saying: ‘You have stayed long enough at this mountain. Start out and make your way to the hill county of the Amorites and to all their neighbors in the Arabah, the hill country, the Shephelah, the Negeb, the seacoast, the land of the Canaanites, and the Lebanon, as far as the Great River, the river Euphrates. Go, take possession of the land that the Lord swore to your fathers, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to assign to them and to their heirs after them.’”

 Some focus on the territorial aspects of the Deuteronomy passage, wondering about why we never actually obeyed the mitzvah and took possession of all this land. Some modern zealots insist that it was and is a sin to refuse to take over the entire Middle East. Others realize that this mitzvah was and is impossible—that, if God actually intends it as a mitzvah to perform, it is for a time in the distant future. Halachah does not consider every mitzvah it a present expectation: some must wait until God makes them possible.

 There is, however, another way to look at the passage. Just as God instructs Moses to descend from the mountain in order to instruct the people, this passage could be God’s way of sending the people out to teach the world. The time with God in the wilderness—both at the mountain and in the years establishing the holy community—is precious, but that time is preparatory, intended to help Israel learn how to bring God’s words and God’s ways to the world.

 As we pursue our lives, finding a balance among all of life important components, let us not forget the precious relationship that we can have with the Divine. It is a relationship that our religion can help us develop and nurture. But let us also remember God’s stated desire that we take the good and holy thoughts of our faith and bring them to life in the world.

 

God Dwells in Us

 

January 18th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In Beshallach, we read about the long awaited Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt.
“They set out from Succoth, and encamped at Etham, at the edge of the wilderness. The Lord went before them in a pillar of cloud by day, to guide them along the way, and in a pillar of fire by night, to give them light, that they might travel day and night. The pillar of cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night did not depart from before the people.” (Exodus 13.20-22)

The excitement and drama is incredible as God’s Redemptive power is on display. Huge numbers of people who have lived in slavery their entire lives are suddenly able to go marching forth—with God leading them with giant pillars of cloud and fire!

In all the redemptive glory, however, we can fail to notice the internal dynamic at play. Not only is freedom dawning within each Israelite and within the community, but also awakening is purpose. A well-known passage from the Psalms can focus our attention.
“When Israel came forth out of Egypt,
The House of Jacob from a foreign people,
Judah became the place of God’s holiness,
Israel the place of God’s power.” 
(Psalm 114.1-2)

God’s Presence is triumphant—in Egypt and at the Red Sea, but notice how the Psalmist emphasizes the Presence of the Divine in the community. Not only is it manifest in the world—in nature and in supernatural events, it has entered the people of Israel and will be manifest on the human level.

The Children of Israel are on their way to the Promised Land—with holiness of the Land held up as a central part of our holy mission, but, for the forty years in the wilderness and for all the years in the Diaspora, God’s Presence is found in the hearts and minds and communities of God’s people.

In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, as the field of historiography was taking shape—and being influenced by Darwinism, scholars saw in civilizations the life patterns of species and organisms. There seemed to be a pattern throughout history as civilizations developed and rose and then fell. It was a life cycle, but there was one curious exception—the Jews! Though we had endured defeats and diaspora and seemingly continual persecution for some 4000 years, historians and historiographers marveled at the way our ever-dying people managed to survive and even thrive. The religious explanation is, of course, that God is active in history and that Jewish survival and agency are part of God’s plan. However, for these historians and social scientists, supernatural or theological considerations were not part of their working or thinking vocabulary. How did the Jews manage to avoid the cyclical rise and fall of every other civilization?

A very persuasive theory came from the poet Heinrich Heine who spoke of Judaism’s portable homeland. The Torah and the way of life it teaches comprise a way for us to live spiritually and culturally wherever we are and whatever our physical condition. Many Jewish thinkers picked up on his notion and used it in their teaching of Judaism and in their conceptual crafting of modern Judaism. Our God and our relationship with God are not dependent on any particular land or landscape; they exist in the commitment we have and the approaches we have developed over the years. In the words of the Psalmist:
”The Jewish people are the place of God’s holiness,
The Israelite people the place of God’s power.” 

 I do not know if Rabbi Chananyah ben Teradion had this in mind, but his famous teaching in Pirke Avot (3.3) resonates with this sensibility: “When two people sit and words of Torah pass between them, the Divine Presence rests between them.” If God is universal, and if Torah can help us to access God, then we can live in holy relationship with God anywhere.

 In both Israel and in the Diaspora, the salient aspect of Jewishness is whether and how we manifest Torah—God’s holiness and energy—in our lives.

 

 

Wandering and Permanence and God

January 11th: The Book of Exodus
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As we closed our study of Genesis, we considered God’s words to Jacob: “I am God, the God of your father. Fear not to go down to Egypt, for I will make you there into a great nation. I Myself will also bring you back…” (Genesis 46.3-4) Though God knew of the slavery that waited for the Israelites in Egypt—and while Israel with his prophetic abilities probably knew about it as well, God’s instructions say that the move from Canaan to Egypt is a good plan—for now. Later, it will be time to leave Egypt and return to Canaan, but now Egypt is the place to be.

In our long history of wandering, there have been innumerable places that have been good. It was good in ancient Egypt for a long time. It was good under the Greeks for a long time. It was good under the Romans for several periods of their rule. It was good in Babylonia in many periods (of our 2500 year sojourn there). There was a kind of Golden Age of Jewish life in the Rhineland (Speyer, Mainz, and Worms) for a few centuries. The times were so good in Andalusia (Muslim Spain) that we call that period the Jewish Golden Age of Spain. Though anti-Semitism reared its ugly head from time to time, Jewish culture, religious scholarship, prosperity, and involvement in the general community thrived in many places and for many years. One can even point to the good years in places like Germany and Austria of the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries. As for England, things have been good there for several centuries—though Jews were banned for some 350 years, from 1290 to 1657.

Even when much of the European climate was hostile, the anti-Semitism was sporadic. When one king or bishop sanctioned oppression, another one 100 or 200 miles away would encourage Jewish refugees to come to his region, and things would be good there.

As the late historian Ellis Rivkin used to explain, there is no tenet in Christianity or Islam that demands the destruction or even conversion of the Jews. Otherwise, the whole of Christendom or of Islamdom would have united in such a campaign. What we have, rather, are certain texts in both religions that can be used for anti-Semitism in economic or political crises. Dr. Rivkin could go through a list of anti-Semitic incidents in history and, for every single one, show an economic or political problem in which anti-Semitism was used by despots to relieve or divert the crisis.

As we begin Exodus, we reflect on how our good life in Egypt turned bad: “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 our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground.’ So the Egyptians set taskmasters over the Israelites to oppress them with forced labor; and they built garrison cities for Pharaoh; Pithom and Rameses.” (Exodus 1.8-11)

What could account for such a change of attitude? Contrast it to the initial invitation from a different Pharaoh: “Take your father and your households and come to me; I will give you the best of the land of Egypt and you shall live off the fat of the land…never mind your belongings, for the best of all the land of Egypt shall be yours” (Genesis 45.17-20)

An important thing to remember about history is that we Jews were/are not the only wanderers. Permanence in the human experience is at best temporary. Who knows where the “original Egyptians” originated or how homogenous were the Egyptians who built the Pyramids. Egyptologists work on putting the story together, but there seem to be a variety of ethnic, religious, and power groups that vied for influence during the thousands of years of “the Egyptians.” Around 1640 BCE, the then current rulers of Egypt were displaced by a well-organized and militarily better equipped people from Anatolia known as the Hyksos. They swept into the Nile delta and took over for over 100 years. Then, they were driven out by the “native Egyptians” around 1532 BCE who installed their own new king/Pharaoh. Some historians believe that it was a Hyksos Pharaoh who welcomed Joseph and his family—and a post-Hyksos new Pharaoh who expelled the “foreigners” and enslaved our ancestors.

One could compare the situation to the Edict of Expulsion from Spain in 1492 when the Jews were expelled as part of the Reconquista, a centuries’ old effort to rid the Iberian Peninsula of the Muslims who had conquered it some six centuries before.

The point is that our wanderings from place to place—and the good times and bad times we have faced—have been part of the context of human impermanence. Rulers change. Borders and countries change. Weather and topography change. And, we humans scurry around trying to find good places.

 Our Tradition draws two lessons from this dynamic in which we have lived and in which we continue to live today.
(1)   Appreciate the blessings we have and the resilience of our bodies, our wits, our families, and our cultures. Like Jacob who became a Patriarch in a struggle, we find our best humanity in the striving of life and in the search for meaning.

(2)   Realize that the only permanence lies with God. We need to learn to live in relationship with the Eternal One Who is the context for all existence. Like every one of our forebears, we are accompanied along the paths of life by God.

 

Facing an Uncertain Future

December 21st: Vayechi
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A sense of dread hovers over the Torah portions as we conclude Genesis. The refuge of Egypt is wonderful—with Joseph in charge and Jacob and the Children of Israel all welcomed, but we know that the Book of Exodus will soon begin with the new Pharaoh who “knew not Joseph.” As wonderful as it was when, last week, Pharaoh says, “Take your father and your households and come to me; I will give you the best of the land of Egypt and you shall live off the fat of the land…never mind your belongings, for the best of all the land of Egypt shall be yours” (Genesis 45.18-20), a little voice in my head is crying out, “No, don’t go. You’ll end up being slaves there for 400 years!”

This is not a surprise for God, nor is it for Jacob. Before Jacob/Israel leaves for Egypt, God appears to him in a vision by night: “I am God, the God of your father. Fear not to go down to Egypt, for I will make you there into a great nation. I Myself will also bring you back…” (Genesis 46.3-4) In other words, going to Egypt is a good idea—for now. Later, leaving Egypt will be a good idea, but the fact that things will be bad at a distant time in the future does not diminish the good sense of going down there now.

We who like to think in terms of permanence are troubled by the temporary. We want to solve problems, resolve situations, and remove any and all anxiety. Given our incredible technological abilities—and given the many privileges which characterize our lives, we feel that complete fixes are within reach and that not achieving total security is a personal failing.

The problem is that the world itself is impermanent, and the only permanent feature of life is change. Nonetheless, we yearn for “things to be settled,” to be fixed, to be permanently good. We even learn and teach about the wisdom of permanent security in our common wisdom. We read, in The Three Little Pigs, how we should build strong houses that won’t fall down. There is a parable in the New Testament (in both Matthew and Luke) about the wisdom of building a house on rock and not on sand. We even have Abraham Lincoln cautioning us that “a house divided cannot stand.” However, the permanence of any human construction is only temporary, and this persistent, inevitable impermanence has plagued the human psyche since time began.

I am reminded of the very anxious Mrs. Bennett in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and how she looks at the marriages of her daughters—when they are “all settled”—as the completion of her parental responsibilities. Little does she realize that parents are concerned for children forever—and that this concern is part of the blessing of a loving relationship.

This notion of the permanence of love leads us to the religious response to impermanence—the search beyond the worldly to the spiritual. When the usual candidates for certainty—money, power, strength, status—fall by the wayside, the Psalmist tells us to look to God because God is permanent—eternal, everlasting, infinite. When we attach ourselves to God, we can attach ourselves to infinity.

Thus does Psalm 15 list the traits of honesty and truthfulness and conclude, “One who lives in this way shall never be shaken.”

Psalm 90 (verses 10-12) speaks of our limited lifespan—“three-score years and ten, or, even by reason of strength, four-score years”—and the travail and vanity that are inevitable, and then holds up the ideal. “Teach us to number our days that we may get us a heart of wisdom.”

 We cannot be victorious forever, but God can.
“How great are Your works, O Lord, how very subtle Your designs!
A brutish person cannot know, nor can a fool understand:
Though the wicked may sprout like grass, and evil doers may blossom,
They are only temporarily: they shall be destroyed forever.
But, You, O Lord, You are exalted for all time!” 
(Psalm 92.6-9)

We even read this in our High Holy Day prayer books:
“Many of our actions are vain, and our days pass away like shadows. Our lives would be altogether vanity were it not for the soul which, fashioned in Thine own image, gives us assurance of our higher destiny and imparts to our fleeting days an abiding value.” (Union Prayer Book for Jewish Worship, Part II, 1894)

 We could muse with Kohelet, the author of Ecclesiastes, “Vanity, vanity. All is vanity,” but even this tired and frustrated philosopher realizes that the problem lies in our expectations. “Put not your trust in princes, nor in a human being, in whom there is no help” (Psalm 146), nor even in things that seem immovable—mountains, oceans, rivers, continents. Try instead to develop a relationship with the one thing that is immovable—God—and that wants to have a relationship with us. Over and over, our Tradition teaches us that God wants us to participate in the Divine Process—to do the work of godliness in the world. This is our ultimate hope, our chance to be a part of God. Thus does Kohelet ultimately reset his frame of reference and conclude, “The sum of the matter, when all is said and done: Revere God and observe God’s commandments! This applies to all humankind.”

 Yes, we are mortal, but we have a chance to touch eternity. As Rabbi Jacob explained, “Better is one hour of repentance and good deeds in this world that all the life of the world to come.”  (Avot 4.16)

 

Watching Our Enemies Squirm?

December 14th: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is a verse in the Sabbath Psalm that speaks to Joseph’s potential mindset. Abandoned to slavers (or, in some versions, sold to slavers) by his brothers, forgotten by his family, misjudged by his employers, and forgotten by his friend, Joseph has lots of enemies. He could have mused with the words of Psalm 92, “The wicked flourish like grass—those who do evil are blossoming!” He might have continued, “Yet they are doomed to destruction…See how Your enemies, O Lord, see how Your enemies shall perish—how all who do evil shall be scattered.” Then, he could have imagined a day of release and reckoning, “You lift up my cause in pride, and I am bathed in freshening oil. I shall see the defeat of my foes; my ears shall hear of their fall.” (Psalm 92.8-12)

Though he was a victim for a long time, Joseph is now a major figure in Egypt and in charge of all the food. When his brothers arrive, asking on bended knee for provisions, Joseph is transported back to his youth and to his victimhood. The brothers do not recognize Joseph, but he recognizes them. What should he do with his enemies?

His response is interesting. He does not tell him who he is, but instead plays a kind of “cat and mouse game” with them. Is he trying to figure out what to do? Is he testing their moral fiber? Is he setting them up for a dramatic and humiliating moment of reckoning? The story gets rather lengthy, and one can imagine significant emotional turmoil in Joseph’s head as each step of the drama goes on. Finally, after pushing the brothers to the limit, one brother, Judah, stands up and self-sacrificingly tries to save Benjamin from the trap Joseph has set, and Joseph can no longer control his emotions. He has seen his enemies on bended knee before him. He has manipulated them and can dispatch them in any way he chooses. But, the family love comes back to him, and he sees them as brothers and not as enemies. “I am Joseph. Is my father still well?” (Genesis 45.3)

We all have our enemies, and we often need to know how to defend ourselves against them. God comes to tell us, however, that there may be remedies to enmity. When we can de-escalate conflict or hostility, when we can remove the element of danger and anxiety, there is a possibility of seeing the other as one of us. This is not always possible, but sometimes it can be the case.

In the midst of hostility, how do we hope to see our enemies? The Psalmist’s answer—and often ours—is that we want to see them weakened, frightened and at our mercy. We want the threat removed, but do we really want them dead?  At our better moments, I believe we can regard our enemies as God approaches sinners. As we are taught during the High Holy Days: “This is Your glory: You are slow to anger, ready to forgive. It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their ways and live. Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.”

The analogy is not completely accurate because we are not God, and our enemies can do us real harm. However, once we have defended ourselves, we can aspire to be like God in hoping that our enemies turn from their evil ways—and behave like friends.

In so many instances of human conflict, the ideal resolution is of rapprochement, with a violent destruction being, at best, a tragic consequence. Remember the Midrash about the angels singing joyfully after the Splitting of the Red Sea. They are exuberant, but God shushes them with, “How can you rejoice when My children are floating dead in the sea?”  Though the Egyptians are evil and thoroughly deserving of their punishment, they too are God’s children, and God is grief-stricken at the consequences of their actions. God’s ideal resolution would have been for them to repent and return to the hospitable and just ways of the Pharaoh who knew Joseph and who welcomed the Hebrew strangers with, “Take your father and your households and come to me; I will give you the best of the land of Egypt…” (Genesis 45.18)

A number of years ago, I was part of a group of interfaith leaders invited to attend the consecration of the new Roman Catholic Bishop. It was a beautiful and spiritual event, and, toward the end, we were all invited to come up to their bimah and greet the new bishop. When I reached out to shake his hand, he said to me, “I am Joseph, your brother.” It puzzled me for a minute because his name is John, but then I realized that he was quoting the story of Joseph and his brothers.

Though the Roman Catholic Church has been an enemy of the Jewish people for over 1500 years, the last 100 years have seen a major change in its thinking. Repenting in both theology and behavior, the Church has reached out to the Jewish community and has engaged us in many positive ways. In fact, the Catholics have helped to lead other branches of Christianity in renouncing supersessionism and other vestiges of anti-Semitism and engendering better and more respectful interfaith relations.

So when Bishop John Ricard said, “I am Joseph your brother,” he was expressing ex cathedra (because he was sitting in his Bishop’s chair) the new practice of the Roman Church to see Jews as brothers and sisters and fellow believers.

Do we forget the tragedies and atrocities of the past? Of course not. However, we should give thanks that God’s spirit of tolerance and respect is alive and well in our sister religion. It is a good resolution to an old problem.

Though we can understand the yearning of the Psalmist to “see the defeat of his foes,” our Tradition also encourages repentance and reconciliation. As we learn in the Talmud (Berachot 10a, Midrashically interpreting Psalm 104.35): “Some criminals in Rabbi Meir’s neighborhood were giving him a great deal of trouble, and Rabbi Meir prayed that they should die. His wife Beruriah said to him: ‘How can you think that such a prayer is permitted? Is it written, “Sinners will cease?” No. It is written “Sins will cease.” Pray for an end to sin, and the criminals will stop sinning.’ Rabbi Meir prayed for them, and they repented.”

 

 

The Value of Suffering? Part II

December 7th: Miketz
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the Torah this week, in Par’shat Miketz, we see the beginning of the end of Joseph’s suffering. It has been a long road of abandonment, exploitation, and injustice, but God’s redemption is coming. Pharaoh’s cupbearer remembers the Hebrew lad who can interpret dreams, and he calls Joseph to Pharaoh’s attention. Pharaoh calls Joseph from the prison and poses his two perplexing dreams. Joseph humbly explains that he cannot interpret dreams—that he is merely channeling God’s message, and he gets down to business, interpreting the dreams and suggesting a course of action. Pharaoh is impressed, and a day that began with Joseph sitting forlorn in prison ends with him as the second most important official in Egypt.

We are also, of course, celebrating Chanukah—a very happy holiday. The Festival of Lights celebrates the dual miracles that led to the rededication (chanukah) of the Temple back around 165 BCE AND the resilience of our people and our faith. We are happy, as were the Maccabees when they were able once again to worship in the holy Temple. However, a lot of suffering was necessary in order for that first Chanukah to take place, and the suffering continued as the war with the Greek Syrians continued for a number of years.

 A hint of these generally forgotten difficulties comes in the English version of Ma’oz Tzur, the Chanukah Hymn. In the second verse we have:
Kindling new the holy lamps,
Priests approved in suffering,
Purified the nation’s shrine
Brought to God their offering.

 And, in the first verse, we sing:
Furious they assailed us,
But Thine arm availed us,
And Thy word broke their sword
When our own strength failed us.

We don’t tell the children about the fact that Judah Maccabee died in the ongoing war with the Greek Syrians—and the fact that the wars were real wars, with plenty of casualties on both sides. There was also suffering before the wars when many Jews were martyred for refusing to worship the Greek idols.

These stories are not in the Bible because they happened after the Bible. And, they are not included in the Talmud because the Rabbis did not want to emphasize the warrior ideal of the Maccabees. After all, they put together the Talmud in the aftermath of disastrous military efforts against the Romans (70 CE and 135 CE). From 140 CE until the mid-1800s, Judaism eschewed any kind of physical and forceful resistance—and therefore Chanukah was remembered through a different filter. (If it were not for the Christians and their Apocrypha and Pseudopigrapha, the four intertestamental Books of the Maccabees and their stories of gruesome martyrdoms might have been lost.)

This situation of large-scale martyrdom directly counters Biblical “Deuteronomic Theology.” The reward for faithfulness to God’s mitzvot is supposed to be earthly reward. So, when Jews died because they were faithful to God and God’s commandments, it seemed that Deuteronomy is wrong.  Believing that God is ultimately just and fair, the Rabbis—the scholar class which supported the Maccabees and which was swept into religious authority with their victory over both the Greeks and the Hellenized Jewish Priesthood—figured that our purview must be too limited. Perhaps they intuited, God’s justice is not only for this world, and they began to teach about the Olam Haba, the World-to-Come, the place we go after we die—a place where the scales of Divine Justice are brought into balance. Thus, the suffering of this world can be seen as a test—a test that, if passed, can prepare our way for the eternal rewards of Olam Haba.

 Modern Judaism does not emphasize this reward-in-the-afterlife part of our tradition, but it has been a very important element for those dealing with suffering. If, despite the dangers and deprivations and profound sadnesses that afflict us, we can remain faithful to the mitzvot of morality and our religious responsibilities, then the rewards of Olam Haba will far exceed the pain we experience in this life. As Rabbi Judah says in Pirke Avot (4.16): “This world is like an anteroom before the world to come. Prepare yourself in the anteroom so that you may enter the banquet hall.”

There is also the notion of an eternality one can achieve through godliness in the world—through acts of  nobility, principle, justice, righteousness, compassion, lovingkindness, charity, and love. In fact, Rabbi Jacob followed up his teaching on Olam Haba with this eternal but more earthly wisdom: “Better is one hour of repentance and good deeds in this world that all the life of the world to come.” He is not negating his previous teaching, but he is speaking about a closeness to God in the deeds of this world which is of ultimate value.

Is there value in suffering? We certainly do not want to suffer, but we have learned through the ages—and through our lives—that suffering can be transformed to a purpose. It can be something to endure for a future goal, or it can be an opportunity to give witness to a greater good.

Through it all, we are taught, God is with us—with us at every moment: doing justice, soothing pain, setting free, giving light, lifting up, taking care, inspiring, challenging. In both the good moments of our lives and the bad, God is our companion and our eternal hope. As we sing: Children of the martyr race,
Whether free or fettered,
Wake the echoes of the songs,
Where ye may be scattered.
Yours the message cheering
That the time is nearing
Which will see all free
Tyrants disappearing.

The Value of Suffering? Part I

November 30th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
 

We who suffer—some more and some less—do not generally approach suffering as a good and purposeful experience.  

There are exceptions, of course. When suffering is necessary to prepare us for something important, we can often endure it for the sake of the ultimate goal. This would go for soldiers suffering through basic training or women suffering through labor and delivery. It could also be the case for athletes suffering through difficult training drills or students suffering through homework. When there is a purpose, the connection between the suffering and the goal can help us endure. 

But, generally, the purpose or value of suffering is not so obvious, and we struggle to make sense of our pain or deprivation or deep sadness. Lest we despair, we work hard to deal with the difficulties in our lives, and this is where religion enters. The late philosopher, Dr. Alvin Reines, used to describe the basic predicament of humans as finitude: we have infinite desires and finite possibilities. To remedy or deal with this finitude, we search for meaning—in Dr. Reines’ words soteria, ultimate meaningfulness, and this is the purpose of religion. As Rabbi Chaim Stern puts it, we hope “to impart to our fleeting days an abiding value.” 

As Judaism has developed through the ages, a number of responses have been formulated to help us understand the vicissitudes of our lives. Several of these lessons can be discussed in the context of this week’s Torah portion and the whole Joseph saga, and we shall consider them over the next two weeks.  

When Jacob is told, in Genesis 37, that Joseph has been eaten by a wild beast, he suffers great grief. The only comfort is that the rest of the family survives and will continue on into the future. As God has promised him, “I will deal bountifully with you and make your offspring as the sands of the seas, which are too numerous to count.” (Genesis 32.13) There is less concern in the Torah for individual salvation and more concern with the survival of the tribe or nation. Though individuals do not continue indefinitely, God promises that the Children of Israel will continue forever. 

This limitation of Biblical thought is also expressed by Jacob’s wordsRefusing to be comforted by his children, he says, “No, I will go down mourning to my son in Sheol.” (Genesis 37.35) Sheol is the place our ancient ancestors believed awaited them upon their deaths. It was not a place of reward or punishment; just a place where dead people dwelled. As for reward for obedience to God’s will or punishment for disobedience, the Torah’s teaching is that they come in this life (in a teaching called Deuteronomic Theology). The Book of Job struggles with this notion as Job, a righteous and blameless man, suffers all kinds of terrible things. The book ends with a resolution of sorts—that God’s ways are beyond human understanding, but we are still left with the fact that bad things happen to good people—and that good things happen to bad people. It is not the kind of answer we are seeking.  

Another answer comes in the Torah, though it takes quite a while to emerge. At the end of the story of Joseph—some twelve chapters and three parshiyot hence, Joseph speaks of his suffering with equanimity, “Although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many peoples.” (Genesis 50.20) Of course, this comes after a lot of suffering: Joseph is abandoned by his family, sold into slavery in Egypt, falsely accused of rape, imprisoned, and forgotten by someone he thought was a friend. The rest of the family suffers, too: Jacob mourns his son continually and coddles the baby Benjamin, smothering him with “protection.” And, as we find out later, the other brothers are plagued with guilt over a spat that got completely out of control. 

So, we have to be careful in quoting Joseph’s philosophical reflection with too much sanguinity. Yes, God meant it for good, but how does one accept misery and family dysfunction in anticipation of something good in the distant future? The answer lies in the faith we are taught—the faith in God’s ultimate victory that is expressed so often in Scripture and the prayer book. Consider, for one example, the Kaddish. Recited throughout the worship service and after study sessions and after a loved one’s death, the Kaddish prays that “v’yam’lich mal’chutay” that God’s kingdom will ultimately prevail. And, though we say, “b’chayechon uv’yomechon…ba’agala uviz’man kariv / In your lifetime and in your days...quickly and very soon,” we know that the wait may be long. Nonetheless we have faith, and we pledge ourselves to do our small parts to eventuate in Tikkun Olam. 

If we can see the long picture—that step by step and mitzvah by mitzvah, God’s influence can rule the whole earth, then we can find meaning in being a part of the solution. And, we can find meaning despite our finitude. This can be our spiritual aspiration. 

Next week, as Joseph’s long wait for redemption continues, we shall revisit this notion of the value of suffering and consider more lessons from our tradition. 

 

 

 

Wrestling with Outrage and Danger

November 23rd: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The most famous part of Vayishlach is the story of Jacob wrestling with the angel. It is a mysterious passage that begs for symbolic interpretation—especially since we get our group name, Israelites or Children of Israel, from the new name given to our Grandfather Jacob. Here is a paragraph in our prayer book that draws some lessons from the story (page 150):

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.

Wrestling is not a gentle sport, and sometimes matches can be quite brutal. In a less famous story in the par’shah, our family finds itself in a very difficult situation, with some real wrestling to do. In Genesis 34.1-31, we read about Jacob/Israel and his family returning to the Land of Canaan from Padan Aram (Syria) and settling near Shechem (modern day Nablus, a town about thirty miles north of Jerusalem). Everything seems fine until Shechem, son of the local chieftain Hamor, sets his eyes on Jacob’s daughter, Dinah. One day, when she goes “out to visit the daughters of the land,” Shechem takes her by force and rapes her. Declaring his love for Dinah, he initiates negotiations to marry her. Her family has mixed reactions. Some seem to think that marriage would be the best course. Others are “very angry because he had committed an outrage in Israel!”

The pitch for the marriage—made by Shechem’s father, Hamor—is worth examining. He sees it as an opportunity to combine the tribes. “My son Shechem longs for your daughter. Please give her to him in marriage. Intermarry with us: give your daughters to us, and take our daughters for yourselves. You will dwell among us, and the land will be open before you. Settle, move about, and acquire holdings in it.”

Modern readers will note the glaring omission of any concern about Dinah herself. What is her feeling about the liaison? Does she want to stay with Shechem’s family—having been brought there by force? What is her desire in re marrying the man whose “affection” is so brutal? Though she certainly has feelings, they do not seem to be part of the ancient conversation. (For a fascinating midrash on Dinah’s feelings and experiences, see The Rent Tent by Anita Diamant.)

The eventual answer is to allow the marriage, but with one important condition. Hamor and Shechem and their entire tribe must be circumcised. For an Israelite maiden to marry an uncircumcised man would be “a disgrace among us.” These “words pleased Hamor and Hamor’s son Shechem,” and they proceed to arrange a mass circumcision. Is it a matter of overwhelming love—Shechem’s love for Dinah, Hamor’s love for Shechem, and the entire tribe’s love for Shechem, or are their intentions more nefarious? Knowing that Shechem’s approach toward the woman he loves has not been respectful, the commentators look for clues to their motivation in the appeal that Shechem and Hamor make to the tribe. In verse 21, we read: “These people are our friends; let them settle in the land and move about in it, for the land is large enough for them; we will take their daughters to ourselves as wives and give our daughters to them…their cattle and substance and all their beasts will be ours, if we only agree to their terms, so that they will settle among us.” In other words, the circumcision is seen as a painful but lucrative strategy so that “their cattle and substance and all their beasts will be ours.” Shechem and Hamor are planning to seize everything Jacob and his sons own, and their tribesmen agree to be part of this strategy.

The wickedness of Hamor and Shechem sort of justifies the surprise strategy and vengeance of Dinah’s family. “On the third day, when they (the newly circumcised tribesmen) were all in pain, Simon and Levi, two of Jacob’s sons, brothers of Dinah, took each his sword, came upon the city unmolested, and slew all the males. They put Hamor and his son Shechem to the sword, took Dinah out of Shechem’s house, and went away. The other sons of Jacob came upon the slain and plundered the town, because their sister had been defiled.”

Is this strategy a reasonable or fair response to the rape of their sister? Is it a proportional response? Or is their response responding to a much larger offensive—an offensive that only begins with the rape of Dinah? If you know your enemy has no respect for you—thinks you are weak and can be lulled to lethargy with words and incremental aggression, must you play a quid pro quo game of proportional responses, or should you recognize the threat being mounted and stop it? Or, getting back to Dinah, does not such an outrageous crime demand justice (when you know the tribe is not going to let Shechem alone be punished)?

Jacob is unhappy with what his adult sons have done. “You have brought trouble on me, making me odious among the inhabitants of the land, the Canaanites and the Perizzites.” He seems to think that their actions are way beyond reasonability, but his sons see things differently. When they respond to Jacob with, “Should our sister be treated like a whore?” I believe they are saying that the best defense is a devastating offense.

We do not have a complete history of this period of Jewish history, but the Torah does not report anyone else in Canaan messing with the Israelites after this.

 

 

 

Visiting Uncle Laban's Family

November 16th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Part of what makes the Torah ring so true is its portrayal of our ancestors as real and imperfect people—with real and imperfect families. In last week’s par’shah, Rebecca and Jacob conspire to fool Isaac into blessing the wrong son. In this week’s par’shah, Jacob meets his Syrian family: Uncle Laban and Cousins Rachel and Leah. Love soon develops between Jacob and Rachel, but family dynamics get very complicated when Laban substitutes Leah for Rachel in what must have been a rather concealing bridal costume. This is just the beginning, and the complications of sisters/wives competing for the husband’s affection, of working for a dishonest father-in-law, and of the subsequent rivalries and competitions among the children make life challenging and have long-lasting consequences. Imagine sitting around the “Thanksgiving table” up in Padan Aram with Laban, Jacob, Leah, Rachel et al!

 Coming right between the difficulties of family life in in Beersheba and the difficulties of family life in Padan Aram is Jacob’s incredible encounter with God—God Who stands at the top of the Ladder between Heaven and Earth. One can imagine Jacob feeling very pleased with himself after the meeting because God blesses him with a holy destiny: “I am the Lord, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac: the ground on which you are lying I will assign to you and to your offspring. Your descendants shall be as the dust of the earth; you shall spread out to the west and to the east, to the north and to the south. All the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you and your descendants. Remember, I am with you: I will protect you wherever you go and will bring you back to this land. I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” (Genesis 28.13-15)

 After such a meeting, Jacob must have great confidence as he strides into Padan Aram, but this confidence is soon mangled by Uncle Laban’s deceptive behavior. Yes, God is with Jacob, but, in the emotional cauldron of a dishonest father-in-law, two competing wives, a few concubines, and children who may be learning the bad along with the good of what they see, the going is not easy. Again, imagine what it would have been like to sit at their table for “Thanksgiving”—or whatever holiday brought the whole family together. Think of all the agendas and possibilities.

 We do not know how the Patriarchs and Matriarchs navigated their family gatherings, but we know that ours are fast approaching. As we think about our own Thanksgiving gatherings—and about the conceivably challenging family dynamics, what would some guiding principles be?

 Dr. Christena Cleveland, a Christian teacher who focuses on justice and peacemaking, offers these insights in her newsletter, in an article entitled, Eight Tips for Difficult Conversations Over the Holiday Table:

First, be encouraged that you’re probably the best person to talk to your family about politics. Social psychology research on extended contact theory reveals that we can play a critical role in opening our family members’ minds about different groups. Research shows that our prejudice toward groups significantly decreases when we learn that someone we know has a positive relationship with someone in the other group.

Second, dig deep into humility. Over the course of our lives, we’ve become ignorant, internalized oppressive ideology, hurt marginalized people, and resisted self-examination. Remember your journey as you seek to jump-start other people’s journeys.

Third, plan a Sabbath during your time with family. While you’re with family, plan to take time off for restoration. Take a 20 minute walk to breathe deeply, visit a coffee shop or take a night out with friends.

Fourth, do some spiritual strength training. We are not invincible; we cannot continually enter into difficult conversations unless we are clothed in an armor of love. Amp up your spiritual strength training.

Fifth, prepare to tell the story of your justice journey. Rather than planning to launch shaming justice grenades on your family members, spend time preparing to strategically and vulnerably share your story with them.

Sixth, remember that this isn’t the only conversation/interaction you’re going to have. As Archbishop Oscar Romero believed, “We plant the seeds that one day will grow. We water seeds already planted, knowing that they hold future promise.”

Seventh, be kind to yourself. The pain, fear, and anxiety you are experiencing right now are human and justified. Give yourself permission to be imperfect and to do imperfect justice work.

 Eighth, do some more spiritual strength training.

 

Part of our Jewish legacy is that we have all stood under that Ladder to Heaven and heard God tell us that we have a special destiny—that we have in our souls a special truth. So, when we meet and eat and speak with the confidence of that Divine Encounter, let us remember that others’ viewpoints also have their origins in God.

 

 

 

Rabbi Ostrich’s Remarks at Special Shabbat Service in Aftermath of the Pittsburgh Synagogue Murders

Several members and visitors have asked for a copy of Rabbi David Ostrich’s remarks at our special service on Shabbat November 2, 2018. In the aftermath of the murders at Tree of Life Congregation in Pittsburgh, Jewish congregations all over the country held special services where non-Jewish friends and neighbors joined Jewish communities in worship and memory and resolution. At Brit Shalom, our service was attended by some 600 people, and the support and love was overwhelming. Here are Rabbi Ostrich’s remarks:

We have gathered together this Sabbath evening to thank God for the Creation and for the blessings we enjoy, and in the aftermath of a great evil that happened last Saturday just a few miles down the road.

 When a tragedy like this occurs, the bonds of sympathy felt with the victims are often widespread and deeply rooted. There are concentric circles of outrage, fear, sadness, and resolve. Some have friends and relatives in Squirrel Hill. Some used to belong to the Tree of Life Congregation. Jews are connected by the sacred bond of our covenantal community—and by the anti-Jewish statements of the murderer. Some are connected because they are people of faith who believe that worship places should be respected and that worshippers should be able to pray in safety. Some people realize that heinous acts against any citizen who is somehow “different” spell danger for all minority citizens—realizing, of course, that pretty much everybody belongs to one kind of minority or another. The idea that someone could be targeted and murdered because of religious or racial or cultural or gender or any dozens of differences is profoundly perverse and sinful and filled with evil. It is also deeply unpatriotic.

 This sense of horror is widespread, and the resulting support for and affirmation of the Pittsburgh congregation, Jewish congregations all over the country, all immigrants, and all potential victims of hate have been significant and remarkably inspiring. Jewish communities all over the country have received e-mails, phone calls, and letters from thousands of non-Jews also aghast at the outbreak of hate and anti-Semitism that erupted last Shabbat. Let me share three examples.

 First, this peace lily flower arrangement in the front of our altar was donated by a group of local Christian clergy who work with me on a variety of interfaith efforts and who want to remind us of the commonality of our aspirations—and of the respect, cooperation, and true friendships that bridge our theological and liturgical differences. Thanks to these friends for this kind gesture and for the fellowship of holiness that we share.

 Second, joining us this evening are Donald Hahn, the mayor of State College, and a number of council members and local leaders. They are here to say that a common humanity binds all of our residents together, and that acts of hate have no place in our town, our county, our commonwealth, our country, or our world.

 Third is a letter we got from the local Orthodox Church—that’s Christian Orthodoxy—voicing their friendship with the Jewish community, offering us a memorial donation to plant trees in Israel in memory of the Tree of Life victims, and giving us a copy of a letter sent out to all Orthodox congregations in North America by their Primate. I would like to read to you from that letter...

 “To the Clergy, Monastics and Faithful of the Orthodox Church in America,

 On Saturday, October 27, 2018, as congregants at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh were observing the Jewish Sabbath, a man of violence entered into their midst and murdered eleven men and women at worship. Before finishing his acts of horror, he wounded several others, including four brave police officers who had rushed to the scene. Reports indicate that this man had the sole intention of killing members of the Jewish community, and that he shouted, ‘all Jews must be killed’” while he committed this atrocity. The Orthodox Church in America grieves with the families of the murdered. We pray fervently to God for the healing of the wounded, and consolation for all who are affected.

 The perpetrator of this barbarous crime sought to falsely justify his actions with a particular hatred for a Jewish organization that gives support to refugees and immigrants of diverse nationalities, races, and religions, thus fulfilling the command of God himself who said to the people of Israel through the Prophet Moses, ‘The stranger who sojourns with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt (Leviticus 19.34).” Orthodox Christians have received this same teaching in the parable of the Good Samaritan, in which our Lord teaches us that the ‘neighbor’ we are enjoined by God to love is hidden in the ‘other,’ who is a human being of a different nationality, race, or religion.

 We abhor and condemn this wicked deed, and reject its false justification. Instead, we offer the hope that can be found in God alone. In Him, we are free from the assault of attitudes and ideologies of prejudice and hatred, fear and anxiety about those who are indeed our neighbors. As we stagger under the impact of the murders in the Pittsburgh synagogue, and as we walk alongside the Jewish citizens of our nations while sharing their grief and anxiety, we must turn to God, the source of mercy, consolation, and hope...

 Tichon,
Archbishop of Washington
Metropolitan of All America and Canada”

 

When evil erupts in our world and people suffer, we who believe in a just and loving God find ourselves shaken. But, lest we think that God is unmoved, our traditions teach us that God is also deeply traumatized. In the Jewish Tradition, we are taught that God is with us in our troubles, grieving with us and loving us continually, eternally. In one ancient Midrash, the Rabbis even suggest that, when Israel was enslaved in Egypt, so was God. God was right alongside us in our suffering; God’s Presence never leaves. Christians have the same belief as voiced in Matthew 25 (40): “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” In other words, both heaven and earth are shocked and saddened and profoundly disappointed when hate attacks the innocent. This is true of Pittsburgh and Louisville and Charleston and Houston and Parkland and Las Vegas and every location where the godly potential of human beings is perverted and diverted and wasted. God grieves with us.

 

And, we are taught, God hopes for better. God hopes along with us that love, kindness, honesty, and respect, that compassion, righteousness, justice, and grace will burst forth in the world—that we can bring light to darkness, understanding to ignorance, and love to intolerance. We may pray to God, but I believe that God is praying to us that those who gather together tonight in shock and in sadness also gather in resolve to bring forth the godliness that is possible in the human soul.

 

 

How Should/Do Jews Celebrate Christmas?

November 9th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We have been invited to hold an American Red Cross Blood Drive on December 24th, and it offers us a mitzvah possibility that brings together some of today’s most pressing concerns.

 (1)   Just a few weeks ago, we were inspired by the message of Rabbi Jonah Pesner of the Religious Action Center of the Reform Movement. He urged us to be activists in the work of Tikkun Olam, the repair of the world. Sometimes, Tikkun Olam involves social justice work, and sometimes it involves less controversial but equally important acts of healing. A Blood Drive is absolutely necessary for those in need of transfusions, and donating is a fairly quick and easy way to contribute something of substance.

(2)   The tragedy at Tree of Life Congregation in Pittsburgh has also inspired many of us to find ways to stand up for life and to work together for the moral values that all good people share. What better way than to literally share our life-blood with random strangers—fellow children of God who are in desperate need.

(3)   As we approach Kristallnacht, November 9th, an anniversary of great destruction and a harbinger of the even greater destruction that engulfed Europe and so many of us, we should resolve to respond to darkness with light, to respond to terror with love, and to respond to the absence of humanity with the quintessential commodity of human life.

(4)   As we reflect upon the importance of neighborly respect and support—a quality so evident in the non-Jewish response to the Pittsburgh atrocity, we should resolve to do our part as members of the general community. There is a modern Jewish tradition of helping our Christian friends and neighbors as they celebrate their yontif—taking shifts for them, volunteering at hospitals for them, etc. Christians are busy at Christmastime, but the need for blood is continuing. Let us take this opportunity at this time of the year to carry the responsibility for blood donations when our Christian friends are involved in their holidays.

(5)   And, there is even a connection we can draw from our weekly Torah portion. In the story of Jacob and Esau, in Genesis 25.29, we read: “Once when Jacob was cooking a stew, Esau came in from the open, famished. And Esau said to Jacob, ‘Give me some of that red stuff to gulp down, for I am famished…at the point of death!” In Esau’s case, lentil stew worked. But, in many emergency medical situations, more than nutrition is necessary. The red stuff we can give can make the difference in people’s lives.

 We are being offered a mitzvah of the first order, and I am hoping we can generate interest and support. Here is what we need.

(a)  We need two or three volunteers to help with the blood drive that day, Monday December 24th, from about 9:00 AM until 2:00 PM. The duties will include helping with registration, serving snacks, etc.

(b)   We need a few dozen people to come and give blood. Please let me know (by e-mail) if you’ll be in town on the 24th and can commit to giving blood that day.

 To sweeten the pot AND to recognize the official ways that Jews celebrate Christmas, the Red Cross people are working on Chinese food for snacks AND gift cards for the movies! What more could you ask for?

Please be in touch so we let the Red Cross know that they can depend on us.

 

Abraham in Canaan and Jews in Pittsburgh

November 2nd: Hayeh Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In two instances in this week’s Torah portion, we see a tension between Abraham belonging to his society and Abraham being an outsider. In the first case, Abraham is preparing to bury his wife, Sarah, and he wants to buy a piece of property from one of the local landowners. The Torah goes into a great amount detail in re the negotiating and the price he paid (400 shekels of silver), more than seems necessary for a simple real estate transaction. The Commentators explain this in terms of Abraham’s temporary status in the area: though he is well respected, in the words of the Hittites, “the elect of God among us,” he is, in his own words, “a resident alien among you.” (Genesis 23.4-6) He does not feel secure in the Hittite society, and he does not own any land. So, the Commentators observe, in lieu of permanent property records, he chooses to pay an exorbitant price for the property, creating a local story for everyone to tell and remember, and making his ownership a matter of public and popular knowledge.

 The second case is when it comes time to find a wife for Isaac. Abraham is concerned that the wife not be local, and he sends his servant back to Mesopotamia to go procure a wife for Isaac. He has the servant swear “by the Lord, the God of heaven and the God of earth, that you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell, but will go to the land of my birth and get a wife for my son Isaac.” (Genesis 24.3-4) Though Abraham lives in the Land—and though God has decreed that Abraham and his descendants will live there forever, Abraham wants a wife from the “Old Country,” guaranteeing that Isaac and his family will be part of but not totally part of Canaanite society.

 This dynamic tension in Abraham’s situation has been the Jewish destiny throughout the generations. We always work to be a part of our communities—and, in many places and times, we have been extraordinarily successful. We have both benefited from welcoming societies and made great contributions to them. And yet, in order to maintain our Jewish identities and communities, we have limited our total assimilation—focusing also on intra-group activities and relationships. It is and has been an interesting position for a people to maintain—resulting in a continuing discussion in our texts and in our strategies for successful lives.

 

And so we get to Pittsburgh this last Shabbat. In an act unspeakable on so many levels, a hateful person lashed out at innocent worshippers—identifying them and us as outsiders and enemies. That his logic is stupid is beside the point. Acts like this never make sense and never help any positive agenda. However, the fact that such hatefulness exists is terribly troubling, and we find ourselves asking why.

 Many point to the rhetoric of our President, the rallies he organizes, and the exuberantly angry crowds he whips up and eggs on. When Mr. Trump instigates outbursts of anger and violence, how surprised can we be when someone acts out the emotional message with guns? Paraphrasing the old adage: When you lead a horse to water, you shouldn’t be surprised when it takes a drink.

 The President and his defenders insist that he never advocates actual violence—that the violence he espouses is psychic and is a response to the psychic violence that his followers feel has been directed at them. There may be some logic in this reasoning, but it puts Mr. Trump in a reactionary position that is ill-posed to help anyone. He makes himself into a caricature—an emotional outburst rather than a positive actor.

 Though Mr. Trump and his phenomenon seem particularly dramatic, it is not as unique as we might think. We can see populist anger and political expression throughout the five centuries of American history, and the improvements of modern life have not remedied this social tendency. Writing in the 1970s and 1980s, Dr. Murray Bowen, the noted psychiatrist and developer of Family Systems Theory, often discussed an overly-reactive and emotional, circling-the-wagons type mentality that was taking over the country.

 If we believe we have gone too far, how do we repent as a nation and return to civil discourse and communication?

 A simple answer is that we can follow the teaching of Hillel:  “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. (That is the whole Torah; all the rest is commentary; now go and study!)” (Talmud, Shabbat 31a) We can also take it one step further, following the teaching of Reb Shmelke: “What is hateful in your neighbor, do not do yourself.” Should we model the same behavior we hate, or should we look at bad behavior as a lesson in what we do not want to be?

 Here is a question for supporters of President Trump: Is heaping abuse on Democrats—speaking of them as traitors, murderers, and enemies—the best way to convince them of your political vision? Here is a question for opponents of President Trump: Is the best way to dial down the anger and vitriol of political discourse to heap abuse on the people who cheer on the President and who resonate with something in his message?

 There are, I suspect, fanatics and nuts all over the political spectrum—and, please God, protect us from them, but I do not believe that the majority of people in either party are crazies or wicked or stupid—and I do not think calling them such names is very persuasive in making progress. The vast majority of people on both sides of the political divide are people of principle and intelligence who have real hopes and real fears. I believe that their actions both practical and emotional are born of the reality of their lives, and dismissing them or disrespecting them does not make their thinking evaporate; it just drives them deeper into their anger and fear. It is not nice. It is also counterproductive.

The basis of our democratic republic is that people are intelligent and possessed of decency and moral fiber. The goal of a democratic society is not for the proponents of one point of view to destroy their opponents but rather to convince them and find solutions together. Let us beware any rhetoric on any side that does not respect these core principles.

 

 

 

Natural Law and God

October 26th: Va’yera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Back in the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court Confirmation Hearings (1991), before the whole Anita Hill and Sexual Harassment controversy, the big issue challenging then-Judge Thomas was his belief in Natural Law. Trained in the Catholic faith and legal tradition, Judge Thomas learned about, believed in, and taught this approach to law. The concern by those opposed to his confirmation was that he would be judging based not on the Constitution and Laws of the United States, but on this other legal tradition, Natural Law. It seemed like a real challenge, but then people discovered what Natural Law is: the notion that some qualities of right or wrong spring from the very nature of existence—and not because a deity or ruler decrees them. Originally discussed by ancient Greek philosophers, it became a rather extensive conversation in both Rabbinic Judaism and in the developing Canonical Law tradition of Christianity. At the end of the day, it is not a rival legal tradition but an expansive discussion of what many would call common sense: you don’t need a decree or sacred text to know that stealing and murder are wrong, and that justice and compassion are right.

 The Greek philosophers and the Christian Fathers were concerned with morality and the legitimacy of authority. What would happen if someone legally or religiously in-command gave an unjust order or judgment? Does the legality of the authority make the unjust just, or is there a sense of justice or morality above and beyond the authority of a human ruler or bishop?

The Rabbis also addressed this Natural Law, and their concern was in regard to the categories of universal morality and Jewish morality. Given that God has special rules for Jews—human beings who, by virtue of a covenant, are obligated for special behavior, what about the non-Jews? Are there any non-covenantal expectations for them? The Rabbis resolve this question by inventing/concocting a covenant with all humanity—one established between God and Noah after the Flood. Though not phrased in the Natural Law terminology of a non-authority-based sense of right and wrong, the Noachide Covenant was a Rabbinic invention to establish a basic set of principles and behaviors applicable to all human beings—everyone descended from those who survived the Flood.

As for the questions of the Greek philosophers and the Christian Fathers, the Rabbis had excellent guidance from the Torah—specifically the encounter this week between Abraham and God in re the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah.

In Genesis 18, God decides to discuss the Sodom and Gomorrah situation with Abraham. God’s reasoning is that: “Abraham is destined to be a great and populous nation and to bless all the nations of the earth” with his moral and religious message. God “singled him out so that he could instruct his descendants to keep the way of the Lord by doing what is just and right.”

Genesis 18.17-19)  It is not so much that God wants to check with Abraham to see if the Divine Plan is okay. Rather, God wants the moral instructor of the world to understand the Divine way and the Divine actions so that he can explain them to everyone else.

 However, when God does run the plan by Abraham, Abraham voices a challenge: “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 from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike. Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly?!” (Genesis 18.23-25) Despite this challenge, which some could consider impudent, God goes along with Abraham’s logic.

 At this point, there are two ways to look at the story. If the Torah is written by (or dictated by) God, then we have God going along with this expectation—that God, being God, will not and cannot do something unjust. God is agreeing with the sense of right and wrong that is above even the Divine. One could even say that God is constituted so that God’s Will would never, ever want to do something unjust.  If, on the other hand, the Torah is written by humans, then we have them writing that God goes along with this expectation of fairness and justice. Either way you approach the story, we have the Torah setting up the expectation that a sense of morality exists above any Divine capriciousness or whimsy. God only does justice! This is a way of stating what others call Natural Law.

 While the Torah states this directly, the Rabbis enhance the lesson with an interesting Midrash on the previous passage—the one where Abraham is visited by God and two angels. As you may remember, Abraham invites the Divine visitors into his tent and offers them lunch. “He took curds and milk and the calf that had been prepared and set them before the visitors, and he waited on them under the tree as they ate.”  (Genesis 18.8) The koshi (difficulty) is that Abraham appears to be serving a non-kosher meal, mixing dairy and meat products. The historical answer is that the laws of Kashrut were not yet given—Sinai being some 700 years in the future—AND that the particular institution of not mixing dairy and meat might have been a much later development. In other words, Abraham did not keep Kosher because Kashrut had not yet been invented. However, the Sages could not imagine the founder of Judaism not keeping Kosher. And, they found a needle to thread to support their intuition: notice the order of Abraham’s menu. The dairy is served first, and the calf is served second. If it takes a long time to prepare (slaughter, butcher, roast, etc.) the calf, it would mean a suitable interval between the two types of food. Of course, they reasoned, Abraham kept Kosher, and the Torah proves it. This is cute, but the profundity follows. Halachah, the Rabbis teach, is not just an arbitrary set of rules imposed by God on us. No, Halachah is naturally the way life should be lived; its principles and details emerge from the design of the natural world—making it a kind of Natural Law. Yes, God revealed and commanded it later, but a perceptive and spiritual person like Abraham should be able to derive every bit of Halachah from a careful observation of the created world. Abraham does not need the Revelation on Mount Sinai to know about Kashrut or any other part of Halachah; he knows it already because he is a keen and reverent observer of the created world.

 

Is there a morality that emanates from the Creation? Are there truths that are self-evident? According to the ancient Rabbis, and many Greek philosophers, and the Church Fathers, the answer is Yes. So, whether from revelation or tradition or a deep reading of reality, we should know how to behave justly and compassionately. We were created that way.

Living Among Others in the Ancient Land

October 19th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

We usually dwell on the call of Abram, where God comes to him and says, “Lech lecha, Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to 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…” (Genesis 12.1-2) This is the origin of what we now know as Judaism.

However, once Abram and Sarai get to the Land of Canaan, life is very interesting and sometimes dangerous, and the narrative gives us some interesting looks into the social milieu. First, Abram’s nephew, Lot, who had come with them from the Old Country (Haran in Syria), decides to go off on his own—so his flocks and Abram’s will not be competing for pasture land. Then, in Genesis 14, an ancient war erupts. The kings of Shinar, Ellasar, Elam, and Goiim waged war on the kings of Sodom, Gomorrah, Admah, Zeboiim, and Bela (also known as Zoar). The four ruled over the five for a dozen years, at which point they rebelled. Two years later, the four attacked and pillaged a number of other kingdoms and, among other things, took Lot as a hostage. This got Abram involved. “A fugitive brought the news to Abram the Hebrew, who was dwelling at the terebinths of Mamre…When Abram heard…he mustered his allies and retainers—those born into his household, a total of 318 fighters, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. At night, he and his servants deployed against them (the four kings) and defeated them; and he pursued them…beyond Damascus. He brought back all the possessions; he also brought back his kinsman Lot and his possessions, and the women and the rest of the people.” (Genesis 14.13-16)

 When he returned from defeating the four kings—returning from Syria to the Jerusalem area, “the king of Sodom came out to meet him in the Valley of Shaveh, which is the Valley of the King. And King Melchizedek of Salem brought out bread and wine; he was a priest of God Most High (El Elyon). He blessed him, saying, ‘Blessed be Abram of God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth. And blessed be God Most High, Who has delivered your foes into your hand.’ And Abram gave him a tenth of everything.” (Genesis 14.17-20)

 From this, we learn that Abram was part of the ancient society of The Land—that he had allies and enemies, and that he was active in the affairs of the area. We also learn that he had assisted the kings of Sodom (where Lot lived) and Gomorrah. And, we learn that Abram was not the only person focused on the One God. Apparently, others worshipped God as well, and there was even a priest who lived in a place called Salem, a place where Abram prayed. Could that have been what was later called Jerusalem? 

 In any event, we also learn about a kind of moral difference between Abram and some of his neighbors—particularly the King of Sodom. “Then, the king of Sodom said to Abram, ‘Give me the persons, and take the possessions for yourself.’ But, Abram said to the kind of Sodom, ‘I swear to the Lord, God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth: I will not take so much as a thread of a sandal strap of what is yours; you shall not say “It is I who made Abram rich.” For me, nothing but what my servants have used up; as for the share of the men who went with me—Aner, Eshkol, and Mamre—let them take their share.’” (Genesis 15.21-24)

 Abram’s participation in the campaign was not for the booty—though that was, apparently, the practice of those who lived around him.

 Sometimes, our reading of the ancient stories reveals a very narrow look at ancient life. One could get the idea that our only interactions with other tribes or nations involved problems: slavery, attacks, and moral temptations. However, there are also portions which show how our ancient ancestors were parts of their societies—being Jewish in a non-Jewish world. There were neighbors and allies, and some of the allies were not as admirable as the others. Nonetheless, we were part of that world, and our navigating through its various situations required intelligence, flexibility, and a firm moral core.

 

One final note: this background of neighborly relations with Sodom and Gomorrah gives us a clue as to why God consults Abraham about their fates. We shall study that story next week.

 

 

The Tower of Babel/Babble

October 12th: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The story of the Tower of Babel is simple yet potentially profound. On one level, it seeks to “explain” why there are many different languages. Perhaps this is necessary because of the Biblical simplicity that all humans come from the same family. While this origin of humanity is not what the archeological and anthropological records show, it is an important Biblical principle and one that leads to a certain morality: if we all come from the same ancestors, then no one should ever say that his/her ancestors are greater—or have bluer blood—than others.

 On another level, it is a kind of nationalistic slur, suggesting that the great tower of Babylon, the ziggurat that was called Esagilah: The House that Lifts Its Head to Heaven, was an act of hubris and insolence—and not the great architectural wonder the city claimed.

The Midrash enhances the story and slur and moves them to a third level. The Rabbis explained that the Babylonians were immoral: When a worker would fall from the tower and die, the people of Babel (Babylon) would pay no mind. However, if a brick fell, they would all lament the delay in their glorious project. This kind of materialism is not what God has in mind for us.

On a fourth level, the story reminds us of our own insignificance and transient nature. As the great Biblical commentator Nehama Leibowitz (1905-1997) and others explain, a first step in living in God’s world is realizing our own relative insignificance: humility is an important first step both mentally and spiritually. There is also the fact that our time here on earth is limited. We achieve greatness not by building towers but by participating in God’s project, tikkun olam.

 On a fifth level, this story brings up the curious phenomenon of human cultural variety. There are many different human cultures—with different ways of expressing common human experiences and different cultural values. Sometimes, getting along with each other can prove challenging. Are there universal values that should be common to all good cultures and religions? Or, are some things right and moral for some cultures and not so for others? Is it cultural colonialism or conquest to insist on universal standards of morality, or should each individual culture be considered moral when it determines its own standards?

 The Bible sort of addresses this in tracing our ancestry back to Noah and his sons—and the covenant God makes in Genesis 9. While the Torah’s 613 mitzvot apply to the Jews, the Noachide covenant is established with all humanity—all those who are descended from Noah’s family. Based on this simple narrative, the Rabbis cobble together—from several verses in Genesis 2 and Genesis 9—the notion of seven laws incumbent on all humans. Just as God promises never to destroy humanity with a flood, we people are enjoined to:
(1)   Set up courts that justly enforce social laws
(2)   Not to blaspheme—disrespect God or God’s worshippers
(3)   Not to worship idols
(4)   Not to practice sexual immorality
(5)   Not to murder
(6)   Not to steal
(7)   Not to eat the limbs/parts of live animals.

This was the Rabbinic approach to what Greek philosophers (and later Roman Catholic philosophers) called Natural Law, laws that are right and true based only on the nature of existence—and not necessarily on the basis of a Commander’s authority.

 We shall approach this subject again in a few weeks, in Parshat Va’yera, when we consider the parameters of God’s morality and the possibility of ascertaining natural law on our own.

 For now, let us just meditate on the balance of greatness and insignificance that is ours as humans. Our days are as a fleeting shadow, and yet God has made us little less than divine. What can we, in this curious intermediary position, do with our lives? How can we endow our fleeting days with abiding value?

 

 

Israel: The Issues and Not the Conflict

October 5th
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
This week, our Torah Commentary consists of my Yom Kippur morning sermon, Israel: The Issues and Not the Conflict.

 Israel: The Issues and Not the Conflict

There is a lot of conversation about the conflict in the Middle East. On television, in newspapers and magazines, on the internet, and in conversations, the subject of Israel’s policies and predicaments occupies a tremendous amount of our attention. And yet, I find that the story is too often told in simplistic terms—terms that obscure rather than clarify the issues that Israel, its neighbors, and the world are facing.

 The actual situation is quite complex, and, in some ways, it is similar to our predicament on Yom Kippur. Plagued by the guilt that appropriately rumbles around in our souls, and inspired by the passages in our prayer books, we realize that our actual lives—our foibles and missteps, the reasons why our basically good selves have made such mess of things, and the ways that we must behave if repentance is actually to happen—are complex and are not reducible to quick and obvious answers. The reasons why we sin, the effects of our sins, and the ways for us to navigate off the sinful path require serious thought and extended work. If it is true for each of us, would it not also be true for nations?

 And so, I would like to look at Israel, considering some of the complexities of the situation. I do not have solutions, but whatever those solutions will be require due diligence in understanding a number of truths. In general, I believe that the narrative of conflict—between Israel and the world, between American Jews and Israeli Jews, between the Jews and the Palestinians—obscures the actual issues and works against clarity in understanding some very serious situations. I would like to look beyond this narrative of conflict. Please consider the following:

 (1)   The Conflict Between American Jews and Israeli Jews: All of the varying opinions held by American Jews are also held by Israeli Jews. In Israel, there is a vigorous discussion about every issue and every decision. Whatever the views—pro or con—of Jews in America are mirrored by Israelis and Israeli organizations, and they are subject to constant debate, rebuttal, discussion and rehashing. Yes, the Israelis may live closer to the difficulties, but that does not prevent them from holding the full panoply of opinions on every decision and policy. Rather than focusing on “the divide between American Jews and Israeli Jews,” the real question is that of how to solve each particular problem.

 (2)   The Conflict Between Israelis and Palestinians: This question of Palestinian rights or national aspirations is remarkably complex and multifaceted. There are lots of different groups within the polity identified as Palestinians, and they have as many different opinions as do Jews. Moreover, the question of the freedom and legitimacy of Palestinian elections needs to be asked and answered before anyone can legitimately speak of what the Palestinians want—as opposed to what will be forced upon them by terrorists like Hamas. I have heard regular Palestinians refer to Hamas and even Fatah as thugs. There are also real doubts as to whether national sovereignty will actually improve the lives of individual Palestinians. The famous statement of Patrick Henry, “Give me liberty, or give me death,” looks a lot different from a country that basically pulled off democracy. Consider on the other hand the sovereignty experiences in Syria or so many African countries. The massacres and genocides which have happened over and over again in developing countries cannot be discounted if we are really concerned about people and their rights. And, then there are those values which are so vital in our liberal enclaves of the First World, values such as Feminism and LGBTQA rights. Will women, in the anticipated Palestinian state, be accorded the rights and autonomy and equal pay and protections that Feminism holds dear? Will LGBTQA individuals be respected and affirmed and welcomed to pursue their lives freely? Looking at current Arab and Palestinian society, both in Judea and Gaza, I wonder. No. I doubt it seriously. As nice as the principle of national sovereignty or autonomy sounds in theory, the current and probable social oppression of millions should not be dismissed. What will life be like for the individuals who will actually live under the hoped-for regimes?

 (3)   The “Conflict between Israel and the World:”  There is no doubt that Israel is often involved in controversies in a number of areas, but the notion of a universal conflict between Israel and the world is a constructed narrative that ignores a lot of actual facts. Israel participates actively and positively in many international efforts. The EuroVision Song Contest is just one example. Israelis are also involved in humanitarian and rescue efforts, in scientific research and conferences, in technology development, in musical and cultural endeavors, in competitive athletics, in police and military training, and in international trade. Why just this past year, one of my Israeli nieces was part of a sizable delegation representing Israel at a conference in Turkey. Turkey! Under Erdogan! She is in the food import and export business, and lots of Europeans and Asians eat Israeli fruit and vegetables every day. Later that year, that same niece and her husband went on vacation in Montenegro, and they found kosher food! So often the attention is focused on a group objecting to Israel, but the objection is only possible because Israel is out there, participating actively in the world.

 (4)   Israel’s Enemies: Israel has real enemies—existential enemies who are not just competitors. Many are working against Israel’s very existence. Let us not forget that, for some opponents, the issue is not just the territories captured in the 1967 Six Day War. Groups like Hamas and Hezbollah and much of the PLO want Israel gone. They don’t want just Judea and Samaria and East Jerusalem; they want Tel Aviv and Beersheva and Haifa and Tiberias. Next time you listen to a public discussion, pay attention to the subtleties and what exactly is being sought.

 (5)   The Distinction Between Critics and Enemies: Some of these enemies may be hiding. Take, for instance, groups such as BDS, the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions effort. There are BDS people who are supportive of Israel but who object to some of the policies of the Netanyahu regime—particularly the occupation of the territories captured in the 1967 war. They think that boycotting Israeli companies will pressure the government into changes and improvements. There are also those, however, who are against Israel’s very existence, and they see boycotts, divestment, and sanctions as a way to weaken and eventually destroy Israel. When we have discussions with BDS, Jewish Voice for Peace, and similar organizations, understanding the motivations and goals of the individuals is vital.                                                                                    

 (6)   The Value of Relationships: Conversation and camaraderie are not only nice; they can help move toward improvement. There are dozens and dozens of groups on both sides working for cooperation, mutual respect, and peace. There are groups working for community improvement, regardless of the generally told story of conflict. Let us not forget that the peace being built brick by brick is of great importance and has great potential for influencing the larger situation. Let us therefore beware of communication strategies that are impatient or castigating. Are leaders and speakers trying to communicate or to cut off relationships? Are they trying to find solutions or vilify their opponents? Let us also beware observations that overly simplify the approaches and concerns of interested parties. Whenever I hear someone say, “Well, there are just two kinds of Arabs, or two kinds of Jews,” or, “Well, our choices are simple: either we do this, or we do that,” I know that the analysis is born either of the speaker’s fatigue or of the assumption that the listeners are too tired to think clearly.

  

When examining any human imperfection, a good analysis looks at as many factors as possible, extending to the imperfect individual both firm judgment and compassionate kindness. As Reb Nachman of Breslov explains, even the worst human actions have at their core level some spark of goodness. That the goodness has gone terribly astray is the tragedy. That it can be fanned and redirected toward repentance is God’s gift. Improvement requires real understanding of both the past and of the possible future.

 In regard to Israel, there are certainly lots of “shoulda’s and coulda’s” on both sides. Mistakes were made. Responses were controversial. Facts were reinterpreted or misinterpreted. New facts arose. Though the Palestinians have only been a “people” since 1964, the fact is that now there is a large group of Arabs called Palestinians, and they deserve respect and human rights. Similarly, we can argue about the settler movement in Judea and Samaria, but the fact is that some 400,000 Israelis now live there, and they deserve respect, as well. And, of course, there is also the fact that most of those “settlers” are living in metropolitan Jerusalem—in the natural growth of an urban area like every other city in the world. Solutions need to address reality and the human dimension inevitably involved in every real estate or security issue.

 Against the narrative of conflict, I am happy to report to you that there are thousands of Israelis and Arabs, Jews and Muslims and Christians, working toward peace in both small and large increments. Look for these stories and support these efforts. Beware the narratives that obscure. Look for the narratives that lead to solutions.

 

Remembering the Exodus as a "First Step"

September 28th
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
This week, our Torah Commentary consists of my Kol Nidre sermon, Remembering the Exodus as a First Step. Next week, we shall send out my Yom Kippur Morning sermon, Israel: The Issues and Not the Conflict.

I never knew if the comment was serious or tongue-in-cheek, but one of my friends in Florida once complained, “Every time I come to services, we’re always fighting the Egyptians.” At first I thought of the old joke where the fellow complains to the priest, “Every time I come to church, all you talk about is Christmas!” But then I realized that we do reference the Exodus from Egypt a whole lot.

 In both morning and evening services, the third paragraph of the Shema mentions it, as does the blessing which follows and has as its climax Mi Chamocha, a song taken from the Shirat Hayam that our ancestors sang after crossing the Red Sea. In the traditional morning service, they sing this entire Biblical poem every day. The Friday evening Kiddush tells us of the Sabbath’s three main themes: the Creation of the World, our relationship with God, and the Exodus from Egypt.

 And, of course, there is whole festival of Passover—with the Seders and many of the special prayers in its worship services: they are all dedicated to remembering and ritually reliving the Exodus. In Psalm 114— which is part of the Hallel psalms we recite at the Seder and throughout Passover and Sukkot and Shavuot and Chanukah, and at every Rosh Chodesh, we recount the miracle of the Exodus. Yetzi’at Mitzrayim is also a frequent theme in our weekly Torah portions. It occupies the first twenty chapters of Exodus, and it is frequently mentioned by God and Moses throughout the Torah. So, I guess my friend was right: we are constantly talking about the Egyptians and how God helped us in our miraculous escape from their oppression.

 Why? I am sure that there are many answers historical, liturgical, and theological, but try this one on for size. Our continual remembrance of the Exodus from Egypt is similar to the way people in Twelve Step programs are supposed to continually remember that they are addicts. Alcoholism and other addictions are not diseases which can be healed. Once an addict, always an addict, and the Twelve Step theory teaches that continually remembering one’s addiction is literally the first step in not drinking or indulging.

 Could there be a Jewish psychic disease against which we need to be constantly on guard? The Hebrew word for Egypt, Mitzrayim, also means narrowness. This probably has an ancient geographical origin: habitable Egypt is an extremely narrow country—basically the Nile River and the irrigatable section on either side where people can live. However, the spiritual interpretation is that Mitzrayim speaks of narrowness in general. God helped us escape from Egyptian slavery or narrowness, and our spiritual disease is that we might just revert back into narrowness: narrowness of thinking and of spirit.  Consider the following three ways that we need to beware.

 First, we need to be on guard against the narrowness of despair. The world is full of problems, and our lives can be beset with difficulties. However, possibilities for meaningfulness and joy are present regardless of the finitude we face every day. I am not suggesting that we ignore our problems. Problems are real, and suffering is real. Nonetheless, there are possibilities of goodness that await. Think of the strength of the human spirit that can cope with great struggles. Think of the examples of appreciation or grace or kindness that can persist even in the darkest of nights. And, think of the eternality—the infinity—of God, who is the source of our healing, our strength, and our everlasting life. God can protect us, help us find meaning in the face of our finitude, and embrace us forever when we are gathered to our ancestors. The world can be Mitzrayim, narrowness, but there are also the expansiveness of hope that surrounds us and the meaningfulness that can transcend the limits of our lives.

 Second, we need to beware the narrowness of exclusivity. We all strive for excellence, and we all feel special loyalty to our families or our congregations or our nation. Loyalty is good. Excellence is good. However, we need to keep these good things in check lest our exuberance becomes snobbishness or xenophobia. A core teaching of our faith is that all human beings are created in the image of God; we all come from the same ancestors. Respect for all beings—within and without our tribal groups—is a mitzvah of the highest order. Our appreciation and respect for all others should be expansive and aware of the presence of God in every person and the delight that God finds in human variety.

 Third, we need to beware the narrowness of our theological thinking. The lessons we learned when we were young are valuable, but also limited. They reflect the kind of things we could understand at those younger developmental stages. Growing up affords us more knowledge and more perception, and it is important that our theological thinking be conducted on an adult level. Moreover, the texts of our Tradition are often written in poetic language or in non-sophisticated language—the language that ancient desert-dwelling nomads could understand. As a result, our sacred texts often reflect a mythic conception of reality. They contain truth, but they can also fool us into thinking in anthropomorphic and limited terms of a reality that is by definition infinite. The totality of God is beyond our ability to understand or comprehend or even define. So, if we ever think that we know exactly what God is, then we are inevitably incorrect. Limiting God deprives us of the wonder of an apperception of the infinite—of a relationship with the expansiveness that is the very essence of existence. As much as we love the words of Scripture and prayer that our Tradition uses, let us realize that they are tools to expand our awareness and appreciation—and not to narrow them. They can help us open our hearts to the wonder of the Eternal and to fill our spirits with awe.

 

 When I first studied Twelve Step Programs and began to work with alcoholics and chemically dependent individuals, there was a harshness to the approach that I found unsettling. In one case, a sponsor kept referring to the patient as a drunk. After several discussions with him, I questioned this derogatory term. Isn’t there a nicer, more polite way to refer to him? Alcoholic? Chemically dependent person? Person with a chemical dependence? “No,” explained the very experienced sponsor. “I, too, am a drunk, and I am telling you that nice words obscure the real damage that a drinking alcoholic can do, both to him/herself and to others. Nice words make the horror of chemical dependence nicer and somehow less ominous, and that is not a helpful or a kind thing to do.” The foremost thought in the drunk’s mind has got to be his/her identification as a drunk—a drunk who leaves destruction in his/her wake when drinking. Self-identification is critical to the improvement that hopefully will come.

 Likewise, the fact that we, as Jews, always carry Mitzrayim/narrowness with us is an important realization. We have been in the narrow places. We have suffered there. The fact that we are not there anymore is a miracle, a miracle based on the presence of God and of God’s morality and wisdom in our lives. Parroting Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, we should say, “Hi, I’m David, and I’m susceptible to narrowness.” Perhaps this is a way to understand our continuing focus on Egypt and the Exodus: we need to remind ourselves of a place we do not want to go.

  

If we follow the AA paradigm, there is, of course, also the reliance on a higher power. The AA phrasing is deliberately ambiguous for two purposes. First, they do not want religious differences to prevent alcoholics from gathering together and fighting the addiction that is an equal-opportunity oppressor. Second, they do not want the vagaries and variations of theological discourse to get in the way. Much the same can be said for the approach that modern Liberal Judaism takes when it comes to God. As I said before, there is an expansiveness to the possibilities of understanding the Infinite. Some may read our liturgy and sacred texts literally, while others may see them as poetic or metaphorical literature. The point is that our various thoughts on the nature of God should not be an impediment to the spiritual work we gather to do. We come here to encounter the Divine—singly in our own theological considerations and communally for the energy and camaraderie of our heritage.

 I believe that a basic element of the human condition is the way we go back and forth between faith and doubt, between a sense of community and alienation, between optimism and despair, and between narrowness and an expansive view of the world. Equanimity and purpose require that we learn to balance ourselves.

 We are finite, but we can also touch eternity. Our faith and the story of the Exodus come to remind us that, even in the face of our limitations, there is goodness at the heart of life. Let me close with this thought from the late Rabbi Chaim Stern (Gates of Prayer, page 210):
“We worship the power that unites all the universe    into one great harmony. That oneness, however, is not yet. We see imperfection, disorder, and evil all about us. But before our eyes is a vision of perfection, order, and goodness: these too we have known in some measure. There is evil enough to break the heart, good enough to exalt the soul. Our people has experienced untold suffering and wondrous redemptions; we await a redemption more lasting, and more splendid, than any of the past.” 

Approaching the Torah

September 17th-21st: Yom Kippur
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, our Torah Commentary consists of my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon, Approaching the Torah. My Yom Kippur sermons, Remembering the Exodus as a First Step and Israel: The Issues and Not the Conflict, will be posted in subsequent weeks.

 Approaching the Torah

 When I was a teenager, one of the popular Jewish Identity programs was to ask us how we saw ourselves as Jews. Is our Jewishness a religion, or a race, or a culture, or a nationality? They would put up each of those categories on a different wall in a large room and ask each member of the youth group or class to choose a sign and go to it. Each self-chosen group would then draft a statement about why Judaism is to us a religion, or race, or culture, or nationality, and then we would present our position to the larger group.

 The problem with the program is that it is often quite difficult to choose only one of the categories. For many of us, our Jewish Identity is a combination of two or more. For me, personally, it is a religion and a culture—and there is also the biological dimension. When we would complain, the leaders would say that we should not get too specific and just play along—that there was something to be learned from the conversation, and that we were not declaring a permanent interpretation. The point was not the label but the discussion and its insights: what we would learn about the nature of Jewish Identity.

Many of us have a similar quandary when asked about which denomination or stream of Judaism best describes us. For many of us, the standard labels of Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, or Reconstructionist can be too constricting for something as personal and complex as our religious identity, and so we chaff at the attempt to put us into a box.

 Our Congregation is a case in point because our members—you, who are now gathered for communal worship—are from many different kinds of Jewish backgrounds, and you describe yourselves with a real variety of Jewish labels. Realizing this and respecting our multivalent sensibilities of Jewishness, I have recently been referring to something called Liberal Judaism, a term covering the three of Judaism’s streams: Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist.

 My question for today is about the appropriateness or validity of this grouping. Should Conservative Judaism be included in this expansive category of Liberal Judaism, or should it be included in a category along with Orthodox Judaism which we could call Traditional Judaism? The point of the question is like that of all categorization exercises. I am much less interested in  pigeon-holing Jews than in what we may learn about ourselves and others in terms of self-definition and Jewish Identity.

So, vos is dos? What is this thing called Conservative Judaism? Let me start with an anecdote about our red Torah commentary, Etz Hayim, published by the Conservative Movement in 2001. Since its inception in 1902, the Conservative Movement has taught the Documentary Hypothesis approach to the Torah: that the Torah is not a single document dictated by God to Moses on Mount Sinai some 3200 years ago (the Orthodox position), but is rather a composite document, combining several independent literary traditions from different authors and finally being compiled around 500 BCE. This has been the official teaching of Conservative Judaism for a century, but, when Etz Hayim was published in 2001, many members of Conservative synagogues were surprised or even shocked at this break from the traditional Torah miSinai teaching of Orthodox Judaism they thought their movement shared.

 At its heart, the Conservative movement does not see the Torah and the mitzvot as authoritative instructions (commandments!) from the Lord God, but as something else. The Torah is important, compelling, the center of Judaism, but it is not the literal word of God. Consider these defining descriptions of Conservative Judaism by some of its leading thinkers and note how different the language is from that of Orthodox Judaism.

From Emet Ve’Emunah, The Statement of Principles of Conservative Judaism (1988): “Conservative Judaism affirms its belief in revelation, the uncovering of an external source of truth emanating from God. This affirmation emphasizes that although truths are transmitted by humans, they are not a human invention...The Torah’s truth is both theoretical and practical, that is, it teaches us about God and about our role in His world. As such, we reject relativism, which denies any objective source of authoritative truth. We also reject fundamentalism and literalism, which do not admit a human component in revelation, thus excluding an independent role for human experience and reason in the process.”

 From Dr. Ismar Schorsch, Chancellor Emeritus of the Jewish Theological Seminary (1995): “If dogmas or doctrines are the propositional language of a theological system, core values are the felt commitment of lived religion, the refraction of what people practice and profess... Conservative Judaism is best understood as a sacred cluster of core values...that imprint Conservative Judaism with a principled receptivity to modernity balanced by a deep reverence for tradition: the Centrality of Modern Israel, Hebrew as the Irreplaceable Language of Jewish Expression, Devotion to the Ideal of Klal Yisrael (Jewish unity), the Defining Role of Torah in the Reshaping of Judaism, the Study of Torah, the Governance of Jewish Life by Halakha, and Belief in God.”

 Conservative Judaism sees Judaism as an encounter between humans and God, and sees the process taking place both in the Biblical experience and in the Talmudic experience. In fact, it sees the Rabbinic/Talmudic Period as an adaptation of Biblical religion that became the definition of the Judaism that our leaders have been following and tweaking and developing ever since. As Dr. Schorsch expresses it so poignantly, there are both a “principled receptivity to modernity” and a “deep reverence for tradition” that have been combined by the Rabbis to create a traditional and modern way of being Jewish, a living halachah.

 How, then, does Conservative Judaism hear the term Torah mi’Sinai? Does it mean that God literally gave the whole Torah—both Written and Oral—to Moses on Mount Sinai, and that its instructions are literal commandments that we are all commanded to follow? Or does it mean that the Revelation at Sinai represents the beginning of a relationship that we Jews have with God, a relationship that has developed over the centuries and which holds the possibility of a genuine and soulful encounter with the Divine?

 I understand the sentiment that Conservative Judaism belongs on the Orthodox side because of its bias toward and adherence to traditional forms, but, to me, it belongs on the Liberal side because of its belief in the role humans play in defining and redefining our faith and practice.

 I also understand the reluctance of Conservative Jews to being grouped with Reconstructionist or Reform Jews. Their “deep reverence for tradition” warns them that too much individual autonomy and redefinition can move us too far from the cluster of Jewish essential values. Their desire for traditionalism runs very deep in their sense of personal and communal Jewish identity. And, yet, given their belief in the human role in the developing Divine-human relationship, I think we need another way of framing their position.

 When I read through the definitional statements or platforms of the Reform, Conservative, and  Reconstructionist movements, I see a real convergence of opinions. None approach Torah mi-Sinai in terms of absolute obedience. All hear the term Torah mi-Sinai figuratively, spiritually.

 How can we explain the different sensibilities among these Liberal denominations? How can we understand how some Jews find some observances or traditional elements meaningful and other Jews who also have a strong Jewish identity do not find them meaningful? Sometimes, I find the word dosage to be helpful—that different people prefer differ amounts of ritual and traditional observances. Or, perhaps the metaphor of a recipe might be more apt. Each denomination speaks in very similar language about the spiritual call of Sinai and about the developing relationship with God that is called Judaism. Each denomination believes that the secret to our continuing success—in addition to God’s involvement—is our adaptability. But, each denomination puts the pieces of Jewish thought and practice and community together in different ways, the ways that recipes for the same kind of food—for a chocolate cake, for beef stew, or for gefilte fish—can be slightly different, adjusted for particular tastes.

 In many ways, all of our modern denominations were influenced by Mordecai Kaplan who spoke of the definitional quality of Jewish texts and Jewish practices. His word sancta, communal and personal sanctifying practices, can be felt in the approaches of not only Reconstructionist Judaism—a movement founded upon his teachings—but also in Conservative Judaism, the movement to which he devoted decades of his life. And, it can be felt in Reform Judaism, a movement with which he struggled but which ultimately absorbed the influence of his insights and suggestions. Though different, each is striving for a Jewish approach to life—to a way to be both traditional and modern.

 As we, individual Jews from a variety of religious backgrounds, pray together during these High Holy Days, I believe that a good foundation for our spiritual community lies in realizing the similarities and common aspirations of our various approaches. Thus can we individually and congregationally approach the Divine.

 

 

Entering the Gates

September 14th: Shabbat Shuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, our Torah Commentary consists of my Erev Rosh Hashanah sermon, Entering the Gates. Next week, we’ll post my Rosh Hashanah morning sermon, Approaching the Torah.

I begin with a prayer by Rabbi Sydney Greenberg:
May the door of this synagogue be wide enough to receive all who hunger for love,
all who are lonely for fellowship.
May it welcome all who have cares to unburden, thanks to express, hopes to nurture.
May the door of this synagogue be narrow enough to shut out pettiness and pride,
envy and enmity.
May its threshold be no stumbling block to young or straying feet.
May it be too high to admit complacency, selfishness, and harshness.
May this synagogue be, for all who enter, the doorway to a richer and more meaningful life.

 There is a particular awareness in our Jewish spiritual sensibility of the significance of entering or leaving. We mark our doors with a sacred symbol, the mezzuzah, to imbue our transition from one domain to the other with holiness. In Psalm 121, we pray:  “May the Lord guard us, both coming and going, from this time forth and forever.” We feel the special quality of entering this place on these High Holy Days, and, in ten days’ time, we shall conclude our worship with prayers about the Gates of Repentance, the Gates of Prayer, and the Gates of Righteousness. With the Psalmist in Number 118, we pray: “Open for me the gates of righteousness, that I may enter and thank God. This is the gateway to the Lord; the righteous shall enter it.”

 My thought, as we begin these ten days of holiness and repentance, is to consider this metaphor of entrances and exits in our Tradition and to see what we can learn.

 Let us begin with what you have just done: walked through the synagogue’s door. What do you expect to find? Whom do you hope to see? Of course, many of us look forward to seeing friends. Sharing the Holy Days with family or friends can be part of the charm. But, on a deeper level, who else can we possibly find in here?

 Some of us come to find God. We are taught that God is everywhere, but there is often a sense that God is somehow more present in the synagogue—and even more present on certain holy occasions.

 Some of us come here and encounter their ancestors, those who came before and brought Judaism to these shores, who raised us to be just and righteous, kind and compassionate, and who taught us to be Jewish. When we recite the same words they recited, it is as though they are still here—that the generations are praying together.

 Some of us come for an answer to our questions—questions about the meaning of life or Judaism or the values that we hold dear. That is one of the goals of every rabbi, by the way: to somehow anticipate the questions of each worshipper and to try to address them in prayer and d’var Torah.

A final possibility is this one: some of us come here to find our own better selves. Improvement and repentance are always possibilities, and this place holds those possibilities aloft.


When I walk in and meet God, and my ancestors, and, hopefully, my better self, I also see all of you. It is a wonderful sight to see the assembled congregation and to feel the aspirational energy and the holiness. I think I can speak for God in this case, for the Lord is also happy to see you—happy to have this time to reason together. God wants and needs our attention, and our Tradition teaches us that we need some time with God. Where else can you go and God is glad to see you? This is a good place to be.

 

Back when I was in Rabbinical School, one of my friends came in on Monday in a very angry mood. He had been at his student pulpit in Columbus, Mississippi, and he believed that he had been treated badly—disrespectfully. He visited some congregants and went to the front door. As he was leaving, they instructed him to come to the back door next time. “The back door?!” he complained to me. “What am I, a servant or tradesman? How can they treat the rabbi like this?” My response was a combination of humor and horror. “No, no,” I said. “When they say, ‘Come to the back door,’ that is Southern for, ‘You’re now part of the family. Formality is not required. We want you to feel at home in our home.’” That’s not the way it was in Upstate New York where he was raised, but, after a little cultural interpretation, he realized that they had actually given him a compliment.

 This image can reflect both our feelings in synagogue and also our feelings in the greater synagogue, God’s world. What would be the difference—out in the world—between “front door formality” and “back door ease?” What would it take for us to feel at home in the world? And, what must we do so that others are at home in the world? We are taught to extend a welcoming glance and hand to others. As Hillel used to say: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving your fellow creatures, and bringing Torah close to them.” (Avot 1.12) Shammai agreed. He used to say:  “Greet all people with a cheerful smile.” (Avot 1.15)

While there are certain proprieties for behavior in this holy place and in every place, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could never make anyone feel uncomfortable? Extending the love of God to every individual is an important component of our faith, and we are thus are bidden to welcome both stranger and friend. We are also bidden to see in each individual the image of God. Whether they come into the front door or the back door, let us endeavor to make everyone feel at home.

One of the traditions of the High Holy Days is to visit the cemetery and to reflect upon the blessings brought to us by our departed loved ones. Then, of course, we have Yizkor on Yom Kippur morning where we sanctify our lives and theirs with our memories. How many doors in our lives were opened by those who came before us? Our parents and grandparents? Our beloved family members and friends? Our teachers? Let us remember how our journey through life has been blessed by those who opened doors for us and who ushered us through them and who showed us blessings and skills and opportunities. These gates were opened for us in love.

 
A final thought about doors and gates and entrances and exits, this one asked by my friend and teacher, Rabbi Steven Sager. What are the Gates of Righteousness? Are they when we walk into the synagogue, or when we walk out into the world? In a sense, we enter this holy place to find righteousness or to be reminded of righteousness or to find the strength and the wisdom to pursue it. But, the fact is that righteousness and holiness are not reserved for the synagogue alone. The fulfillment of all that we hold sacred is the daily righteousness we bring to the world.

 Another one of my friends, Rabbi Denise Eger, makes this point about Sukkot. Why, she asks, do we have another holiday so soon after Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—after we’ve spent more time praying that in the rest of the year? You’d think that we’d be tired of religion, but, no, Sukkot comes just four days after Yom Kippur. Perhaps, she suggests, it is to remind us that the holiness we find in the synagogue is intended for the world outside of the synagogue walls. In fact, she continues, the holiday stipulates that we dwell in a little booth that is more outside than inside and that, by design, has holes in it so we can see the world—the place where God’s holiness is so urgently needed.

 

You may remember this meditation from our prayer book.
The Aramaic term Sh’may D’kud’sha (which we read in the Kaddish) means “God’s Holy Name,” but it can also mean “God’s Reputation,” and thus does it reflect a particular Divine vulnerability. God’s power and reputation are dependent on the behavior of God’s people. It is good to declare our faith in God or to have a religious experience, but neither is complete unless we actually behave in godly ways. Praising God is beautiful, but praise from the righteous is what really counts. Sanctifying God is lovely, but only one who is behaving in a holy manner can show the world that God’s ways are worth adopting as our own.

 So, when we pray, “Open for me the gates of righteousness, that I may enter and thank God,”
let us realize that the Gates of Righteousness lead us both into the synagogue and into the world. They are both gateways to the Lord; let us be righteous and enter them.