Courage, Readiness, and Holy Work

June 28th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we read the story of the twelve spies sent to scout out the Land, most of us feel that we would have been like Joshua and Caleb, strong and of good courage. We would have been optimistic about following our Divine mission and taking the land. We would not have been like the other ten spies, worried about the strength and walled cities of the inhabitants of the land—and lacking faith that God would do another miracle.

Or, if we had been in the crowd hearing their reports—and seeing the enormous clusters of grapes they brought back, most of us feel that we would have supported Joshua and Caleb and been ready to enthusiastically pursue God’s plans.

This situation reminds me of a question a park ranger asked us when we took the Revolutionary War tour in Boston. If you had been in Boston in the 1770’s, she asked, would you have been a Patriot, or would you have been a Tory? Of course, everyone declared that they would have been Patriots. Then, she began to describe the personalities and predilections of the Bostonians who were involved in the conflict—with the Patriots being intolerant rabble-rousers, upsetting business and ripping the social fabric to launch their revolution. It was a sobering moment, and I had to admit to myself that my peace-making and talking-to-everyone-on-all-sides-of-a-controversy personality would have made me a Tory. Indeed, I might have been one of the fellows whose house was burned down by Sam Adams.

The point is that, when push comes to shove, we may not be the heroes we think we would be. Or, we may see issues in a different light.

So, let us go back to Numbers 13 and 14 and the Wilderness some 3200 years ago. Where would you have stood when the spies brought back their reports on The Land?

Ten of the twelve spies are frightened at the prospect of taking The Land, and the people take them at their words: “The whole community broke into loud cries, and the people wept that night…‘If only we had died in the land of Egypt, or if only we might die in the wilderness! Why is the Lord taking us to that land to fall by the sword?!’” (Numbers 14.2-3)

God, as one can imagine, is not happy.  “The Lord spoke to Moses and Aaron, ‘How much longer shall that wicked community keep muttering against Me? Very well, I have heeded the incessant muttering of the Israelites against Me. Say to them, “As I live,” says the Lord, “I will do to you just as you have urged Me. In this very wilderness shall your carcasses drop. Of all of you who were recorded in your various lists from the age of twenty years up, you who have muttered against Me, not one shall enter the Land in which I swore to settle you—save Caleb son of Jephunneh and Joshua son of Nun.”’” (Numbers 14.26-30)

However, some commentators present a less harsh view, arguing that God is more disappointed than angry and that the real problem is the genuine lack of preparedness of that generation. When the spies report, “We looked like grasshoppers to ourselves, and so we must have looked to them (the Canaanites)” (Numbers 13.22), it is because they—and the rest of the Israelites—are completely ill-equipped to mount an invasion. In other words, despite God’s angry outburst, God realizes that this generation is simply too weak, too untrained, too lacking in the tactical and military wherewithal to take on the holy mission. God might be able, but the people are not, and God realizes that a new generation must be trained for the sacred task.


I like to think of myself as willing to take on God’s work, but my suitability depends on the tasks involved. In the case of studying Torah and teaching Judaism, I am able. But, there are plenty of other important tasks for which I am not a good candidate. This is why I am thankful for those other people who have dedicated themselves to training and preparation for the things I cannot do. From doing surgery, to flying airplanes, from digging coal to fighting wars, from supply chain logistics to making movies, there are all kinds of people upon whom I am able to depend, and I thank God for them and their skills.

 Such an insight led Albert Einstein—certainly a very capable person—to reflect on other people’s talents and contributions: “Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why.  And yet, sometimes we seem to divine a purpose. From the standpoint of daily life, we know this: people are here for the sake of other people. Above all, we are here for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends, and for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy. Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow humans, and how earnestly I must exert myself in order to give in return as much as I have received and am still receiving.”

A similar sensibility is expressed in this prayer—composed in the 1930s in Pittsburgh for the “old” Union Prayer Book: “How much we owe to the labors of our brothers and sisters! Day by day they dig far away from the sun that we may be warm, enlist in outposts of peril that we may be secure, and brave the terrors of the unknown for truths that shed light on our way. Numberless gifts have been laid in our cradles as our birthright. Let us then, O Lord, be just and great-hearted in our dealings with others, sharing with them the fruit of our common labor, acknowledging before You that we are but stewards of whatever we possess. Help us to be among those who are willing to sacrifice that others may not hunger, who dare to be bearers of light in the dark loneliness of stricken lives, who struggle and even bleed for the triumph of righteousness. So may we be co-workers with You in the building of Your kingdom, which has been our vision and goal through the ages.” (Included in our Siddur B’rit Shalom on page 95.)

Why Do We Complain?

June 21st: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we open the Ark, the tradition calls for us to intone these words: “When the Ark was to set out, Moses would say: Advance, O Lord! May Your enemies be scattered, and Your foes flee before You!” (Numbers 10.35) Though our Ark is not the same as the ancient Ark, and though we are not going anywhere, we say these words to invoke God’s help. May the Torah which we are about to read help us to banish whatever enemies we may face.

We may be worried about people or nations who threaten us. There are bad people in the world, and we pray that God will help us elude or defeat or survive them.

We should also be worried about the enemies that dwell within—that threaten the purity of our purpose. Greed, selfishness, impatience, and arrogance are just some of the enemies that inhabit our minds and our spirits, and they can be plagues. Our religion teaches us that the Torah’s wisdom can help us battle Yetzer HaRa, the Evil Inclination. Perhaps, this is why our Torah service also includes this meditation from the Zohar: “Beh ana rachetz…O may it be Your will to open our hearts to Your Torah and to fulfill the worthy desires of our hearts and of the hearts of all Your people Israel: for good, for life, and for peace. Amen.”  (Zohar, Vayak’hel 369a)

Note how the passage qualifies the prayers that we hope God will answer. Realizing that our hearts may not always rise to highest heights of morality, we pray that God fulfill “the worthy desires of our hearts…for good, for life, and for peace.” Our prayer is that God’s Presence—as manifested and experienced in Torah—will help us and improve us, helping us to bring forth the Divine we all carry within.

Of course, we can be resistant. In this week’s Torah portion, we read about our ancient ancestors’ curious discontent. Despite the fact that we had been saved by God from Egyptian slavery and rescued from the murderous charge of the Egyptians (into the Red Sea), and despite the fact that God had chosen us and given us the Ten Commandments, and despite the fact that we had plenty of manna to eat, many of us were profoundly unhappy. “The riffraff in their midst felt a gluttonous craving; and then the Israelites wept and said, ‘If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish that we used to eat free in Egypt, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Now our gullets are shriveled. There is nothing at all! Nothing but this manna to see!” (Numbers 11.4-6) The Torah follows this complaining with a description of the manna: “It was like coriander seed, and in color it was like bdellium. The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes. It tasted like rich cream.” (11.7-8)

The Rabbis in the Midrash go further and say that it tasted like whatever one desired, but even this was not enough. What would it have taken to please us?!

Rabbi Jonathan Eybeschutz (1690-1764) suggests that it was not the taste that led to the dissatisfaction, but rather an internal attitude.  To feel prosperous, he observes, enough is not enough. To feel prosperous, one must have more than others. Since everyone had manna—and all that they needed, no one could feel the ego surge of having more than someone else.

Another possibility is simply that there is something in the human heart that always wants more—that wants what we do not have. I certainly suffer from this foolishness, and I think it is endemic in much of the world. As we read in Ecclesiastes (1.8), “The eye is never satisfied with seeing, nor the ear with hearing.” We always want more, and giving up possessions or the possibility of more possessions can be horrifying. As we read in our Yizkor Service, “Like a child falling asleep over a bed full of toys, we loosen our grip on earthly possessions only when death overtakes us.”  Thus does the ancient Ben Zoma counsel us, “Who is rich? One who rejoices in things already owned.” (Avot 4.1) Was this a statement of fact or an aspiration for his own soul?

There is also the passage in the Shabbat benediction in the Amidah which is one of my favorites, “Sab’aynu mituvecha, Teach us to be satisfied with the gifts of Your goodness.” Or phrased another way, we can pray, “May we learn satisfaction, and delight in the blessings we are given.”

When we stand before the open Ark and pray that God’s “enemies be scattered,” here is a way to mean the prayer: “Advance, O Lord, into our hearts! Let the enemies within be scattered! May the foes of satisfaction and happiness within flee before You! Thus will we be granted the grace and the peace You would like us to have.”

 

 

 

Working for God

June 14th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our portion this week deals with the very curious institution of the Nazirite. We do not know much about this status other than it is chosen voluntarily by an individual, that the status is for a limited amount of time (declared at the beginning), and that a Nazirite does not cut his/her hair, drink wine, or come in contact with the dead. As to why someone would choose to be a Nazir or what he/she does is simply not included in the Torah. All the text tells us are the above rules and the rituals for the conclusion. These rules make up the bulk of Numbers 6.  

As one can imagine, the concluding ritual involves sacrifices and prayers, but the most interesting aspect is the shaving of the “sacred hair”—that is, the hair that is not cut during the Nazirite’s term, and burning it under the Zevach Hash’lamim, the Sacrifice of Well-being. One wonders if the foul odor of the burning hair is part of the ambience of the ritual—or if the aroma of the barbequing ram covers it up.

Immediately following these ritual instructions, we have the famous and very holy Priestly Benediction, known in Tradition as B’rachah Ham’shuleshet, the Threefold Benediction. Here is the way it appears in the Torah: “The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to Aaron and his sons: Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them: May the Lord bless you and protect you!  May the Lord deal kindly with you and be gracious to you! May the Lord smile upon you and bless you with peace! Thus shall they place My Name on the Children of Israel, and I will bless them.” (Numbers 6.22-27)

Though the Torah does not directly link the Threefold Benediction to the Nazirite completion ritual, the fact that they are presented together must mean something. Here’s a possibility: Since the purpose of B’rachah Ham’shuleshet is to “place God’s Name on the Children of Israel,” could the decision to serve as a Nazir represent an individual’s desire to place a sense of godliness on him/herself and his/her life? 

Many who feel the Presence of God desire to show it in some manner. Some choose particular ritual observances and may even add observances for certain periods or for certain holy times. Others may embark on a period of study, deepening their understanding of our religion and tradition. Others may devote themselves to some kind of holy work—serving the congregation or some other charitable institution. These are all ways of dedicating ourselves to God.

When we do respond to this call from On High, we can feel very inspired, very holy, very much an agent of God, and this is wonderful. Perhaps these good feelings are God’s instrument for guiding us into good works.

However, we must also beware self-righteousness—those feelings telling us that, because we are doing God’s work, everything we do is good and holy. Though we may attempt to be clear channels for godliness, we are imperfect beings, and our egos and prejudices and misjudgments can often interfere with the purity of our aspirations. This is a subtle balance, a delicate tension, as we seek to do the bidding of our God with confidence and faith and yet proceed carefully and cautiously. We may think that caution indicates a lack of faith, but the opposite is true. If we truly want to be like God, then we should be enlightened by our Tradition’s reflections on God’s deliberations—on God’s wrestling between competing goals. Here are some examples from the Midrash.

When Moses is at the Burning Bush, and God is explaining the whole plan for the Exodus, Moses interrupts God and asks, “This plan of Yours is going to take a year. Why cannot You just free the Children of Israel now?” At this impudence, God’s Right Hand of Justice lashes out to destroy Moses, but God’s Left Hand of Mercy catches the Right Hand and stops it. God realizes that Moses is only concerned with the extra year of suffering the Israelites will have to endure—and the fact that some might not survive until the Exodus.

When The Children of Israel are caught on the shore of the Red Sea, God splits the sea for them and drowns the Egyptians. Though God has other options, the decision is made to destroy the Egyptian army—a decision God does not find pleasing. Thus, when the angels in heaven start singing “Hallelujah,” God shushes them with, “My children are floating dead in the sea!”

In another Midrash, the Rabbis are discussing imitatio deo, the ways that humans can be like God. Since we are supposed to pray, someone asks whether God prays—and for what and to whom. The answer is that God prays to Himself, praying that the Divine Attribute of Justice will always be overwhelmed by the Divine Attribute of Mercy. Both are Divine, and God has to adjudicate the struggle between them.

In other words, just as we are often caught between competing principles—both of which are good, so is our God. Ultimate goodness means meeting more than one ultimate goal—different ideals not always being aligned with one another. God must think and deliberate and agonize in order to make decisions that combine justice and mercy—with hopefully a little extra mercy.

One other point: Notice the way the Threefold Benediction works. The priests say the words, but God blesses the people: “Thus they place My Name on the Children of Israel, and I will bless them.”  The priests are not God but rather just the conduits for God’s energy. This is a point on which the Rabbis of the Talmud insist. Even when we do God’s work, we are not God. We are servants of the Almighty and the deliberative process which occupies God all the time.

When we dedicate ourselves to God—as did the ancient Nazirites, let us place on ourselves the attribute of the Most High that strives earnestly to reach all good aspirations—especially those that involve blessing, protection, kindness, grace, smiling, and peace.

Who Counts?

June 7th: Bemidbar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As we begin the Book of Bemidbar, called Numbers in English because of the census commanded by God and conducted by Moses, I am drawn to reflect on the way that we count and classify human lives—specifically in the continually raging controversy over abortion rights. Who is a living human being? Who gets to decide? Who counts?

 Here are some observations:

(1)  The Bible does not mention abortion—neither the Jewish Bible (“Old Testament”) nor the Christian New Testament. Some speakers get creative with a few poetic passages and create proof texts, but the fact is that the Bible does not address this issue. The only remotely relevant passage (Exodus 21.22) is in regard to torts when a pregnant woman is accidently injured and miscarries. “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning. But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” In other words, the loss of the fetus is regarded as an injury to the woman and not a loss of a human soul.

 
(2) Traditional religions did not and do not regard the zygote, the embryo, or the fetus as an en-souled human life. Evidence to this fact can be seen in the absence of funeral rituals marking miscarriage. Neither Judaism nor Christianity nor Islam identifies a miscarried fetus as a person who is to be named or buried or mourned. Though expectant parents may be heartbroken when a miscarriage occurs—and as supportive as some religious communities can hopefully be in such situations, the loss of a pregnancy was and is not treated the same as the loss of a born and en-souled human being.


(3) There is, in much of the anti-abortion rhetoric, an anti-sexuality bias. Speakers often assume that abortion is only for women who have engaged in the sins of premarital or extra-marital sex. A common complaint is that abortion “allows sinful females to escape the punishment that they deserve.” Is this what we believe, and, if not, how can we let this anti-feminist and anti-sexual liberation mentality drive such a debate?

 
(4) There is a tragic short-sightedness in the efforts to defund or close down Planned Parenthood, an organization which is about much more than abortions. Among its most important work is general health care—a trip to the obstetrician/gynecologist being the only doctor’s visit for many women. In other words, closing down Planned Parenthood is harmful to many women’s general health. Then there is the contraception work which, regardless of one’s beliefs about pre-marital sex, is realistically the best hope of decreasing unwanted pregnancies. Indeed, in a number of localities, anti-abortion and pro-choice groups have found common ground in teaching contraception and making it readily available, thereby decreasing the number of abortions performed.

 
(5) One of the great and painful ironies of this issue is how differently women react to pregnancy. For some, it is the answer to prayers, while, for others, it is a nightmare. There are women—both married and unmarried—for whom a pregnancy presents danger and insecurity. For those seeking abortions, there is a sense of emergency—of urgency and desperation. Regardless of what they may feel about the issue in general, when it comes to their unwanted pregnancies, many women feel the need to resort to abortion. This is even true in the anti-abortion movement where those protesting at abortion clinics one week may bring a neighbor or relative for an abortion the next week. Regardless of “principle,” an individual in an emergent situation feels that her need requires an extraordinary solution.

 
(6) Though Roe v. Wade was written some forty-five years ago, the science has not changed enough to answer the lack of certainty that is at the base of Justice Blackmun’s reasoning. We still do not know when “life” begins. Given this gaping hole in our knowledge, Justice Blackmun balances the two competing rights, that of a woman to control her own body AND that of a potential/developing life to continue developing toward life. His answer is a sliding scale of rights. In the first trimester, the rights of the potential/developing life are overruled by the rights of a woman who does not want to carry the pregnancy to term. In the third trimester, the rights of the potential/developing life overrule the rights of the woman over her own body—unless continuing the pregnancy poses tangible harm to the woman. (This, by the way, is the Jewish tradition, as explained by Rashi back 1000 years ago: if the pregnancy threatens the life of the mother, the fetus is likened to a rodef, a pursuer, and one is allowed to kill a pursuer in order to save one’s life.) The middle trimester is one in which the two competing rights are more balanced, and Justice Blackmun follows Federalist thinking and allows each individual state to make its own determination.

 
(7) A final thought: Though I generally do not use opera as a basis for ethical, religious, or political thinking, there is something about Puccini’s Madama Butterfly that speaks to the reality of this issue. Through its tragically beautiful music, we see how the promises and optimism of an aroused male can cool very quickly—especially when the realities of a pregnancy present themselves. Based on a true story, the opera tells a tragically common tale. While most men live up to their responsibilities and care for their pregnant partners and children, far too many are nowhere to be found. The woman who finds herself pregnant bears the ultimate responsibility and does not have the option of leaving town or the hemisphere. As such, each individual woman should have the right to determine her own fate.

 

A Loving God

May 31st: Bechukkotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though our Tradition speaks of God’s love for us, this Divine love is not something we always remember. In a world filled with doubt and uncertainty, the teaching that the Divine has an emotional attachment to each and every human may seem more theoretical and theological than real. And yet, we are taught that God’s love for us is overwhelming—overflowing! In the morning service, just before Shema, we pray: “Ahavah rabbah ahav’tanu, Adonai Elohaynu, chem’lah g’dolah viterah chamal’ta alaynu: With a great love have You loved us, O Lord our God, and with enormous and overflowing compassion have You cared for us.”

The parallel prayer in the evening service also speaks of God’s love for us: “Ahavat olam bayt Yis’ra’el am’cha ahav’ta. With eternal love do You love Your people Israel.” Of particular note is how both of these prayers proceed to speak about the ways that God shows this love. Oh yes, there is an emotional feeling when love is involved, but real love always has behavioral manifestations. God’s love, according the Tradition, is expressed in a number of ways. The evening prayer explains: “Torah and mitzvot, laws and precepts have You taught us.” And, in the morning version, “For the sake of our ancestors, who trusted in You and to whom You taught the laws of life, may You also grace and teach us. O compassionate One, have compassion upon us and help our minds to know, understand, listen carefully, learn, teach, guard, observe, and lovingly maintain all the words and teachings of Your Torah.” In other words, God’s love is shown to us by revealing ways for us to live good lives. This is the significance and purpose of the Torah.

In our Torah portion this week, God promises other behavioral manifestations of love. In Leviticus 26.11-12, God specifically offers a sense of Divine Presence: “I will establish My abode in your midst, and I will not spurn you. I will be ever present in your midst: I will be your God, and you shall be My people.”

The Torah describes the nature of God’s Presence and blessings in agricultural terms: “I will grant your rains in their season, so that the earth shall yield its produce and the trees of the field their fruit. Your threshing shall overtake the vintage, and your vintage shall overtake the sowing; you shall eat your fill of bread and dwell securely in your land.” (Leviticus 26.3-5) In other words, God’s Presence is to be felt in tangible blessings.

The post-Biblical Judaism of the Rabbis continues this sense of God’s Presence and adds other manifestations. An example is the Amidah whose nineteen blessings—seven on Shabbat—express a wide range of the blessings with which God loves us. Consider the topics. God is our Shield and Help and gives us eternal life. God is holy and is the source of knowledge. God both desires our repentance and forgives us—and makes our lives meaningful. God heals our bodies and spirits and provides us sustenance. God remembers and helps the oppressed, loving justice and righteousness and working to remove evil from the earth. God is the support of the righteous. God builds Jerusalem and plants the seeds of our redemption. God listens to our prayers and is present for us in Jerusalem and every place. God is generous and worthy of our appreciation. And, God is the source of peace. The point is that each manifestation of God is loving gift, and praying is our way of acknowledging this Heavenly love.

Rabbi Rami Shapiro approaches this same attitude in his prayer poem, We Are Loved by an Unending Love, speaking of God’s love as expansive and sometime coming unexpectedly:
We are loved by an unending love.
We are embraced by arms that find us
even when we are hidden from ourselves.
We are touched by fingers that soothe us
even when we are too proud for soothing.
We are counseled by voices that guide us
        even when we are too embittered to hear.
We are loved by an unending love.

We are supported by hands that uplift us
even in the midst of a fall.
We are urged on by eyes that meet us
          even when we are too weak for meeting.
We are loved by an unending love.

Embraced, touched, soothed, and counseled...
Ours are the arms, the fingers, the voices;
Ours are the hands, the eyes, the smiles;
We are loved by an unending love.”

A religion and civilization as complex as Judaism can be viewed in many different ways. We have been accused of being an overly legalistic tradition, and there are indeed lots of laws and rules and procedures. However, also included in our covenantal relationship with God is a deep and profound affection. Lest we focus only on the history and laws and technicalities, our Torah portion reminds us that God loves us, and that affection is part of God’s essential nature and of our reality. We are loved.

 

Strangers "with" God

May 24th: Behar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Rabbi Chananya ben Teradion says: “When two people sit and words of Torah pass between them, the Divine Presence rests between them.” (Avot 3.3) Thus do we have an ancient description of the ever-blooming Tree of Life that is our Torah. In our textually based religion, there is always something new coming from the Divine through our sacred study.

A case in point comes in Leviticus 25.23. In discussing the Jubilee Year, when all property ownership reverts back to the ancestral families, God instructs, “The land must not be sold beyond reclaim, for the land is Mine; you are but strangers resident with Me.”

The basic meaning, of course, is that human land ownership is a temporary construct—one allowed by God for human purposes, but ultimately more a lease or a loan from the Almighty. God created the world and owns it; whatever we have is but lent to us—we stewards of God’s property.

A deeper meaning is taught this week by Rabbi Ben Spratt of New York City in the weekly D’var Torah on ReformJudaism.org—the website of the Union for Reform Judaism. Rabbi Spratt quotes Rabbi Moshe Chaim Efraim (1748-1800), the grandson of the Baal Shem Tov, who focuses on the last word of the verse, imadi. It is usually translated as resident with me, indicating that God is the landlord, and we are the tenants. However Reb Moshe reads imadi as along with me—“you are but strangers along with Me,” suggesting that God is a resident stranger just like us. Reb Moshe writes: “…for whoever is a stranger has no people with whom to cleave and to draw near and to tell of his experiences. And for anyone whose heart has no friend…when he sees a fellow stranger (and feels resonant as a fellow outsider) then he may recount with this person his experiences.” (Degel Machaneh Efraim)  Reb Moshe notes the human tendency to stay among our own kind, hesitating to stress ourselves with strangers and their strangeness. But, if we realize that we are strangers, too, then perhaps we can feel camaraderie with them and seek them out. For Rabbi Spratt, this is the way that we can partner with God—by joining God in reaching out for strangers and bringing them into relationship. It is a powerful ethical teaching, enhanced by the mystical sensibility that we and God are working together.

The idea that God is a stranger reminds me of a teaching of Rabbi Marcia Prager, a neo-Hassidic thinker from Philadelphia. In her book, The Path of Blessing, Reb Marcia discusses the meaning of the Hebrew word kadosh, usually translated as holy. Though we use the word holy fairly often, the exact meaning is difficult to specify. The earliest use of the root K D SH is in regard to marriages—which are called kedushin: one partner sets the other partner apart from all other men or women in the world, solidifying this special relationship. The sense of the word seems to involve separation and difference—separating something that is special. The times and items and relationships we identify as kadosh / holy are special and revered—and thus quite different from others.

So, if God is described or defined as holy—as in Leviticus 19.2, “I the Lord your God am holy,” then this makes God utterly different and separate. Utterly different. Utterly separate. Reb Marcia then proceeds to identify a deep difference. Everything in creation is either present or not present in one place. If I am here, I am not there. If you are there, you are not here. God, however, is utterly different from everything else inasmuch as God is both present in every place and simultaneously not present in every place. In other words, while God fills the Universe, there are places where it is as though God is not present. The salient factor is Divine Influence.  When God’s Influence is present, it is as though God is present: people behave in godly ways, doing God’s work in the world. If, however, people behave in ways that are ungodly, it is as though God is absent—history being filled with times and places where God did not seem to be known at all. Tying this back to Rabbi Moshe Chaim Efraim’s insight, we could say that God is a stranger, potentially present at every place and in every moment, hoping that someone will channel the Divine and manifest God in the world.

Thus can we conclude with Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel—whom Rabbi Spratt quotes in his D’var Torah: “The destiny of man is to be a partner of God, and a mitzvah is an act in which man is present, an act of participation; while sin is an act in which God is alone; an act of alienation.” (Between God and Man, page 80).

Though so much of our religious heritage speaks of God’s immense power, there is something remarkably inspirational in the Kabbalah’s suggestion that God depends on us. We have the power to say Yes or No, to bring God into the world or to ignore the possibilities of godliness. It is an awesome choice, a wonderful opportunity.

Revering the Ancient Text, But...

May 17th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

While there are portion of Leviticus intended for the general population, much of it seems to be a handbook for the Kohanim, the priests whose modern day descendants no longer function in the ancient ritual roles. There are some Jews who still pray every day for the restorations of the Temple and the sacrificial cult, but most modern Jews view this whole priestly/sacrificial system as a thing of the past. Sometimes, we can draw metaphorical or allegorical lessons from the rules, but sometimes, the ancient sensibilities are most troubling to consider.

 A particularly problematic passage comes in Leviticus 21.16-23:
“The Lord spoke further to Moses: Speak to Aaron and say: No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too short or too long; no man who has a broken leg or a broken arm; or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes…He may eat of the food of his God, of the most holy as well as of the holy; but he shall not enter behind the curtain or come near the altar, for he has a defect. He shall not profane these places sacred to Me, for I the Lord have sanctified them.”

 What are we to do with such a passage? Etz Hayim, the Torah with Commentary we use in our sanctuary, usually endeavors to put a positive spin on whatever ancient ideas our ancestors recorded in the Torah. However, it pretty much throws up its hands on this one:
“The reader may be troubled by these rules disqualifying physically handicapped kohanim from officiating in public. Perhaps their disfigurements would distract the worshippers from concentrating on the ritual and, like the offering of the blemished animal, would compromise the sanctuary’s image as a place of perfection reflecting God’s perfection (cf. Lev. 22:21-25, where similar language is used for the animals brought to the altar.) In later texts, in the Psalms and the prophets, the Bible emphasizes that the broken in body and spirit, because they have been cured of the sin of arrogance, are specially welcome before God. ‘True sacrifice to God is a contrite spirit; God, You will not despise a contrite and crushed heart.’ (Psalm 51.19)

 Today we might well consider the religious institution that is willing to admit its own imperfections and is willing to engage physically handicapped spiritual leaders as being better able to welcome worshippers who are painfully aware of their own physical or emotional imperfections. Many congregations have made special efforts to provide access for the handicapped.”

As a Conservative commentary, it just cannot seem to bring itself to reject this attitude as prejudiced baggage from our ancient past. And, yes, there is this notion of bringing only the best before the Lord: perfect lambs and calves and even doves, the best flour, the best oil, the best wine. To offer anything less would be to lessen one’s respect for God, and, if one believes in God and God’s power, such a strategy is not to be encouraged. However, do we extend this sense of perfection to people?

I would address this in two ways. First, we are fortunate not to have to deal with this perfection mentality of the ancient Temple. Once the Temple was destroyed and the sacrificial cult was no longer functioning, Rabbinic Judaism was relieved of some of the Biblical sensibilities and was able to craft a prayer system that was more focused on sincerity and piety than strict adherence to public performance details. One can see an interesting dynamic in the development of Rabbinic Judaism as it follows a dual path: praising and rarifying the ancient priestly system, while crafting a very different kind of heart and head oriented Jewish religion.

Second, we must realize that our ancient ancestors shared many of the prejudices and misunderstandings that have plagued humanity for millennia. While they experienced moments of spiritual grandeur and profound wisdom, they were people of their times and places, and only some of the things they recorded and taught are of the highest level. Others are mired in the lack of understanding out of which humanity is still trying to grow. Let us not forget, we who are habituated to the idea of giving equal respect and granting equal access to persons with disabilities, that it has taken a long, long, long time for society to look at less than perfect bodies and see the image of God inside. The Americans with Disabilities Act was only passed in 1990, and there are still many areas of contention or adjustment. It seems to me that we can accept the real wisdom of our ancestors while disagreeing with their prejudices or misunderstandings. We can revere our ancient texts without accepting everything.  

 

Speaking of the development of Judaism—from Biblical to Rabbinic and to modern, there is a very curious passage in Leviticus 22. In the continuing discussion of priestly purification, we have the introduction of a word commonly used in Kashrut conversations: trayfah or trafe. In modern Jewish discussions, trafe means anything that is not kosher, but, in the Torah, it specifically means something that was not slaughtered in a kosher manner. In verse 8, we read: “He shall not eat anything that died (n’velah) on its own or was torn by beasts (t’rayfah), thereby becoming impure.” The context is clearly a discussion of priestly purity for priests—for priests and not for regular Israelites. It is theorized that this as well as all the other Biblical kashrut laws were intended only for the priests as a part of their special status—and not applicable to regular people. Indeed, as one plots the development of Rabbinic Judaism from its origins in the Bible, there seems to be a pattern of adapting priestly practices for non-priests. The Rabbis did not want to supplant the priesthood—which was still in existence and operating for some 150 years of Rabbinic Judaism ((200 BCE-70 CE), but they sought to give regular Jews a sense of holiness and closeness to God. Hence, regular Jews have sacral clothing, special “priestly” rules for food, and even daily prayers that coincide (coincided) with the sacrifices offered in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem.

In so many ways, Rabbinic Judaism improved on the religion of the Bible, keeping much of what was profound and innovating new and better ways of accessing God.

 

 

Being Nice to Our People

May 10th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of my favorite politically-incorrect jokes tells of the Lone Ranger and Tonto fighting a band of marauding Indians. They fight and fight and are finally boxed in a canyon with just a few bullets left. The Lone Ranger turns to Tonto and asks, “What do you think we ought to do?” Tonto turns to the Lone Ranger and replies, “What mean we, Kimosabe?”

There are all kinds of bonds of friendship and kinship, and, within these bonds, there is supposed to be affection, camaraderie, and loyalty. However, sometimes the borders of affiliation shift unexpectedly, and loyalty and the sense of connection are less than certain.

For Jews, this has been a historical nightmare. In far too many places, everything was fine until it wasn’t. Consider Captain Alfred Dreyfus, a loyal and highly-placed officer in the French military. He was a well-regarded Frenchman until charges of treason were concocted against him, and then he and every other French Jew were considered foreigners and traitors. It was similar in Atlanta around 100 years ago, when Leo Frank, “a New York Jew” (who was actually from Texas) was accused of murdering a young girl in the factory he managed. Up until then, he was a prominent citizen—as were hundreds of the German Jewish citizens of Atlanta. But, suddenly, the public mood shifted rapidly: “He isn’t one of us!”  The anti-Jewish mood in Atlanta got so bad that many families sent their women and children away for extended “vacations.”  (For an excellent and emotionally tortuous expression of this dynamic, give a listen to Alfred Uhry’s Parade, an opera based on the trial and lynching of Leo Frank.)

 Within the Jewish community, a similar dynamic is often at play. We can become very compartmentalized, favoring our kind of Jews and treating those kinds of Jews with less than respect. It is most notable among the Hassidim and Haredim in places like Brooklyn and Mea Shearim, but even we Reform and Conservative Jews can slip into the intra-Jewish xenophobia:
“They’re not like us.”

The relevance to our Torah portion comes with the question of how far and to whom do we extend the hand of fairness and charity. Kedoshim is the Torah portion with the Golden Rule and all sorts of other good and kind and fair mitzvot:
“When you harvest your crops or vineyards…leave some for the poor and the stranger.”
“You shall not steal or deal deceitfully with one another.”
“You shall not defraud your fellow.”
“Judge your kinsmen fairly.”
“Do not deal basely with your countrymen.”
“Do not profit by the blood of your fellow.”
“You shall not hate your kinsfolk in your heart.”
“Reprove your kinsman so that you do not incur guilt because of him.”
“You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against your countrymen.”
“Love your fellow as yourself.”
(All from Leviticus 19.9-19)

These words, “kinsman, kinsfolk, neighbor, and fellow,” are translations of the Hebrew words, Amecha (your people), Amitecha (a member of your people), Achicha (your brother), and Re’echa (your neighbor). All indicate a closeness and sense of community or loyalty. How far, however, do we spread the borders of acceptance?

Traditionally, much of our liturgy was self-concerned: we prayed for the welfare of the Jewish people, we who were often attacked by the outsiders. There have always been universalistic passages in our prayers, but often our concern was for Am Yisrael, the Jewish People. In modern times, our consideration has expanded, and many modern liturgists have added terms that included others in more of our prayers. Two examples come from the Sabbath Amidah.

 In Siddur Hadash, the red prayer book we often use on Saturday mornings, the editor, Rabbi Sydney Greenberg, z’l, adds a word to Sim Shalom. The traditional version reads,
Sim shalom, tovah, uv’racha, chen, vachesed, verachamim alaynu v’al kol Yisrael amecha. Grant peace, goodness, and blessing, graciousness, and kindness, and mercy to us and to all Israel, Your people.” Greenberg adds the word ba’olam / in the world to the first phrase, adding to our prayer the whole world: “Grant peace, goodness and blessing to the world; graciousness, kindness, and mercy to us and to all Your people Israel.”

In Siddur B’rit Shalom, our congregational (purple) prayer book, we follow some modern liturgists in adding a universalistic element to Shalom Rav. Traditionally, the prayer asks: “Shalom rav al Yisrael amcha tasim l’olam. Grant abundant and everlasting peace upon Israel Your people.” However, based on the philosophical position voiced, among others, by the Prophet Amos in this week’s Haftarah, we have added “V’al kol ha’amim. And to all peoples.”

Some other modern liturgists have alternative universalistic phrasings. Some use “V’al kol yir’ay Sh’mecha. And upon all who revere Your name,” while others prefer “V’al kol yosh’vay tevel. And all who dwell on earth.” An amusing issue comes up when the popular tunes for the prayers were written before the additional universalistic phrases, and we have to change the tune or sing the older particularistic version.

Let me conclude with the words of the Prophet Amos, who reminds us that, as special as we are, so is everyone else! “To Me, O Israelites, you are just like the Ethiopians, declares the Lord. True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, but I also brought the Philistines from Caphtor, and the Arameans from Kir.” (Amos 9.7)

God loves us all, and, though we may feel a special kinship with some humans, we are reminded to be menschen to everyone.

 

Imitating the Gentiles?

May 3rd: Achare Mot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

A passage in this week’s Torah portion sets the stage for some very interesting arguments in Jewish history. In Leviticus 18.2, we read: “You shall not copy the practices of the land of Egypt where you dwelt, or of the land of Canaan to which I am taking you; nor shall you follow their laws. My rules alone shall you observe, and faithfully follow My laws: I the Lord am your God.”

Since a list of prohibited sexual relationships (various forms of incest) follows this general rule, the passage may have been meant as an introduction: do not behave sexually the way the Egyptians do. However, our Tradition has expanded this principle and used it in evaluating a number of other “non-Jewish” customs or practices. The philosophical approach is that the ways of our corrupt and immoral neighbors are dangerous to our holiness, while our ways of doing things are moral and holy. We may doubt whether this is actually the case—or whether it was ever the case with all of our neighbors, but our Tradition’s focus on our holiness has always been suspicious of the polytheism, idolatry, and moral quality of our non-Jewish neighbors. What do we think? Are all “non-Jewish” behaviors and practices immoral and unholy? Or, are some okay? What is it that makes a “non-Jewish” practice or custom anathema to Jewish values or religion? Is it possible for Jews to adopt some “non-Jewish” practices and customs and not deviate from God’s laws?

A possible early example is the verse that prohibits “boiling a kid in its mother’s milk.” Found more than once in the Torah (Exodus 23.19, Exodus 34.26, and Deuteronomy 14.21), this is the verse upon which Kashrut’s separation of meat and dairy is based. Though later commentators speak to the perverse cruelty of using the life-giving fluid as a means of cooking a young animal, we really do not know why the command was given in the first place. Some 20th Century archeological finds, however, may give us a clue. One Canaanite ritual describes literally boiling a baby goat in its mother’s milk. So, could the Biblical passage be a prohibition of Canaanite religion, ala “You shall not copy the practices of the….Land of Canaan?”

Similar reasoning could be the basis of the prohibition of male homosexuality (Leviticus 18.22 and 20.13). No reason is given for the ban, but Canaanite religion featured a number of sexual rituals. Is the problem, in Biblical thinking, with homosexuality itself or with the fact that it was part of Canaanite polytheistic and idolatrous religion?

There are lots and lots of examples in the Talmud, but I shall just mention my favorite: a discussion banning Roman-style sandals with cleats. For some reason, for some of the ancient Sages, this Roman fashion crossed the line of Jewish acceptability.

In our own day, one of the places we see the controversy is at funerals where “non-Jewish” customs—like flower arrangements—are often attempted. To my knowledge, there is no Christological meaning associated with flowers, but many Jews feel a firm religious conviction that there is something seriously “non-Jewish” or “anti-Judaism” about them. Some believe that the original use of flowers was to cover the odor of a decomposing body—something only necessary in religions where burial is delayed for several days. But, are the flowers themselves religious symbols? And, if the modern meaning is to soften the sadness and express care for the mourners, why is this a religious problem for Jews?

We face the same concerns with other “non-Jewish” funeral practices: cremation, donating remains to medical schools, embalming and public viewing. Though not what we now consider “traditional,” are they “anti-Jewish” and to be rejected? I look at them as non-religious practices—and compare them to other non-religious things that Christians do. If Christians wear coats in the winter, does that mean that we should not?

We could ask, in similar fashion, about spiritual practices from other faith traditions? Is yoga a Hindu (idolatrous) religious practice, or is it a form of exercise in which a Jew can participate safely? What about Vipassana (mindfulness) meditation? Is it part of Hindu or Buddhist spirituality and therefore “against” Jewish values or practice? Or, is it a meditative technique that is religiously neutral—and safe for Jews? We may draw the line at reciting The Lord’s Prayer or offering a sacrifice to Ganesh, but, if a practice from other religion is non-religious, what makes it appropriate or inappropriate for a Jew to use or practice it?

Many of the modern reforms in Judaism were taken from Christian worship practices: clerical robes, pipe organs, and even prayer leaders facing the congregation. Are they therefore non-Jewish or against Judaism’s spiritual culture? What about other, more benign strategies of modernization? Back in the mid-1800s, Orthodox Rabbi Azriel Hildesheimer was a controversial figure because he tried to bring Orthodox Jews into the modern world. He established a school that taught both boys and girls, used proper German (not Yiddish), and included non-Jewish subjects—his goal being to have his religiously Orthodox students ready to participate in the modern world. He also advocated modern clothing—which meant short suit coats for men, as opposed to the long, below-the-knees coats Jewish men had worn for centuries. He had many supporters, but ultimately, he was censured by the Orthodox authorities and, under pressure from them, the Hungarian government closed his school. In 1860, the Orthodox zealot Yosef Schlesinger excommunicated Hildesheimer, declaring him “not truly a sincere Jew.” The ban was not universally accepted, but these episodes from just 150 years ago show how far we can take the prohibition of imitating the ways of the Gentiles.

 

We who believe that it is possible to be authentically Jewish and fully modern have an interesting tightrope to walk. Both are good goals, but sometimes we have to negotiate the meanings and implications of “modern” and “non-Jewish” practices. There is no sure-fire way to decide, but Jewish education, continuing thoughtfulness, and creative adaptability are good tools for us to use.

 

 

Passover Lessons: Responsibility, Humility, and Patience

April 26th: Conclusion of Passover
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the many Torah portions for Passover features the actual departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt, where they turn into the desert and cross the Red Sea on dry land. It is a story that is full of drama and wisdom, and we Jews are bidden to pay attention to the story—over and over and over again—to find whatever gems of insight God has imbedded in it.

Though miracles are a big part of the Exodus story—what, with the Ten Plagues and the Splitting of the Red Sea, the Tradition has some ambivalence about God’s miraculous intervention. On the one hand, we believe in miracles, and we hope for miraculous relief from tragedy and injustice. On the other hand, we should be reticent putting all of our energies into hoping and waiting for miracles. We have the responsibility of solving our own problems. As a result, whenever the Torah speaks of miracles, some rabbis in the Midrash modify the narrative to reflect the participation of humans. One of my favorite Midrashim (found in Sotah in the Babylonian Talmud, Bemidbar Rabba, and our prayer book on page 38) tells the story of Nachshon son of Aminadab and how his faith helped split the sea. The entre’ of the Midrash is a koshi in the wording: How people could walk into the sea (meaning the water of the sea) on dry ground? Either it’s water, or it’s dry land. One ancient Rabbi resolved this conflict with a scenario in which Nachshon leads the people into the water before the waters split. Thus is the phrase “into the sea on dry land” a sequence: into the sea/water; then the miracle and dry land. The miracle only works when faithful humans do their part.

Another Midrash speaks of the Israelites earning their redemption by remaining Jewish during the 400 years of slavery. Rabbi Eliezer haKappar, whose opinion is recorded in the Mekhilta, taught that Israel merited redemption from Egypt by keeping alive their Jewish Identity and morality: ““Did not Israel possess/observe four mitzvot while they were in Egypt? They were sexually pure. They did not gossip. That they did not change their names—kept using Hebrew names. They did not change their language—kept speaking Hebrew.” Though there are other implications of this Midrash, it is also part of the ethic that we have a part to play in our own redemption.


What about the negative side of the miracles? Is there any human agency is drawing God’s wrath? Consider an interesting passage in Exodus 14, where the Egyptians find themselves in the middle of the Red Sea. “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Hold out your arm over the sea, that the waters may come back upon the Egyptians and upon their chariots and upon their horsemen.’ Moses held out his arm over the sea, and at daybreak the sea returned to its normal state, and the Egyptians fled at its approach.” In the Hebrew for the last phrase, “Umitz’rayim nasim lik’ra’to,” another interpretation is possible. Mitzrayim means Egypt; nasim means traveled or fled, but lik’ra’to can be read to mean to greet it—as in, Egypt fled to greet the oncoming waters: hastened into the disaster. This was not a disaster that just happened to them; they went after it—engaging in behavior that would court a catastrophe.

How often do we put great energy into paths that lead to disaster? It is as though we get so focused on a course of action that we fail to see the consequences. Sometimes it is a surrender to impulsiveness. Other times, we allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by passion or anger or an overly narrowed sense of ownership or power. In any event, we ignore wisdom and judgment and caution, rushing headlong into the jaws of defeat.

How do we guard against our foolish and self-destructive possibilities? I believe that our two best defenses are humility and patience. Humility, realizing that the world does not revolve around us, is a good first step. We have our rights, and we are responsible for taking care of ourselves, but other people need to take care of themselves, too. As important as we are, we need to remember that we are but dust and ashes,” not always the most important. Sometimes, others and their needs should take precedence.  The other way to help ourselves is to practice patience. How often are we tempted to respond quickly, immediately—and how often are immediate, rushed responses less than the situation requires? Some emergencies need quick responses, but often the immediacy is artificial, and the foolish consequences of rushed reactions are paraded across the public consciousness to the embarrassment of the “rushers” and to the detriment of the issues or persons involved.  

An example of patience and prudence—a counter-example to a rush to judgment—is being acted out in our own community right now. Most of us are aware of the tragedy that happened a few weeks ago, when Osaze Osagie was killed in an encounter with police officers. Everyone involved agrees that it was a tragedy, but the questions of who did what and whether protocols were followed or wise are complex and require thoughtful investigation and review. The local authorities are approaching the tragedy carefully and with due regard for all of the people and factors involved. The public wants answers, but rushing to judgment will not allow the procedural care that justice and good public policy require. In particular, I was struck by the tone of a Center Daily Times report the other day. The article was about the careful, professional, and deliberate process of investigation and policy review by the Borough Council and the District Attorney. The reporter began, however, with impatience: “Nearly a month after the shooting,” suggesting that the authorities are taking too long. As sad as the situation is, rushing will not bring Mr. Osagie back, nor will it lessen the pain of his family and friends; nor will it assure that justice is done; nor will it allow the complex review and perhaps revision of procedures that may prove to be necessary. I applaud the patience of our leadership, though they are having to resist the demands for immediate answers.

Humility and patience are often hard to muster, but they can offer us alternatives to rushing headlong into disaster.

The lessons of the Passover are deep and varied—and worth pondering throughout the week. As we eat our matzah, let us think about the wisdom that can come from our people’s experience, continuing the 3000 year discussion that is an essential part of our Tradition.

Thanks be to God for Good Neighbors

April 19th: Passover
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most interesting things about Judaism is the multiplicity of voices in our Tradition—some which are known well, and others which are more obscure, some which speak to our current sensibilities, and others which come from a very different world. One traditionally ubiquitous voice which has currently gone obscure is the Haggadah passage that begins with the words “Pour out Thy wrath!” It is a concatenation of verses from the Psalms and Lamentations that asks God to execute Divine Judgement on our oppressors. It comes in the Haggadah right as we open the door for Elijah—and before we sing the song inviting him into our homes. As though daring the oppressors to hear us, the leader intones: “Pour out Your wrath upon the nations that do not know You, upon the governments which do not call upon Your name! For they have devoured Jacob and desolated his home!  (Psalms 79:6-7) Pour out Your wrath on them; may Your blazing anger overtake them! (Psalms 69:25) Pursue them from under the heavens of the Lord!” (Lamentations 3:66)”

If you have never seen this angry and vengeful part of the Haggadah, it is probably for one of two reasons. (1) Your Haggadah took out this traditional passage because it does not reflect the spirit of peace and fellowship which most modern Haggadahs encourage. (2) It was there but in Hebrew and not translated (by the leader, or at all).

Coming from times and places where Judaism was precariously perched between Rabbinic pacifism and the pain of persecution, this passage was an outlet for our ancestors’ pain and sense of outrage. “Shall not the Judge of the Universe do justly?” they asked along with Abraham. (Genesis 18.25) “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me; why so far from delivering me and from my anguished roaring?” they asked along with David. (Psalm 22.1) In the face of perpetual discrimination and frequent violence, our ancestors yearned for respite and prayed for the God of Redemption to redeem them. And, what better time to ask for redemption? Passover is the festival of freedom, and our people hoped every year to be freed from the centuries of anti-Semitism that pervaded European Jewish life.

Given that we now live in a land of equality and religious liberty, this traditional passage does not resonate with our blessings or our challenges, and so it has been put on the shelf. In so many ways, we have been given this second redemption, and we should all give thanks. We may sing, “Dayenu”—those ancient miracles would have been enough, but we really needed some modern miracles, and, thank God, they have blessed our lives immeasurably.

As evidence, let me share with you the message of Rev. Sarah Malone, speaking for the Palm Sunday Peace March that visited us this past Sunday and dedicated a tree to good interfaith relations:

 ”We come to appreciate, celebrate, love and honor you as persons. And we come to celebrate, to appreciate, to honor, and to love as well the eternal truths that Jews have sought to live by, and have kept safe for all humanity, for literally thousands of years. Each of you individually here, now, represents to us this divine gift and beautiful heritage, this treasure, of Judaism.

Furthermore, we recognize with delight that the truth of Judaism, the beautiful treasure of Jewish theology and spirituality, will never be invalidated, will never be superseded, by any other religion or philosophy, and will continue until the human effort of religion itself is no longer needed, in the very presence of the Divine.

And so, it is at this time that we followers of Jesus, confess to you as Jews, that we have long carried pain, shame, and sorrow for the many ways our beloved practice of Christianity has throughout untold years in untold numbers of places, and even especially on this sacred day of Palm Sunday, been used as an excuse or a pretext for persecution and hurt to Jewish people, individually or collectively.

And though we as individuals have not taken part in such persecution, and though significant work of repentance and reconciliation has taken place with certain Christian churches and leaders, yet continuing acts of persecution, defamation, desecration and violence still occurring in this nation and in the world against Jews as Jews, cause us pain, shame, and sorrow, and show as well that much work remains.

“Oh, that my head were a spring of waters, and my eyes a fountain of tears, I would weep day and night for the slain of my people!” says the ancient prophet Jeremiah (9:1).

If there were any way that tears and love could wash away the hurt of centuries; if there were any way that a fountain of tears, and another fountain of love, could melt away and dissolve the walls of fear, pain, shame and alienation built over centuries, that have kept, and still keep Christians and Jews from fully caring, nurturing, or cooperating with each other, we would shed those tears and we would pour out that love for you, our Jewish neighbors.

So it is that we come to plant a living tree for you here at Congregation Brit Shalom—we come to plant the hope that it is a Tree of Life—and that it will symbolize a living and growing commitment, and a Covenant of Peace—to work together in loving kindness, however the Divine wills and gives us strength to do, to pluck out the roots of anti-Semitic falsehood, prejudice, violence, and hatred wherever we see them—and to do our best, as given ability, to protect you, our Jewish neighbors, from these both now and in the future.

May God bless this covenant and Congregation Brit Shalom now and from this day forward. Amen.”

 

Thanks be to God for good neighbors! Thanks be to God for tikkun olam! Next year in Jerusalem! Next year, may all humans be free from oppression and hate!

 

 

Lepers or Not? Dangerous or Not? The Bonds of Friendship

April 12th: Shabbat Hagadol and Metzora
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Why is leprosy a subject fit for the Torah? Why are the priests the ones to inspect and determine whether a rash is leprosy, or whether some mold is leprosy of the house? The ancients believed that, since everything is part of God’s Creation, every aspect of life is in the religious realm. And, since the priests were trained in diagnostic techniques—“distinguishing between the sacred and the profane, and between the impure and the pure, to teach the Israelites…” (Leviticus 10.10-11), the priests were the ones best able to tell whether an outbreak was dangerous or not.

Danger is the salient factor, and the priest’s job is to ascertain the possible contagion and deal with it. If the outbreak on the skin is leprosy and therefore contagious and dangerous, then separation is required. If it is not leprosy and therefore neither contagious nor dangerous, then separation is not required.

The same could be said for people. Whether we are talking about Central Americans seeking to come into the United States, or Palestinians living in Judah and Samaria, or any other case of otherness, the salient question is whether the other poses a danger. If it/they do not, then extending the hand of friendship is the proper thing to do. If they do pose a danger, however, then we have the right and the responsibility to defend ourselves. Much depends on the result of our determination: is the other dangerous or just a slightly different version of us?

When we talk about immigration to the United States or the proper policy for Israel to pursue in regard to the Palestinians, we are blessed with the fact that we are part of the majority deciding the most judicious course of action. Let us not forget, however, that we Jews have often been the other and very much at the mercy of those in power. Sometimes, things have been good, but, sometimes, things have been very, very bad. We know that we have never been a danger to Christians or Muslims, but many times, they thought the opposite. The fact that we dared to have a different religion challenged some Christians and Muslims so much that they could not abide it.

How blessed we are, then, to live in a time and place where interfaith relations have improved so much. Today, we can stand together with our neighbors of different faiths and backgrounds, sharing friendships and working on mutual interests. The last 150 years of interfaith work has been wonderfully successful, and we all feel the benefits.

But, the progress is not universal, and terrible things still happen. While we are affected by every outrage against Jews, the shooting at the synagogue in Pittsburgh last October seemed to hit us harder. How wonderful it was that our friends and neighbors voiced support for us in our time of tragedy, filling our synagogue with some 600 people who wanted us to know that we are treasured citizens of this community. Our Muslim neighbors experienced a similar trauma a few weeks ago—with the tragic news from New Zealand, and they were similarly comforted when hundreds of non-Muslims joined them in prayer and reflection, reminding them that they too are treasured friends and neighbors.

We do our best to spread the spirit of respect and friendship, and we extend the hand of care and comfort when sadness and fear come into our friends’ lives.

In the aftermath of the Pittsburgh shooting, a group of local Christians decided to make a formal gesture of affirmation for the Jewish community, and the fruition of their plan is happening this week. Each year, in observance of Palm Sunday, a group of local Christians participates in a Peace March, going from congregation to congregation and reflecting on the Gospel of Peace: that part of the Christian tradition that encourages love, respect, and kindness. Most participants are from what are called Peace Churches: Mennonites, United Brethren, and Society of Friends (Quakers). It is their way of ushering in the Easter season.

This year, the organizers want to extend the hand of support and friendship to us—realizing that many in the Christian tradition over the centuries have been less than peaceful or friendly. They want to include a stop at the synagogue in their Peace March, and they want to make a statement about their remorse at Christian anti-Semitism in the past and their commitment to good interfaith relations in the future.

So, this next Sunday, April 14th, they are coming to visit us. The Peace March starts at 3:00, and there are several stops before us. The estimate is that they’ll arrive around 5:00, but I suggest we gather around 4:30 just to make sure we are waiting for them. There will be some meditations about the need for healing from anti-Semitism, some statements of friendship and support, AND they are giving us a tree—a tree to symbolize the growth of goodwill and respect.

Please join us for this brief ceremony, as we accept our neighbors’ gestures and good will. It will mean a lot to them. It will mean a lot for tikkun olam, the Repair of the World.

 

Impurity and Separation?

April 5th: Tazria and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The issue of the equality between men and women—in Judaism and in the eyes of God—comes at us immediately in this week’s Torah portion: “When a woman at childbirth bears a male, she shall be impure seven days; she shall be impure as at the time of her menstrual infirmity. On the eighth day the flesh of his foreskin shall be circumcised. She shall remain in a state of blood purification for thirty-three days: she shall not touch any consecrated thing, nor enter the sanctuary until her period of purification is completed.” That is if the baby is a boy.

 “If she bears a female, she shall be impure two weeks as during her menstruation, and she shall remain in a state of blood purification for sixty-six days.”  (Leviticus 12.1-5)

In an age where we see equal opportunity as both a right and a challenge, our minds wonder why having a baby should be any impediment at all—much less an impediment based on the gender of the baby. Should not all women, regardless of their menstrual or pre- or post-childbirth status be completely equal to men? Why are there a distinction and a separation from the religious community?

Perhaps some answers emerge as the text continues: “On the completion of her period of purification, for either son or daughter, she shall bring to the priest, at the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, a lamb in its first year for a burnt offering, and a pigeon or turtledove for a purification offering. He shall offer it before the Lord and make expiation on her behalf; she shall then be pure from her flow of blood.”  (Verses 12.6-7)

While we may see such a separation as a negative, there is some evidence that the ancient women themselves were happy about it. The evidence comes from the experiences of Beta Yisrael, the Ethiopian Jews who lived a very primitive Jewish lifestyle in Ethiopia and then had to enter the modern world when they moved to Israel in the 1980s and 1990s. In a life that was difficult and featured lots of manual labor, a week off every month was seen as a welcome vacation rather than a shunning or time of exclusion. And, how much the more so would a rest be appreciated after the rigors of childbirth! (Actually, in Israel, the common practice is for mothers and new babies to spend several days at a maternity nursing home.)

Of course, this analysis does not address the differences in the period of purification determined by the gender of a woman’s child. To understand this, I find it helpful to turn to the thinking of Dr. Herbert Chanan Brichto, the late professor of Bible at the Hebrew Union College. Dr. Brichto saw the worship component of the purification process as crucial to understanding the ancient sensibilities. If it were simply a matter of hygiene, then no sacrificial offering would be necessary. If it were simply a matter of a family thanking God for a new child, then there would be no need for the woman herself to bring the offering; her husband could have done if. If it were simply a matter of rest or even sexual availability, then there would be no need for a sacrifice—as is the case with the monthly menstrual period.

Dr. Brichto’s answer comes in Verse 4 where we read that during her period of blood purification, “She shall not touch any consecrated thing, nor enter the sanctuary…”  What is it about the sanctuary and consecrated things (utensils and clothing of the sanctuary) that seem to be the issue—the salient factor? Dr. Brichto notes that all the purification rites—for this and other bodily emissions—involve a period of separation away from sacred objects. He also notes how some of the priestly rules require the priests themselves to enter into a state of impurity and then separate themselves from sacred objects. These separations are always for a limited time, and they often involve a chata’t, a sin offering. Why would things commanded by God require a sin offering before returning to contact with sacred things? Dr. Brichto senses a concern that too much contact with sacred objects—with the life-force (or God force)—can be dangerous. Contact is thus dosed—which makes the separation from consecrated things a temporary separation from overexposure to the life-force.

This potentially dangerous contact occurs when the natural barriers of the body are opened: in menstrual periods, in childbirth, in emissions of semen, in sores that discharge pus, and in contact with any dead body (animal or human). When such exposure occurs, the prescription is to hold off on any further exposure for a specified time—until the dose has dissipated. Then, when the waiting time is completed, the person is allowed to reenter the sacred precinct and contact sacred things again.

The chata’t / sin offering is not required because the impurity is a sin. The sin offering is to protect against any sins committed during the state of ritual over-exposure and vulnerability.

Why is the time twice as long for a baby girl as for a baby boy? Because the baby girl has the same reproductive energy as the mother, and this double exposure to the mother requires an extra time away from sacred things.

Note: these separations are only for worship in the sanctuary; they have nothing to do with prayer or rights or respect—or food or shelter or anything else we associate with equal rights.

 

There is no doubt that women were subordinated in ancient culture, and there is no doubt that the road to full equality has been long and full of difficulties. It would wrong to think that Dr. Brichto’s explanation in any way excuses or justifies sexist discrimination. However, not every form of gender separation was discriminatory or excluding. Some might have been based on awe at the procreative power of women, a power that that was and still is prized and respected.

 

 

Kashrut: My, How You Have Grown!

March 29th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This Torah portion has the beginnings of what we now call Kashrut, our Jewish dietary laws and customs. The first step is in Leviticus 11: “These are the creatures that you may eat from among all the land animals: any animal that has true hoofs, with clefts through the hoofs, and that chews the cud—such you may eat.” After some specifics about mammals that either have split hoofs or chew the cud—but not both, the instructions continue with approved water-dwelling creatures: “anything that has fins and scales.” Birds and poultry do not seem to have any specific characteristics; rather there is a list of prohibited birds—with the understanding that birds not on the list are acceptable. There’s also a potentially disgusting angle. “Winged swarming things that walk on fours shall be an abomination,” but there are some insects that are permitted. “These you may eat among all the winged swarming things that walk on fours: all that have, above their feet, jointed legs to leap with on the ground…” I have never seen locusts for sale at kosher food stores, but, then again, I have never really looked for them.

This is the start, but our Tradition has grown this notion of acceptable food into a much more significant system. Today, the system of Kashrut has five basic components:
(1)   Which animals are acceptable to eat (among mammals, fish, birds, and insects)
(2)   How these animals are to be slaughtered and butchered
(3)   The separation between dairy and meat foods
(4)   The special Passover rules forbidding chametz (leavened grain products)
(5)   Rabbinical supervision and authorization—due to the ever increasing length and anonymity of the food supply chain

Of these five, only two and a quarter of them are in the Torah. The Torah does tell us to “return the blood—that is, the soul—to God” by letting the lifeblood drain onto the ground, but it does not include the elaborate slaughtering and butchering techniques (including the inspection, salting, and washing of the meat) that are now part of kashrut. The Torah tells us not “to boil a kid in its mother’s milk,” but it says nothing about separating dairy and meat foods in the general sense. And, the Torah says nothing about Rabbinical supervision—which happens to be the most complex and controversial aspect of Kashrut today.

Why did Judaism grow and enhance the system of Kashrut? What were the purposes of each innovation and addition to the process? Why does it resonate with so many Jews—and not resonate with many more? These are the questions I would like to approach this week.

The formative documents of Rabbinic Judaism—the Mishnah and the Gemara—do not explain the rationale for these dietary rules; they assume them and then discuss a host of details. Thinkers have been speculating as to God’s rationale—or the rational of the Sages who “interpreted” God’s instructions for a long time. Back around 2000 years ago, Philo Judaeus (25 BCE-50 CE), an Alexandrian Jew and Platonic philosopher, suggested that Moses was a great scientist and philosopher and prescribed the various mitzvot based on rational thinking. Philo’s approach is interesting, but it is inevitably speculation. The fact is that we do not know why God commanded what is in the Torah or why the Rabbis enhanced the message into what we now know as Rabbinic (or Traditional) Judaism.

The explanations that make the most sense to me come from two recent voices, the late Dr. Ellis Rivkin of the Hebrew Union College in Cincinnati and Rabbi Marcia Prager of Philadelphia.

Dr. Rivkin discusses the development of Pharisaic/Rabbinic Judaism in his book, A Hidden Revolution: The Pharisees Search for the Kingdom Within. He notes the raging threat Hellenism posed to the then-traditional Jewish lifestyle in the third century BCE and sees the development of Rabbinic Judaism as a conscious attempt to craft a Jewish spiritual lifestyle as a counter-cultural option for Jews. This was accomplished by gradually adopting and adapting priestly practices and prohibitions for regular (non-priestly) Jews. Rather than occasionally attending sacrificial services at the Temple, regular Jews living outside of Jerusalem could pray more regularly and in their villages in a house of prayer called a synagogue. The priestly vestments were adapted and prescribed for regular Jews so that, through their clothing, they too could feel the ambience of holiness. Even the dietary limitations of the priestly sacrificial meals were adopted by many regular Jews as they sought to increase and enhance the Presence of God in their lives. The religion described and discussed in the Mishnah (225 CE) reflects a 400 year old “Oral Torah” process in which Rabbis and students sought to wrap themselves in adapted or newly developed religious techniques to help them feel closer to God.

 Rabbi Prager also discusses this process of sanctification. In her book, The Path of Blessing, she sees the practices of Rabbinic Judaism as techniques of mindfulness—of mental and spiritual focus—so that we can live life with more intention, moral integrity, and spiritual purpose. Is Hamotzi before eating bread for God or for us? It is for us in terms of reminding ourselves of the Divine and creative context in which we eat and live. And, it is for God in terms of mentally and spiritually connecting the Creator and the created. She even goes further. When we use the techniques of our Tradition, we turn ourselves into portals of Divine energy and thus bring God’s Presence—God’s consciousness and influence—into a world that yearns for it.

 Every layer of development and enhancement is part of this process. In order to sense God in a world that distracts our spiritual vision, our Sages have built upon the Biblical forms and crafted spiritual techniques to focus our attention on the Presence of God and to open ourselves to be channels for the flow of Divine energy into the world.

 From making the mundane slaughter of animals into an act of sanctification, from not boiling a baby goat in its mother’s milk to separating all meat and dairy foods, and from elevating the local production of Kosher food to an institutionalized holy food industry, each step of the growth of Kashrut has been an attempt to fill our lives with meaning. Whether or not Jews follow Kashrut—and to what degree—is based on how this Divine connection through food resonates or does not resonate with their spiritual sensibilities.

 

 

Israel, American Jews, and The Benjamins

March 22nd: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, we can follow our intuition and do very well. Other time, however, things are not as we would expect, and we have to check ourselves and our automatic assumptions and responses. A case in point comes in Leviticus 8 when we read about the ordination ceremony for Aaron and his sons. “A second ram was brought forward, the ram of ordination. Aaron and his sons laid their hands upon the ram’s head, and it was slaughtered. Moses took some of its blood and put it on the ridge of Aaron’s right ear, and on the thumb of Aaron’s right hand, and on the big toe of his right foot.” Moses did the same for the right ears, right thumbs, and right big toes of Aaron’s sons. Then, Moses took “the rest of the blood and dashed it on every side of the altar.” (Leviticus 8.22-24). What was the purpose of this blood?

The commentary in Etz Hayim explains that “dabbing sacrificial blood on certain extremities of the body is essentially a rite of purification.” Purification?! One would intuitively think that blood is something from which one needs to be purified, but here the ritual makes it a purifying agent. A similar dynamic comes into play in next week’s special reading Parah (Numbers 19.1-22), where the ashes of a red heifer, normally something from which one needs to be purified, are used in ritual cleansing. Things are not always what they seem.

I think of this intuitive/counterintuitive tension as I survey a recent news story and controversy: the remarks of Representative Ilhan Omar about Jews and American foreign policy. The anti-Semitic nature of her remarks has gotten a lot of attention, but I think that two other points need to be discussed.

First, it is a myth that Jews are the reason for the United States’ support of Israel. The fact that Israel is a Jewish State and that most American Jews support Israel may give rise to this kind of thinking, and AIPAC’s (American Israel Public Affairs Committee) fundraising self-promotion may give the impression that Jews are powerful in America. However, the real reasons for American support for Israel have very little to do with American Jews. As historian Ellis Rivkin explained, Israel is a beachhead of both democracy and developmental capitalism in a part of the world where, in America’s view, both are really needed. This was true when Rivkin taught this in the 1970s, and it is even more true today. Look at the crises in democracies throughout the region, and look at the intact and operating democracy in Israel. Even though squabbling is a way of life in democracy, look at the way that law and democratic representation reign in the Jewish State—even in the face of formidable challenges. Look also at the way that developmental capitalism thrives in Israel—with innovation and international integration driving both the Israeli economy and benefiting economies all over the world. There is also the military reality that Israel is, in Rivkin’s words, “the world’s largest aircraft carrier, stationed in one of the most strategically important places in the world.” When things get dangerous in the Middle East, Israel is there to support American interests and goals—and Israel is willing to man this “aircraft carrier” with minimal support from its allies.

We must also not forget the fifty million Christian evangelicals in the United States who believe that “blessing Israel” brings blessings and “cursing Israel” brings curses. As Rivkin would put it, if there were not a Jew in the United States, the U.S. would still support Israel.

 

Second, Representative Omar’s blaming “the Benjamins” for American policy is a paranoid tautology. The assumption of such an accusation is that nefarious interests are perverting the system by bribing the government (with $100 bills or Benjamins) to do the wrong things—to pursue policies inimical to what “the people want and need.” What it ignores is the assumption that the speaker knows what the people want and need—knowledge based on the speaker’s political thinking. In other words, this is a rhetorical device for claiming the moral and democratic high ground, something done by politicians in every party and on every issue. Think about how many times you hear the phrase the American people in most political conversations and how the American people are always in agreement with the speaker. Anything that goes along with the speaker is supported by the American people, and anything that is counter to the speaker’s opinion is against the will of the American people.

Are the Benjamins an important factor in American policy? Of course, they are. Anyone working for the prosperity and health of our society has got to pay attention to economic factors. Indeed, the vast majority of policy suggestions base their wisdom on positive economic effects. From Trickle-Down Prosperity to the Poor People’s Campaign for Economic Justice, proponents are always concerned with the practical economic effects. It’s just a matter of arguing which policy will bring about a particular effect.

My favorite example comes from the early 1990s, when many blamed U.S. involvement in the first Iraq war (Operation Desert Storm) on oil. “We’re just fighting for oil,” was a common complaint, suggesting that oil supply is not a vital American interest—that it is only a concern for rich people who, for the sake of their own wealth, are sending young Americans to die. It was a convincing argument, and it followed intuitive thinking. However, a little deeper thinking turned me around. If supplies of oil would drop and the price of oil would increase by 10% or 25%, would this only be a problem just for the fat cats and other immorally rich people? Or, would there also be problems for the common folk? Would prices on everything rise? Would poor people be able to drive to work or to the grocery store? Would auto sales and manufacturing decrease? Would food prices—for both rich and poor—increase? While there may be a critique about our national patterns of energy consumption, the fact is that oil is the lifeblood of our economy, and anything that threatens our oil supply is a legitimate threat to our people’s economic lives. Of course, it’s the Benjamins! It’s always the Benjamins because we all depend on money for our food, our shelter, our clothing, our security, our culture--our everything!  Whether Capitalist or Socialist, we need to be concerned about economic realities and about how people get the things they need to live. There are certainly different opinions about how to run the economy and address a host of human concerns, but suggesting that any philosophy or moral system can exist without economic factors is foolish and shallow—and ultimately demagogic.

Are the Benjamins a source of impurity, or are they simply a fact of life? Are economic interests inevitably a form of bribery, or must they be pursued within a framework of morality? The advice of the Torah is to integrate practicality and morality and thus bring godliness to the world.

The Purpose of Holiness

March 1st: Vayakhel and Pekuday
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi used to explain religious ritual in the following way. In our sacred history, certain moments stand out as sublime: we encountered the Holy One in a profound way and were affected spiritually, emotionally, and historically. We hear about these moments and are inspired, but would it not be better to relive them. This is where ritual comes in. A well-constructed and performed ritual is peak experience domesticated. We cannot travel back in time to the Red Sea and walk across it on dry land, but we can utilize ritual processes to put ourselves back in that spiritual moment and re-experience the closeness to God and the awe that our ancestors felt.

 In the next two weeks’ Torah portions, we read about the construction and assembling of the Mishkan and about when God enters it as a Divine habitation: “When Moses had finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle (Mishkan). Moses could not enter the Tent of Meeting, because the cloud had settled upon it and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle…For over the Tabernacle a cloud of the Lord rested by day, and fire would appear in it by night, in the view of all the House of Israel throughout their journeys.”  (Exodus 40.33-37) Can we recreate this moment? How can this peak experience be domesticated?

 For many, a really good worship service can bring the sense of God’s Presence. Just as we welcome the Sabbath Bride in Lecha Dodi, the combined spiritual power of the worshippers can invoke the Shechinah, God’s Indwelling Presence, and we can feel God in our midst.

 Others feel more connected in Torah study. As Rabbi Chananya ben Teradion used to say (Pirke Avot 3.3 ): “When two people sit, and words of Torah pass between them, the Divine Presence rests upon them.” Studying about God and godly ways can bring us closer to the Divine.

 Others find it helpful to invoke dramatic visions, such as that of Isaiah’s famous dream/vision:
“In the year that King Uzziah died, I beheld my Lord seated on a high and lofty throne; and the skirts of God’s robe filled the Temple. Seraphs stood in attendance on God. Each seraph had six wings: two to cover the face, two to cover the legs, and two for flying. And one called to the other: ‘Holy, holy, holy! The Lord of Hosts! God’s Presence fills all the earth!’ The doorposts would shake at the sound, and the House kept filling with smoke.

 I cried, ‘Woe is me; I am lost! For I am a man of impure lips, and I live among a people of impure lips; yet my own eyes have beheld the King, the Lord of Hosts.’ Then one of the seraphs flew over to me with a live coal, which had been taken from the altar with a pair of tongs. Touching it to my lips, the seraph declared, ‘Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt shall depart and your sin be purged away.’

 Then I heard the voice of my Lord saying, ‘Whom shall I send? Who will go for us? And I said, ‘Here I am; send me.’ And God said, ‘Go, say to that people: “Hear, indeed, but do not understand; See, indeed, but do not grasp.’ Dull that people’s mind, Stop its ears, and seal its eyes—lest seeing with its eyes and hearing with its ears, it also grasp with its mind, and repent and save itself.”’   (Isaiah 6.1-10)

 Part of this vision may be familiar because it is the basis of the Kedushah, an integral and inspiring part of the morning service. We imagine ourselves as the angels, turning to each other and declaring, “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts. The fullness of the earth is God’s glory!” Imagine standing in God’s Presence, basking in the glow of ultimate holiness! It is an inspiring possibility and can elevate our souls and bring us closer to the Eternal One.

 Of course, God’s message to Isaiah—and what Isaiah is to communicate to Israel—is about more than mere ritual and sanctification. From the throne room of ultimate holiness, God’s concern is Israel’s morality. Just as Isaiah is morally inadequate, so is Israel morally tainted—“Woe is me; I am lost! For I am a man of impure lips, and I live among a people of impure lips.” God thus speaks to the need for repentance and moral improvement, and this is phrased in a kind of negative irony: “Don’t tell them, because, if you do, they might realize their evil and repent.”

 And so, from this encounter at the height of ritual purity and inspiration comes a message of ethical imperative, teaching us that the point of ritual is twofold: to bring us closer to God and to transform us into God’s instruments.

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

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

 (Slightly adapted from The Union Prayer Book, CCAR 1940, page 39; inspired by a poem of Judah HaLevi and Exodus 34)

 

 

Hate the Sin; Love the Sinner

February 22nd:  Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In a world plagued by scandals, it is perhaps appropriate that this week’s Torah portion presents the greatest scandal in Jewish history, the Golden Calf incident. Fresh from the Exodus with all of its miracles and the incredible revelation at Mount Sinai, the Israelites quickly forget about God and Moses and feel the need to craft another god to lead them on their way. “The people gathered against Aaron and said to him, ‘Come, make us a god who shall go before us, for that man Moses, who brought us from the Land of Egypt—we do not know what has happened to him.’” (Exodus 32.1) Aaron complies, solicits jewelry to melt down, and crafts the Golden Calf which the Israelites begin to worship.

 Suffice it to say that Moses and God are not happy. God considers destroying the whole nation, while Moses throws the Tablets of the Covenant down, shattering them into oblivion. Moses also destroys the Golden Calf, grinds it into dust, and makes the Israelites drink waters made bitter with the powder. Some people are killed by angry Levites, and others die from a plague, but the majority of the Israelites survive. Among these survivors, surprisingly, is Aaron.

 While some Israelites may be more guilty and others less so, Aaron is right in the middle of the sin. “All the people took off the gold rings that were in their ears and brought them to Aaron. This he took from them and cast in a mold, and made it into a molten calf.” (Exodus 32.3-4) How, then, does he get exonerated?! As one can imagine, the Sages spend quite a bit of time trying to figure how this works, and a number of their answers have interesting implications for our times.

 One explanation for why Aaron is forgiven by God—or perhaps not even blamed—is his intention. The people think that they will worship the idol: “This is your god, O Israel, who brought you out of the land of Egypt!”  But notice Aaron’s words: “Tomorrow shall be a festival of the Lord!”  The Rabbis see this as Aaron attempting to divert the people’s worship back to the One God, and it is counted to Aaron’s merit.

 Another explanation involves Aaron’s motivation. As the Midrash observes, Aaron realizes that, after this terrible sin, the people will need expiation, and he is the only one authorized to officiate at the atonement rituals. If he resists the peoples’ demands and is killed, then there will be no priest, and the people will never have the chance to repent and be cleansed. He goes along with the crowd so he will be around to help them repent. Building the calf is wrong, but God takes into account his purer motivation and holds him blameless—or less at fault.

 In both cases, God seems to separate between the wrongness of the deed and the mindset of the sinner—which brings us to the case of  Governor Dr. Ralph Northam and his racially insensitive youthful indiscretions.

 The history of humanization has been long and rocky and plagued with misunderstanding. What seems obvious to the general public now was not even considered in past times. Or, perhaps we should put it this way. While some people are aware of injustice or disrespect at one point in history, it generally takes a while before such sentiments become widely accepted. Think of the very slow development of the equality of women. The principle was discussed a long time ago—for example by Jane Austen in the early 1800s, but the concrete steps toward egalitarianism were not actualized until many, many decades later.  Or consider the slowly developing equality of people of color, or of LGBTQA individuals, or, for that matter of various religious minorities. Humanity has come from some very dark places in our gradual realization that true human-ness exists in many forms and variations. This is what is called progress.

 One of my favorite examples is the Reform Jewish embrace of feminism. While the full equality of women has been part of Reform Jewish ideology since the 1800s, the particular issue of gender non-specific language was simply not on the radar for our movement’s leadership in the early 1970s. As a result, our prayer book, Gates of Prayer, was composed and edited with what were soon glaring problems: God is referred to as King and He, and the Amidah includes only the Patriarchs—ignoring the Matriarchs except in implication. Despite the fact that ours is a movement that jumps on every social justice bandwagon quickly and with institutional vigor, our 1975 prayer book is full of gender insensitivities! We invested great emotional, organizational, and financial energy but did so just before the issue of gender non-specific language came to the fore. As a result, our movement’s prayer book was, from an egalitarian perspective, obsolete very early in its career.

 The march of progress is agonizingly slow for those feeling the brunt of oppression, but, unfortunately, social and attitudinal inertia is hard to overcome, and awareness is generally slow to dawn. This is not an excuse; it is simply an observation on the nature of culture and progress.

 Indeed, the road to progress is often paved with weird and ironic incidents. Do you remember the 1993 episode at the Friars Club when Ted Danson and then girlfriend Whoopi Goldberg thought it would be funny for Danson to appear in blackface? That it was not received as funny surprised them both. Do you remember when Mickey Rooney appeared as a Japanese neighbor in the 1961 movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s? I cannot say that Japanese people appreciated the performance, but the producers of a very cutting edge and deep film somehow thought that this comic relief was appropriate. A more obscure film reference comes from the 2005 movie Prime, starring Uma Thurman and Meryl Streep. Produced by a very liberal and politically correct Hollywood and set in the very liberal and politically correct Upper West Side of Manhattan, its young white men use the n-word ­as an expression of affection for each other. Is this a matter of cultural insensitivity or cultural appropriation, or does it represent a different or time-bound opinion about what is appropriate?

 My point is that motivation, intention, and historical context should be considered when we judge another person’s actions. This is certainly the Midrash’s understanding of the judgment of Aaron. Moreover, if the indiscretion or insensitivity occurred long ago, should not the sinner’s behavior in the intervening years be considered? The point of progress is not to destroy one’s opponents, but rather to convert them. And, if that conversion has been operative for many, many years, should the discovery of a very old sin affect the sinner’s current moral standing? Hate the sin; love the sinner! Hate the sin; love the repentant sinner!

Organized Religion, Part II

February 15th: Tetzaveh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, as we continue God’s instructions for the Mishkan, the portable tent temple that we carried with us in our wanderings, I would like to continue last week’s discussion of Organized Religion and why some people find it problematic. Our starting point was the original Jewish building fund, launched in Exodus 25, when God requests gifts from the Israelites—gifts for the sanctuary so that the Divine could dwell among us.

 We talked about spontaneity versus fixed forms in worship, the various administrative challenges that often arise in organized religion, and the imperfection of some of the people involved in religious institutions. These issues are serious, but I maintain, the goodness and purity of the religious message aspires to transcend these challenges. As this week’s Haftarah (Ezekiel 43.10-27) makes clear, moral contrition and repentance are essential to qualitative spirituality. We need to do religion right.

 Another issue, brought home by the Divine request for building materials, is the whole financial angle of religion. Money is necessary for organized religious institutions, but paying for religion is off-putting for many, so much so that they resist fundraising or simply do not affiliate.

 There was a time, in the ghetto paradigm of Jewish life, when individual Jews did not have the option of standing apart from communal institutions. The Jewish community was given the power to tax all ghetto residents, and this enforced financial support allowed it to sponsor synagogues, schools, infirmaries, mikva’ot, and charitable endeavors. However, when the gates of the ghetto were opened, this all changed. In our free society, participation is a matter of personal choice, and religious institutions have no enforcement power.

 It is hard to say whether the original building fund campaign in Exodus is voluntarily or forced. Though God specifically says, “Accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so inclined(Genesis 25.2), everybody know that God is the One Who is asking, and I wonder whether the individual Israelites feel autonomous or obligated. In any event, our ancestors respond enthusiastically, and the drive brings in much more gold, silver, copper, yarn, ram skins, etc. than is needed. When the artisans report, “The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the Lord has commanded to be done” (Exodus 36.5). Moses sends out an announcement to all the camp telling people to stop bringing gifts.

 In our congregation, we’re not quite there (yet!).

 How are we to regard the continual need for money in religion? Is it an intrusion into spirituality or an enhancement of spirituality? I think about this every year when we plan our Yom Kippur services. On Kol Nidre, do I place my sermon before the annual Kol Nidre Appeal—heightening the spiritual moment before we break it off and talk about money, or do I place my sermon after the annual Kol Nidre Appeal—seeing the appeal as a buildup to the spiritual message I bring to the congregation? In other words, is the appeal a part of the worship experience, or is it an interruption?

In Christian churches, there is a big emphasis on giving money, and they build it up sermonically, liturgically, and musically as a form of holiness. The ushers pass the baskets and then walk them up the aisle to present to God on the altar. As alien as this might seem to us, it is very close to the description of our ancient Temple worship. Look at Deuteronomy 26.1-10 and notice the beauty and sublime appropriateness of the ritual: “When you enter the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish the Divine Name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, ‘I acknowledge this day before the Lord your God that I have entered the land that the Lord swore to our ancestors to assign to us.’ The priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of the Lord your God. You shall then recite as follows before the Lord your God: ‘My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt small in number and dwelt there, but there he became a great and exceedingly populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us, forcing us to work at hard labor. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our pleas and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm and awesome power—displaying signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.’”

 We do not pass baskets for money during our Sabbath services—as part of our traditional prohibition of commerce and carrying money on Shabbat, but this does not mean that our financial contributions cannot be touched by spirituality. When we write a check to the synagogue, we are participating in the religious work of God, continuing our ancestors’ commitment to a relationship with the Divine and keeping the light of Judaism burning brightly. It is also a way to give thanks to God for the blessings in our lives and to offer some back to God. 

Is giving money to religion a distraction or necessary evil? Or, is it a form of prayer? It’s all a matter of our kavannah—our spiritual intentions.

 

Organized Religion, Part I

February 8th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though many may consider this section of the Torah to be among the most pointless, it has the potential to be among the most relevant? Why would some thirteen chapters on the assembling of the Mishkan—the ancient “tent temple” which traveled with our ancestors during their wanderings in the desert—be relevant? Because this is the first organizational meeting in Jewish history, and we have the original synagogue building fund! “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so inclined. And these are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper, blue, purple, and crimson yarns, fine linen, goats’ hair; tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for the anointed oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting, for the ephod and for the breastpiece. Let them make Me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.1-8)

 In the practical work that allows synagogues to exist, funds must be raised; leadership must be elected; worship services and programs must be arranged. There are lots of details which must be determined, and the product of the membership and traditions and decisions are what we could call organized religion. It is organized because communal endeavors require organization. What then are we to make of the comment, “I do not like organized religion”?

 Is the complaint that one wants spontaneous religiosity rather than something that has been planned? This is actually an ancient concern, expressed in the Mishnah by Rabbi Shimon: “When you pray, let not your prayer become routine, but let it be a sincere supplication for God’s mercy.”  (Avot 2.18) As a result, there is a dynamic tension in Judaism between keva, the fixed forms of prayer, and kavannah, the spontaneity that is necessary for a true connection to God. All forms of Judaism work on keeping both approaches, but the Reform Movement encourages it even more—hence our many “creative prayer books” that incorporate traditional forms and more modern expressions. 

 Or, is the complaint that all the organizational work—fundraising, committee decision making, the adjudication of different and competing visions of congregational life—is distracting from spirituality? There are certainly different skills and activities involved, but a mature person realizes that a certain amount of work is always necessary in enjoyable or meaningful activities. Just as a good meal requires preparation and cleanup, so does the spirituality in religion require planning and infrastructure.

 Or, is the complaint about the inadequacies of many of the people involved in religion? Whether it is outright criminality or rude or disrespected behavior in the holy precincts, religion is often maligned by its own practitioners: “religious people” behaving irreligiously. This can certainly be disappointing and off-putting, but it is the exception which proves the rule. Though religion can bring out negative personality traits in people, its aspiration is to bring out the best. When we are beset in congregational life with conflict or bad behavior, it is an opportunity to respond with respect, patience, and the love that God has for us. Remember Hillel’s advice from Avot (2.6): “In a place where no one behaves like a human being, you must strive to be human!”

 Unfortunately, examples of “religious people behaving irreligiously” abound. Among the most notable is the ongoing scandal in the Roman Catholic Church. Somehow, the Church has been unable for decades to deal properly with the child abuse practiced by a number of priests, and it is a stain on their pride and the holiness. Indeed, many Catholics have had their faith shaken to the core. It so happens that a friend and colleague of mine, Kathleen Cotter Cauley, a devoted Catholic and a mental health therapist, is one of the people working on the Church’s response and at a fairly high level. She knows the sinfulness and the irresponsibility that has plagued the Church in this regard—as well as the grave damage caused to many, many members of the Church, and nonetheless she is hopeful. She is hopeful because she believes in the pure message of the Catholic Church and in the need for this message in members’ lives. And, she is hopeful because she sees her beloved Church, a large and slow-moving religious institution, finally responding in appropriate and holy ways to a religious tragedy.

 The word religion too often gets a bad reputation because individuals bring their imperfections to religious institutions. The religions preach goodness, but the goodness is tenuous and can be obscured or diverted by people who mistake their own egos for the will of God. Every time it happens, it is a shame, and, all too often, it is worse. But, the imperfection of these individuals does not take away from the message of goodness and godliness. It just means that the religious message is not being communicated successfully.

 This was certainly the view of Rev. Franklin Littell, a United Methodist minister who spoke of the Holocaust as a Shadow on the Cross. Since every person who carried out the crimes of the Holocaust was a baptized Christian, he sees the Holocaust as a failure of Christianity in Europe, and he dedicated his career to teaching the lessons of the Holocaust. With his ministry of the Anne Frank Institute in New York, his mission was to bring Christianity back to its pure and godly message—and to purge it of the hate that shamed Jesus and every other true Christian.

My point is using these extreme examples is that the very real problems in religion are not inevitable. They are rather failures of religion. It is not the organization of religiosity that is the problem; rather, it is the imperfection of people who misuse the spiritual energy religion makes available. While some may reject religion outright, my position is that we are called to use religious teachings and energy correctly—with kindness, compassion, righteousness, and understanding, with the Divine love that God bids us to share.

 

Next week, we’ll continue our discussion of the organizational pitfalls and possibilities of religion.

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.