Our Expansive and Purposeful Community

September 27th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There’s a bit of a contextual problem in this week’s Torah portion. We begin with what seems to be an important ceremony: “You stand this day all of you before the Lord your God; your tribal captains, your elders, and your officers, with all the men of Israel, your little ones, your wives, and the stranger who is in your camp, from the hewer of your wood to the drawer of your water; that you should enter into covenant with the Lord your God, that the Eternal may establish you today as a holy people, and that the Lord may be to you a God.”. (Deuteronomy 29.9-12) It seems important, but it is not clear where and when this gathering takes place.

The passage comes in the middle of Deuteronomy, in one of Moses’ farewell lectures just before the Israelites enter the Promised Land, but there is no further description of such a covenantal event. The big event is at Mount Sinai, some forty-one years ago. Could this passage be a retelling of that dramatic story? Or could Tradition be conflating the Revelation at Mount Sinai and Moses’ farewell lectures—seeing all forty-one years in the wilderness as one prolonged Matan Torah event in which God makes a covenant with us and trains us?

In any event, the most curious part of the passage comes in the next verse and expands the constituency of the covenantal congregation. In verse 13, we read, “It is not with you alone that I make this covenant and this oath; I make it both with those who stand here with us this day before the Lord our God, and also with those who are not here with us this day.” Who are these people who are “not here with us this day?”  The original meaning was probably that the covenant includes both those out at the mountain and those back at camp—the sick and their care-givers, those watching the animals or on guard, etc. (It is sort of like the way we count the minyan on Saturday mornings. If we only have ten people, and one or two take a bathroom break, we figure that, as long as they are still in the building, they are “present.”)

However, our mystics see the verse as much more expansive. They say that all the generations of Israel—past, present, and future—were included at Mount Sinai, affirming our relationship with God and entering the covenant. Even though the covenantal ceremony happened some 3200 years ago, we were all there!

What are we to make of such a notion?

A first insight is what my teacher, Dr. Alvin Reines, called Birth Dogma in Judaism. We are born Jewish and obligated to Jewish beliefs by virtue of our births. Though we have welcoming rituals for children (Brit Milah for boys and Baby Naming for girls), the ceremonies do not make the children Jewish. According to traditional Halachah, the children are already Jewish—are born into a chain of Jewish ancestry/membership that goes back to the covenant we entered at Mount Sinai. Such origin of status is in contradistinction to our Christian friends who are not born Christian but who must be made Christian through the sacrament of Christening or Baptism. This observation may seem a little pedantic—because children born and raised in Christian families are inevitably and de facto Christian, but it is a theological distinction that is important in Christian theology.

For the last 2000 years, traditional Halachah has held that Jewish status is passed down automatically only when a baby’s mother is Jewish. In the 1980s, the Reform movement took a different position based on a sense of egalitarianism and on the practical aspects of raising a child religiously. Our position is that that the Jewishness of either mother or father can be passed down to a child if the child is raised Jewishly and then observes Judaism.

Was every Jewish soul that will ever be born present that day, receiving the Torah from God at Mount Sinai? This notion may be difficult to see as a historical or scientific truth, but it is not presented as either science or history. It is a mystical teaching that speaks of trans-generational spiritual experience and commitment. Our Jewish identities do not only exist alone and individually—or just in this time. An essential aspect of Judaism is the community—hence the value we find in congregations, in other Jewish organizations, and in Jewish history. We began as a sacred congregation, and we continue that way, joined to each other and all the generations.

Our passage also speaks to the importance and inclusion of gerim/converts for, according to the Rabbis, the souls of all converts were there at Sinai, too. As they have been part of our spiritual community from the very beginning, their incorporation into Judaism is part of our communal fate. Perhaps this is why so many gerim say that they felt Jewish before they even knew what the feeling was called. For so many, gerut/conversion is really just a formal recognition of the long-time state of their souls.

I find great meaning in these mystical teachings for they inspire me to feel my own soul as part of this timeless community, committed to God and to God’s ongoing sacred mission.


But there’s more: In the next chapter, there is a passage that speaks of the natural proclivity we Jews have for Torah—for the way of thinking and living taught by Torah. In Deuteronomy 30.11-14, we read, “This commandment which I command you this day is not hidden from you, nor is it far off. It is not in heaven, that you should say, Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it? Nor is it beyond the sea, that you should say, Who shall go across the sea for us, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it? But the word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, that you may do it.

The relationship with the Eternal that we entered back there at Mount Sinai has engraved upon our sensibilities an innate desire for holiness. The Torah’s ambience and sensibility seems right to us, and we find that we are naturally suited to live holy lives. Though we may differ in the ways we interpret or observe religious traditions, Jewishness is part of our souls and our innermost yearnings.  

As Dr. Reines would put it, Jewish Identity is, for us Jews, an Ontal Symbol, a sign of ultimate meaningfulness. We have been touched by the Infinite, and we continue to bask in its glow.

Wandering Arameans

September 20th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Memory is a curious thing. We can remember some things with great accuracy, while other things disappear from the mind. We need to remember, but our memories can be selective. Perhaps this is one of the reasons that Judaism focuses so much on memory—on memory of the historical nature of our experience.

A case in point is the statement of identification that the Torah presents as a prayer before God. In Deuteronomy 26, we have the description of an ancient religious ceremony—one in which the worshipper presents to God the first fruits of his harvest. Though God presumably already knows who the worshipper is, the instructions include a statement of self-presentation—“This is me, God.” The ancient author seems to think that one’s approach to the Deity requires particular information and memories.

Think of moments when we present ourselves—at social gatherings, in job interviews, at a doctor’s office, or running for an elected position. Though our lives can be described with lots of information, we tailor our introduction to fit the context. The purpose of this ritual is appreciation, and the Torah prescribes a review of the long-term relationship between God and the worshipper: “My father was a wandering (or fugitive) Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey.”

You may remember this prayer from the Passover Seder—another ritual where memory is very important.

Sometimes, memory is important in and of itself, while, other times, it encourages moral development. Sometimes, history is a way of showing respect to the people who preceded us, while, other times, it presents us with examples to follow—or warnings. There are also times when history is “non-historical”—when it is a window less to our past than to our current situation. History/memory can show us a long-time context in which we are still very much a part. This is how I understand the term Arami Oved—the wandering or fugitive Aramean. It is not our past, but rather our essential reality.

The original statement seems to refer to a population of semi-nomadic shepherds who moved around in Western Mesopotamia in the Second Millennium BCE. They were not settled, and the Bible tells of varied experiences with the villagers and townspeople they encountered in their sojourning—their semi-nomadic travels. These Wandering Arameans felt a sense of spatial impermanence, and their social and religious mores were adapted to this reality. The villagers and townspeople, on the other hand, felt a sense of permanence. They felt belonging and ownership and secure.

Of course, the archeological record shows that no one’s permanence was actual permanent. In the many tels that have been excavated throughout the Middle East, we see layer after layer of habitation that lasted for a while and then did not last. A few centuries later, someone else would come and occupy the site, but their habitation was temporary, too. Even if people lived on the site for centuries, eventually something happened and the dust covered their city. Their time on the site is something we uncover, layer by layer.

My point is that impermanence is an essential truth in the human experience. We know that our lives are limited—as the Psalmist (90) says, “Three-score years and ten, or given strength, four-score years,” but we nonetheless hold onto a fantasy of earthly permanence.

Of course, we work at building families and businesses and institutions that will weather the test of time. Of course, we should be grateful for prior generations who built and maintained the families, businesses, and institutions that have blessed us in so many ways. And, we do have an obligation to future generations to continue the blessings that can go forward. However, all of these things are ultimately impermanent, and that context is important to remember. We are all, in a sense, Wandering Arameans.

If a family builds a business and runs it for years—for generations, the time could nonetheless come when the business is no longer viable. If a family clears land and farms it for years—for generations, the time could nonetheless come when the land is no longer suitable for farming. If some people build a city and do the things that make a city for years—for generations, the time could nonetheless come when the place is no longer good for a city. Whether the causes are environmental, political, economic, or military, the lands where our flocks have been pasturing—the land of our sojourning—may cease to be viable, and we need to move on to another place.

I do not mean to devalue the emotional attachment we have to places or institutions or the deep sadness that comes when change assaults us, but impermanence is the human predicament, and our success requires living with it and adapting to the changes.


 One may wonder why the Expulsion of Hagar and Ishmael and the Almost Sacrifice of Isaac are the Torah portions for Rosh Hashanah. Traditionalist may also ask why the Almost Sacrifice of Isaac is part of the daily Shacharit—the Morning Service. One explanation is both poignant and troubling. These portions are chosen to remind us that the ground on which we are standing is not sure. The things upon which we depend—the people, institutions, places—can change or vanish in an instant. To survive, we need to find something more secure.

The Psalmist (146) counsels, “Put not your trust in princes, in mortal humans who cannot save…Happy is one who has the God of Jacob as a help, whose hope is in the Lord God…Who keeps faith forever….The Lord shall reign forever, your God, O Zion, from generation to generation, Hallelujah!”

We are all Wandering Arameans, Wandering Jews, sojourners and wayfarers. We look for permanence in the world, but the only permanence is in God’s love and God’s ways. In them, we can touch eternity.

Unexpected and Unpleasant Mitzvot

September 13th: Ki Tetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are an awful lot of mitzvot—613 according to Tradition, and this week’s Torah portion has more individual mitzvot than any other (72!). The large number strains the mind and the memory, and, as a result, the Sages have divided them up into various categories—analytical divisions that speak to the nature of divine obligations. Some mitzvot are only applicable if one lives in the Land of Israel, while others apply everywhere. Some mitzvot are time-bound and have to be done on a schedule, while others apply all the time. Another famous division is explained in the Talmud, Tractate Makkot 23B:
“Rabbi Simlai taught: 613 commandments were given to Moses at Mount Sinai. 365 Mitzvot Lo Ta’aseh (Thou Shalt Nots), corresponding to the number of days in the solar year, and 248 Mitzvot Aseh (Thou Shalts), corresponding to the number of the parts of the body.”  

There is also a division which one can see in this week’s portion, mitzvot one anticipates in a regular life, and mitzvot one does not expect—in fact, hopes do not become necessary.

 One of these “hoped against” mitzvot comes at the very beginning of the portion. “When you take the field against your enemies….” (Deuteronomy 21.10) One is not supposed to hope for war. However, if war becomes necessary, there are certain standards which God teaches about how we conduct the war.

Similarly, there are some mitzvot involving severe marital discord. In verse 15 of the same chapter, we read, “If a man has two wives, one loved and the other unloved, and both the loved and the unloved have borne him sons, but the first-born is the son of the unloved one—when he wills his property to his sons, he may not treat as first-born the son of the loved one in disregard of the son of the unloved one who is older.” This is clearly a situation for which one does not hope. However, should it develop, there are standards of fairness (mitzvot) upon which God insists.

The next paragraph’s exigency is nothing short of dreadful. “If a man has a wayward and defiant son, who does not heed his father or mother and does not obey them even after they discipline him, his father and mother shall take hold of him and bring him out to the elders of his town at the public place of his community. They shall say to the elders of his town, ‘This son of ours is disloyal and defiant; he does not heed us. He is a glutton and a drunkard.’ Thereupon the men of his town shall stone him to death. Thus you will sweep out evil from your midst: all Israel will hear and be afraid.” (Deuteronomy 21.18-21.) God forbid that this should ever come to pass! It is certainly not something for which someone hopes. Nonetheless, notice how there is a kind of safeguard in place. Both the father and the mother must participate in the condemnation. If one gets angry and wants to cause harm, he or she cannot act alone. One can also imagine the wayward and defiant son opting out of the family situation; in a sense, he too must participate. Even in this nightmare of a situation, the Torah cautions a kind of propriety.

And, then, there is divorce. “If a man takes a wife and is husband to her, and she fails to please him because he finds something objectionable about her, and he writes her a bill of divorcement, hands it to her, and sends her away from his house…” (Deuteronomy 24.1) The Torah does not encourage divorce, but it does accept that some relationships fall apart. As opposed to some Christian denominations in which divorce is considered a sin and is prohibited, Judaism accepts the fact of divorce and attempts to bring some fairness and respect through the mitzvot of proper divorce.

By the way, I hope that no one reading this ever has the need to divorce, but, should it come to pass, there is an excellent book that discusses dissolving a marriage with decency and holiness: Divorce is a Mitzvah: A Practical Guide to Finding Wholeness and Holiness When Your Marriage Dies, by Rabbi Perry Netter (published by Jewish Lights). Again, the mitzvah is in behaving with respect and fairness, and not letting the anger or sense of betrayal lead us into anger and vengeance and sin.

 

 An important final note and caveat:
In addition to whatever positive lessons we may try to draw out of this portion, one cannot ignore the aspects which are repellent to modern sensibilities. Forcibly marrying war-captives, stoning children, male-dominated marriages and divorces, and even polygamy go against our modern sensibilities of fairness, equality, and respect. Thus are passages like so many in this week’s Torah portion difficult to read and revere. Our obligation, with traditional texts such as these, is to reinterpret them so that the literal and ancient reading is not all we have. Things have changed much since the ancient days, and we have, thank God, expanded the notions of true personhood and human rights.  As much as we revere the Torah and see it as the first step in our ancestral quest for wisdom and truth, we also realize that its world is not our world. Indeed, we have made much progress since those days, and the only way we can hold the Torah as holy is in recognizing the difference between ancient forms and eternal truths. We study the ancient forms, but we evaluate them and feel commanded by God to improve those areas of our Tradition that need improving. It is a continuing religious quest for God and holiness, and being Jewish means continuing the work.

 

 

The Torah and the First Amendment

September 6th: Shof’tim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In our modern world, we compartmentalize various aspects of our lives and keep them separate. Some things are in the realm of religion, while other things are in the realms of health and hygiene, etiquette, civil law, criminal law, or Home Owners Association rules or covenants, etc. Thus it would be inappropriate for one realm to intrude in another. The Government has no business regulating our religion. The Civil Code has no business telling us how to care for our bodies. Etiquette may have influence, but it has no legal authority.

This was not the case in the ancient world—the world of the Torah and much of the Talmud, where everything was under the aegis of God and therefore religion. So, when we read the opening passage of this week’s Torah portion, we should realize that the judges being appointed are not restricted to religious matters. “You shall appoint magistrates and official for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.”  (Deuteronomy 16.18-20)

These magistrates’ and officials’ province—delivered with due justice—was everything God created, i.e., everything! Thus do we have Leviticus dispensing medical advice in regard to skin conditions, Baba Metzia (Talmud) stipulating rules for neighborhood zoning, and Pesachim (Talmud) prohibiting (for health reasons!) the eating of meat and fish at the same meal. The goal of the Torah was to create an ideal society in every aspect, and thus every aspect of life was discussed and enforced.

The problem, of course, is when two or more groups of people—each with its own rules of conduct—live together. Whose rules apply to whom, and under what conditions?  Oh, yes, and there is that other pesky issue: human rights. Why does anyone get to tell another human being what to do?

These issues have always been of concern to thinking people, but various economic, governmental, civic, and philosophical factors converged in the 17th and 18th Centuries (the Enlightenment) to make some major changes in the Western World. Among these changes was a principle upon which our nation was founded—that each individual is endowed by the Creator with inalienable rights, rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is Biblical, in that justice and fairness are the goals. But the modern struggle for justice has found that the un-Biblical philosophy of compartmentalization is an important instrument.

An example is the First Amendment to the United State Constitution:  “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” Though the goals may be justice and fairness, the means involve keeping government and society out of much of our individual lives.

President Thomas Jefferson gave an early and significant interpretation to this amendment in his Letter to the Danbury Baptist Association (1802). Though he explains that the passage, "make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof," builds a “wall of separation between Church & State,” there has nonetheless been a tendency for the State or Society to push its way into the tent of individual religiosity. Should not all businesses close on the Lord’s Day (Sunday)? Should not all public school days start with prayer? Should not all prohibitions for the public good—liquor, hallucinogenic mushrooms, or animal sacrifices—apply to everyone, regardless of their religion? Should not programs for the public good—like mandatory health insurance—apply to everyone, regardless of their religious views on some of the services provided?

The struggle to live communally but autonomously continues as does the conversation about it, and we are fortunate in our community to have a formal and public chance to participate. On Sunday September 15th, from 1:00 – 3:30, Centre County will have our annual Constitution Day. This year, the festivities will be at Tussey Mountain in Boalsburg, and everyone is invited. There will be exhibits on the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, speakers, musical entertainment, and a number of food trucks. And, the music will continue on until 6:00 PM.

Members of our congregation will be participating in many of the exhibits. Make sure to stop by the First Amendment exhibits and our presentation on Freedom of Religion and the “Establishment Clause.”

As I said, the struggle for justice and fairness and liberty continues, and it is important that we understand the principles and the history of our great communal project.

 

 

Different, But Still the Same

August 30th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
Though the Book of Deuteronomy presents itself as a set of farewell lectures by Moses, critical scholarship of the Torah suggests a slightly different origin and agenda. According to a story in II Kings 22, during a renovation of the Temple (622 BCE), an “ancient scroll was found,” and the information in that scroll was the basis of a series of religious reforms. Modern scholars think that this “ancient” scroll is what we now know as Deuteronomy and that it was actually written in Josiah’s reign and ascribed to Moses to establish its authority.

Among the clues Biblical scholars have used to make this case is that fact that Deuteronomy seems to address a number of long-standing conflicts and questions that had been plaguing organized Jewish life for a number of centuries. All of a sudden, answers appeared, and they were from the hand of the greatest of all Hebrew prophets, Moses (though he happened to have died some 600 years before).

Among Deuteronomy’s reforms is that instructions in the Torah—i.e., God’s words to Moses—are immutable and never to be changed: “Be careful to observe only that which I enjoin upon you: neither add to it nor take away from it.” (Deuteronomy 13.1) This significant change—since God had been given to changing instructions from time to time up till this point—comes in the middle of a discussion which bans forms of Hebrew worship which had been in existence for centuries. No longer could the One God be worshipped in holy sites around the country; worship of the One God could now only be done at the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. And, lest someone come later and try to change things, this section warns the people about False Prophets. If anyone says that God wants things done differently from Deuteronomy’s rules, that person is a False Prophet and should be executed. Anything different, any changes are lies and are not to be tolerated.

I cannot speak to the wisdom or necessity of centralizing national worship during Josiah’s reign. However, the finality which Josiah and his planners placed on our religion left it without the flexibility necessary for adaption and adjustment in the future.

We’ll hear more about Josiah’s problematic thinking on Rosh Hashanah, but right now I would like to consider the way our Judaism recovered from or worked around Josiah’s and Deuteronomy’s constraints.

The problem is textual inflexibility. If the instructions given are immutable and unchangeable, what does one (or a religion) do when the instructions are no longer applicable or relevant or helpful? What happens when new situations require instructions not included in the originals?

As a dynamic and ultimately successful religious civilization, Judaism has developed a number of flexibility and creativity mechanisms, but we have always had to work around or negotiate the Deuteronomic thinking that prohibits anything resembling a new or different instruction. Here are a few of our most successful Halachic “work-arounds.”

The most creative mechanism was the nature/source of Rabbi Akiva’s knowledge. Given that no word of the Torah could ever be changed, it was taught that Rabbi Akiva’s innovations were not innovations at all, but rather interpretations already written in the Torah. Where? In the taggim, the little crowns on some Torah letters. There is neither rhyme nor reason to these scribal ornaments; they are just an artistic tradition handed down over the centuries by the Scribes. However, Rabbi Akiva was believed to have had extreme mystical experiences where he learned hidden knowledge—among other things, the ability to understand God’s hidden meanings in the taggim! Thus were what seemed to be innovations actually God’s Will all along!

Rabbi Akiva’s creativity was just a microcosm of the larger Rabbinic enterprise in which Biblical Judaism was completely remade. The mechanism was something the Rabbis called Torah She’b’al Peh, the Oral Torah. Rather than change even a letter of the Torah—which Deuteronomy forbade, the Rabbis taught that there was a second Torah given orally to Moses and the Israelites at Mount Sinai and then passed down orally for a thousand years. The Rabbis had received this Oral Torah and anything they developed from 200 BCE to 200 CE was not new or innovative. Rather they were just promulgating God’s original intentions. This Oral Torah was the basis for the Mishnah and the Gemara—together called the Talmud—which completely reformed Judaism. Thus was flexibility and adaptation not change but rather restoration.

A final example—though there are many more—was the mysterious teacher who revealed to Rabbi Israel son of Eliezer, the Baal Shem Tov, the innovative insights that led to Hassidism. This teacher was Achiya the Shilonite, a minor prophet who lived in the days of King Solomon. Though dead for some 2500 years, he would come to Rabbi Israel at night and teach him hidden knowledge that was ancient and from God, but that no one on earth had known for a long time. The Rabbinic authorities of the time, including such personages as Rabbi Elijah, the Gaon of Vilna, were mortified at the changes the Hassidim preached, and they opposed them and even convinced the Polish or Russian authorities to imprison many of the early Hassidic rabbis. Thus was Hassidism very, very different, but, in the minds of its adherents, all based on God’s ancient teachings. This story of Achiya the Shilonite gave their changes the Bible’s imprimatur.

Looking back, one can certainly make the case that the Rabbinic innovations of the Talmud were good for Judaism—that they helped the essential truths of our religion continue through dramatically changing times and helped Jews negotiate very tricky waters. The same could be said for the innovations and contributions of Hassidic Judaism. However, both are clearly violations of Deuteronomy’s instruction, “to observe only that which I enjoin upon you: neither add to it nor take away from it.”

As important as Tradition is in our long and continuing Jewish endeavor, flexibility and adaptation are also essential. Though we strive to venerate the old ways and keep connected to our past, the vicissitudes of life and the realities of the world have made adaptation necessary for our continued mission. We have just had to word our new ideas carefully—lest we lose our moorings and drift away from our Divine Calling.

Dogs Bark, and the Convoy Passes Through

August 23rd: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion is extremely important theologically. It establishes what is known as Deuteronomic Theology, the belief that that God will reward the obedient and punish the disobedient. If we (Israel) obey our covenant with God and follow all of God’s mitzvot, there will be lots of blessings. However, if we disobey God’s mitzvot and betray the covenant, the consequences will be disastrous.
“If you shall obey My commandments which I command you this day, to love the Lord your God, and to serve Me with all your heart and with all your soul, then I will give you the rain of your land in its due season, the first rain and the latter rain, that you may gather in your grain, and your wine, and your oil. And I will send grass in your fields for your cattle that you may eat and be full. Take heed to yourselves, that your heart be not deceived, and you turn aside and serve other gods and worship them. For the Lord’s anger will flare up against you, and God will shut up the skies so that there will be no rain, and that the ground will not yield its produce; and you will soon perish from the good land that the Lord is assigning to you.” (Deuteronomy 11.13-17)

 There is something hopeful about this theology—that good will be rewarded and evil punished, but the facts of life are not always so fair. From the Biblical Book of Job to Rabbi Harold Kushner’s modern When Bad Things Happen to Good People, we have been wrestling with this Deuteronomic Theology for millennia. Too often, we see the wicked prospering and the good in dire straits. Is God paying attention? Is God holding judgment for some later date? Sometimes we wonder whether there is any sense in the world. Is there a connection between what we do and what happens to us?

This question—of the connection between what we do and what happens—brings us to a modern news story: the attempted trip to Israel by U.S. Representatives Ilhan Omar and Rashida Tlaib. As with most controversies, there are lots of angles. And, as with most controversies these days, there is a tendency to focus on Donald Trump’s role or reaction. The news media cannot seem to take their eyes off of our President—even when he is not the main player.

Who are the main players in this story? The main players are:
(1)   The State of Israel and its established law that bans BDS (Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions) and other anti-Israeli propagandists from visiting and using their visits to incite trouble and bad publicity.

(2)   A BDS effort to bring the two U.S. Representatives, Ilhan Omar and Rashida Tlaib, on a propaganda and incitement tour of Israel. This tour was organized by or coordinated with Hanan Ashrawi, an eloquent and well-connected Palestinian diplomat and propagandist.

We can argue all day about the strategic wisdom of the Israeli policy or of the way that the policy was enforced, but the ultimate truth is that the trip was intended to bring shame upon Israel and incite riots in sensitive areas (like the Temple Mount). We may pretend that the strategies with which Israel handles such attacks matter, but the fact is that there is no way that Israel could have dealt with the proposed trip that would not have ended in indignation and existential criticism of the Jewish State. It is reminiscent of an ancient commentary in Midrash Rabba on Lamentations:
A Jew passed in front of Hadrian and greeted him.
The Emperor asked, “Who are you?” He answered, “I am a Jew.”
The Emperor exclaimed, “How dare a Jew pass in front of Hadrian and greet him?! Take him and cut off his head.'’
Another Jew passed, and, seeing what had happened to the first man, did not greet Hadrian.
He asked, “Who are you?” He answered, “A Jew.”
Hadrian exclaimed, “How dare a Jew pass in front of Hadrian without giving greeting?! Take him and cut off his head.”
The Emperor’s senators said to him, ‘'We cannot understand your actions. He who greeted you was killed, and he who did not greet you was killed!”
The Emperor replied, “Do you seek to advise me how I wish to kill those I hate?!”

This is what the Holy Spirit meant when It cried out (in Lamentations 3.60), and said, “Thou has seen all their vengeance and all their devices against Me!”

In other words, those who hate Israel will hate Israel no matter what Israel does. This indeed is one of the problems with BDS. While there are some members who are supporters of Israel but think that boycotts, divestment, or sanctions will help nudge the Israeli government into different policies, most BDS activists are against the existence of the Jewish State and are working to destroy it.

Now, back to the news media—and our responses to them. Not only can reporters and editors not take their eyes off President Trump, they are also fixated on everything the four new congresswomen—Ocasio-Cortez, Omar, Pressley, and Tlaib—say and do. Part of it may be an insatiable desire to focus on underdogs or aberrations. The other may be playing into President Trump’s attempt to make these political outliers the face of the Democratic Party. In either case, all the attention is far out of proportion to the significance of the controversy. These new congresswomen are not representative of the Democratic Party’s attitudes or actions on anything, much less Israel. And, American support for Israel is essentially a non-issue. While the American community or American Jewish community may discuss or argue about particular policies, the unequivocal support for Israel in both parties is over 90%.

Yes, there are those who hate Israel and work to destroy it, and Representatives Omar and Tlaib are among them. This is not news. Why elevate their cause by making them the center of attention? Why engage in their antics when we all know their true purposes?  As an old Hebrew saying puts it: “The dogs bark, and the convoy passes through.”

 

Our Own Connection with the Torah

August 16th: Va’et’chanan
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

“Kad’shaynu b’mitz’votecha, v’ten chel’kaynu v’Toratecha.
Make us holy with Your mitzvot, and give us a portion in Your Torah.”
In this passage of the Shabbat Amidah, we ask for connection with the Divine—praying that the process of hearing and observing mitzvot will work and bring us holiness.

It also asks that we be given a portion/piece/stake in the Torah—this pursuit of Torah being a vital part of the Jewish process. As Simon the Righteous used to say (Avot 1.2), “The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” Our congregation stands ready to help you in this threefold quest—with Torah study and education, with fervent worship services, and with social justice projects, but, this week, there is a more particular application.

 The weekly Torah portion includes the Shema and Ve’ahavta (Deuteronomy 6.4-9):
“Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One, and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might. And these words, which I command you this day, shall be upon your heart. You shall teach them diligently unto your children, and you shall speak of them when you sit in your house, when you walk by the way, when you lie down, and when you rise up. You shall bind them for a sign upon your hand, and they shall be for frontlets between your eyes. You shall write them on the doorposts of your house, and upon your gates.”

As it is a passage many of us know in the Hebrew, it affords us an opportunity to feel that this portion in God’s Torah is our own. And so, our plan for this coming Friday night’s service is to invite everyone up to the bimah for the Torah reading and give everyone a chance to read together these important verses from the Torah itself.

There is much to consider and discuss about the meanings of the passage, but here is an opportunity to feel the connection viscerally. Join us and make this portion of the Torah your own.

 

 

 

 

 

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.