Loyalty and Self--and the LSU Fight Song

January 10th: Vayechi
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Two wisdom texts present themselves this week. The first, of course, is our Torah portion. After the death of Jacob, Joseph’s brothers worry that he will exact punishment for their sins against him—for selling him into slavery and abandoning him for years. “But Joseph said to them, ‘Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.’” (Genesis 50.18)

My second text is one of the Louisiana State University’s fight songs:
“Hey, Fightin’ Tigers, fight all the way!
Play, Fightin’ Tigers, win the game today!
You’ve got the know-how; you’re doing fine.
Hang on to the ball as you hit the wall,
And smash right through the line!
You’ve got to go for a touchdown, run up the score:
Make Mike the Tiger stand right up and roar!
Give it all of your might as you fight tonight
And keep the goal in view: victory for LSU!”

In both texts, we have an awareness that the individual’s fate is less important than the group’s—or, to put it another way, that the vicissitudes of an individual’s life can be transformed into significance by virtue of their contributions to a greater goal. In the case of Joseph, maturity and piety help him see that his sufferings are merely steps along the way of a greater good: “Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” In the case of the LSU football team, the hope is that the individual players will use their talents in a concerted way and thus deliver a victory for the greater community: “Victory for LSU!”

Of course, one of the problems of group dedication and loyalty is that the group’s needs may not be in the best interest of the individual who is being asked to sacrifice. One thinks of how many athletes suffer lifelong injuries acquired in the pursuit of temporal glory. Is it team loyalty? Or, does the danger dissolve in the joy than an athlete feels when doing that which he/she has trained so hard to do? As the Psalmist reflects on the sun’s enthusiasm in lighting up the world, “It is like an athlete, rejoicing to run the course.” (Psalm 19.6)

One also thinks of the sacrifice some athletes are asked to make sitting on the bench. At Ohio State in 2014-2015, Cardale Jones was willing to sit on the bench behind the first and second string quarterbacks. Little did anyone imagine that both would be injured and that Jones would lead Ohio State to the National Championship. On the other hand, Joe Burrow (Burreaux) was not willing to sit on the Ohio State bench, transferred to LSU, and has had a pretty good year (leading the Tigers to the national championship game and winning the Heisman Trophy). There is also the case of Jalen Hurts, an outstanding quarterback at Alabama who lost the starting job to Tua Tagovailoa and then transferred to Oklahoma. No one could anticipate Tagovailoa’s season-ending injury in November, but, when it happened, Hurts was long gone, and Alabama was left wallowing outside of the BCS for the first time in many years. There is also the case of Alabama coach Nick Saban, now known in Louisiana as Nick Satan for showing disloyalty by leaving LSU and going (very successfully!) to their arch rival, Alabama. Loyalty is important, but to what?

Getting back to the Bible, let us consider the many ways loyalty is a factor in the Joseph saga. Joseph shows loyalty to his father but not his brothers when he gives bad reports about their work. His brothers obviously betray him and their father when they put him in the pit and lie about his “death.” He shows loyalty to his employer Potiphar—and to God’s morality—when he refuses Mrs. Potiphar’s amorous advances: “How then could I do this most wicked thing, and sin before God?” (Genesis 39.9) He shows loyalty to God when he attributes his ability to interpret dreams to God. Pharaoh says, “I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning,” but Joseph responds, “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare!” (Genesis 41.15-16)

Joseph and Pharaoh show a kind of loyalty to the Egyptian populace, storing the excess grain during the seven years of plenty and then distributing it during the seven years of famine, but the loyalty comes at a price: Pharaoh grabs all the peasants’ land. Pharaoh shows loyalty to Joseph by taking in the Hebrews during the famine and giving them the region of Goshen, but, after several generations, a new Pharaoh “knows not Joseph…” (Exodus 1.8) and imposes slavery.

Though Joseph eventually shows loyalty to his family, the Torah does not explain why he does not go searching for them when he ascends to the right hand of Pharaoh. Even if he is busy, such an important personage could send agents to find his father and brothers and have some kind of contact. That he does not suggests a continuing hurt on his part—and a sense of profound betrayal: why do they not search him out and buy him out of slavery?

We have no indication that Joseph suffers tranquilly during all those years in slavery and prison. The greater Divine purpose he recognizes in Genesis 50 (“Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.”) seems to be an insight he develops after many years of hurt and anger. This is why Joseph is one of the best Biblical examples for us: he starts off imperfect and improves with age. A spoiled, impetuous, conceited, tattle-tale, he matures into responsibility, piety, and forgiveness. At the end of his saga, he is a much better man than when it begins.

As for loyalty, it is—as are most noble aspirations—a matter of balancing the opportunities for service with the need to take care of oneself. As Rabbi Simcha Bunim of Pzhysha might have said today in referencing the college football transfer portal, “Every player should have two pockets. In one, there should be a piece of paper saying, ‘I am but dust and ashes: a part of the team to which I dedicate myself.’ And, in the other, there should be a piece of paper saying, ‘For my sake was the whole world—or, at least, the Heisman Trophy—created.’”

Life Can Be Messy

December 20th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion has one of the strangest stories in the Bible. It involves Judah and his two older sons, Er and Onan, and Er’s wife, Tamar.

We begin with an unexpected and unexplained death: “Judah got a wife for Er, his first-born; her name was Tamar. But, Er, Judah’s first-born, was displeasing to the Lord, and the Lord took his life.” (Genesis 35.6-7) We do not know what was displeasing about Er. One possibility is that this kind of Biblical description is post hoc, ergo proctor hoc reasoning. Since young people do not die, and since no one killed him, it must have been God—Who must have had a reason. In the absence of the kind of medical explanations we have today, the ancients just attributed such mysterious occurrences to God.  We find this kind of explanation several times in the Bible, and it may be more a figure of speech than a theological judgment—something akin to the way we say, “God knows,” as a sign of our exasperation.

In the wake of Er’s death, we have the first mention of the ancient Yibbum or Levirate Marriage: when a married man dies before fathering a child, his brother is required to marry his widow. “Then Judah said to Onan, ‘Join with your brother’s wife and do your duty by her as a brother-in-law, and provide offspring for your brother.” (Genesis 38.8) Since the dead brother can no longer provide a child for his wife, his brother takes on this obligation.

Some see this as a provision for the Hebrew Bible’s understanding of the afterlife. The teaching was that, when people die and go to Sheol, there is no reward or punishment other than the dead’s awareness of how their descendants are doing. Thus, one of the best blessings in the Bible is, “May your descendants possess the gates of their enemies,” and one of the worst curses is, “May you have no descendants.” This may also express a concern about the dead man’s name and share of the land. And, this might present a solution to the problematic status of the widow. In a society where a woman’s status is defined by her relationship to men—as a daughter, a sister, a wife, or a mother, a childless widow has no status or protection. Getting her a child gives her a status in society.

His obligation to his brother or sister-in-law notwithstanding, Onan does not fully embrace this custom/commandment. “But Onan, knowing that the seed would not count as his, let it go to waste whenever he joined with his brother’s wife, so as not to provide offspring for his brother.” (Genesis 38.9) There seem to be three levels of sin in Onan’s behavior. First, notice how the text describes his offense against his brother: “so as not to provide offspring for his brother.” Of course, there is also the way he is using Tamar—putting her through the humiliation of sex with a man she does not love and then denying her the possibility of motherhood. And, there is the sin against God of “wasting his seed,” letting his semen go onto the ground. As the Torah puts it, “What he did was displeasing to the Lord, and God took his life also.”

Tradition focuses on the “wasting his seed” sin and has seen Onan’s punishment as a warning for any ejaculation outside of intercourse. Adding a layer of legend to the prohibition is the story and fear of Lilith, Adam’s first wife. Tradition explains that nocturnal emissions are a result of the succubus Lilith, procuring semen so that she can give birth to demons, and there are a number of meditations and prayer practices to protect men against such an occurrence. Among the famous techniques is a series of Psalms, prescribed by Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. This concern about “wasting seed” has also been the cause of Tradition’s prohibition of condoms for contraception and, in some cases, the collection of semen for in vitro fertilization. In the teaching of Roman Catholicism, this story is the basis for the prohibition of all forms of artificial contraception.

Meanwhile, Judah is out of adult sons, and Tamar is out of husband possibilities. Judah suggests that she return to her family of origin and wait until his little boy, Shelah, grows up. Judah is not really planning on getting them together because he believes her to be bad luck. “He too might die like his brothers.” (Genesis 38/11) Judah seems to be hoping that Tamar will forget or be married off to someone else.

I’m not sure what to think about Judah. On the one hand, he seems to be unconcerned for Tamar and her grief and her future. On the other hand, he must be devastated at the loss of his two sons—and fearful for the future of his remaining son. It is a terrible family crisis.

When Shelah grows up, he is not matched with Tamar, so Tamar takes matters into her own hands. She disguises herself as a prostitute at a place frequented by her father-in-law, has relations with him, and finally gets pregnant. When Judah hears about her pregnancy, he is furious about her behavior—not realizing his role in the pregnancy—and insists on her execution. Then, when he confronts her, she shows him his seal and his cord—which he had given her as a pledge of payment. Realizing his mistakes, Judah relents and admits, “She is more in the right than I, inasmuch as I did not give her my son Shelah.” The Torah adds that he was not intimate with her again. (Genesis 38.26)

What are we to make of this messy, messy story? One lesson for me is that life was as complicated for our ancestors as it is for us. We are not in control. Often, we cannot understand why things happen. We feel both the appeal and the constraints of social convention. We are challenged by competing ideals and conflicting priorities—and our thinking is often clouded by sadness and fear and uncertainty. We yearn for security but often reel at the unknown and the unexpected. We strive for certainty, but everything except God is fleeting.

Perhaps this is why our Tradition includes this blessing every morning: 
Baruch Atah Adonai, Elohaynu Melech ha’olam, hamechin mitz’aday gaver.
We praise You, O Lord, our God, Ruler of All, Who makes the ground firm beneath our feet.
Sometimes, we give thanks for reality. Sometimes, we hope for a better reality.
May we be blessed with solid footing.

Wrestling and Transformation

December 13th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Each weekday, the Union for Reform Judaism sends out a message entitled Ten Minutes of Torah, a consideration of some aspect of Judaism and Jewish life. The Monday feature always focuses on the weekly Torah portion, with a main commentary and then a secondary essay.
(These daily messages and subscriptions are available at ReformJudaism.org.)

For Vayishlach (Genesis 32.4 – 36.43), Rabbi Dan Moskovitz focuses on the changes that both brothers, Jacob and Esau, make in order for their relationship to work. As Jacob returns to Canaan after two decades in Syria, his brother Esau comes to greet him with 400 armed men.

As Rabbi Moskovitz puts it, Jacob must wrestle “with God and his own destiny. What does God want from him? How should he protect and enlarge the sacred relationship with God that he has inherited from his father? Must he vanquish Esau to prove his worthiness as a leader of the Jewish people? How should he apologize to someone he hurt so deeply and can he ever be forgiven?”

The famous wrestling match can be interpreted in several ways. Perhaps Jacob wrestles with an angel. Perhaps he wrestles with God. Perhaps he wrestles with Esau. Perhaps he wrestles with himself. After this struggle, however, he emerges a new man. Again, Rabbi Moskovitz: “He is not the young boy who bargained for his brother’s birthright over a bowl of soup; he is not the adolescent who stole his brother’s blessing with trickery and gall. He is now Yisrael; a man who knows his own flaws and limitations, a man who bears the scars and burdens of his past and allows them to inform his present perspective. Jacob is humble and pragmatic. He limps toward his brother, his hip still sore from the struggle of the night before, and with repentance and humility he asks his brother’s forgiveness.”

The result, according to the text, is rapprochement: “Esau ran to greet Jacob. He embraced him and, falling on his neck, he kissed him; and they wept.” (Genesis 33.4) Jacob transforms his arrogance to humility. Esau transforms his fury to love. In this transformation and maturity, their relationship can flourish.

 
In the second essay, Rabbi Joe Black makes an interesting application. Modern Judaism has also had to wrestle, and this wrestling has led to some interesting transformations. “Over the past 146 years, Reform Judaism in North America has wrestled with change. We have been on the forefront of civil rights, women’s equality, patrilineal descent, LGBTQ recognition and celebration, interfaith outreach, Jewish camping, Progressive Zionism, and a host of other causes…Our lay and professional leaders have never shied away from exploring and confronting painful issues—from within and without. While not always easily, we have grown and gained strength from our struggles.”

Among the struggles we have faced are the changing attitudes toward Jewish affiliation and Jewish participation in the modern world. Ever since the gates of the ghetto were opened, we Jews have been much more autonomous in structuring the Jewishness of our lives. This has resulted in a continually changing demographic reality for Jewish institutions. In order to command the attention of modern Jews, we must figure out what must be changed and what must remain the same. While ours is a tradition in which the forms and ideas of the past are a vital part of our identity, the history of Judaism has been one of adaptation and transformation.

Here are some questions with which we have struggled: Do we maintain the ancient sacrificial system, or do we adapt to a Temple-less reality by substituting prayers for the animal and grain sacrifices? Do we retain the sole authority of the Torah, or do we enhance it with the Oral Torah: the Talmud? Do we insist only on the Torah’s holy days, or do we add new holy days—like Purim, Chanukah, Tisha B’Av, Yom Hashoah, or Yom Ha’atzma’ut—when new situations call for religious observance?  Do we keep the old words of the traditional prayer book, or do we add our Matriarchs’ names to the Amidah, expressing our respect for Jewish women of every generation? Do we make other changes to our prayer books—enhancing our spiritual reach and expressing, as the Psalmist puts it, “a new song unto the Lord?”

Sometimes, the changes work, and sometimes they do not. Back in the 1800’s, some congregations tried to do away with B’rit Milah (circumcision). Others tried to discontinue Bar Mitzvah. Some tried to shift our Sabbath worship to Sunday—so as to better accommodate American life.  Though each of these changes was based on logic and sound reasoning, they did not resonate with our Jewish sensibilities, and they were ultimately abandoned. Other changes, on the other hand, have endured.

The task for our congregations and for each individual Jew is to work on our Jewishness—to fashion a functional relationship between Heaven and Earth and to transform both.

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

Lessons From Mother Leah

December 6th: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The “soap-opera” of our founding families gets pretty intense this week and can teach us a number of lessons.

First, the story shows us how one misbehaving person can cause trouble for many others. When Jacob—on the run from his brother Esau—arrives at his cousins’ home in Syria, he first meets his cousin Rachel. Then, he meets her father Laban whom the Rabbis know will soon be notorious. Thus they see warning signs in the simplest of gestures. “On hearing the news of his sister’s son Jacob, Laban ran to greet him; he embraced him and kissed him, and took him into his house.” (Genesis 29.13)  The Rabbis explain that this is no regular greeting. Laban’s hugging is to inspect Jacob’s clothes for jewels and other gifts. They even suggest that his kiss involves sticking his tongue inside Jacob’s mouth to see if any jewels are hidden there. Apparently, Laban remembers the many gifts Abraham’s servant brought when he came to find a wife for Isaac (Rebekah). He figures that the Canaan family is rich, and he is only hospitable because he wants some of their money.

Jacob and Rachel fall in love with each other, and Jacob works for seven years to pay the bride price. However, the wedding is not what they expect. “Laban gathered all the people of the place and made a feast. When evening came, he took his daughter Leah and brought her to Jacob; and he cohabited with her…When morning came, there was Leah!” (Genesis 29.23-25)

Jacob’s objection focuses on his disappointment—but not Leah’s! “What is this you have done to me? I was in your service for Rachel! Why did you deceive me?!”  Laban explains, “It is not the practice in our place to marry off the younger before the older. Wait until the bridal week of this one is over and we will give you that one too, provided you serve me another seven years.” (Genesis 29.25-27)

We can sense Jacob’s disappointment, frustration, and sense of betrayal, but what about Leah’s? She does not even get a week of real love. Thinking only of Rachel, “Jacob waited out the bridal week of the one…” Though Jacob and Rachel marry, their family life—and Leah’s!—is fraught with tension. Thus does Laban’s “bait and switch” put both of his daughters—and his son-in-law and servants and grandchildren—into a very unpleasant and difficult situation. There are lots of ways this story could progress, but Laban’s dishonesty and greediness bring misery and life-long dissatisfaction to a whole community.

Can a family or organization protect itself against such a problematic person? Perhaps, but it takes an awareness of the person’s inappropriate tendencies and enough moral strength to resist. Part of politeness involves flexibility—accommodating ourselves to another’s preferences. This usually works fine, but some people do not temper their preferences or think of those whom they push or inconvenience. Or, they may regard other people’s politeness as a weakness to be exploited. Resisting such pushiness requires principled firmness—and a willingness to risk anger and pushback. We do not have to acquiesce. We have a right to our own principles and standards—and the safety and functionality of our families or organizations. Sometimes, radical acceptance and affability is less a virtue than an opening for violation.

A second lesson regards the way people can adapt to less than ideal situations. Though Leah is not loved and treasured the way she should be loved and treasured, she seems to make a life for herself in this polygamous household. All we know from the Torah is that she participates in the marital dynamic and gives birth to six sons and a daughter. We do not know much about her actual relationships—with her sister, children, and husband, but one can imagine her functioning within the limitations of her life and seeking the various satisfactions that life can bring.

 (For a possible glimpse inside Leah’s family life, consider the extended modern Midrash, The Red Tent, by Anita Diamant.)

So often, we focus on the crisis or disappointment or injury that “ruins” one’s life. There should be no doubt that terrible things happen and cause future difficulties, but the story does not necessarily end with the trauma. In so many cases and with God’s help, the human spirit can be resilient and learn to live within limitations. An example I always remember is that of a member in a congregation I served many years ago. This particular gentleman had a progressive intestinal problem that required surgery every few years to remove more and more of his insides. From his mid-twenties, he had needed various bags attached to his bowels to accommodate his body’s waste. Despite this extremely challenging medical and personal situation—one which most agree “ruined” his life, he was able to have a career, to marry, to have a full physical and sexual life, fathering and raising three fine children. He was also active in civic organizations and the synagogue---leading services when I was out of town. Among other things, he spoke about his difficulties and abilities publicly, speaking of the possibilities nonetheless present in a really difficult situation. No one should doubt the difficulty of his life, but all should rejoice that he was able to find much joy and accomplishment in the midst of his limitations.

There are those traumas which cannot be overcome. There are injuries that do not heal. The good fortune of some who can and have recovered does not minimize the real pain and difficulty that others face. However, in the infinite possibilities of life, there are joys that are possible—and they can be sought. Our Mother Leah reminds us of this ever-present possibility: despite unfairness and disappointments, there are blessings. May her example help us to find them.

Keeping the Faith

November 29th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Of the three Patriarchs (Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob), Isaac is the least exciting. Whereas Abraham starts a new religion, argues with God over the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, and passes the test of the Binding of Isaac, and whereas Jacob talks his brother out of the birthright, talks his father out of the better blessing, sees God at the top of the Ladder to Heaven, wrestles an angel, and fathers the Twelve Tribes of Israel, Isaac garners far fewer “headlines.” He is born, is loved by his parents, is almost sacrificed by his father, gets married, prefers his manlier son to the homebody, and gets fooled by his wife and younger son when it comes to giving out blessings.

This last confusion is only possible because “his eyes were too dim to see,” (Genesis 27.1) a condition the Midrash attributes to his almost-death up on Mount Moriah. While God knows all along that this is just a test of Abraham’s loyalty—that God will not let Abraham go through with the sacrifice, the angels are not aware of God’s plan. When they see Abraham lift up the slaughtering knife over Isaac’s throat, they burst into sobs, and their tears flood into Isaac’s eyes—rendering him visually impaired.

One could summarize Isaac’s life and career with the words weakness, passivity, and victim-hood, but I think that there is much more to his long and complex life. There is more to life than just the headlines.

One commentary suggests that Isaac is not a victim of his father’s zealotry—that he volunteers to be sacrificed. If, as one Midrash puts it, Sarah has a prophetic vision of Abraham putting the knife on Isaac’s throat and dies at the moment of the almost sacrifice, then that would make Isaac thirty-seven years old—old enough to wrestle his elderly father and thwart God’s instruction. According to this Midrash, Isaac has as much piety and faith as his father, and should be seen as a willing and faithful participant.

Another commentary suggests that Isaac is not fooled by Rebekah’s and Jacob’s subterfuge. Think about the absurdity of their tactics. No matter how hairy Esau is, it is hard to believe that he is hairy as a goat. Moreover, Isaac recognizes Jacob’s voice and detects Jacob’s piety in his explanation of how he gets the meat so quickly—“Because the Lord your God granted me good fortune” (Genesis 27.20). Then, note the fact that God goes along with Isaac’s blessing—giving Jacob the spiritual leadership. God does not have to acquiesce to Isaac’s words—especially if Isaac speaks them by mistake. The fact that God and Isaac agree that Jacob is to be the new Patriarch suggests that Isaac is not fooled—is not a victim, but rather is involved in the plot to ease a volatile Esau out of any spiritual leadership expectations.

There is a passage in this week’s Torah portion that speaks of Isaac’s particular role in God’s long-term Jewish plan: “There was a famine in the land—aside from the previous famine that had occurred in the days of Abraham—and Isaac went to Abimelech, king of the Philistines, in Gerar.” Why did Isaac stay so close—less than a day’s walk from the family homestead in Beersheba? “The Lord had appeared to him and said, ‘Do not go down to Egypt; stay in the land which I point out to you. Reside in this land, and I will be with you and bless you; I will assign all these lands to you and to your heirs, fulfilling the oath that I swore to your father Abraham. I will make your heirs as numerous as the stars of heaven, and assign to your heirs all these lands, so that all the nations of the earth shall bless themselves by your heirs—inasmuch as Abraham obeyed Me and kept My charge: My commandments, My laws, and My teachings.’ So Isaac stayed in Gerar.” (Genesis 26.1-6)

Life gives different people different roles, and, while some are called to move and be revolutionaries, others are called to stay and maintain. God wants Isaac to stay and keep the new religion going, and Isaac does this successfully. He too is a servant of the Most High.

In explaining his Developmental View of Jewish History, Ellis Rivkin notes that each generation must decide on its response to its inherited religious tradition. Most of the time throughout Jewish History, the response has been repetition or continuation. Sometimes, important changes in reality led to variations on the theme—small changes that kept the tradition going. Sometimes, however, the nature of reality changed so drastically that a seismic change became necessary—one Rivkin terms a mutation or quantum leap. Such changes are relatively few in our history, and Abraham’s call and mission can be termed the first. Then, there was the shift away from Prophecy after we returned to Judea from the Babylonian Exile (circa 500 BCE). A few centuries later, there was the discovery of the Oral Torah as Rabbinic Judaism responded to Hellenism (circa 165 BCE). And, there was the modern development of individual autonomy that led to progressive forms of Judaism: Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist.

Though these movements are prone to continuing development, not everyone is called upon to be a revolutionary and change the religious world. There is much value—as there has been throughout most of Jewish History—in maintaining the faith and practicing it, allowing the contributions of the ancestors to guide us and inspire us and help us in our relationship with God.

While there are certainly moments when action is necessary and when things need changing, the urge to improve things can often devolve into self-indulgence and attempts to make the world revolve around us. This is where humility can be helpful, and this is where we can study the value of modest continuity and faithfulness. Isaac may not have gotten the headlines that his father and son garnered, but his is an example of consistent and persistent holiness that is also worthy of our attention.

Even Patriarchs Need Religious School!

November 22nd: Hayeh Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s portion, entitled The Life of Sarah, is really about her death and its aftermath. It begins, “The life of Sarah—the span of Sarah’s life—came to one hundred and twenty-seven years. Sarah died in Kiriat-Arba—now Hebron—in the land of Canaan; and Abraham proceeded to mourn for Sarah and to bewail her.”

The ancient Sages notice that this story of her death comes just after the story of the Binding of Isaac, and they speculate a connection. Unaware of Abraham’s intentions on Mount Moriah, Sarah suddenly has a moment of prophetic vision and sees her husband holding a slaughtering knife over their son’s throat. Shocked beyond comprehension, she drops dead—not knowing that God is just testing Abraham and that Isaac will be saved.

If this Midrash is true—that Sarah has no idea what Abraham is planning, then what does Sarah think is going to be the purpose of the Father-Son excursion? The Sages imagine her asking Abraham about his plans and receiving the following answer: “I am taking our son to a place of religious education.” From Sarah’s point of view, this is great news, and she readily agrees.

And, for what it’s worth, there is an indication that Abraham is telling the truth. Note the end of Akedat Yitzchak, after God stops Abraham from sacrificing Isaac, and after Abraham sacrifices a ram in Isaac’s stead: “Then Abraham returned to his servants, and they departed together for Beersheba; and Abraham stayed in Beersheba.” (Genesis 22.19) Despite the fact that Isaac is saved, there is no mention of Isaac joining his father and the servants for the return trip. Where is he? The Sages suggest that Abraham leaves Isaac there at Mount Moriah/Jerusalem—at the Academy of Shem and Eber. It is the yeshiva where the ancients study God’s ways.

As in all Midrashic speculation, this suggestion is based on a few koshi’s, anomalies in the Torah’s text. The story of Shem and Eber’s ancient yeshiva begins with the koshi of Genesis 11’s incredibly long life-spans—with people living for hundreds and hundreds of years. If such longevity is true, then some of these pre-Abrahamic people are alive long enough to know their great-great-great-great-etc. grandchildren. In particular, Abraham and Isaac and Jacob could know 600 year old Shem, the son of Noah, and 400 year old Eber, his great-grandson!

Then, there is a mysterious passage in Genesis 14, where Abraham goes to a place called Salem and gives a tenth of his war proceeds to a priest of God Most High named Melchizedek. There is no further explanation of who he is or what he is doing operating a place of worship. But, putting these two anomalies together, the Rabbis identify this Melchizedek as none other than Shem, the son of Noah, and the place of worship is identified as an ancient religious center where people worship and learn Torah. The fact that the place is called Salem—which sounds a lot like Jerusalem—seals the deal. It is obvious that Jerusalem is a religious center long before King David, and that this is the place where Abraham brings Isaac for the test and for religious education. 

As with all Midrashic speculation, the koshi's’ “answer” is only an entrée to the moral lesson—in this case the importance of education. Learning is so important that even the greatest of our ancestors need it too. How else, the Sages ask, could someone grow up to be a Patriarch? They need to study God’s ways somewhere, and the anomaly of Shem and Eber’s long life spans AND the mystery of a priest of God Most High (El Elyon) in Salem are used to teach us that all generations need a Torah education.

While the Torah speaks more of Abraham and less of Sarah, we all know the importance of women and mothers in families AND the role they play in educating their children to be moral and curious and hard-working. Notice the way the Rabbis focus on Sarah’s permission in the Midrash: without it, Abraham cannot take Isaac—regardless of God’s command. It stands to reason that Sarah has a lot to do with Isaac’s development as a pious and righteous man—a man who can become a Patriarch. And, we have a Scriptural clue of how precious Sarah is to Isaac. Toward the end of this week’s portion, after Rebekah has been chosen by Abraham’s servant to be Isaac’s wife, and after Rebekah has agreed to the marriage, the servant brings her back to Canaan where she meets her future husband. “Isaac then brought her into the tent of his mother Sarah, and he took Rebekah as his wife. Isaac loved her, and thus found comfort after his mother’s death.” (Genesis 24.67) Imagine the devotion of a son who keeps his deceased mother’s tent intact—despite the fact that they are semi-nomadic shepherds who move around following their flocks to pasture land. It seems that he has her tent moved and reassembled every time they make camp—as a sign of how important she is in his life.

Insecurity Then and Now

November 15th: Va’yera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is a lot of excitement in this week’s Torah portion. God and two angels visit Abraham and Sarah and announce that a baby will be born to them in the next year—even though both are far beyond their fertile years. God discusses the situation in Sodom and Gomorrah with Abraham, sends two angels to investigate the wicked cities, and destroys them both with fire and brimstone, but saves the only righteous people there, Lot and his family. In the aftermath, Lot’s wife is turned into a pillar of salt (God told her not to look back!), and Lot’s daughters trick him into impregnating them—thinking that they are the only humans left. Then Sarah gets pregnant and gives birth to a son in her old age. She also decides that Abraham’s mistress Hagar and her son have no place in the camp, and she insists that Abraham send them away. God agrees, and Abraham experiences great pain expelling Hagar and their son Ishmael. Then, things get worse, God calls upon Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, and faith is put to the test. It is a very busy and theologically significant portion.

Tucked into the middle of all this drama is an obscure story—a strange incident that happens more than once in the Patriarchal period. Abraham and Sarah travel to a new place and, in the interest of security, they tell a lie: that Abraham and Sarah are not husband and wife, but rather brother and sister. It happens this week when they travel to Gerar—a city close to Beer Sheva in the Negev, and it happens in last week’s portion when they travel to Egypt.

In both cases, the beautiful Sarah is taken into the Pharaoh’s or King’s harem as a wife, but, in both cases, there is no sexual contact.  God takes care of that. In last week’s portion (Genesis 12), God afflicts Pharaoh and his household “with mighty plagues on account of Sarah.” The Torah does not specify the plague, but the Rabbis suggest that it was universal impotence.

In this week’s case, with Abimelech of Gerar, God comes to Abimelech in a dream: “You are to die because of the woman that you have taken, for she is a married woman.” Abimelech answers God with, “O Lord, will you slay people even though they are innocent? Abraham himself told me that she is his sister, and she told me that he is her brother. When I took her into my house as a wife, my heart was blameless and my hands were clean.” God then answers him, as the dream continues: “I knew that you did this with a blameless heart, and so I kept you from sinning against Me. That was why I did not let you touch her. Therefore, restore the man’s wife—since he is a prophet, he will intercede for you—to save your life. If you fail to restore her, know that you shall die, you and all that are yours.” (Genesis 20.3-7)

(For what it’s worth, Isaac does essentially the same thing when he grows up and marries Rebekah. In Genesis 26, they journey to Gerar, and they tell King Abimelech—perhaps the same Abimelech as in the Abraham story; perhaps another king with the same name—that Rebekah is Isaac’s sister. In this case, God does not have to intervene: Abimelech happens to see Isaac and Rebekah fondling each other, and he figures out that something is fishy.)

The question for us is: Why would our ancient forefathers say that their wives are their sisters?

In all three cases, we have a similar explanation. Abraham and Isaac are afraid of the strangers among whom they are living, and they worry that the locals will kill them so they can marry their widows. Calling a wife a sister is thus a survival strategy in a hostile place—a plan based on an intense feeling of insecurity. It teaches us how tenuous our ancestors’ travels and travails were. Though we may look at them as giants of faith who never hesitated or faltered, theirs were lives of challenge and risk. They followed God’s mission because they were convinced of its importance, but they faced the same uncertainties and fears that we do. Life is not a sure thing, but with faith and resourcefulness, we do our best to rise to the occasions that greet us. May we search for faith and fortitude, and may God bless us and protect us.

There is one additional and curious detail. In the second incident, the one with Abraham and Sarah and Abimelech of Gerar, Abraham offers another explanation. When confronted by a visibly shaken and betrayed Abimelech, Abraham explains: “I thought that surely there is no fear of God in this place, and they will kill me because of my wife. And besides, she is in truth my sister, my father’s daughter though not my mother’s; and she became my wife. So, when God made me wander from my father’s house, I said to her, ‘Let this be the kindness that you shall do me: whatever place we come to, say there of me, He is my brother.’” (Genesis 20.11-13)

It could be that the laws of consanguinity were different in those days—though the contemporaneous story of Lot and his daughters decries incest and uses it as an insult to the Moabites and the Ammonites. Was the case of Abraham and Sarah just an exception? Or, could it explain why, after so many years of marriage, they had no children? Could their “marriage” have been less than a full marriage—as were some of the polygamous marriages of the early Mormons? Some wives were sexual partners, but others were simply members of the household. And, since I am speculating, could the arrival of Isaac be physically possible only after Abram’s and Sarai’s conversion and their marriage becomes complete? Whatever the real explanation, we are left scratching our heads.

Interruptions?

November 8th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Recently, a friend and I were re-negotiating a lunch meeting. It had been on our schedules for quite a while, but, as we commiserated together, “Life sometimes gets in the way.” It was not an atypical conversation, but, afterwards, the philosopher in me wondered whether it was life that got in the way—or our original plans. We make our plans not knowing what interesting and challenging situations may arise and necessitate logistical adjustments.

Think about Moses, for instance. While we look at his encounter with God at the Burning Bush as the start of real significance, how does he regard it? He is eighty years old, set in his career as a shepherd in his wife’s family business. He is comfortable in his home and society and all the joys of tribal life among the Midianites. Though his immigration from Egypt and immersion into the Midianite culture takes only a single paragraph in the Torah, he has been there for more than forty years. He is at home in Midian—so much so that he thinks of Egypt as the strange land.

So, when God interrupts this comfortable life and sends him off on the hardest errand of his life—one that will literally consume his life, Moses has got to feel disrupted.

The same could be said for Abram, whose story begins in this week’s portion. He is seventy-five years old, an immigrant from Ur of the Chaldees (at the mouth of the Tigres and Euphrates River system), and has been settled with his family in Haran, Syria, for many, many years. All of a sudden and out of nowhere, God appears to him and interrupts his life: “The Lord said to Abram, ‘Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house, to the land that I will show you. I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you;
I will make your name great, and you shall be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you and curse those who curse you; all the families of the earth shall bless themselves by you.’” (Genesis 12.1-3)

To us, it sounds like an incredible opportunity—the beginning of true meaningfulness, but, to Abram and Sarai, it is totally unexpected and a disruption in their lives. We are not privy to their conversations about such a radically life-changing move, but move they do, and the rest is history.

My point here is that the unexpected call—this detour—turns out to reveal their lives’ true and elevating purposes. Is God’s call what gets in their way, or is it their other pre-existing plans? Is their true purpose what they have on their calendars, or is it the holiness and destiny which they have not hitherto expected?

Planning is important—for all sorts of reasons, but many are the opportunities that arise unexpectedly and which might give our lives much more meaning than what they interrupt.

Let me share with you one of my favorite stories, Stranger on a Bus, from Rabbi Lawrence Kushner’s book, Invisible Lines of Connection (Jewish Lights Publishing, Woodstock, Vermont, 1996). It is a true story, and it shows how a random encounter and an unplanned opportunity literally save a life.

“A light snow was falling and the streets were crowded with people. It was Munich in Nazi Germany. One of my rabbinic students, Shifra Penzias, told me that her great-aunt, Sussie, had been riding a city bus home from work when SS storm troopers suddenly stopped the coach and began examining the identification papers of the passengers. Most were annoyed but a few were terrified. Jews were being told to leave the bus and get into a truck around the corner.

My student’s great-aunt watched from her seat in the rear as the soldiers systematically worked their way down the aisle. She began to tremble, tears streaming down her face. When the man next to her noticed that she was crying, he politely asked her why.
‘I don’t have the papers you have. I am a Jew. They’re going to take me.’

The man exploded with disgust. He began to curse and scream at her. ‘You stupid bitch,’ he roared. ‘I can’t stand being near you!’

The SS men asked what all the yelling was about.
‘Damn her,’ the man shouted angrily. ‘My wife has forgotten her papers again! I’m so fed up. She always does this!’
 The soldiers laughed and moved on.

My student said that her great-aunt never saw the man again. She never even knew his name.

Rabbi Kushner continues:
”You are going about your business when you stumble onto something that has your name on it. Or, to be more accurate, a task with your name on it finds you. Its execution requires inconvenience, self-sacrifice, even risk. You step forward and encounter your destiny. This does not mean you must do everything that lands on your doorstep, or that you should assume every risk or make every self-sacrifice. But it does mean that you must tell yourself the truth about where you have been placed and why.

You do not exercise your freedom by doing what you want. Self-indulgence is not an exercise of freedom. But when you accept the task that destiny seems to have set before you, you become free. Perhaps the only exercise of real freedom comes from doing what you were meant to do all along.

If everything is connected to everything else, then everyone is ultimately responsible for everything. We can blame nothing on anyone else. The more we comprehend our mutual interdependence, the more we fathom the implications of our most trivial acts. We find ourselves within a luminous organism of sacred responsibility.

Even on a bus in Munich.”

Now back to my friend postponing our lunch meeting. Who knows what sacred errand called her at the time we had set? Was it an interruption, or was it an opening between heaven and earth? I’m glad she was available.

God Reconsiders

November 1st: No’ach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The story of a Great Flood is found in many ancient cultures, and there are all kinds of theories for this common theme. Could there have been an actual great flood like the Bible describes? Could this tale be referencing a pre-historic flood that filled in the Black Sea or the Mediterranean Sea? Or, could this be a psychologically fear-driven story, based on flash flooding in the dry river beds many ancients inhabited?

Whatever the common concern or memory, the difference between the Jewish version—in Genesis 6-9—and the other ancient versions is the moral component. Whereas the Babylonian story of Ut’napish’tim (in the Gilgamesh Epic) presents the “problem” as humanity’s noise, the Bible speaks of God’s consternation at human immorality. “The Lord saw how great was human wickedness on earth, and how every plan devised by their minds was nothing but evil all the time. And the Lord regretted the creation of humans on earth, and God’s heart was saddened. The Lord said, ‘I will blot out from the earth the humans whom I created—humans together with beasts, creeping things, and birds of the sky; for I regret that I made them.’ But Noah found favor with the Lord.” (Genesis 6.5-8)

Why Noah? The Torah gives a nuanced answer. “Noah was a righteous man; he was blameless in his age; Noah walked with God.” (Genesis 6.9)  “Righteous” and “walked with God,” sound like good character traits, but the middle phrase, “blameless in his age,” provides two interesting evaluative possibilities. On the one hand, it suggests that Noah might not have been that good. His comparative righteousness was only better than the truly terrible morality of that evil generation. On the other hand, it might be a sign of great moral strength. Given that his peer group was horrible, it must have taken incredible moral resolve to be righteous in such a cauldron of wickedness.

In any event, Noah is good enough for God to save, and Noah becomes the ancestor of humanity’s second chance. The next question revolves around God’s intentions in regard to this second chance—and whether there is a possibility for a third or fourth chance, too.

After Noah and his family and all the animals come off the Ark, God speaks the following: “I now establish My covenant with you and your offspring to come, and with every living thing that is with you—birds, cattle, and every wild beast as well—all that have come out of the Ark, every living thing on earth. I will maintain My covenant with you: never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of a flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.”

In all the years of reading this passage, my only reaction was relief: God was/is reassuring humanity that such a flood will never come again. I never wondered why God made this promise until Bat Mitzvah student Ellie Kaufman asked about God’s motivation. I asked her what she thought, and her answer is quite astounding. She compares the situation to an artist who works very hard on a painting but who makes a mistake at the end and destroys the painting. Afterwards, the artist reconsiders and regrets destroying his/her work—and wonders if there might have been a way to fix the mistake.

As Ellie understands it, God makes the Rainbow Covenant with Noah and the future of humanity because God has figured out a different and better way to deal with human misbehavior. From now on, God will develop a system of repentance and atonement—of Teshuvah—and thus work for human improvement.

As evidence, Ellie brings up the example from our Yom Kippur Haftarah of the story of Jonah. God loves the people of Nineveh even though they are wicked and is willing to accept their repentance. Jonah is disappointed because he wants to see a bloodbath, but God explains:  “Should I not care about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not yet know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle?!” (Jonah 4.11)

 And so, I thank Ellie for seeing God’s promise in a different way and for teaching us all about how God—and we!—can learn and improve.

In these early years of the Creation, God learns that human goodness is not automatic. It must be learned and often re-learned. But, even with our inadequacies, God loves us and wants desperately for us to improve. Thus does the rainbow serve as a double reminder—reminding God not to send another flood, and reminding us that we can do better.

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, אֱלֹהֵֽינוּ מֶֽלֶך הָעוֹלָם, זוֹכֵר הַבְּרִת
Baruch Atah Adonai, Elohaynu Melech ha’olam, zocher hab’rit.
We praise You, O Lord our God, Ruler of the world, who remembers the Covenant
(with Noah).  

"Adam Kad'mon" and You and Me

October 25th: Beraysheet
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most important techniques in the Jewish art of Torah study is to find “problems” in the text. The Hebrew word koshi refers to any problematic passage or word. It can be something unexplained or something that is contradicted elsewhere in the text—any difficulty or anomaly. Finding a koshi is not considered an attack on the Torah, but rather perceiving an invitation for deeper understanding. Midrash is that kind of Jewish literature which seeks to answer or solve koshi’s, “solving” the problem with a story that also teaches a moral lesson.

A case in point comes with a comparison of the first two chapters of Genesis. In Chapter One, we have the six days of creation narrative. Beginning with, “When God began to create the heavens and the earth—the earth being unformed and void, with darkness over the surface of the deep and the spirit of God hovering over the water, God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light,” we have a step by step description of Ma’aseh V’raysheet, the Creative Process.

On the sixth day, we have the creation of all the land animals and the creation of the human being. “God said, ‘Let the earth bring forth every kind of living creature: cattle, creeping things, and wild beasts of every kind and cattle of every kind, and all kinds of creeping things of the earth.’ And God saw that this was good. And God said, ‘Let us make the human in our image, after our likeness. They shall rule the fish of the sea, the birds of the sky, the cattle, the whole earth, and all the creeping things that creep on earth.’ And God created the human in God’s image, in the image of God was the human created; male and female did God create them.” (Genesis 1.24-27) Everything seems complete, and God celebrates the first Shabbat.

However, in Chapter Two, we seem to be in a world where none of this creating has taken place. “This is the story of heaven and earth when they were created: When the Lord God made earth and heaven—when no shrub of the field was yet on earth and no grasses of the field had yet sprouted, because the Lord God had not sent rain upon the earth and there was no man to till the soil, but a flow would well up from the ground and water the whole surface of the earth, the Lord God formed man from the dust of the earth. God blew into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living being.” (Genesis 2.4-7)

In this version, the plants and animals are created after man, and the human is only male—with the female being created from the man’s rib. Since none of the animals were fitting companions for the man, “the Lord God cast a deep sleep upon the man; and, while he slept, God took one of his ribs and closed up the flesh at that spot. And the Lord God fashioned the rib taken from the man into a woman; and God brought her to the man.” (Genesis 2.21-22)

What happened to the man and woman—and animals—in Chapter One? Why do we have dueling creation stories? This discrepancy is a koshi of the first order.

Some suggest that Chapter One represents God’s planning process. Just like a builder comes up with an idea and sketches it out on a drawing board, God has to figure out how everything would come to be and fit together. Among other things, God has to invent physics, chemistry, emotions, philosophy, intelligence, etc. There is a lot to think about, and, even if the Infinite God can do this very quickly, it still requires a planning phase. The plan is formulated in Chapter One, and, in Chapter Two, it is brought to fruition.

One of the advantages of this interpretation is that obviates the whole issue of the time involved—and the discrepancies between science and the Biblical account. If the six “days” represent God’s thinking and designing, then the billions of years that science teaches are not an issue. The actual execution of the plan, in Genesis Two, is not described in specific time periods.

Another advantage is that the Planning-in-Chapter-One-and-Physically-Doing-Creation-in- Chapter-Two interpretation offers the Kabbalists a better understanding of the concept B’tzelem Elohim—that we humans are created in the image of God. Jewish mysticism teaches that the first chapter’s Adam is the prototype for humanity, a “model” that comes in both male and female. It is created as the perfect human being—the one that embodies the best of godly qualities. When it comes to forming the actual human beings who walk the earth, these productions are based on the prototype but are not as perfect. Perfection is a drawing board notion, while the practical world and the complexities of life result in a lessening of human perfection and godliness. Nonetheless, the perfection still exists in our design, and we are urged to work on ourselves, getting better and better, as we approach the ideal of Adam Kadmon.  

This is the hope of humanity, and it is the goal of practical Kabbalah. When a person comes to consult a Kabbalist and ask for help in improving, the technique is to ascertain those attributes of Adam Kadmon where the penitent is falling short and then to prescribe a spiritual and behavioral remedy (tikkun) to help the penitent actualize the godliness that dwells within. It is there, in our design. Our task is to bring forth the Divine that we were designed to be.

The Clothes of God

October 18th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
For our Torah Commentary at this season, we shall be publishing Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Tov sermons. This is from Yom Kippur: The Clothes of God.

On Rosh Hashanah, I began with the question: What are we doing here? And I ask it again. What are we doing here this evening? Are here to petition the Almighty? Are we here to come to grips with our Jewish Identities? Are we here out of a vague sense of familial or ancestral obligation? Or, are we here out of a perennial and traditional curiosity—to ponder and feel in Jewish ways during these moments of High Holiness.

While we can get specific and philosophical, I also find it helpful to be rather expansive in categorizing this communal encounter. Indeed, I find it helpful to consider the words of a non-Jewish thinker in his description of religion and God—and therefore these gatherings.

The philosopher William James defined Religion as the human response to an undifferentiated sense of reality—to what he called the More: an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence. People of religion gather to contemplate and approach this Presence, and we Jews have developed a whole tradition full of insights and techniques, achieving some real profundity.

Among the approaches to the ineffable Presence we call God is the prayer we chant during this season, Un’taneh Tokef. In it, we speak of God judging everyone, both the hosts of heaven and those who dwell on earth. “As the shepherd seeks out the flock, and makes the sheep pass under the staff, so do You muster and number and consider every soul, setting the bounds of every creature’s life, and decreeing its destiny.” It is a problematic passage—one that is often discussed, and yet there is some truth to the reality it approaches. We believe that our decisions make a difference, but we also find that other factors—factors we do not control—impact our lives in significant ways. Thus do our Yom Kippur prayers go in two directions. We pray to ourselves that we will make good choices, and we pray that the Greatest of Powers ease our way and make our challenges manageable.

Among our prayers for protection, we have Hashkivaynu. Coming after Mi Chamocha and before the Amidah, on pages 32-33 of our Machzor, we just prayed these words:  
“Shield us, we pray, against enemies, disease, war, famine, and sorrow, and strengthen us against the evil forces that abound on every side; give us refuge in the shadow of Your wings.”

There is also this traditional Bedtime Prayer:
“Behold the couch of Solomon, with sixty mighty ones of Israel surrounding. Gripping the sword, skilled in warfare, they protect us from fear in the night...In the Name of the Lord God of Israel, may the angels protect me. May Michael be at my right, Gabriel at my left. May Uriel be before me, Raphael behind me, and above my head the Presence of God.”

Of course, ours is not the only religious tradition in which God is invoked for protection. Among the more interesting prayers that I have found is an extended metaphor in Christianity for what is called The Armor of God. In Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians, our Christian friends pray:
“Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil...gird your loins with truth; cover your chest with the breastplate of righteousness; Your feet shall be shod with the gospel of peace; your shield shall be faith with which you can stop all the fiery darts of the wicked. Take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the word of God.”

When a Christian friend introduced me to this passage, he explained it in terms of his faith persuading/invoking God to protect him with holy armor.

However, as I reflected on this Christian passage, it occurred to me that there is another way to read it. While there are certain kinds of clothing that protect us—in this case the Armor of God, there is also clothing that affects our movement or our moods. Take flip-flops, for instance: one walks in them differently than in regular shoes. The same could be said for high heels, work boots, or orthopedic shoes. Or, take fancy clothes or a military or work uniform: we feel differently when we wear them.

So, in addition to whatever protection Christian faith might afford my friend, could it not also be possible that the clothes of faith affect his behavior? When one is wearing the truth on one’s body, there should be a tendency to behave truthfully and in line with true values. When one is wearing peaceful boots, there should be a tendency to walk in peaceful ways. The same can be said for the helmet of salvation and the sword of God’s word. When wearing or wielding these, there should be the tendency to behave in godly ways.

I do not know if this is a particularly Jewish way of reading the Ephesians passage, but it is certainly in line with the spiritual interpretations of our own Jewish ritual clothing. Though some may regard Kippah, Tallit, and Tefillin as mere customs, the fact is that Tradition has imbued them with attitudinal expectations.

In the case of the Kippah or Yarmulke, the original purpose is reverence—that covering one’s head caps one’s ego both psychologically and emotionally, reminding us that there is a reality greater than we. There is also the sense of sacred identification—that wearing the Yarmulke represents to the world that we are Jewish, members of a sacred community and dedicated to its values. This kind of awareness should affect our attitudes and behavior.

In the case of Tefillin—when we bind God’s words “as a sign on our arms,” the prayers draw a very strong connection between ritual ornamentation and our behavior. As one wraps the leather strap around one’s finger, Tradition prescribes a vow from the Prophet Hosea (2.21):
“I will espouse you forever: I will espouse you with righteousness and justice, and with goodness and mercy. I will espouse you with faithfulness, and you shall be devoted to the Lord.”

A Kabbalistic interpretation sees the wrapping of the leather strap on one’s arm as tying ourselves and God together—of d’vekut, cleaving to God. The words one says while wrapping can also lead to insights. Tradition prescribes the verse from Psalm 145—which we may know best from Ashray:  “You open Your hand to satisfy the will of every creature.” Some see these words as a prayer asking that God’s Hand be opened generously to give us lots of blessings. Rabbi Shefa Gold, however, sees it as more of a reciprocal process. When she prays, she likes to translate it spiritually as “You open Your hand; I open my heart to this abundance.” The Tefillin can inspire us to be receptive to the blessings God gives and to learn satisfaction and appreciation.

When one puts the leather Tefillin box on one’s forehead—“between one’s eyes,” it can be seen as a dedication of both thinking and vision to godly values. It always reminds me of a phrase from a Reform Religious School curriculum in the 1980s, To See the World Through Jewish Eyes. When we mediate our vision and mental functioning with holiness, we are drawn to seeing the world and thinking about it the way God does.

The Tallit, which is traditionally worn at morning services but which is also part of our special Kol Nidre holiness, is even more direct in speaking of the effect of godly clothing. The meditation prayed before putting on the Tallit, from Psalm 104, speaks metaphorically about robing ourselves in God’s glory and sensibilities:
“Bless the Lord, O my soul: O Lord, my God, You are exceedingly great:
You are clothed in glory and majesty, Wrapped in a robe of light;
You spread out the heavens like a curtain.”
Wrapping ourselves in the Tallit is seen as wrapping ourselves in the mitzvot—dedicating ourselves to the mitzvah life and to exemplifying godliness in our behavior. Wrapped in godliness, we can represent God—actually, present God in the world.

Covering our heads with reverence, wrapping our arms with appreciation and commitment, influencing our vision and our thinking, and wrapping ourselves in holy possibilities is like putting on a uniform of our highest and most holy aspirations. Whether we wear these clothes of God literally or spiritually, let us wear them with true kavannah, with a sense that our attitudes and behaviors matter, that we have holy potential and are resolved to bring it forth in our lives.

 May our meditations and prayers on this most holy of days open our hearts and our eyes to the significance of our roles in the world. May we bring holiness and goodness and lovingkindness and mercy. May we be devoted to the Lord and be God’s channels of light and blessing in the world.

Our Jewish Stories

October 7th-12th: Yom Kippur
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
For our Torah Commentary at this season, we shall be publishing Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Tov sermons. This is from Rosh Hashanah Morning: Our Jewish Stories

 לשנה טובה תכתבו

May you be written for a good year in the Book of Life. The Book of Life: an ancient metaphor for the judgment that occurs on the awesome Yom HaDin, Day of Judgment. As we read in our Machzor:
“This is the Day of Judgment! Even the hosts of heaven are judged, as all who dwell on earth stand arrayed before You. As the shepherd seeks out the flock, and makes the sheep pass under the staff, so do You muster and number and consider every soul, setting the bounds of every creature’s life, and decreeing its destiny. 

About 1000 years ago, Bachya ibn Pakuda approached this idea from a slightly different angle when he said, “Days are like scrolls: write on them only what you want remembered.” Thus does our Tradition tread a double path, teaching that our fates are a combination of what God writes and what we write. We are active participants in our own stories. And, since the communal or tribal aspect of Judaism is certainly at play, we are also active participants in the Jewish story.

Much of our ambivalence about Judaism and Jewish Identity—which we all have to various degrees—involves the way we feel a part of some Jewish stories and not a part of others. This is on our minds every time we study a Jewish story. Do we see ourselves as part of the story? How does it reflect our Jewish Identities?

One often hears the Torah characterized as The Law, but this is only a partial description. While there are legal aspects, the meta-message of the Torah and the Bible is a dialectic—a conversation—between Heaven and Earth. God offers a Heavenly vision, but the translation to Earthly reality is never exact, and there are lots different experiences and opinions about how to get God’s mission accomplished. As Israeli thinker Micah Goodman puts it: the Bible is a continuing critique of the Jewish people, both encouraging Jewish religion and criticizing Jewish religion.

To see this dialectic—this “coaching”—at play, let us consider two stories, one well-known and one rather obscure.

The well-known story is from Deuteronomy 5, where Moses is reviewing the history of the Israelites in a series of farewell lectures. When he gets to the Revelation at Mount Sinai, rather than simply repeat God’s words, he gives an interpretation. In other words, the Exodus version of the Ten Commandments is slightly different from Deuteronomy’s interpretive version. The Sabbath commandment is a good example. In Exodus God says:
“Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of the Lord your God: you shall not do any work—you, your son or daughter, your male or female servant, or your cattle, or the stranger who is within your settlements. For, in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy.”

However, when Moses reviews it, he begins: “Observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy.

God in Exodus says זכור / Remember; Moses in Deuteronomy says שמור / Observe. Whatever sermonic reasoning we or the Tradition could imagine for this change, the fact is that Moses seems to be interpreting rather than repeating. He is taking part in the conversation between Heaven and Earth.

Then, when Moses gives the reason for the Sabbath Day, he does not repeats God’s “For, in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea, and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day...”
Instead, Moses explains the purpose as follows: “So that your male and female servant may rest as you do. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath day.”
Tying Shabbat to the Israelites’ experience of oppression in Egypt, Moses looks back on his and his people’s experience and says, “I was liberated; I can liberate others. God is a liberator; if I want to be like God, then I need to be a liberator, too.” He responds to his blessings with moral resolve—with what we call today a commitment to Tikkun Olam.

Contrast this to the story of King Josiah who reigned over Judah back in the 600s BCE. We’ll be reading his story not from the Book of Second Kings, but from the Book of Second Chronicles. Though the Biblical Books of Kings and Chronicles cover the same historical period, they were written by different factions with different views of Jewish history. While Josiah is nothing but praiseworthy in Kings, he comes in for some subtle criticism in Chronicles.

The biggest event in King Josiah’s life was a renovation of the Temple around 622 BCE and an ancient scroll that was “found” in an old storeroom. The “ancient scroll” initiated a number of religious reforms—among them a wholesale purging of regional worship sites and a different way of observing Passover. According to the scroll, Passover had not been observed properly for a long time, but Josiah followed the instructions in the scroll and had a spectacular Passover. We read from Second Chronicles 35.16: “The entire service of the Lord was arranged well that day, keeping the Passover and making the burnt offerings on the altar of the Lord, according to the command of King Josiah. All the Israelites present kept the Passover at that time, and the Feast of Unleavened Bread for seven days. Since the time of the Prophet Samuel, no Passover like that one had ever been kept in Israel; none of the kings of Israel had kept a Passover like the one kept by Josiah and the priests and the Levites and all Judah and Israel there present and the inhabitants of Jerusalem. That Passover was kept in the eighteenth year of the reign of Josiah.”

This all sounds wonderful, but, after this spiritual highpoint, with Josiah and his people feeling especially close to God, his confidence and religious fervor leads to a disaster. The text continues:
“After all this furbishing of the Temple by Josiah, King Necho of Egypt came up to fight at Carchemish on the Euphrates, and Josiah went out against him.”

At this point in Jewish history, roughly 620 BCE, the tiny kingdom of Judah was right in the middle of two enormous and fighting empires, the Egyptians to the south and west, and the Mesopotamians to the north and east. The other little Jewish kingdom, Israel, had been destroyed by Mesopotamia some 70 years before, and the position of Josiah’s Judah was quite precarious. Why did Josiah get involved in this battle of the titans? Let’s continue with the text:
“(The Egyptian king Necho) sent messengers to Josiah, saying, ‘What have I to do with you, King of Judah? I do not march against you this day but against the kingdom that wars with me, and it is God’s will that I hurry. Refrain, then, from interfering with God who is with me, that He not destroy you.’ But Josiah would not let him alone; instead he donned his armor to fight against him, heedless of Necho’s words from the mouth of God; and he came to fight in the plain of Megiddo. Archers shot King Josiah, and the king said to his servants, ‘Get me away from here, for I am badly wounded.’ His servants carried him out of his chariot and put him in the wagon of his second-in-command, and conveyed him to Jerusalem. There he died, and was buried in the grave of his fathers, and all Judah and Jerusalem went into mourning over Josiah...”
What possessed Josiah to make such a risky move? How could he possibly stand against Egypt? How much help could he have been to the giant empire of Mesopotamia? What was he thinking?

Realizing that the Bible is not just a history book and is not just a set of laws, realizing that the Bible is a critique of the Jewish people, both encouraging and criticizing our Jewish religion, we should also ask the following question: Why does the Book of Chronicles put these two stories—the story of the properly observed Passover and the story of Josiah’s poorly conceived and ultimately disastrous military campaign—next to each other?

The Israeli thinker I mentioned before, Micah Goodman, suggests that the Bible puts them together to connect the exhilaration Josiah felt at Passover with his absurd military confidence? Whereas Moses considered the Passover story and responded: “I was liberated; I can liberate others;” Josiah filled himself with the Passover story and said: “I was saved by God from Egypt; I’ll be saved by God no matter what I do.” He thought he was pursuing a holy course and doing God’s work, but it was his ego rather than God’s will—and he was not saved. Chronicles is trying to teach us a lesson.

Elijah, the Gaon of Vilna, taught that Torah is a great power; it accentuates our qualities. When he said, “Torah makes what we already are greater,” he meant that Torah can make our good qualities better and our bad qualities worse. In Josiah’s case, observance intensified his feelings of righteousness, and he felt invincible. Was this the only conclusion possible from his observance and closeness to God?

An antidote to self-righteousness or religious fervor comes in the Midrash where we learn “Common sense was created before the Torah,” which is interpreted as “Common sense takes precedence over the Torah.” (Leviticus Rabba 9.3)  In other words, knowing how intoxicating religion can be, our Tradition warns us that a sense of closeness to God is no reason to go running into disaster.

Earlier I used the word ambivalence and suggested that all of us experience some level of ambivalence about our Jewish Identities—about how we fit into the Jewish story. The point of this comparison between Moses and Josiah—and the fact that it is included in the Bible and in the Rabbinic literature—is to show how loyalty to the Jewish story or process does not mean unthinking and unwavering acceptance of every word of Torah. Indeed, the Torah and the Bible themselves discuss how to regard our sacred stories—offering both criticism and encouragement as we work on our individual and tribal narratives.

לשנה טובה תכתבו

May you write good years for yourselves, for our community, and for our people.

Yiddish Kopf / Nefesh Yehudi

October 4th: High Holy Days
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
For our Torah Commentary at this season, we shall be publishing Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Tov sermons. This is from Erev Rosh Hashanah: Yiddishe Kupf/Nefesh Yehudi

What are we doing here? What are we doing here? I suspect, at one time or another, each of us has asked that question—to our parents, our teachers, ourselves. When we go to High Holy Day services, what are we supposed to be doing?

I remember a delightful story by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner in which he focuses on the wool pants he and his brother had to wear to Temple in the late 1950s. The story resonated with me because I remember the wool pants of that era and, like Rabbi Kushner, remember the fact that these standards of proper attire made little boys feel like thousands of needles were poking their legs. The result was squirming and flattened-out creases and irritable mothers and aunts.

The pants were important at the Kushner family’s temple in Detroit—in the sanctuary they called The Big Room—because, as he puts it, “Every year we would go to temple where my brother and I would be inspected by every Jew in Michigan, all of whom seemed to know my parents and cared that my wool pants were neatly creased.”

As an adolescent, young Larry felt cynical about the whole scene. “All anybody seems to care about here is how they’re dressed. This isn’t religion; it’s a fashion parade. Why does everyone only care how they look?”

Then, with a few more years’ observation, he began to see things a little differently. He writes, “There is a religious power of simply being seen and looking good in the ‘Big Room.’ It is a way of appearing before God who we suspect is not beneath looking through the eyes of the community. Being seen by the congregation is like being seen by God. All those souls, together in that sanctuary, make something religious happen.”

I would, this evening, to explore the religious something that happens when we enter the synagogue, and I want to think about it in terms of two Jewish expressions which describe the result we are seeking to produce: a Yiddishe Kopf, a Jewish Head, and a Nefesh Yehudi, a Jewish Soul. Yiddishe Kopf is Yiddish and is generally a compliment about a person who has mental agility—as some would put it, a head on his/her shoulders. Whether in regard to Jewish learning or practical things like business, the term Yiddishe Kopf reflects our hope and belief that Jews are good thinkers. Nefesh Yehudi is Hebrew and is familiar to many of us from the words of Hatikvah, Israel’s National Anthem. Based on a poem by Naftali Herz Imber, the idea is that,  “So long as still within the inmost heart a Jewish spirit sings:“ there is an internal sensibility and spiritual truth present in Jewish people—a spiritual essence that yearns for fulfillment.

We are here, I submit, to develop and exercise our Yiddishe Kopfs and our N’fashot Yehudi. We are here, in this big room, to engage in Jewish tradition and to harvest the fruits of our ancient spiritual and ethical fields.

When anthropologists look at religious experience and try to identify the processes that make a ritual work, they have found two factors/steps in pretty much all religious rituals in all human cultures. The first is a separation from the regular. In order for the religious ritual to begin, the participants do something different from their regular activities. They might go to a different/special place, or wear different/special clothing, or use different/special terminology or language.

The second part of the process involves an aggregation of the individual into a greater community—what anthropologist Victor Turner calls communitas. The individual experiences a profound sense of union with something larger and more significant.

There are certainly more details in a ritual process—especially when we look at a tradition as old and vital and complex as our own, but these two factors seem to be present in all rituals, and I believe they are worthy of consideration. 

Think of how these steps work in Judaism. We come here, to a special place. We wear special clothing—yarmulkes, tallesim. Many of us make a point of wearing dress-up clothes—what some country folk used to call Sunday, Go-to-Meeting Clothes. We also use a special language. In our case, it is Hebrew—a language that is not only a language. Hebrew is, in the words of Rabbi Bahir Davis, a spirit language—expressing spiritual values above and beyond the actual meanings of the words.

Perhaps this is why so many of us feel the importance of praying in Hebrew even if we are not adept at it in vocabulary and grammar. There is something about using Hebrew in Jewish circles that makes us feel more Jewish, more connected to the God and Jewish Tradition.

Even in the most classical of Classical Reform Temples, where Hebrew was minimized dramatically, there was still some Hebrew—perhaps just the Bar’chu or Shema, or perhaps just Hebrew songs sung by a choir. Without some Hebrew, it just didn’t feel Jewish.

It is also interesting to me how, in the Haredi (Ultra-Orthodox) community in Israel, their special prayer language is Ashkenazic Hebrew. These Israelis speak regular Sephardic Hebrew everyday—and in sermons and announcements, but they pray from the Siddur and chant from the Torah in the old-fashioned Hebrew of their Europeans ancestors. Separating from their regular, they are working for an extra measure of holiness.

The second ritual step, as we go through our rituals and prayers, is to find a sense of unity with something greater than ourselves. Spiritually, there is the sense of oneness with the One God, what the Kabbalah calls yichud. This yearning for communitas can be found in the second prayer after Bar’chu, the one right before Shema. There, on page 81 of the Machzor, you can read the passage at the bottom of the page: “You Who chose us, drawing us near to Your great Name in utter truth, so that we may give thanks to You and unite You in love.”

There is also the sense of universal Jewish unity we can feel when we know that, all over the state, and nation, and world, Jews are going through these communal rituals, all approaching God in our sacred ways, on our sacred days.

And, don’t forget about the sense of historical unity many of us feel in synagogue, as we join with all the generations of our people, from Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, and Jacob and Leah and Rachel to our more recent ancestors—and going on to our descendants. We are all part of a sacred chain in which the ancients are our past, and are we and our descendants are their Jewish future.

I studied this analysis of religious ritual—from anthropologist Victor Turner—back when I was in college, and, over the years, I have always been struck at the way these dynamics are indeed at play. Not only does it explain many of our Jewish approaches, but it also helps me understand the religious mores of our non-Jewish friends and neighbors. An example is the curious vocabulary used by certain Christians in their religious circles—where everyone is called either Brother or Sister, where the word stewardship means dues, and where the word fellowship, a noun, is used as a verb. (“After the service, we’ll all gather in the social hall and fellowship...”) It also explains the insistence among some Evangelical Christians that the only proper Bible is the King James translation with its Elizabethan English. In these various ways, people of religion are separating from the regular, a first step in their prayerful attempts to unite with God or Christendom or their ancestors or all three.

I also find this analysis helpful in understanding the spiritual infrastructure of our ritual processes and the ways we strive for a Yiddishe Kopf and a Nefesh Yehudi. Both concepts express a separation from the regular and a joining of ourselves with a greater presence. Each term indicates an essential difference between the way Jews think and feel and the way others see the world. Moreover, when we speak of a Jewish mind or a Jewish spirit, there is the image of an ideal, archetypal, heavenly Jewishness to which we are all invited to aspire.

Religion can be seen as transactional. God demands certain things, and we either do them or don’t. This is certainly the way much of the Torah and Bible are written. However, over the generations, there has also been a discussion of the ancient texts which is much more a dialogue between sacred aspirations and human realities. As much as our sacred texts may be inspired by God, there is the sense—for more than the last 2000 years—that we are partners with God in figuring out how best to bring holiness into the world.

Our voice in the discussion is evidenced in the continuing interpretation called Talmud and Midrash—much of which is devoted to our communal goal of having Yiddishe Kopfs and N’fashot Yehudi. Given our long-term experience and our Tradition’s observations about life, what is the best Yiddishe thinking we can muster on the big and small questions of life? And, what is the Jewish spiritual truth to consider when we look at our tradition and apply it to our modern souls?

This discussion is complex and ongoing, and it holds many enduring questions. While it is part of our essential truth to focus on our Jewishness, is it not also part of our Torah to focus on our humanity and that of all humans—both Jews and non-Jews? While part of our essential truth calls for us to focus on the spiritual, is it not also part of our Torah to be utterly practical—to figure out how to be holy in the real world?

What are we doing here? We are engaging in our ancient and continuing effort to think and feel and aspire to bring Heaven’s blessings to this world.

Let me conclude with a piece from the French thinker Edmond Fleg who ponders the many co-existing goals of Judaism and finds great meaning in our sacred mission.
“I am a Jew because born of Israel and having lost it, I feel it revive within me more alive than I am myself.

I am a Jew because born of Israel and having found it again, I would have it live after me even more alive that it is within me.

I am a Jew because the faith of Israel requires no abdication of my mind.

I am a Jew because the faith of Israel asks every possible sacrifice of my soul.

I am a Jew because in all places where there are tears and suffering the Jew weeps.

I am a Jew because in every age when the cry of despair is heard the Jew hopes.

I am a Jew because the message of Israel is the most ancient and the most modern.

I am a Jew because Israel’s promise is a universal promise.

I am a Jew because for Israel the world is not finished; we will complete it.

I am a Jew because for Israel humans are not yet fully completed; we are creating ourselves.

I am a Jew because Israel places Humanity and our unity above nations and above Israel itself.

I am a Jew because above the Human, the image of the Divine Unity, Israel places the unity which is divine.”

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.