Running From the Lions

May 8th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Lately, I feel like an antelope running in a herd, fleeing some lions. Our herd is being hunted, and the best thing I can do is keep running. I realize the limits of this analogy: We are not antelope; COVID-19 is not a lion; and we can do a lot more than simply run. On the other hand, my sense of empathy is being pulled by the sadness so many are experiencing, and I find myself thinking about that antelope whose herd  members are being pulled down by predators.  What do they think? How are they affected? 

Our Tradition is emphatic about us caring for everyone. As the Rabbis teach us: “Why did the Holy One create all humanity with one person, Adam? To teach us that the life of one human being is worth the life of the entire world.” And yet, how can we feel sorry enough and bad enough about the suffering of so many?

Part of this problem may lie in the psychology of exposure. Many of us spend some time each day surveying the newspaper and listening to the news. The problem these days is that there is little going on in the world other than the COVID-19 situation, and the reporters—who are trying to earn a living—write about little else. Thus is our daily news exposure overloaded with the anxiety and tragedy of the pandemic. We read the many obituaries of people not only from our own communities, but from around the world. We read about the desperation of individuals, and we are invited into their disasters or impending disasters. Instead of the normal balance of news, we are being overdosed with bad and terrifying news, and there is little we can do for all the millions—except sit and worry and hopefully survive.

We are taught to care, and something in our sense of altruism and social responsibility stimulates our adrenal process and pushes us to do something. Our minds work overtime trying to understand and to formulate policies and to feel everyone’s pain. Some of us are incredibly busy, but many of us are in a waiting situation—waiting and worrying and tending to ourselves.  Like the antelope who smell or see the lions, we are pumped full of energy; but we are not antelope, and there is no where to run, and the adrenal/anxiety overload is overwhelming—and painful.

What can we do? First, we can find ways to release this excess adrenaline, and exercise can really help. As I explain to Bar/Bat Mitzvah students shortly before the big day, our bodies are very similar to those of our cave-dwelling ancestors, with biochemical processes that can help us flee or fight when danger appears. Physiologically, our bodies do not know the difference between a saber-toothed tiger and a Bar or Bat Mitzvah. We just know that something BIG is coming. We are pumped full of adrenaline, and we need to get rid of it somehow. Running, calisthenics, isometric exercises, and even a very hot bath or shower can help us find release. 

Second, we can address the stimuli of our anxiety, and I ask you to be very careful in understanding this next idea: We can learn to care less, to be moved less by the danger and sadness of others, and Jewish Tradition gives us some insights in this regard.

In this week’s Torah portion, we read: “The Lord said to Moses, speak to priests, the sons of Aaron, and say to them: None shall defile himself for any dead person among his kin except for relatives that are closest to him: his mother, his father, his son, his daughter, and his brother, and his unmarried sister.” (Leviticus 21.1-2) Since attending the dead renders priests temporarily unfit for the divine service, they are only allowed to attend the dead of their immediate families. This does not mean that they do not feel sad when someone outside of this small circle dies. This does not mean that they do not offer condolences to their relatives or friends when someone dies. However, this does establish a set of concentric circles of grief and responsibility—a principle continued in the traditional Jewish rules about mourning. Only the immediate family follows the most intense mourning rituals. Others are sad, but they are not obligated or even allowed such things as saying Kaddish; their lives do not stop. There are some for whom we mourn intensely. There are others for whom we feel sad. There are others whose passing we note with sympathy but without real sadness. This is not a failing. It is, rather, our Tradition’s awareness of the emotional limitations of human beings.

Our inspirational literature urges us to be compassionate and to care for others. Our social justice texts urge us to be helpful to those in need. However, compassion and care need to be balanced with an awareness of what is humanly possible and healthy. 

God may care for everyone, but God is God, and we should feel thankful that the Eternal One is able to pay attention to everyone and everything—including us—and feel the pain and joy of every bit of creation. But, as Rabbi Lawrence Kushner writes about our tendencies to over-function, we should imagine God saying, “I’m God, and you’re not.” 

We can also be taught by a Midrash about four ancient rabbis. As great as Rabbi Akiva was, he knew his limits, and part of his greatness lay in respecting his limitations. The story is told that Akiva and three colleagues mystically ascended to Heaven and beheld the Divine Presence.  “Ben Azzai gazed directly and died. Ben Zoma gazed directly and lost his mind. Acher (Elisha ben Abuyah) gazed directly and lost his faith. Akiva entered in peace and departed in peace.” For Ben Azzai, Ben Zoma, and Elisha ben Abuyah, the intensity was too much, and each one broke. Akiva, on the other hand, was able to dose himself, entering and leaving, and thus both  surviving the experience and gaining incredible wisdom. 

In other words, as we approach and behold the anxiety and sadness of the world, we are allowed to dose ourselves, caring for others but not caring or knowing beyond our abilities. It is okay to limit our awareness and limit our empathy. It is okay to enjoy the blessings we have. It is even a commandment. As Rebbe Nachman of Breslov used to say, “Mitzvah g’dolah lihiyot b’simcha tamid. It is a great mitzvah to be joyful all the time.” Even in times of difficulty and sadness, we are instructed to sense our blessings and to find joy.

Loving Our Neighbors and Loving Ourselves

May 1st: Acharay Mot/Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Kedoshim is one of the most profound portions in the Torah—in particular, the “Holiness Code” of Leviticus 19. “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.”

What follows can be understood as a working definition of Holiness. It involves a number of mitzvot which call on us to (1) treat God with respect, and (2) treat human beings with respect and fairness. Its pinnacle is in verse 18 where we are told: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  

Leviticus 19 also reminds us that God is watching and that God cares. The phrase, “I am the Lord” appears seven times in just the first eighteen verses. Among the most poignant reminders involves not oppressing people who are disabled: “You shall not insult the deaf, or place a stumbling block before the blind. You shall fear/respect your God: I am the Lord.” The deaf may not hear the insults, and the blind may not see the stumbling block until it is too late. They may not be aware, but there may be an audience who may be entertained. The Torah wants us to know, however, that among the onlookers is God, and God is not laughing. The Lord wants us to remember that what we do counts.

This question of fearing or respecting God is an interesting one. Many have interpreted the Hebrew word yir’ay as fear, but the Hebrew does not mean “terrified” or “scared witless.” The Hebrew is more in line with a healthy fear or respect—the kind one should have with fire, or a weapon, or nuclear energy. So, though some religious thinkers like to portray God as angry and fearsome, the Jewish position has been one of appreciation for God’s power and presence. As we read in Proverbs (9.10), “The beginning of wisdom is yir’at Adonai, the fear/respect of the Lord.” 

The ideas of respecting God and respecting people are pretty obvious, but there is another kind of respect represented in Kedoshim. Look at the section about proper and decent sacrifices: “When you sacrifice an offering of well-being to the Lord, sacrifice it so that it may be ratzon, accepted on your behalf.” (19.5) The Hebrew is “lir’tzon’chem,” literally “to your ratzon.”

Ratzon is an interesting word. It is often translated as “will,” as in God’s Will. In this context, we should sacrifice the offering so that it will in line with God’s Will—will be acceptable to God. Worship should be done decently, respectfully, and with the right intention and motivation. The whole point of a gift is to establish or develop the relationship, and this word reminds us that the sacrifice is more than just presenting the foodstuff and reciting some phrases. As one can imagine, the word ratzon is used frequently when speaking about our relationship with God. 

However, this time, the Torah adds the second person plural possessive chem to the word, making it “for your ratzon.” The 1999 Jewish Publication Society translation renders it “so that it may be accepted on your behalf,” but I think there can be something deeper here. Rather than focusing on what it acceptable before God, perhaps we can consider the notion of self-respect—of offering the sacrifice in a way that honors the worshipper and his/her best self. 

We all have, I suspect, sometimes been slipshod in attending to duties or obligations. Sometimes, this is fine: not all duties require the utmost attention or perfection. But, if we never bring our all to our tasks—never approach our best work, we may not be respecting ourselves and our potential and our ideals. Ideals are certainly not always met, but there is something definitive and noble about the ideals to which we aspire. Self-respect means holding ourselves to higher standards and to working toward personal quality. Not every day is a successful day, and there are plenty of reasons why every moment is not one of ideal actualization, but there is something to be said for knowing the potential that exists and for striving toward it. 

In the case of our sacrifices—our worship, perhaps the lesson is this: bringing our best to God involves knowing what our best is and then learning how to bring it forth. That is self-actualization. That is self-respect and self-love. As the poet Marge Pierce mused, let us love our neighbors as ourselves, and let us love ourselves as we love our neighbors, for we are all of God.

The Purposes and Limitations of a Handbook

April 24th: Tazria and Metzora
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though academics use the term “Documentary Hypothesis” for a particular theory presented by Julius Wellhausen in the late 19th Century, it can also refer to the general body of theories about the origin and composition of the Torah. The theories suggest that the Torah is not a single work written by a single author, but rather a composite document, compiling and editing several pre-existing documents from Israelite tradition. This accounts for the many anomalies in the Torah (in Hebrew, “koshi’s”) such as differences in writing style and vocabulary, different names for God, different versions of the same story, and different instructions for who is in charge of the sacrificial cult (Levites or Aaronides).

One can imagine how earth-shaking this was for traditional Jewish sensibilities—suggesting that the Torah was not written or dictated by God to Moses on Mount Sinai, but rather that it is a human work, written and edited by humans. The whole authority structure of Rabbinical Judaism was shaken, and thus do we have the continuing conflicts between Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist Judaism on one side and Orthodox Judaism on the other side.

In these “Documentary Hypothesis” theories, each book of the Torah—and often sections in the book—are identified as originating with particular groups and presenting their traditions. While the books of Genesis, Exodus, and Numbers are composed largely of narratives, the book of Leviticus—which we are now reading—primarily seems to be a handbook for the priests. It tells them the steps for the various kinds of sacrifices and how to perform other priestly duties. In this week’s double portion, Tazria and Metzora, the duties detailed involve the diagnosis and treatment of skin disorders and various molds and mildews that occurred in houses.

It may seem strange to us that religious functionaries would be tasked with medical or construction duties, but our weltanschauung (worldview) is much different than that of the ancients. They did not see the world as compartmentalized as we do. Since God created everything, then God’s guidance on everything was appropriate. Also, in a pre-literate society, the priests were the most educated people present and thus were given a wide range of responsibilities.

(On a personal note, please do not consult me for medical advice—or, for that matter, on automotive advice or for financial counseling.)

If Leviticus is, as it seems, a handbook of procedures for the priests, then it needs to be seen with its limitations. It is not the complete training the priest probably received. It is rather simply the technical manual outlining procedures and requirements. For instance, the early chapters deal extensively with the rules for sacrificial worship, but there is nothing worshipful or spiritual in the instructions. Does this mean that ancient sacrificial worship was devoid of spirituality—of kavvanah? My thought is that spirituality and prayerful intention was part of the process—brought to the worship experience by both priest and worshipper. The Torah speaks so often in spiritual terms, it stands to reason that there was a spiritual sensibility in the people of the covenant and that the sacrificial worship services were formats for expressing their relational response to God’s Presence. However, this element of worship is simply not the purpose of the handbook.

I would say the same thing about this week’s portions. Here, Leviticus tells us the technical details of the priest’s functioning, but it does not tell us about the “bedside manner” the priests presumably brought to their encounters with the Israelites. One suspects that some priests were better at relating to people than others, and hopefully the priest instructors taught by lesson and example the human touch that helps people through difficult situations.

Hillel even alludes to this in this proverb from Pirke Avot. He speaks of Aaron (the High Priest!) as an exemplar not just of technical expertise but also of humanity: “Be of the disciples of Aaron, loving peace and pursuing it, loving your fellow creatures, and drawing them near to the Torah.”

Let us remember that, whatever we do, there are ultimately human beings involved, and that human beings—also created in the image of God—deserve respect and consideration. The technicalities certainly do matter, but the kindness and humanity of our actions can turn our deeds in blessings.

Nadab and Abihu: Focusing on the Task at Hand?

April 17th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
RABBI DAVID E. OSTRICH

This is the portion where Aaron’s two older sons, Nabab and Abihu, die, and the big question is Why? What do they do that is so bad—so egregious—that God sends forth a flame and literally zaps them?  “Nadab and Abihu, the sons of Aaron, took each of them his censer, and put fire in it, and put incense on it, and offered strange fire before the Lord, which he commanded them not. And there went out fire from the Lord, and devoured them, and they died before the Lord.” (Leviticus 10.1-2) The Torah sort of explains that they offered Aish Zarah, strange fire, but this really does not tell us very much. It was not something that God has commanded them, but what exactly is the problem?  Into such an obvious koshi, the Tradition has suggested several possibilities.

Some look at the verses following this story and think that the young men were drunk. “Do not drink wine nor strong drink, you nor your sons, when you go into the Tent of Meeting, lest you die; it shall be a statute forever throughout your generations; that you may differentiate between holy and unholy, and between unclean and clean, and that you may teach the people of Israel all the statutes which the Lord has spoken to them by the hand of Moses.” (Leviticus 10.9-11) Inebriation decreases precision and skews our normal sensibilities. Sometimes that is fine, but other times it can result in disaster.

I remember a Driver’s Ed film I saw when I was a teenager. An astronaut drove a car through a parking lot, beautifully negotiating a path marked by orange cones. Then, he drank a single shot of whiskey and drove the course again. We could see that he was hitting cones and missing the path. However, when he was interviewed afterwards, he reported that he was just as accurate as the first time. Not only does inebriation make us less coordinated; it also skews our judgment.

Other commentators focus on the term zarah / alien and wonder if they were worshiping other gods. (The Mishnaic section describing how Jews are not supposed to participate in idol worship is called Avodah Zara, Idol Worship. It is an interesting section which explores the way that Jews can live in a society with idol worshipers without worshiping idols or facilitating/enabling idol worship themselves.) Though we like to think that our people were monotheists from the start, there are a number of passages which suggest certain elements of polytheism or idolatry hanging on. A giant example is the Golden Calf incident which we just read a few weeks ago.

Some wonder about the possibility that Nadab and Abihu were being creative—that they offered their worship “outside the box.” There are times when creativity is important and helpful, but there are also times when following orders or procedures is paramount. Remember, this incident was just days into the sacrificial worship system. Could this be a situation where God’s commands were meant to be obeyed literally—at least, at the start? If so, then Nabab and Abihu’s “creativity” was actually disobedience.

In all three interpretations, there is the theme of not attending to the task at hand. Rather than focusing on the prescribed worship of God as commanded, Nadab and Abihu seem to be focused on different agendas: the agenda of inebriation, the agenda of idol worship, or the agenda of creative arrogance or indulgence. They are letting non-relevant concerns predominate, and, as a result, they do not perform their assigned tasks. They are not thinking clearly; they are not “on task,” and the results are disastrous.

In the current COVID-19 crisis, it is hard to keep our heads about us. Fear is a constant. The danger is unseen and, in many ways, unknown. When it hits, it is many days after exposure. And when it hits, there are variety of experiences—from nothing (non-symptomatic) to death. Anxiety is certainly present in our lives, and we are often not “in our right minds” as we seek to understand and respond to the danger.

Reb Simcha Bunim of Przysucha (1765-1827) used to twist Hillel’s famous golden rule into a way to learn from the mistakes of our fellows. Hillel said, “What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor.” Reb Bunim said, “What is hateful in your neighbor, do not do yourself.”

And, so, with this in mind, let us consider some of the mistakes people around us have been making in this time of heightened anxiety—how their other agendas or mindsets have made them less effective in their assigned tasks. Hopefully, we can learn from their mistakes.

Some approach the subject with an over-inflated sense of optimism and salesmanship—talking positively and misrepresenting the truth. They are less concerned with their jobs than with their positive message.

The same can be said for those who approach the subject with an overinflated sense of pessimism and doom. This is an emotional response which, while understandable, does not support strategic thinking.

Some approach the subject with an agenda of certainly—projecting certainty and “science,” even when the science is inexact and far from certain. The face-mask controversy is just an example. Wear them? Don’t wear them? Beyond the scientific facts, the rhetoric of authority has been too often weaponized, and certainty has been claimed much more than is appropriate.

Some approach the subject with anger, looking for groups on which they can project their own angst. We have seen attacks on “young people,” on “old people,” and on various racial or ethnic groups without any regard for the injustice of generalization or for judgments made from an anecdote or two. Is their agenda an actual discussion of facts, or is it more self-indulgent?

Some approach the subject with an eye to their autonomy and boredom, letting these rule their decisions rather than thinking long-term. Short-sightedness is a well-known way to be “not in our right minds,” and anxiety can muddle our thinking and lead to foolish mistakes. 

We do not know exactly what Nadab and Abihu were thinking when they offered the Aish Zarah in the Tent of Meeting, but we can—when we step back and contemplate—see the folly of our own less-than-clear-headed thinking. Let us be aware of our emotions and of the ways they can skew our logical thinking. It is fine to have emotions and to feel them deeply, but separating them from logical and strategic thinking is vital if we are to respond to crisis well.

Preparing for Passover and Our Virtual Seder

April 3rd: Tzav and Shabbat Hagadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, facts can be misleading. The fact in question: In Tradition, Rabbis would only give sermons twice a year—on the Shabbat before Yom Kippur (Shabbat Teshuvah) and on this week, the Shabbat before Pesach (Shabbat Hagadol).

Interesting, yes? The surprise is that, in Tradition, Rabbis did not give sermons at all. Other people—known as Maggidim, Preachers—gave sermons. They would travel around from village to village, and some became very popular for their style of preaching and storytelling. Rabbis, on the other hand, would teach and lead Torah study sessions—but not during services. It was a different synagogue and pulpit culture. So, when it came to the Shabbat before Yom Kippur and the Shabbat before Pesach, the subject of the Rabbi’s “sermon” was not particularly inspirational: it was to make sure everyone knew the Halacha for the upcoming holy days.

What we know as the modern Rabbinate developed in the 1800s, and the weekly Rabbinic sermon was just one of many new customs.

So, given that this is the week of Shabbat Hagadol, let’s talk about Pesach. This is a festival full of Tradition, but, whatever our ideas of Tradition are, this year will probably be a bit different. For example, we may have difficulty getting all of our traditional foods. Passover things are in the grocery stores, but spending all day, going from grocery store to grocery store may not be the wisest course in these days of social distancing. It is entirely possible that we might find ourselves at the Seder table without a few of the traditional components. For instance, I’m in doubt about whether we’ll have parsley for the Karpas. What’s a Yid to do?

My initial advice is to quote the website of Washington Hebrew Congregation where, in discussing their Virtual Seder, readers are assured that one can still have a Seder without everything. Think about the original Pesach. Our ancestors leaving Egypt probably didn’t have every Passover ingredient, but they managed nevertheless to have a pretty meaningful holiday.

Secondly, there is a certain amount of wiggle-room. If I cannot get parsley, I’m thinking of Belgian Endive or the tops of green onions. They do sprout up in the Springtime, and we already have them. More importantly, they can hold enough of the salted water to remind me of the tears our ancestors cried while in Egypt.

If one cannot get Matzah, one can make it at home. It won’t come out exactly as Manischewitz, but decent Matzah can be made at home—with flour, water, and a very hot oven. The key is to mix the water and flour, roll it out very flat, and get it into the oven in no more than eighteen minutes. It’s very doable. The same can be said for Gefilte Fish. There are recipes using canned salmon or fresh salmon—and pretty much any fish you may have on hand. The point is that Passover is historically a time of making things work and focusing on God’s Presence in history and our lives.

Speaking of Seders, we’ve figured out a way to have a Virtual Congregational Seder for the first night of Passover, and you are all invited. We’ll have three links on the congregational website (britshalomstatecollege.org):
(1)  One will be a link to join the livestream Seder.
(2)  Another will have a link to a PDF of our Virtual Haggadah—which you can print or which you can follow on a tablet.
(3)  The third will have a link to a PDF of our entire congregational Haggadah. This is for those who want to it to conduct their own Seder.

The Virtual Haggadah is an abbreviated version of the regular Haggadah. Our plan is to pray and sing through all the main parts BEFORE we eat our main meal. This includes Elijah’s Cup and the third and fourth cups of wine. That way, we can conclude, and then you can enjoy your meal.

I am estimating that the Virtual Seder will last about an hour and fifteen minutes. In any event, there will be a slight break so you can eat a whole sheet of matzah with charoset before the last ten minutes of the service. (I know how hungry we all get!)

To be fully prepared at home, just prepare a Seder plate (or regular plate) with the following ingredients: parsley (or a fresh green), a boiled egg, horseradish, and charoset. Also, have a small bowl of salted water, wine or grape juice (four cups per person), and, of course, matzah. We’ll work on having a lamb bone to show everyone.

Now, here are the details: The Livestream Seder will begin on Wednesday April 8th at 6:00 PM. We have enough Zoom capability for several hundred people, so please invite anyone in your family you’d like to have join us.

If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me: rabbiostrich@britshalomstatecollege.org or (814) 441-9312.

Take care, and stay healthy!

Leviticus and the History of Virtual Worship

March 27th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Most years, there is less than a lot of excitement as we start Leviticus, the book of the Torah that has very little narrative and lots and lots of ritual instructions. This is the book where the many rules for the Levitical Priesthood are recorded—so much so that some scholars think that it was originally a handbook for the priests and not intended for a general readership. Then, when the Temple was destroyed (70 CE) and the priesthood stopped functioning, it became increasingly irrelevant except on the metaphorical level—where generations of Sages looked in its ritual instructions for images and principles that they could apply to their lives.

The strange thing is that, in this year of our own particular challenges, there is a kind of ironic convergence of Jewish themes. Due to the current need for social distancing, we have to adapt our sense of communal Judaism, doing things virtually. Back in the days of the Second Temple (500 BCE – 70 CE), there was also a move to virtual worship, and it was called the synagogue.

We start with the sacrificial service as described in Leviticus: “When any of you bring an offering to the Lord…from the herd, you shall bring a young bull without blemish to the door of the tent of meeting that it may be accepted before the Lord…You shall kill it before the Lord, and Aaron’s songs, the priests, shall present the blood, and dash the blood round about against the altar that is at the door of the tent of meeting. And you shall flay the burnt offering and cut it into pieces, and the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar and lay wood upon the fire. And Aaron’s sons, the priests, shall lay the pieces and the head and the suet upon the altar…” (Leviticus 1.2-8)

We do not know why the ancient thought that God wanted sacrifices of meat—and grain, oil, and wine, but a clue comes in the story of Noah and the Flood. When Noah leaves the Ark, he offered animals to God: “And Noah built an altar to the Lord and took one of each of the clean beasts and clean fowl and offered burnt offerings on the altar. And the Lord smelled the sweet savour…” (Genesis7.20-21). God apparently likes the smell of roasting meat. (For more on this ancient belief, look up the story of Utnapishtim in the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic, where the gods actually get sustenance from the smoke of roasting meat.)

As I understand it, the ancients thought that cooking the meat would attract God—Who would then be present for prayer. In other words, the sacrificial meal was not the prayer; it set up the context for the prayer. It was also a way of honoring God and celebrating along with God and the God’s priests (who got some of the meat for their own sustenance).

There seems to have been a time when people had sacrificial meals in their own areas or in places other than the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. However, there was a drive for centralizing worship in the Temple—mentioned in many of the Prophets, and this centralization seems to have been the case in the Second Temple Period (500 BCE - 70 CE). Jerusalem’s Temple was the only place sacrificial worship could be conducted. The tradition was for everyone to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem three times a year—for Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot—and worship at the Temple.

The problem was that some people in the outlying parts of the Land of Israel wanted to worship on a more regular basis—daily or weekly. It was part of their piety and devotion to God. However, since sacrificial worship was only allowed in Jerusalem, an institution developed to for worship in the hinterland. We do not know the exact origins, but by around 200 BCE, there were houses of study and worship—called synagogues— in many villages where worship services were conducted at the same time as the Temple sacrifices. These dawn and afternoon worship services were structured similarly to the Temple worship except for the actual offering of animals. Psalms were recited to get worshippers in a spiritual mood. The main attributes of God were recited (God as Creator, Revealer of Wisdom, and Savior). The distant sacrifice in Jerusalem was acknowledged. And, more psalms and prayers were recited to complete the worship experience. It was, to use modern language, a virtual sacrificial worship experience.

The local synagogues were the central institutions of the newly forming Pharisaic/Rabbinic Judaism, and they turned out to be lifesaving for Judaism when the Romans destroyed the Temple, Jerusalem, and the Priesthood in 70 CE. The rules about not sacrificing anywhere other than the Temple were so emphatic, and there was no possibility of rebuilding the Temple. So, what was Judaism to do? The Rabbis consulted the Bible and noted a number of passages in which both Prophet and Psalmist dismiss the necessity for animal sacrifices. They were not necessarily arguing against the sacrificial system but rather speaking of its goal: piety and morality before God. God does not need the meat or the blood or even the smoke. What God needs is sincerity and piety and morality and attention. And, since those could be achieved in the synagogue environment, the Rabbis decided that, until the Temple and the sacrificial system could be re-established, the synagogue service would be the temporary substitution.

And so it has been for close to 2000 years. Our service replicates the service in the ancient Temple. Psalms and other prayers set the spiritual mood. We declare our belief in God (the Shema) and describe the essential characteristics in our relationship with God (Creator, Revealer of Wisdom, and Savior). We have an extended prayer that takes the place of the sacrifice (Amidah). And, we conclude our worship with more prayers and songs. Of course, over the years, new prayers have been added, but the essential structure is there—and it all comes from the Rabbis’ desire to participate virtually in Temple service.

We’ll be having Virtual Shabbat again this Friday at 7:00 PM. Just go to our congregational website: britshalomstatecollege.org. At the bottom right of the home page, there is a box to click for Virtual Shabbat. You’ll also notice a place to get our prayer booklet in PDF form—either to print or to read from a tablet/computer.

Last week, over fifty people worshipped together. We hope you will join us for both holiness and health!

Following the Plan

March 20th: Vayak’hel-Pekuday
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is an interesting koshi (difficulty) between the first two chapters of Genesis. In Genesis 1, God creates the whole world in six days. In Genesis 2, none of that seems to have taken place, so God starts from scratch and creates the whole world. It is as though there are two completely different creation stories. Which is the real one?

The confusion continues. In the Six Day Story of Genesis 1, God creates the human being, “in the image of God, male and female God created them,” (Genesis 1.27) so we seem to have both a man and a woman. However, in the Genesis 2 story, there is neither man nor woman. God “forms man from the dust of the earth, blowing into his nostrils the breath of life to make him a living being.” (Genesis 2.7) This man is alone. After creating all the animals—as potential companions for the man, God realizes that only something more like the man will do, so God takes a rib from the man and creates a woman. Tradition is thus tasked with trying to figure out what happened to that man and woman from Chapter 1.

This discrepancy is one of the clues for the Documentary Hypothesis—that family of theories suggesting that the Torah is not a single document, written by one Author, but rather a composite document, written by a number of different authors with different opinions and religious agendas. Documentary Hypothesis scholars explain the two contradictory creation stories as evidence of different traditions and pre-Torah texts that were, at some point, woven together into what we call the Five Books of Moses.

Modern scholars, however, were not the first to notice this major koshi. Tradition noticed it, but, committed to the authenticity and authority of the Torah, the Sages fashioned a number of Midrashic explanations. One has particular interest this week as we read about the crafting and construction of the Mishkan/Tabernacle which our ancestors use as a portable “tent temple.” After six chapters describing every single item’s design and construction and the final assembly of the Mishkan, we have this culminating blessing: “When Moses finished the work, the cloud covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Tabernacle.”  (Exodus 40.34) God plans and the craftsmen and craftswomen of Israel make it real. The plan is made real, and God dwells in the midst of the Israelites.

One way of resolving the contradiction between Genesis 1 and Genesis 2 is to think of Genesis 1 as the planning phase and Genesis 2 as the construction phase. Why would not the Divine Designer have to think about and plan the world? This process took the famous six days. A clue to this design process comes in the passage about the creation of humans. Notice what God says. “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” (Genesis 1.26) Us? Our? To whom is God speaking?

A traditional answer is that God is speaking to the angels (malachim), and that the plan for humans is to make them part animal and part angel—thus giving us the ability to be both animalistic and godly. A Christian answer is to imagine a conversation among the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. However, one ancient Midrash identifies God’s conversation partner as the Torah, and imagines God using it as a blueprint/design specifications for the world. In other words, God creates the world in order to fit the way of life the Torah teaches.

Thus is the contradiction rendered a sequential process—with God designing the world in Genesis 1 and actually constructing it in Genesis 2. This also explains the rather strange phrasing of the human’s creation—“male and female He created them” (which leads some to speculate about the first human being hermaphroditic, a single human being with both male and female genitalia).  If Genesis 1 is the design phase, then the “male and female” can refer to the two possibilities for this basic design. It is like the way auto manufacturers create a car that comes in several models: sedan, coupe, station wagon, convertible, etc. The human comes in both male and female models.

The Kabbalists of Judaism pick up on this ancient Midrash and turn it into a moral lesson. This first human being—called Adam Kadmon, the first Adam (as opposed to Genesis 2’s second Adam whose rib is used to create Eve)—is the design prototype for humanity. Adam Kadmon is the ideal human, the one who is “in the image of God.” However, the production of human beings has resulted in models that are less perfect that our prototype. We have the potential of godliness, but, all too often, we fail to meet God’s and our aspirations.

The moral lesson, however, is that we have godliness—“the “image of God”—in us. It is our potential, and practical Kabbalah seeks to help us actualize this innate purity and holiness. The classic Kabbalistic approach is to compare ourselves with Adam Kadmon, noticing our similarities and our divergences. For the similarities, keep up the good work. For our shortcomings, seek inspiration, discipline, and techniques for improvement. In all, however, Adam Kadmon is our example and standard—our aspiration.

The story of the Mishkan has a perfect ending: at each step along the construction, we are told that Moses did everything “just as the Lord had commanded him.” Here is a case where the heavenly design and the earthly performance are identical. As such, it represents a hopeful plan for humans: we, whose design is based on a perfect human being, have the ability to improve. Yes, we can become the blessings we were created to be.

Wondering About the Golden Calf

March 13th: Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are some interesting pairs in Jewish tradition—two ways of doing things that are similar but slightly different. Why, for instance, are there two versions of Mi Chamocha? Why are there two versions of the peace prayer at the end of the Amidah—Sim Shalom and Shalom Rav? Why are there two versions of the God-loves-us-with-the-Torah prayer just before the Shema? In all these cases, one is assigned to morning services and the other is assigned to evening services—even though the prayers themselves are not particularly morning-oriented or evening-oriented. Why? Tradition does not give us an answer, so we are left with theories and speculations.

One of the theories is that, as the Jewish tradition grew and developed, different communities did things differently. Everyone sang Mi Chamocha, the two passages from the Song of the Sea in Exodus 15 to celebrate God’s saving power: “Who is like You, O Lord, among the mighty?! Who is like You, glorious in holiness, awesome in praises, working wonders?” and “The Lord will rule forever and ever!” The middle connecting passages, however, developed differently. Some communities used: “The freed slaves sang a new song to You there on the shore of the sea. Together, they gave thanks and sang…”  Other communities used this middle part: “Your children saw Your might, there at the splitting of the sea. “This is my God,” they cried, singing…”  When there was an effort to standardize things—as happens in religions and cultures, those in charge decided to respect both versions by keeping them and assigning them to different services. “Tradition” was thus both preserved and adjudicated by Tradition.

By the way, this theory may also explain why the main prayer, the Amidah or Shemonah Esreh (Hebrew for eighteen), actually has nineteen blessings. Some communities used eighteen; others used nineteen. To compromise and standardize, the “eighteen” name was preserved, but nineteen blessings were prayed.

I bring up this liturgical history as a way of possibly explaining the Golden Calf incident in Exodus 32. It is such a strange story—how, just weeks after witnessing amazing miracles from God, the people turn to expressly forbidden worship. After being freed from Egypt, crossing the Red Sea, and receiving the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai, how could they doubt God and worship a calf?!

One theory sees the story as a means of reconciling two different worship modes—and subjugating one to the other. In many of the ancient Middle Eastern religions, the gods are depicted as sitting or riding on animals. There is an Egyptian god who stands on the head of a crocodile. There are Mesopotamian gods who ride on rams or bulls. There is mention in the northern part of ancient Israel—where the Ten Tribes lived, of a god named El who rides a bull. Could this be the context of the Golden Calf? Rather than making a new and different god to worship, could the people have been trying to solve the problem of Moses’ disappearance at the flaming and smoking top of Mount Sinai? Could the calf have been an attempt to invoke God’s presence by providing the deity with a ride?

If this sounds far-fetched, consider the fact that the Ark of the Covenant was designed (by God!) to have two angels—angels on whose wings God would rest/sit when dwelling among the people and speaking to Moses: Here are the instructions from Exodus 25.17-22 for the top of the Ark of the Covenant: “You shall make a cover of pure gold, two and a half cubits long and a cubit and a half wide. Make two cherubim of gold—make them of hammered work—at the two ends of the cover. Make one cherub at one end and the other cherub at the other end; of one piece with the cover shall you make the cherubim at its two ends. The cherubim shall have their wings spread out above, shielding the cover with their wings. They shall face each other, the faces of the cherubim being turned toward the cover. Place the cover on the top of the Ark, after depositing inside the Ark the Tablets that I will give you. There I will meet with you, and I will impart to you—from above the cover, from between the two cherubim that are on top of the Ark of the Covenant—all that I will command you concerning the Israelite people.” In other words, the Torah describes God resting on the Ark—between the cherubim—just like other ancient Near Eastern gods who have places for them to reside/ride.

So, when we have a story about a Golden Calf being very much against the wishes of God, could this be a way of reconciling two ancient Israelite traditions—one from the northern tribes where God sits on a bull’s head, and the other from the southern tribes (Judah and Levi) who believed that God rests between two golden cherubim?

Sometimes, when there are different ways of doing things, the Tradition can incorporate both into assigned roles. Other times, the Tradition must decide which will be continued and which will not. So, rather than seeing human disloyalty in the Golden Calf incident, perhaps what we are really seeing is an adjudication and reconciliation dynamic in which two traditions are joined.

A final and random thought: When Moses descends from Mount Sinai, the stone Tables of the Covenant in his hands, he and Joshua hear the noise of the Golden Calf celebration in the camp below. Joshua says, “There is a cry of war in the camp,” but Moses says, “It is not the sound of the tune of triumph, or the sound of the tune of defeat; it is the sound of a song I hear.” (Exodus 32.17-18) It is an interesting little moment where two people hear the same sounds but interpret them differently. I never thought too much about it until I was walking one of our greyhounds on the beach. As we were walking along, we approached a very loud party in the distance—some young people drinking beer, listening to music, and loudly participating. I recognized it for what it was, but our greyhound stopped in his tracks. He seemed to hear like Joshua, “There is a cry of war in the camp!” and fear showed in his body. To him, the party sounded hostile, and we needed to find a different route. There are all kinds of places to learn Torah, and walking a greyhound on the beach is one.

Purim, The Amalekites, and Opera

March 6th: Tetzaveh and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to our regular weekly portion, Tetzaveh (Exodus 27.20 – 30.10), we have a special extra portion this week—one introducing Purim. It comes from Deuteronomy 25.17-19: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land  the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!”

This ancient instruction (circa 1200 BCE) is tied to Purim through the Midrashic tradition that Haman is a descendant of Amalek—through a line that somehow survived. Since we did not totally obliterate Amalek, some of the Rabbis teach that we are doomed to suffer threats from his just as evil descendants.

This is also the reason why we make noise whenever Haman’s name is mentioned: we are supposed to “blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven!”  The irony, of course, is that we are commanded to remember to blot out something—which, if it were really blotted out, we would not remember. Perhaps this is why we don’t exactly blot out Haman’s name: the reader of the Megillah says it, and then everything makes noise.

The tradition of merriment and silliness comes from the stark irony and surprise of the story in Megillat Ester: in a matter of moments, Haman’s high status is reduced to nothing, and Mordecai’s medium status is lifted high—and it all comes about because of a woman! Thus do things flip on Purim: the serious become silly; the great can masquerade as the small; and the small can masquerade as the great. The mitzvah is that things should be turned on their heads.

The tradition of a Purimspiel goes way back, and the silliness—or unexpectedness—is not just reserved for the story. Many of the great cantors in Europe would reformat the sacred prayers of the service and sing them in popular tunes of the day. In particular, tunes from the grand opera were adapted, and Verdi, Donizetti, Puccini, and friends were sung in the synagogue.

This is one of my favorite ways of observing Purim, and so our service this Friday night will have some unusual tunes. Perhaps you would like to prepare, so here is the current list:
Shalom Alaychem: Torna a Surriento (De Curtis)
Lecha Dodi: Habanero (Bizet)
Mi Chamocha: O Sole Mio (di Capua and Mazzucchi)
Vesham’ru: Vesti La Guibba (Leoncavallo)
Va’anachnu Korim: Una Furtiva Lagrima (Donezetti)
Adon Olam: La Donna e Mobile (Verdi)

So, get out your prayer books and your opera CD’s: you have some practicing to do before Friday night!

Lessons From Giving

February 28th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Terumah begins the most anachronistic section of the Torah: the instructions for and the construction of the Mishkan, the “tent temple” that our ancestors used for worship in the wilderness and for the first few centuries in the Promised Land. Later replaced by the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem, our Tradition never looks forward to re-assembling this Mishkan. If we ever restore the sacrificial service, Tradition teaches that it will be in a new Temple—and not in a new tent.

Why, then, do we spend so much time—five Torah portions!—focusing on details that we will never need again? The simple answer is that this comes with the territory when one reveres an ancient text. It is in the Torah, and we read the Torah. The task becomes one of finding meaning, and here are three lessons the text can teach.

In Terumah, the initial phase of the construction, we have the building campaign.
 “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying: ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved to donate. These are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; yarns of blue, purple, and crimson; fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, and spices for the anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting—for the ephod and for the breastplate. And let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”  (Exodus 25.1-8)

From this detailed instruction, we can learn a lesson about the value and dynamic of giving. The story suggests that Israelites of every economic level were encouraged to give—and that both large and small gifts were welcome and appreciated. A little bit of gold here, and a little bit of gold there, and soon there was more than enough to cover the ark and the incense altar and the tent poles and carrying poles. All the gifts worked together to complete the Mishkan.

Actually, people were so enthusiastic that the building campaign was oversubscribed. In a few weeks (Parshat Vayakhel), we shall read about how Moses has to ask the people to stop bringing gifts. The artisans say to Moses, “‘The people are bringing more than is needed for the tasks entailed in the work that the Lord has commanded to be done.’ Moses thereupon had this proclamation throughout the camp: ‘Let no man or woman make further effort toward gifts for the sanctuary!’ So the people stopped bringing; their efforts had been more than enough for all the tasks to be done.” (Exodus 36.5-7)

A second lesson comes from comparing the specificity of God’s instructions in different situations. In this case, God goes into great detail, specifying the exact dimensions and specific building materials of the Mishkan and all of its furnishings. Contrast this to God’s instructions to Abram in Lech Lecha—telling him to leave his father’s house and go to the Land of Canaan. In that case, no details are included: the route, timing, destination within Canaan, and who is going along—all the travel details—are left completely to Abram’s discretion.

Perhaps the reason for this difference is obvious: sometimes the details matter, and sometimes they are not as important. We all hear the popular advice about “not sweating the details,” and this is certainly true for many situations. I remember one summer in particular where I was the supervising educator at the Jacobs Camp in Mississippi. In a spurt of great enthusiasm, I wrote lesson plans for every class, for every teacher, and thought it was great. The problem was that this micro-managing deprived the talented and enthusiastic teachers of the creative energy that is a big part of the camp experience; the program that summer was rather lackluster—and all because of my over-functioning. Here was a case where sweating the details—and not trusting other enough to do a good job—was a problem.

On the other hand, there are times when the details just have to be sweated. In Numbers 20, God tells Moses to speak to the rock and produce water for the thirsty Israelites. Moses hits the rock and suffers major repercussions. The fact that God had, in a previous situation, instructed Moses to hit a rock for water is no excuse. God is specific; Moses disobeys; and in this case, the details make a big difference. Moses is not allowed to enter the Promised Land.

A more modern and tragic example is the catastrophe of the Space Shuttle Challenger. It was cooler than expected that January morning in 1986, and the seals that kept the fuel contained in the tanks contacted with the low temperature. The people in charge thought that a few degrees would not make a difference, but just a minute after lift-off, rocket fuel leaked and was ignited by the exhaust. The spacecraft exploded, and an exciting and “routine” mission became a disaster. Seven brave explorers lost their lives.

Sometimes, the details are less than important, while other times, they are manifestly important. The key lies in knowing the difference.

A third lesson lies in the charge that God gives to the Israelites. Yes, bring the various gifts, but notice the purpose: “And let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”  (Exodus 25.8) The purpose of the gifts is not obeisance but rather hospitality. The purpose of the Mishkan is to make God feel at home in the Israelite community. We can certainly understand this in terms of our synagogue—how we work for a place that is conducive to holiness and reflects respect for God and our holy community. It should also be a metaphor for the ways we construct our community and society—that we should act in ways that reflect our holy relationship with the Eternal, making God feel at home in our midst.

Thus do ancient details lead to modern insights. It is the process of Torah.

Torah, Law, and Lore

February 21st: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The art of translation is always curious. How does one give an accurate translation of the words and the connotations and the historical context and the sensibility of a text? It is seldom a straight process, and the multiplicity of translations of the Bible speaks to the complexity.

A case in point comes in the word Torah. Often translated as The Law, this is too narrow for the whole approach to life and existence which the Torah represents. Though Torah contains laws, it also holds other components which draw our attention: narratives, interpretive retellings of narratives, poetry and prayer, genealogies, and philosophical thinking. In the texts that Judaism developed from and after the original Torah, the subject matter is generally categorized as either Halachah/Law or Aggadah/Stories, and Judaism is taught in both.

Though we usually use the word Torah to refer to The Five Books of Moses, Judaism actually has eight definitions/usages of the word.

(1)   The Five Books of Moses: Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, and Deuteronomy.

(2)   The Torah Scroll—the Five Books in their ancient scroll format.

(3)   The whole Jewish Bible/Tanach (which Christians call The Old Testament). In Rabbinic Judaism, this is called the Written Torah.

(4)   The Written Torah and the Oral Torah (the Mishnah and the Gemara, which together comprise the Talmud).

(5)   Any Jewish texts that continue the Rabbinic Tradition—Responsa, Law Codes, Mystical Writings (Kabbalah), Philosophical Writings, Hassidic Teachings, etc.

(6)   All Jewish knowledge—including Jewish Literature and Journalism and modern thought.

(7)   A particular story or interpretation or teaching from Judaism, as in, “Here, let me teach you a Torah.”

(8)   The sensibility of Judaism and Jewishness in which individuals have the opportunity to approach God and to live in a holy relationship with God. This definition of Torah is similar to the Chinese notion of Tao, The Way.

Whenever we hear the word Torah, we need to discern which meaning is intended.

That being said, this week’s Torah portion is actually law. Up until the Ten Commandments last week, all of the Book of Genesis and the most of the first nineteen chapters of Exodus are narrative/Aggadah. Now, however, we get a multiplicity of specific laws.

“When a man strikes the eye of his slave, male or female, and destroys it, he shall let the slave go free on account of the injury. If he knocks out the tooth of a slave, male or female, he shall let the slave go on account of the injury.” (Exodus 21.26-27)

“When a man opens a pit, or digs a pit and does not cover it, and an ox or a donkey falls into it, the one responsible for the pit must make restitution—paying the price of the animal to the owner, but keeping the carcass.” (Exodus 21.33-34)

“When a man’s ox injures his neighbor’s ox and it dies, they shall sell the live ox and divide its price; they shall also divide the dead animal. If, however, it is known that the ox was in the habit of goring, and its owner has failed to guard it, he must restore ox for ox, but he shall keep the carcass of the dead ox.” (Exodus 21.35-36)

“When a man steals an ox or a sheep, and slaughters it or sells it, he shall pay five oxen for the ox, and four sheep for the sheep.” (Exodus 21.37)

“When a man lets his livestock loose to graze in another’s land, and so allows a field or a vineyard to be grazed bare, he must make restitution for the impairment of that field or vineyard.” (Exodus 22.4)

“When a fire is started and spreads to thorns, so that stacked, standing, or growing grain is consumed, he who started the fire must make restitution.” (Exodus 22.5)

“You shall not subvert the rights of your needy in their disputes. Keep far from a false charge; do not bring death on those who are innocent and in the right, for I will not acquit the wrongdoer. Do not take bribes, for bribes blind the clear-sighted and upset the pleas of those who are in the right.” (Exodus 22.6-8)

“You shall not wrong a stranger or oppress him, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”
(Exodus 22.21)

“If you lend money to My people, to the poor among you, do not act toward them as a creditor; exact no interest from them. If you take your neighbor’s garment in pledge, you must return it to him before the sun sets; it is his only clothing, the sole covering for his skin. In what else shall he sleep? Therefore, if he cries out to Me, I will pay heed, for I am compassionate.” (Exodus 22.24-26)

The idea here is that living a holy life involves the details of life. It is one thing to espouse the goals of fairness and justice, but how you deal with a goring ox or an out-of-control flock or a fit of temper against a subordinate? The details of life are where the Torah is lived, and God is instructing us to follow the model of creation—a grand and magnificent endeavor that necessitated lots of details: the invention of physics, biochemistry, psychology, etc., and the development that had to be carried out molecule by molecule and atom by atom. Given that God loves us and has gifted each of us with a spark of the Divine Image, God cares about us and how we are treated by others. Thus do ten commandments grow to 613. Living Torah means “sweating the details.”

“Once a heathen came before Shammai and said to him, ‘I will be converted if you teach me the entire Torah, all of it, while I stand on one foot.’  Shammai instantly drove him away with the builder’s measure he had in his hand.  The same man came before Hillel and said, ‘I will be converted if you teach me all the Torah while I stand on one foot.” Hillel converted him. He said to him: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow. That is the whole Torah.  All the rest is commentary. Now, go and study.”  (Talmud Shabbat 31a)

The Ten Commandments!

THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion brings us the indelible scene at Mount Sinai. I say indelible because, in many ways, the thundering voice of God still reverberates in the Jewish consciousness. Every aspect of Judaism and Jewishness is a response to that moment when our people encountered the Infinite One and absorbed some of its holiness.

Jewish identities vary widely—in intensity, practice, knowledge, style, and affiliation, but there is this common spiritual call that began our endeavor and has inspired generation after generation through the ages.

In my own thinking, practice, and teaching about Judaism, I have long been guided some insights developed in a Jewish education curriculum in the 1980s. In addition to the various subjects necessary in a Jewish education, it spoke about five learning modalities—angles from which to approach Judaism and understand it more fully. They were developed in re educating children, but I soon realized that these modalities or learning strategies are for much wider application: they represent a complete approach to Judaism that all of us should incorporate into our Jewish lives. In other words, when we respond to the call of Mount Sinai, each of these approaches to Judaism and Jewishness is vital.

The first is Jewish Functional Skills. These are the facts and skills that we all need to know in order to be literate and able in Jewish contexts.

The second is the Ethical Dimension of every Jewish story, ritual, and teaching. How does our religion affect our relationship with ourselves and with others? How do our attitudes and actions reflect the godliness intended in every aspect of our faith? Remember, ours is a religion which the great Hillel summarized with a simple ethical teaching: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow.” (Talmud Shabbat 31a)

The third is the Historical Experience of our people. Ours is a communal history—a story of how we have encountered life and history and done so in Jewish ways. We see ourselves as part of a long term process or project, with each generation continuing the Tradition it inherited. Years ago, when being introduced to a college class, the professor who invited me “warned” his students about how rabbis never give definitive answers. They always quote a variety of voices—from different times and places—answering a question with a discussion. He was right, of course, because the process which began with Abraham and Sarah continues today with you and me, and every step in that story is relevant to the continuing Jewish process.

The fourth is the Textual Experience. As much as we consult our holy and historical texts for information, there is something essentially Jewish about sitting over a text and encountering its wisdom. When Chananya ben Teradion (Mishna Avot 3.3) says “When two people sit together, and words of Torah pass between them, the Divine Presence rests upon them,” he is reminding us that studying Torah brings us into the realm of the holy and fills us with a sensibility of godly possibility. Whether in the Torah Service or study luncheons or film series or programs with our youth, text study—and the many places it leads us—is an essential aspect of Judaism.

The fifth is Creative Adaptation—how we understand the information, insights, and practices of traditional Judaism and make them our own. We all do this, choosing what is meaningful to us or our families and crafting a Jewish life and sensibility that connects us individually to God and Tradition.

There is much to be said about each of these learning and experiential aspects of Judaism, but, for this week, I want to focus on the primary text of this week’s Torah portion, the Ten Commandments.

Years ago, I visited a congregation that started every service with the congregation rising and reciting together the Ten Commandments. It was quite moving and meant that, among other things, everyone knew the Ten Commandments. I believe this knowledge is an indispensable Jewish skill, and my request this week is that every member of our congregation takes the time to memorize these ten essential teachings of our Tradition. This goes for adults as well as children, and I am particularly asking parents to spend some time working with your children on this Jewish text.

The full versions are in Exodus 20 and Deuteronomy 5, but here is a memorize-able version.

*I am the Lord your God, Who brought you out from the Land of Egypt, out of the House of Bondage.
You shall have no other gods besides Me.

*You shall not make any idols or graven images and worship them.

*You shall not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.

*Remember the Sabbath Day and keep it holy.

*Honor your father and your mother.

*Do not murder.

*Do not commit adultery.

*Do not steal.

*Do not bear false witness against your neighbor.

*Do not covet.

This is a text to consider, study, and discuss. First of all, however, it is a text to know by heart.

The Lord: Warrior is God's Name

February 7th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As much as we celebrate God’s miraculous rescue of the Israelites from Egypt, there is something disturbing about the violent imagery in Shirat Hayam, the Song of the Sea that Moses leads after we cross the Red Sea.
“The Lord, the Warrior, is God’s Name!
Pharaoh’s chariots and his army God cast into the sea;
And the pick of his officers are drowned in the Red Sea.
The deeps covered them; they went down into the depths like a stone.
Your right hand, O Lord, glorious in power,
Your right hand, O Lord, shatters the foe!
In Your great triumph, You break your opponents;
You send forth Your fury, it consumes them like straw.”  (Exodus 15.3-7)

For us, the Exodus and the Crossing of the Red Sea is a matter of awe-inspiring salvation, but, for the Egyptians, it is about horror and devastation. God is the agent of both experiences.

We usually do not like to think about God in such violent imagery. In fact, the Rabbis of the Talmud sought to mitigate this savage impression with the following Midrash: When Moses led the men singing with joy to God—and Miriam led the women in dancing their joy, the angels in heaven decided to join in the celebration. God shushed them, however, with, “How dare you sing for joy when My creatures are floating dead on the waters?!” (Talmud Megillah 10b and Sanhedrin 39b)

God is torn about the end of the story: though the Israelites are free and safe, God mourns for the Egyptians—who are also God’s children, also created in the Divine Image. And, yet, this remorse does not stop God from killing them. Though God is sad, God realizes that the Egyptians deserve to die—that their immoral and cruel ways cannot be allowed to continue, and that their murderous charge must be stopped before they destroy the Israelites.

In other words, the Tradition finds a tension in the story: God does not like violence, but sometimes God finds violence necessary. Fighting may be a tragic option, but sometimes it is the only way to survive. “The Lord, the Warrior, is God’s Name!”

Another tension found in the story regards the nature and availability of miracles. While the Torah clearly tells us of God’s miracles, the Rabbis were concerned that people would depend on miracles too much—and not do their parts to solve human problems. Thus do we have the Midrash from the Talmud, Sotah 37a, and Numbers Rabbah 13.7 about Nachshon stepping into the water before the waters parted. In addition to resolving the koshi of how it is possible to step into the sea (water!) on dry land, it teaches us that humans have a role in solving our own problems. Even if God helps, we must work on our own behalf.

I find both tensions on my mind as I consider the latest peace plan for Israel and the Palestinians, the one proposed last week by President Trump. Despite his penchant for the superlative, this “deal of the century” is remarkably like all the other peace plans proposed over the last hundred years, and it offers the same questions every other peace plan has asked. How much will it take for the Arabs to agree to Israel’s existence? How much will Israel be willing to give to the Arabs for peace?

It seems foolhardy for Israel to agree with any plan that does not guarantee its safety—or to trust blindly in assurances and treaties that may blow away with the winds of a crisis. Remember the final words of Psalm 29: “The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord blesses our people with peace.” Put another way, when our hope is peace, a necessary precursor is strength.

It also seems foolhardy to think that anything is permanent in that part of the world (or anywhere). Much has been said about how President Trump’s plan will embolden Israel to annex Jerusalem and the West Bank—or about how President Trump’s move of the U.S. Embassy to Jerusalem has excluded the Palestinians. But, anything moved can be moved back, and anything annexed can be un-annexed if a real peace possibility is present.

Speaking of real peace possibilities: a persistent theme of many has been the need for a “Two State Solution,” one in which Israel and Palestine live next to each other in peace, cooperation, and prosperity. It is a dream of many of us—including J Street and many other Jewish organizations in Israel and America. Some say that the unwillingness of the Palestinians to participate in negotiating the current peace plan means that their voices have been excluded. How can a peace plan proposed by only one side have a chance of succeeding?

This question assumes that the Palestinians have not been participating in the conversation, and perhaps this assumption is fallacious. What if the Two State Solution is merely a myth, a fantasy of our Western desires for everyone to “play nice with each other?” What if the voice of the Palestinians and Arabs has been very much a participant in the conversation for the last 100 years? When every peace plan from the Balfour Declaration to the 1947 U.N. Partition Plan to all the modern versions has been rejected out of hand by our Arab neighbors, is this not a statement of the Arab position—that the only real condition for peace is for Israel as a Jewish State to disappear?

I am sure that there are Arabs and Palestinians who share the same Two State idyllic dream, but how representative are they, and will their desires ever have significant support among their Arab and Palestinian brothers and sisters?

So, on this celebratory Shabbat with its militaristic imagery, I believe that we should remind ourselves of the importance of self-defense and survival. It is one thing to feel compassion for our enemies, but it is another to abandon our defenses and let our enemies complete their bloody quest.
“Adonai oz l’amo yiten. Adonai y’varech et amo va’shalom.
The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord blesses our people with peace.”

We Are Not God; God Is

January 31st: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we say that Moses’ (and God’s!) demand to Pharaoh is “Sh’lach et ami / Let My people go,” we are giving a summary of close to a dozen demands that Moses places before Pharaoh. In Moses’ and Aaron’s first meeting with Pharaoh, recounted in Exodus 5, the demand is: “Thus says the Lord, the God of Israel: Let My people go that they may celebrate a festival for Me in the wilderness.” Pharaoh’s response is more than negative; he makes the Hebrew slaves’ work harder by making them gather their own straw for brickmaking. This is also when God seems to decide on the long and drawn-out drama of the Ten Plagues: “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘You shall soon see what I will do to Pharaoh: he shall let them go because of a greater might; indeed, because of a greater might he shall drive them from his land.’” (Exodus 6.1)

The second time is not narrated; we read God’s instructions to Moses and Aaron, and then the text just says that they spoke to Pharaoh. This is when Aaron casts down his rod and it turns into a serpent. Unfortunately, Pharaoh has some court sorcerers and magicians who can make their rods turn into serpents, too. And, even though Aaron’s rod/serpent swallows all of the magicians’ rods/serpents, Pharaoh remains unmoved.

The next several times Moses and Aaron appear before Pharaoh, the demand is similar to the first: “Let My people go that they may worship Me in the wilderness.” (Exodus 7.16) In other words, total freedom from slavery does not seem to be included in the demand, though Pharaoh suspects that the slaves will not be coming back—and God’s initial promises to Moses include leaving Egypt permanently and traveling up to the Land of Canaan.

After the fourth plague, we see some negotiating. “Pharaoh summoned Moses and Aaron and said, ‘Go and sacrifice to your God WITHIN THE LAND.’ But Moses replied, ‘It would not be right to do this, for what we sacrifice to the Lord our God is untouchable to the Egyptians. If we sacrifice that which is untouchable to the Egyptians before their very eyes, will they not stone us? So we must go a distance of three days into the wilderness and sacrifice to the Lord our God as He may command us.’” (Exodus 8.21-23) Pharaoh agrees but later changes his mind, and there are three more plagues.

This is all in last week’s Torah portion, Va-era. When we get to this week’s portion, Bo, the drama increases: God explains the meta-strategy: “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your sons’ sons how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.’” (Exodus 10.1-2) God is making an object lesson of Pharaoh—a man believed to be a god among men—and showing all Egypt, all Israel, and the entire world that certain behaviors are not allowed. God is in charge, and it behooves everyone to understand and acquiesce to the Divine will.

When Moses and Aaron next appear before Pharaoh, they are given permission to go, but there are conditions. “Go, worship the Lord your God! Who are the ones to go?” Moses’ answer? Everyone and everything: “We will all go, young and old: we will go with our sons and daughters, our flocks and herds; for we must observe the Lord’s festival.” Pharaoh thinks he can potchke: “No! Only the menfolk can go and worship the Lord, since that is what you want.” (Exodus 10-8-11)

After two more plagues—locusts and darkness, Pharaoh summons Moses with a proposition. “Go, worship the Lord! Only your flocks and your herds shall be left behind; even your children may go with you.”  (Exodus 10.24) This is a problem for Moses because, as the religion is not yet fully formed, he is not sure what exactly God wants for sacrifices. The Israelites need to take their flocks to make sure they have what God will demand. 

Pharaoh dismisses Moses and Aaron with this strangely prophetic warning: “Be gone from me! Take care not to see me again, for the moment you look upon my face you shall die.” Moses agrees: “You have spoken rightly. I shall not see your face again!” (Exodus 10.28-29)

All though this drama, we see Pharaoh refusing God’s demand, experiencing a plague, relenting and agreeing to let the people go, but then hardening his heart and changing his mind. It is maddening for the reader, and it is maddening for the Egyptians. Even Pharaoh’s courtiers want him to let the Israelites go. “How long shall this one be a snare to us? Let the men go to worship the Lord their God! Are you not yet aware that Egypt is lost?” (Exodus 10.7)

Little do they know that the time for strategizing or negotiating is over. They have committed themselves to evil, and now they are in God’s punishment phase. God is using them all as examples of what happens when people think they are gods and can spurn the laws of decency and fairness.

When I try to look at Pharaoh with empathy, feeling the pain that this great man brings to his people, I find myself focusing on his negotiating. “Okay, you can go, but just the men. Okay, you can all go, but not with your flocks.” He is negotiating as though he has some power—both political and moral. The fact is, however, that he is utterly without power. He is morally bankrupt and incapable of effecting any solution he deems strategically sound. Who knows if God would accept his sincere repentance, but he persists in the fantasy of still being in charge—of still having divine power.

When we are wrong, may we realize it and admit it and not make things worse.
When we are wrong, may we realize that our egos or status are not the most important concerns.
When we are wrong, may we look for ways improve—for ways to repent.

Every Biblical character is a potential role model for us. As much as we may want to emulate someone like Moses or Miriam, let us beware the follies of Pharaoh. Let us search our deeds, compare them to the standard of godliness, and make corrections before it is too late.

Where Was God When We Suffered? Where Is God When We Suffer?

January 24th: Va-era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the Torah text describes Moses’ responses to God at the Burning Bush (Exodus 3.11) as awe and reluctance (“Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and free the Israelites from Egypt?”), the Midrash also has Moses questioning the Divine plan. As God sketches the plan for Yetziat Mitzrayim, Moses realizes that, with all the plagues and all the repeated negotiations with Pharaoh, the Exodus will take a year. Why, he questions God, can You not free them immediately? During this year, the Israelites will continue to suffer, and many may not even survive to see freedom. God’s first inclination is to destroy Moses for his impudence, but that impulse is checked by God’s sense of compassion. Moses is not arguing for his sake but rather for the sake of the suffering Israelites.

We know that the story of the Exodus has a glorious ending: God bears us “on eagles’ wings” out of Egypt and chooses us as a “treasured possession among all the peoples.”  (Exodus 19.4) However, before this wonderful ending, the Israelites endure some 400 years of slavery. We thank and appreciate God for the Exodus, but we also wonder where God was during all those horrible years of suffering.

In addressing this perplexing and tear-stained question, our Tradition speaks not only about the suffering in Egypt but also about all human suffering. Where is God when people are in pain? Why does God allow the innocent to suffer?

The initial answer, based on Deuteronomy, is that people deserve what they get. Good things are not just good luck; they are rewards for following God’s commandments. Bad things are not just random or bad luck; they are punishments for disobeying God’s commandments. Though the particular sins may not be known, God knows, and suffering people are bidden to search for their hidden sins—in the hope that repentance will nullify the harsh decree.

The problem with this explanation is in human experience and observation. All too often, we see justice turned upside down for too many good suffer and too many evil prosper. In the Book of Job, the Narrator says this directly: though Job is entirely blameless, he and his family suffer nonetheless. Where is God’s justice? The answer in Job is that God’s justice is beyond our understanding. We should trust in God’s justice though we do not understand it.

This answer works for some people, but it does not for others. Though we are assured that God is ultimately just, the evidence is just not supportive, and we search for other and better explanations. The term for this question is theodicy: how can an all-good and all-powerful God can allow or cause evil? Some suggest that there is no God. Some suggest that God is not a conscious intervener, but rather a non-conscious force in the universe that holds everything together and induces us to goodness. Some suggest that God’s justice is not limited to this world—that the scales will be righted in the Afterlife. Lurianic Kabbalah suggests that, while God is all-good, God is not all-powerful. Though extremely powerful, God cannot deal with everything, and, in this absence of Divine power, evil and imperfection arise and do great harm. This idea—called the Limited God—teaches that God needs our help and urges us to tikkun olam, where we combine our godliness with the power of the Divine to repair or perfect the world.

A few Midrashim anticipate this Limited God understanding of the Deity, though they preceded Lurianic Kabbalah by many centuries. In one, the commentator focuses on a mysterious passage in Exodus 24. When Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu and the seventy elders of Israel ascend Mount Sinai to seal the covenant, “They saw the God of Israel: under His feet there was the likeness of a pavement of sapphire, like the very sky for purity.” A pavement of sapphires!? The Midrashic answer is that this building project is what God built when God was a slave alongside us in Egypt. Though God did not rescue us in those first 400 years of slavery, God was not absent. Indeed, God was with us, laboring with us and suffering with us.

Another Midrash compares God to a mother whose daughter is in labor. The mother cannot solve the problem: the labor is in process and the daughter must go through it. However, the mother can be present with the daughter, comforting her, encouraging her, and helping her through the difficult process. God was like that with us in Egypt: suffering with us, comforting us, and giving us strength to get through the impossible.

A final consideration for this thorny theological question also suggests that God was not absent. God was aware of our plight in Egypt, but God was hoping that we would free ourselves. The clue comes from Exodus 6.6-9 where Moses goes to the Israelite slaves and gives them God’s message: “I am the Lord. I will free you from the labors of the Egyptians and deliver you from their bondage. I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and through extraordinary chastisements. And I will take you to be My people, and I will be your God.” However this hopeful message falls flat: “But when Moses told this to the Israelites, they would not listen to Moses, their spirits crushed by cruel bondage.” 

Perhaps God was parenting Israel as a parent supervises a child learning to walk or learning to handle things on his/her own. If a parent intervenes every time there is a problem, the child does not learn self-reliance. Similarly, God watched Israel, aware of the suffering but hoping that they would extricate themselves from slavery. As long as was a chance, God waited. However, when the hope died—“their spirits crushed by cruel bondage,” God realized that it was time to intervene.

The long and short of it is that Tradition cannot imagine a God Who does not care or Who is not paying attention—or Who is not present for us in our most difficult moments. We celebrate the Exodus and the incredible miracles when God rescued us, but we should also look for signs of God’s Presence in the midst of our difficulties. God is always with us—watching us, feeling our pride or our pain, encouraging us or comforting us, and always hoping that we will bring forth the Divine energy that we carry within.

Redemption and Purpose: Beginning the Book of Exodus

January 17th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Jewish Tradition identifies three primary characteristics of our relationship with God. God is our Creator. God is the Revealer of Wisdom. God is our Redeemer. Creation happens, of course, at the beginning of the Book of Genesis, though mystics see it happening continually all the time.

As for the Revelation—the Giving of the Torah at Mount Sinai—and the Redemption from Egypt, they are the focus of the Book of Exodus which we begin this week. Exodus in summary may be expressed this way: God frees us from Egyptian slavery and reveals to us the Torah at Mount Sinai—giving us freedom and holy purpose in one dramatic process.

The slavery which begins the Book of Exodus is, in some ways, a surprise. Things have been good in the Goshen section of Egypt for many generations. Joseph’s good offices for the sake of Pharaoh earn him honor and his Canaanite relatives a safe haven from the famine afflicting their land. But, as we read in Exodus 1.8-11: “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And, he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise, in the event of war, they may join our enemies in fighting against us and rise from the ground.’ So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…”

There is some foreshadowing, however. In Genesis 15.13, God appears to Abram in a dream: “Know well that your offspring shall be strangers in a land not theirs, and they shall be enslaved and oppressed four hundred years; but I will execute judgment on the nation they shall serve, and in the end they shall go free with great wealth.”

There is also Joseph’s prophetic statement which we studied just last week, in Genesis 50: “God will surely take notice of you and bring you up from this land to the land promised on oath to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob.” Joseph even arranges to be embalmed and taken with the Israelites when that future redemption comes.

Egypt ends up being a very bad place for the Israelites, but only after many years of good life there. This is, unfortunately, a pattern of Jewish history—and of human history in general. Life is not permanent, and the places we find good to live are not good permanently. The only thing permanent is God—and God’s call, and we are left to be flexible and innovative as we negotiate the temporary nature of everything. 

Many of us have visited archeological sites in the Middle East—or read about them in books like James Michener’s The Source, and we have learned about the curious phenomenon of tel’s. Hebrew for hill, a tel is a hill formed by numerous layers of civilization. People choose a place to live for a variety of reasons—fresh water, fertile land, good hunting, defensive topography, and they live there, sometimes for many generations. Something happens, however, and the city dies: the survivors move away, and dust settles on the site, sometimes for hundreds of years. Later, another group finds the site desirable and builds their city there. They live on the site for many generations, but something happens, and they abandon the site. More dust collects, and their city too is buried. When this process happens over and over again—over a several thousand year history, the site gets progressively higher as city is built over city again and again. Digging into these tel’s found throughout the Middle East reveals layer upon layer of ancient civilization and give us all the benefits of archaeology. It also reminds us of the impermanence of our existence on earth—and of our resilience in adapting to new and different situations.

Though America is a comparatively new country in Jewish history, we have been here long enough to have made many moves. The history of our own congregation is indicative of that mobility. The original Jews in Central Pennsylvania settled in places like Lock Haven, Altoona, Lewistown, and Bellefonte. Just 100 years ago, Jewish students at Penn State attended mandatory chapel led by a rabbi who traveled weekly from Williamsport. Demographics have changed things, and now we are the most thriving Jewish congregation between Harrisburg and Pittsburgh—with many of the other congregations dwindling or out of operation.

Fortunately, our Jewish value of respecting our ancestors and our past has manifested itself in taking over the legacies of previous Central Pennsylvania congregations. We have the Torah scrolls from the Philipsburg and Clearfield congregations—and include their former members in our congregation. We also have the Yahrtzeit Plaques from Clearfield and include those names in our weekly Yahrtzeits. We have taken responsibility for the Jewish cemetery in Philipsburg and a Civil-War era Jewish cemetery in Bellefonte.

Fortunately, other congregations have taken up the same mantle, remembering the original Jewish communities that served our people in their sojourning in many small towns throughout America. I remember with particular fondness visiting Temple Emanu-el in Birmingham and seeing the Jasper Room, a meeting room filled with the sacred artifacts of the little congregation in Jasper, Alabama, where I served for two years. One can find similar remembrances in the Museum of the South Jewish Experience in Utica, Mississippi. The Ark is from the old Temple in Vicksburg; the chandeliers are from the old Temple in Canton, Mississippi. Windows and pews and Torahs reflect the many places where our people sojourned and where they sought God’s Presence.

Egypt was a fine place for many generations, but things changed, and we journeyed back to the Land of Israel. It was a fine place for many centuries, but things changed—in 586 BCE and again in 70 CE. Then, with God’s help and our own faith, we sought other places to live and pursue our holy mission—striving to be “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19) and a “light unto the nations” (Isaiah 49.6 and 42.6). Now, some of us are back in the Land of Israel, and others pursue our lives in other places, but the mission remains the same: to bring God’s wisdom to all the world and to show how life can be holy. In a world of impermanence, the only permanent things are God and God’s call to holiness.

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.