The Antidote to Injustice

October 2nd: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah d’var Torah:

In Leviticus 19, God gives us a rather curious instruction:
“You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”
Whatever it means to be holy, God is, and God wants us to be holy, too.

We can go into a whole philological and spiritual discussion about the meaning of the Hebrew word,  / קָדוֹשׁ kadosh/holy, and it can be a fascinating and inspiring exploration. However, for our purposes right now, let us just focus on the fact that God wants us to be like God.
“You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy.”

This notion that humans should strive to be godly is ancient and has been a quest for many religious seekers in most all traditions. One of my favorite terms comes from the ancient Greek and Roman philosophers who spoke of humans being imitatio deo, imitating or resembling the qualities of God.

I think that most of us would agree that this is a noble goal, but, when we look around us at the world, we see so much that is ungodly. While God commands us to pursue justice and righteousness, all too often, we see unfairness, oppression, and evil. What does God do when facing the imperfection of the world? Perhaps this can be an avenue for us; perhaps we can model God’s behavior.

The Tradition is full of examples of God’s attitudes and behavior, and a few in particular come to mind. The first one comes from Exodus 3 and is the story of Moses and the Burning Bush. Moses is tending his father-in-law’s flock in the wilderness and comes upon a miraculous sight. A bush is burning but is not being consumed. From this Burning Bush, God addresses Moses and tells him that the period of Israelite slavery in Egypt is coming to an end. God has heard the cries of the Hebrews and is coming to rescue them. Moses will be God’s prophet and will pursue God’s strategy and plans for the Exodus. At this point, the Midrash enhances the story. Moses listens to God, thinks for a minute, and objects: “O Lord, the plan you are describing—with me going before Pharaoh many times and each of the Ten Plagues—will take about a year. What about all the suffering of the Israelites during that year? What about those Israelites who will die in the coming year and will never see Redemption? Can you not free the Israelites at this instant?!” At this bold questioning of the Divine Plan, God has two reactions. God’s right hand of justice and judgment lashes out instinctively to destroy Moses, but God’s left hand of compassion and understanding stops the right hand. Yes, it is a problem that Moses is questioning the Divine Will, but Moses is not doing it out of impudence or disrespect; Moses is doing so out of compassion for the Israelites. Ultimately, God goes with compassion instead of judgment.

A second Midrash involves the prayers that God recites. Yes, the Midrash imagines God davvening just like us. This discussion revolves around a verse from Isaiah (56.7) that reads,"I will bring them to My holy mountain, and make them joyful in the house of My prayer.” Since the verse says, “house of My prayer,”—as opposed to “the house of their prayer,” the Rabbis believe that God has a synagogue in which the Holy One prays. For what does God pray? As the Rabbis explain, God prays for kindness. “May My mercy overcome My judgment.” God is very aware of truth and judgment, but God is also inclined toward mercy, compassion, and understanding. According to this Midrash, God prays and strives mightily to be inclined toward compassion.

These and other ancient texts lead a modern thinker, Dr. Yehuda  Kurtzer of the Shalom Hartman Institute, to propose the following understanding of the Rabbinic mindset. “For the Rabbis, the antidote for injustice is not a passion for justice. Rather, it is a passion for lovingkindness.”

Let me repeat that: “For the Rabbis, the antidote for injustice is not a passion for justice. Rather, it is a passion for lovingkindness.”

To some, this may seem counterintuitive. How can a passion for justice be wrong? How can the goal of justice not be won by the passionate pursuit of justice? And yet, sometimes the passion for justice can easily lead to such a focus on truth and judgment that compassion for and understanding of the human condition are forgotten. This is not to discount truth but to try to understand the factors which lead some children of God to behave in ungodly ways.

One can also look at Dr. Kurtzer’s insight from a rhetorical perspective. If one wants to overcome injustice, how are the perpetrators of injustice best persuaded to become righteous? By instilling in them a passion for lovingkindness.

Though we believe in rights—as in our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, the rights approach often pits one citizen’s rights against another’s. It is a conflictual way to analyze human behavior—one that generally creates a winner and a loser. Most of the losers are not very happy. One almost never hears a loser say, “I was wrong, and my opponent was right.” Losers are forced into acquiescence, nurse their wounds, and often plot their revenge. Whether at the ballot box or in legal proceedings or in other more nefarious ways, the rights approach does not settle conflicts permanently. It merely engenders a sense of being wronged and the necessity of more conflict.

How would compassion—as an alternative antidote to unrighteousness—work? Consider these scriptural possibilities.

In the story of Abraham’s two wives, Sarah and Hagar, there is a problem, and Sarah wants Hagar cast out. Abraham does not know what to do, and, to Abraham’s surprise, God tells him to listen to Sarah. However, God does not abandon Hagar or Ishmael, and neither does Abraham. Abraham makes arrangements for Hagar to live just a few miles away in Gerar where his friend Abimelech is king. Hagar and Ishmael are thus close to Beersheba, and Abraham continues to have contact with them. God blesses Ishmael, too, with stature and power and wealth. God and Abraham have compassion upon Hagar and Ishmael, and their lovingkindness avoids or overcomes the conflict.

Another example comes in a Midrash on Exodus 24 where we read about a post-covenant ritual with the Israelite leadership. Coming after the Ten Commandments and after the chapters of additional laws for a just and equitable society, Moses and Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, and seventy elders of Israel go up on Mount Sinai. Then the text then gets remarkably anthropomorphic: “They saw the God of Israel and under His feet was a pavement of sapphire stones with an appearance as clear as the sky.” (Deuteronomy 25.10) They eat a sacrificial meal and drink in honor of God. This celebratory banquet to conclude the covenant is curious but understandable. However, what is with this this pavement of sapphire stones? An ancient Sage explains as follows. This pavement is what God constructed when God was enslaved along with Israel in Egypt. The Israelites built the store cities of Pithom and Raamses; God built this very beautiful road; but they were all in slavery together.

This is exceedingly difficult to imagine—that the Lord God of the Universe would be enslaved, until one considers the love of a parent for his/her children. When children hurt, their parents hurt. When a child is in pain or being picked on, the parent hurts. God, this ancient Midrash teaches us, is so invested in humanity that, when humans are enslaved and oppressed, God is enslaved and oppressed as well.

This notion is found in other religions, as well. For example, in the Christian Bible, in Matthew 24 (v.40), Jesus makes the same point. Speaking for God, Jesus says, “Whatsoever you do unto these, the least of my brethren, so you do unto Me.”

What you have in these passages is an attempt to develop a sense of empathy is those whose behavior is unjust. It is not a matter of power or even of rights—for various systems assign “rights” that oppress others. Rather, this sensibility encourages us to see the oppressed as ourselves—as worthy of our concern, respect, and love.

While there are wars where the idea is to kill one’s opponents, our social justice issues are not wars. Our goal is not to kill those who oppose civil rights or economic justice. Our goal is to convince them that they can be compassionate and just and not sacrifice their own viability and security. Our goal is to convert them to understanding and empathy.

This is certainly the way it is with God. As we are reminded on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, “O Lord, this is Your glory: You are slow to anger, ready to forgive. It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their ways and live. (Ezikiel 18.23) Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.” 

Think about this as you pursue our goals. Is the antidote for injustice a passion for justice, or is a better, more godly path developing a universal passion for lovingkindness?

Moses’ Final Message

September 26th: Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Haftarah in Jewish liturgy is an interesting institution. Historians argue about the origins, though it seems to have begun sometime during the Rabbinic Period, 200 BCE - 200 CE. The idea is that, after the reading of the weekly Torah portion (also probably a Rabbinic innovation), a section from the Prophets was read. These Haftarah portions are picked from various places in the Prophets, from Joshua through Malachi, and they generally have some connection with the Torah portion. Usually, this connection is slight—a matter of a single verse or theme, but the idea is that the Prophetic reading enhances the Torah’s message. 

The term Haftarah comes from the Hebrew root P T R which means accompanying or following. Note that the “T” sound in Haftarah is a TET, as opposed to the “T” sound TOF in the word Torah. Thus the Haftarah is not a “half Torah:” the Hebrew words are completely different. What is confusing is that the Ashkenazi pronunciation of Haftarah is Haftorah because Ashkenazim pronounce the kametz (Hebrew T vowel) as an “O.” This difference in the two Hebrew accents accounts for all kinds of Ashkenazi/Sephardi differences: Adonai vs. Adonoi, Shabbat vs. Shabbos or Daveed vs. Dovid.

Sometimes, the Haftarah portion is a narrative that tells a story or a poem that presents a theme. The story of Hannah’s struggle for a child on Rosh Hashanah morning or Isaiah’s sermon on Yom Kippur morning are examples of these free-standing Biblical messages. However, often, the Haftarah portion is an impassioned and rather incomprehensible rant by a prophet. If one does not know the context of the message, its meaning is quite difficult to fathom. These portions were chosen in a worldview in which the context of the message was well-known. The ancient Rabbis were versed in all the books of the Prophets, and so they understood the greater context and message. This, however, is not the case today. Most modern Jews are not knowledgeable in the books of the Prophets, and many of these ancient and sacred messages are obscure and less than meaningful. Thus do many Liberal Rabbis often choose alternative readings for the Haftarah.

In our congregation, I have been particularly mindful of finding a portion that will be meaningful to our B’nai Mitzvah students. Sometimes, the story in the Prophets works well, but other times, I find a Psalm or series of Psalms to be more understandable for the students and something from which they can frame their B’nai Mitzvah with memorable messages and principles. 

The Reform Movement is currently preparing a volume with such alternative Haftarot, and I have been privileged to participate. Edited by my colleague, Rabbi Barbara Symons from Monroeville, Pennsylvania, this volume should be published soon. I have been invited to  provide a Psalm Haftarah for three portions, one of which is this week’s, Ha’azinu. Here is my submission:

Alternative Haftarah for Ha’azinu: Psalm 90

“A Prayer of Moses, the man of God:
O Lord, you have been our refuge in every generation. 
Before the mountains came into being, 
Before You brought forth the earth and the world,
From eternity to eternity, You are God.

Satisfy us in the morning with Your steadfast love,
That we may sing for joy all our days.
Let Your deeds be seen by Your servants
And Your glory by their children.
O may the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
Establish with us the work of our hands;
The work of our hands, O prosper it please.” (Psalm 90. 1-2 and 14-17)

In the Torah, Moses’ last message to Israel reminds them of the wonders of a relationship with God. Showing his selflessness and dedication to our holy mission, Moses talks about God and not himself. In Psalm 90, “A Prayer of Moses, the Man of God,” Moses parallels this message but with a prayer. “Turn, O Lord…show mercy to Your servants!” (v.13) Moses prays that all the people will have the sense of God’s presence in their lives.“Let Your deeds be seen by Your servants, Your glory by Your children. May the favor of the Lord, our God, be upon us!” (v.17) Just as he has felt God’s guiding spirit in his life, he yearns on behalf of the people for a similar connection with the Divine.  

He also prays, on behalf of all the Jewish people, that our contributions to Tikkun Olam, the Perfection of the World, will count. “Establish with us the work of our hands; the work of our hands, O prosper it please.!” (v.17) May we make a holy difference in our world.  

What is Abraham Supposed to Do?

September 18th: Rosh Hashanah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When I was a younger rabbi, I attended a “sermon schmooze” at a Rabbinical Conference. The point of the gathering—in early August—was for colleagues to share ideas that they were hoping to develop for High Holy Day sermons. One of the rabbis—older and more experienced than I, and one of the people I considered a mentor—said that he thought he was finally ready to tackle the terribly difficult story of Akedat Yitzchak, The Binding of Isaac. I was really struck by his comment because, I had been giving my take on the story for over ten years; I didn’t know we had a choice. It was the  Torah portion, and we had to address it. 

I suspect his interpretation was more profound than any of mine, but my point here is that thousands of rabbis over hundreds and hundreds of years have approached this difficult story and tried to draw wisdom from it. How can a God Who is good demand that a pious man sacrifice his son? How can a pious man think that an unconscionable act is somehow what God wants or needs? The impossibility of this situation is like one of those Zen Buddhist koans—a conundrum to contemplate, not so much for an answer but for an understanding of the nature of the world. What is the sound of one hand clapping? What should Abraham have done? How can we sharpen our spirits on the stone of this story?

For many generations—when martyrdom seemed a real possibility, most commentators praised Abraham’s faith and willingness to make a sacrifice. Though far too many Jews did end up as martyrs L’Kiddush Hashem, For the Sanctification of the Holy Name, most survived, and their willingness to live as Jews and do God’s work in the world kept our sacred mission going. It also kept God’s dream alive. By committing to lives of Torah, we put ourselves at risk, but for a holy cause.

I say this with historical perspective, but I must admit that I cannot imagine actually being at risk. Ours is a fortunate time. Though we certainly are not immune from life’s challenges, ours is a time of social acceptance and power—social, financial, and political. Through the acceptance we have gained/been granted in the modern world, we are able to approach life and the Torah’s stories from difference angles. Thus do we have a fairly new interpretation of this story. Remember, the whole story is presented as a test: “Some time later, God put Abraham to the test. God said to him, ‘Abraham,” and he answered, ‘Here I am.’ God said, ‘Take your son, your only son, the one whom you love, and go to the land of Moriah, and offer him there as a burnt offering...’” (Genesis 22.1-2) While the consensus of Tradition praises Abraham for his faithfulness, this newer view says that he fails the test. 

What is Abraham supposed to do? The right thing for Abraham to do is to refuse the immoral order. Murdering another human being is against God’s law. Parents are not supposed to harm their children. God has no business ordering such a horrible thing, and the test is to see if Abraham will stand up to God and refuse. Abraham had done just that in the case of Sodom and Gomorrah, challenging the Lord with, “Far be it from You to do such a thing, to bring death upon the innocent as well as the guilty, so that innocent and guilty fare alike! Far be it from You! Shall not the Judge of all the world do justly?!” (Genesis 18.25) God is hoping that Abraham will stand up for justice and refuse an immoral order.

What is our evidence? Other than the horrendous nature of the command, note an interesting change in personnel. God personally gives Abraham the order (test), but a mere angel is sent to stop Abraham’s crazed piety. “Abraham picked up the knife to slay his son, but then an angel of the Lord called to him from heaven, ‘Abraham! Abraham!’ And he answered, ‘Here I am,’ And the angel said to him, ‘Do not raise your hand against the boy, or do anything to him.’” (Genesis 22.9-12) God is disappointed with Abraham and disgusted with his mindless zealotry.

Though God has spoken to Abraham many times before, God never does again. While Abraham passes nine tests, he fails the tenth. Thus is the blessing afterwards more a consolation—as though God is saying, “Yes, 90% is still a good grade, and I’ll still keep our covenant, but I wish you’d have done better and known the limits to blind obedience.”  

This is the kind of interpretation borne of an age when we are part of the power structure, when we need to wield our power justly. Having been victims of unjust orders followed by too-willing and non-thinking followers, we have learned the deadly folly of blind obedience and morally-unexamined actions. 

By the way, the source of this interpretation is unclear. Some say that Rabbi Emil Fackenheim spoke of it—attributing it to an anonymous Hassid, though others attribute the lesson to Elie Wiesel. In any event, this now well-known Drash speaks to our unique and modern perspective.

Think about the many centuries of Rosh Hashanah’s and all those rabbis giving sermons—and all those Jews listening to them. Akedat Yitzchak is an impossible story, but it speaks to the complexity and paradoxical nature of existence. We have many interpretations but no answers. Thus do we continue year by year to contemplate God’s questions and grow our spirits.

It is Not in the Heavens

September 11th: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion has many important messages—among them the assurance that the mitzvot of the Lord are eminently do-able—and by regular people.
“This commandment which I command you this day is not hidden from you, nor is it far off. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who shall go up for us to the heavens, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it?’ Nor is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who shall go across the sea for us, and bring it to us, that we may hear it, and do it?’ But the word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, that you may do it.” (Deuteronomy 30.11-14)

In the Talmud, however, the passage’s fairly simple message is transformed into an amazing story and doctrine—that the do-ability of the Torah means that we need to have a voice in how it is understood and practiced. 

The story is found in the Babylonian Talmud, in Baba Metzia (The Middle Gate) and takes as its starting point a discussion about how to kasher a particular kind of oven.

The oven was made out of separate coils of clay, placing one upon another, with sand between each of the coils.  Since each coil in itself is not a utensil, and the sand between the coils prevents the oven’s being regarded as a separate utensil, a debate ensued about whether and how to make it kosher. Rabbi Eliezer says that the separate components mean the oven is not liable to uncleanness. The other Sages, however, hold that the oven’s outer coating of mortar or cement unifies the coils into a single entity—which is therefore liable to uncleanness and hence kashering.

Don’t yawn. The argument—called The Oven of Akhnai—is really just the pretext for an amazing debate:

“There is a Mishna which speaks of an oven which Rabbi Eliezer says is ritually clean, but the Sages say is not ritually clean; it is called the oven of Akhnai/The Snake (because, like a snake, the argument and the tactics used were treacherous).

“Rabbi Eliezer justified his opinion with all the answers in the world, but they would still not agree. Then he said: ‘Let this carob-tree prove that the Halachah prevails as I state,’ and the carob was (miraculously) thrown off to a distance of one hundred ells; according to  others, it was four hundred ells. But they said: ‘The carob proves nothing.’ He then said: ‘Let that spring of water prove that my opinion is the Halachah.’ The water then began to run backwards. But again the Sages said that this proved nothing. He then said: ‘Let the walls of the college prove that I am right.’ The walls were about to fall, but Rabbi Joshua rebuked them, saying: ‘If the scholars of this college are discussing Halachah, what business is it yours to interfere?!’ They did not fall, for the honor of Rabbi Joshua, but they did not become again straight, for the honor of Rabbi Eliezer [and they are still leaning in the same condition]. Rabbi Eliezer said again: ‘Let it be announced by the heavens that the Halachah prevails according to my statement,’ and a bat kol (heavenly voice) was heard, saying: ‘Why do you quarrel with Rabbi Eliezer, who is always right in his decisions?!’ Rabbi Joshua then arose and proclaimed [Deut. 30.12]: ‘The Law is not in the heavens.’

How is this to be understood? Explained Rabbi Jeremiah: ‘It means, the Torah was given already to us on the mountain of Sinai, and we do not listen to heavenly voices, as it reads [Exod. 28.2]: “Incline after the majority” (as opposed to invoking heavenly voices to interfere in the arguments of the Rabbis).

Once, Rabbi Nathan met Elijah the Prophet and asked him about the incident: ‘What did the Holy One of Blessing, say at that time?’ Elijah answered, ‘God laughed and said, “My children have bested Me, My children have bested Me.”’”

The Rabbinic belief is that God entrusted the Torah to us and that we are responsible for interpreting it and practicing it. Certainly, various debates will arise, and the majority of the Sages may change their understanding and interpretations over the years. However, if miracles and heavenly voices can outweigh the deliberations, it would be impossible to fulfill the religious responsibilities God gave us. “Lo bashamayim hi,” The Halachah “is not in the heavens.” Its do-ability means that we are the ones who must make God’s hopes real on earth.

Look Down From Your Holy Abode and Bless Us

September 4th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The most famous part of this week’s Torah portion is the self-identifying history that ancient worshippers recited when they brought their first fruits to the Lord:
“My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt with a mighty hand, an outstretched arm, and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me.” (Deuteronomy 26.5-10)

Later, as part of the ritual, the worshipper would pray, “Look down from Your holy abode, from heaven, and bless Your people Israel and the soil You have given us, a land flowing with milk and honey, as You swore to our fathers.” (Deuteronomy 26.15)

The notion is that the good things that happen to us in life are at the direction of God—as rewards for obedience to the Divine Will. Later, in Chapters 27 and 28, we have an elaborate liturgy of blessings and curses declared by Moses and the Levites to all the Israelites. IF we obey God’s instructions, everything will be good: weather, agriculture, health, foreign relations, personal safety, and general prosperity and happiness. However, if we disobey God’s instructions, all those things that could be good will instead be calamitous. Here, the picture of the pastoral ideal becomes a nightmare—with plenty of poetic imagination about how bad things can be. Among the most striking: “The Lord will strike you with consumption, fever, and inflammation, with scorching heat and droughts, with blight and mildew; they shall hound you until you perish! The skies above your head shall be copper and the earth under you iron. The Lord will make the rain of your land dust, and sand shall drop on you from the sky, until you are wiped out.” (Deuteronomy 28.22-24)

Again, the ancient mentality was that good things are rewards from God, and bad things are punishments from God. This Deuteronomic Theology was and remains a pillar of many people’s worldview. Something in our minds drives us to be very solicitous in re God, hoping for goodness and feeling guilty when life goes badly. The problem, however, it that this understanding of the world does not seem to be accurate. Too often, we see the good suffer and the evil prosper. Flying in the face of this Deuteronomic thinking is reality. 

Many scholars think that this disparity between Deuteronomy and life is the reason for the Book of Job. Written in the style of a Greek drama, it seems to be an extended philosophical work of fiction—based perhaps on an actual man named Job, but dramatized by the writer to highlight various approaches to the problem of theodicy (how an All Powerful and All Good God can allow evil to happen). Though Job is given an answer—that human understanding is so much lesser than God’s that we cannot fathom Divine justice, many apparently did not feel that the question had been resolved. 

Enter the Pharisaic sages—later called Rabbis—who put this question at the center of their religious reforms (beginning around 200 BCE). They believed fervently in God’s justice, but their experience of this world seemed to deny it. Thus did they intuit (or deduce) that there must be a realm in which true justice reigns—a world after this one, after we die. Their Olam Haba, the World-to-Come, is the place where wrongs are righted and where the moral accounts of this world are balanced. The good are rewarded for their piety and obedience, and the evil get their just deserts. As Rabbi Judah teaches (Pirke Avot 4.16): “This world is like an anteroom before the World-to-Come. Prepare yourself in the anteroom so that you may enter the banquet hall.” Or, as we sing in Yigdal (a poetic setting of Maimonides’ Thirteen Principles of the Jewish Faith): “Gomel l’ish chesed k’mif’alo / God deals kindly with those who merit kindness, Noten l’rasha ra k’rish’ato / and brings upon the evil the evil they deserve.”

It is curious how little detail the Rabbis provide about this Olam Haba—perhaps because no one had ever gone there and come back with a report. There are speculations, but the basic belief is that God will take care of us both in life and after we die. Trust is the salient factor, and the many voices of the Tradition reflect various possibilities of the way that God will take care of us. 

Rabbi Stephen Wylen summarizes many of the views in this piece we include in our own Siddur B’rit Shalom (page 146): 
“Judaism permits a variety of beliefs concerning life after death. Some of our Talmudic Sages believed that the souls of the righteous are kept in a treasury under the throne of God. Others believed that the righteous sit on thrones, enjoying the heavenly light that shines from the Blessed Holy One. Many of our forebears anticipated sitting at the table in the Yeshiva on High, where the righteous of all ages discuss the teachings of Torah. The Pharisees taught that at the end of time all the dead would be resurrected to earthly life, while other Jewish movements, including the modern Reformers of Judaism, taught that the soul separates from the body at death and, after submitting to judgment, goes to its eternal reward. The various Jewish teachings agree that we live on in some manner after death and that there is reward for obedience to the Torah.”

Thus does the Tradition affirm—with a little interpretation— the message of the Torah: the Judge of all the earth will do justly, rewarding morality and punishing evil. As is our Jewish way, we read the Torah and interpret it through our observations of and our experiences “b’alma di-v’ra chir’utay,” in this life created by God.

The Flow of God’s Blessings

August 28th: Ki Tetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes we look at Biblical mores and standards, and we think of how idyllic life must have been with this level of righteous simplicity. Other times, we look at the Bible and feel very far away from the values and social understandings of ancient life. 

In this week, we have an interesting mixture. First, there is the prohibition against charging interest on loans. Second, there is a serious abrogation of the notion of private property.

Let’s start with private property. In Deuteronomy 23.25, we read:
“When you enter another person’s vineyard, you may eat as many grapes as you want, until you are full, but you must not put any in your vessel. When you enter another person’s field of standing grain, you may pluck ears with your hand, but you must not put a sickle to your neighbor’s grain.”

In other words, trespassing and helping oneself to another person’s garden or vineyard seem to be fine. The only limitation is that the snack or meal not turn into a harvest. This is very much against our sensibilities today. One would hardly be happy about a neighbor or stranger picking our flowers or apples or tomatoes. Our social contract says that my property is mine, and that others need to stay off. Using someone else’s driveway to back up and change directions is one thing. However, there are limitations that are firmly ingrained in our way of thinking. 

(For an example of the fury that our sense of property propriety can ignite, try reading NextDoor.com and see the very animated discussions about dog walkers allowing their dogs to relieve themselves on other people’s lawns.)

Our own sense of private property not withstanding, there is something very nice about having free food available for those in need. The assumption of the Torah is that the percentage of food taken will be small and will not hurt the family who owns and farms the land. And, there is the commandment mentioned many times about helping the poor and the stranger—leaving the corners of the fields unharvested, leaving the gleanings, etc. Whereas we have the United Way, Interfaith Human Services, and the Food Bank, the ancients’ sense of tzedakah was less institutionalized but more available. And, it functioned on the honor system. 

The ancients’ understanding of tzedakah also speaks of the Biblical understanding of the origin of our plenty. A few paragraphs before our passage, there is the frequently used phrase, “b’chol mish’lach yadecha, whatever flows to your hand.” The idea is that good fortune and all blessings flow from God. Our efforts may be a factor, but fortune is a factor, too, and we should be cognizant of the Divine’s role in abundance. In other words, the blessings that flow to us are not actually ours. They are God’s, and it is God’s right to have us share some of “ours” with others, particularly those in need.

The question of charging interest is also in that earlier paragraph. In Deuteronomy 23.20, we read, “You shall not deduct interest from loans to your countrymen, whether in money or food or anything that can be deducted as interest; but you may deduct interest from loans to foreigners.”

As you may know, this distinction is why Christian authorities forbade Christians charging each other interest, but allowed Jews to be money-lenders. Reading this passage, the Church classified Jews as foreigners/strangers/aliens. As a result, money-lending became a “Jewish” profession—sometimes with famous results (like the Rothschilds), and other times with tragedy. For many Christians, the only Jews they knew were money-lenders—and, while one is always glad to see the money-lender when borrowing, one is never happy to see the money-lender when it is time to repay the loan. Many of Europe’s anti-Semitic incidents over the last 1000 years began as nothing more than anger at having to pay back borrowed money.

In any event, one cannot imagine modern finance and banking without the ability to charge interest on loans. When capitalism first developed in Holland and Belgium, the religious authorities struggled with this Biblical teaching, but eventually the practicality of financial needs prevailed. It is one thing to lend to a neighbor or relative in need and not charge interest; family and neighborhood bonds influence the repayment. However, when it comes to strangers and various risky uses of money, the lender is taking a real risk, and the interest provides the motivation for the lender to help. Without this accommodation, the development of capitalism and much modern progress would simply not have taken place. 

The principle in both of these ancient practices is that members of a community support each other, and one can see this even in modern times in various “Hebrew Free Loan Societies.” The Shefa (the Divine Flow of Blessings) comes from God to us in order for us to pass it on to others. Thus can we participate in God’s blessing process.

Our Jewish Paideia

August 21st: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In every culture, civilization, and group, there is a cultural ideal—the set of qualities encouraged in every member. Physical skills, social skills, attitudinal skills, and others help to describe the kind of members the group is hoping to “produce.” The ancient Greeks called this their paideia, and there were furious debates about the characteristics an ideal person would have. One of the debates, portrayed in the Platonic Dialogue, Gorgias, involves the comparison between rhetorical skills and morality. What is more important, the way one communicates or the moral quality of one’s message? Perhaps the best resolution of this ancient argument came from the Roman Quintilian: “a good man, speaking well.”

This kind of debate is ubiquitous. What is the ideal soldier? What is the ideal parent? What is the ideal physician, or athlete, or executive, or musician? And, of current interest, what is the ideal public servant or politician? Notice in the whole panoply of the Presidential Campaign, how all sorts of criteria are applied to the candidates. I remember, in particular, when Al Gore ran for president, and his handlers were trying to figure out how best to dress him. In the early days after the convention, they questioned his business suits and ties, trying plaid work shirts and other more casual wear—hoping to make more like a “regular guy.” 

There is also, of course, the debate over the ideal woman and the many roles women are expected to fulfill. Feminism opened up many options, but women still feel extreme pressure to conform to a variety of cultural ideals. There was the discussion of Hillary Clinton’s pantsuits and hair, and there is the current discussion about Kamala Harris’ drive and ambition. From Sheryl Sandberg’s Leaning In, to the latest rap song from Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion, to “Karens” and suburban housewives and Tiger Moms and the La Leche League, there is a vibrant debate about the paideia of a modern woman. 

And, to be fair, men are also faced with many choices. As a male who does not hunt or fish or play poker, I am personally aware of the many ideals of masculinity that tug at our sensibilities. 

Our Torah portion this week addresses the paideia of a leader—specifically the ideal king of Israel. In Deuteronomy 17.14-20, we learn the following:
“After you have entered the land that the Lord your God has assigned to you, and taken possession of it, and settled in it, if you decide, ‘I will set a king over me, as do all the nations about me,’ you shall be free to set a king over yourself, one chosen by the Lord your God. Be sure to set as king over yourself one of your own people; you must not set a foreigner over you, one who is not your kinsman. Moreover, the king shall not keep many horses or send people back to Egypt to add to the horses since the Lord has warned you, ‘You must not go back that way again.’ And, this king must not have many wives, lest his heart go astray; nor shall he amass silver and gold to excess. When the king is seated on his royal throne, he shall have a copy of this Teaching written for him on a scroll by the Levitical Priests. Let it remain with him and let him read in it all his life, so that he may learn to revere the Lord his God, to observe faithfully every word of this Teaching as well as these laws. Thus will he not act haughtily toward his fellows or deviate from Instruction to the right or to the left, so that he and his descendants may reign long in the midst of Israel.”

The political prowess of the king is not at issue. Rather, the Torah is concerned about other important qualities. Excessive materialism—and the use of public resources in its pursuit—seems to be a major problem. The many wives remark may be less about sexuality than diplomacy and religious loyalty. Most of Solomon’s 300 wives and 700 concubines were from abroad and were part of diplomatic and commercial relationships that allowed them to bring their cultures and religions with them. Many Israelites were thus scandalized at the many pagan temples in Jerusalem. 

More important is the beautiful imagery of the king seated on his royal throne, holding a Torah from which he reads every single day. With this kind of ongoing influence, the Torah’s authors hope that the king will follow God’s path and thus be the Biblical paideia. Note also the hope that a person so much higher than his subjects will remain close to them emotionally and culturally. He should be one of and one with the people.

While the specific reference is about the ideal king, the lesson is also meant for regular Israelites. The value of Torah in our daily lives—and humility in material and amorous pursuits—is seen as vital to the kind of people our religious culture aims to produce.

For more on our Tradition’s view of our Jewish paideia, look at the Talmud in general and at Pirke Avot in particular. Almost very perek (paragraph) is devoted to some aspect of the ideal person. An example is the very well-known proverb of Rabbi Shimon HaTzaddik, Simon the Righteous: “The world stands on three things: on Torah, on Worship, and on Deeds of Lovingkindness.” When he says “the world,” he is speaking about human life and the three most important components. For those less inclined to the religious life, he emphasizes Torah and Worship—reminding us that even a life of good deeds needs a connection to God. And, for his Yeshiva bucher students—who already know how crucial Torah and Worship are, he is sure to include Deeds of Lovingkindness. Knowledge and religiosity without good deeds is hollow and unholy. 

Every culture has it principles and ideals, and every culture hones them in the hope of excellence. We who are at home in many cultures respond to many demands and strive for many aspirations. Let us remember every day the hopes and expectations of our Judaism. We have great potential, and our Jewish Tradition is a guidebook for living our best lives.

The Needy Among Us

August 14th: Re’eh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s portion is one of the most political in all the Torah, but it is also rather quixotic—and often misquoted. In Deuteronomy 15, we are told, 
“There shall be no needy among you—since the Lord your God will bless you in the land the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion—if only you heed the Lord your God and take care to keep all this Instruction that I enjoin upon you this day.”

Then, just a paragraph later, we are told, 
“If, however, there is a needy person among you, one of your kinsmen in any of your settlements in the land that the Lord your God is giving you, do not harden your heart and shut your hand against your needy kinsman. Rather, you must open your hand and lend sufficient for whatever is needed.” 

So, will there be poor or not? I think we all know the answer, and the Torah is full of advice on how the poor are to be helped. We are supposed to share our blessings and invite the poor and the stranger—and the Levite—to our feasts. We are supposed to leave a corner of our fields unharvested so that the poor can help themselves. We are not supposed to pick the fields clean, again leaving grain and fruit for those in need. We are also supposed to lend money to people in need. All in all, we are supposed to allow some of our plenty to pass through our hands to the hands of God’s children who do not have enough.

As far as politics is concerned, this passage is both helpful and unhelpful. It clearly states the imperative to help the poor, but it does not address the political question of who should be providing the help. Liberals believe that individual and civic charity can never meet the need—making governmental assistance necessary. Conservatives believe that government is essentially and inevitably inefficient and unable to fix the problems—making civic and private charity the way to fulfill the Biblical imperative. The Torah does not get involved in this aspect of the discussion—probably because the ancient world was typified by smaller communities in which the poor were known by the wealthy—or at least were visible and part of the social fabric. Traditionally, Jewish communities were not part of the government and established our own social service agencies to help their poor; the purview of assistance was thus smaller. Though the Torah does not favor Democrats or Republicans, I believe that during Republican administrations—which tend to decrease assistance to the poor, it is incumbent on all of us to increase our participation in charitable agencies like the Food Bank or Interfaith Human Services. Regardless of the delivery mechanism, the obligation to give is Biblically enjoined and emphasized. 

Another problem with this passage is the way that some interpretations attempt to negate it. Some religionists and politicians read these passages and then preach that economic need is a sign of God’s disfavor—a sign that the poor person is a sinner. Concomitant is the belief that economic plenty is a sign of God’s favor—a sign that the wealthy person is ipso facto righteous and pious. 

This connection is most unBiblical—and certainly contrary to the message of the Prophets. They are very concerned—actually incensed!—that too many wealthy both ignore the plight of the poor and cheat them.  We’ll be reading a classic example of this Prophetic message on Yom Kippur morning, when Isaiah rails against ritual observance in the face of social injustice. In other words, a closer and more expansive reading renders such “Prosperity Gospel” thinking as completely wrong. Nonetheless, there is a selfishness that often dwells in the human heart, and this selfishness can pervert the Torah and Prophets. This is nothing new, and we can see the intensity of the Torah’s and the Prophets’ efforts to remind us of the need to be generous to the needy.

There is a vibrant discussion in the Talmud about how Tzedakah should be given. What kind of assistance is necessary? How can the privacy of the recipient be respected, and how can assistance be given without causing humiliation? And, how does one give with a purity of mind—and not use the mitzvah for self-aggrandizement? As a kind of culmination and summary of these discussions, the medieval philosopher Rabbi Moses Maimonides constructed a ladder of giving.  His “Eight Levels of Tzedakah” are presented in ascending order of goodness:

1. Giving a donation grudgingly

2. Giving less than one should, but doing so cheerfully.

3. Giving directly to the poor upon being asked.

4. Giving directly to the poor without being asked.

5. Giving when the recipient is aware of the donor’s identity, but the donor does not know the identify of the recipient.

6. Giving when the donor is aware of the the recipient’s identity, but the recipient is unaware of the source of the tzedakah.

7. Giving assistance in such a way that the giver and the recipient are unknown to each other. (Communal funds, administered by responsible people, are in this category.)

8. Helping to sustain a person before he/she becomes impoverished by offering a substantial gift in a dignified manner, or by extending a suitable loan, or by helping him/her find employment or a way of self-support.

While one can see the increasing goodness as one moves up the ladder, it is important to remember that all the levels are good. Giving tzedakah is vital to the moral fabric of society—and to the moral fiber of each individual soul.

Let us rejoice in the blessings we have, and let us rejoice in sharing our blessings with others!

A Land Flowing With Milk and Honey?

August 7th: Ekev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Part of my family came to the United States through Galveston, Texas. We do not know why they came there, but the 1800s saw a lot of settlement in Texas—and a lot of land speculation. Once I was doing some research about early Galveston and came across some pamphlets from land speculators. To sell their land to people on the East Coast, they advertised Texas in Biblical terms: as a Land Flowing with Milk and Honey. 

This apparently brought them some success, but their second attempt at selling land was stymied by the reports of the initial buyers. Writing from Texas after trying to start farms there, new landowners reported that the East Texas land was not like the Biblical Promised Land at all. There was no “Milk and Honey!”

Undeterred by such naysaying, a second wave of pamphlets was distributed with some Biblical commentary: even in the Land Flowing with Milk and Honey, it is necessary to work hard and bring forth the blessings. 

This brings to mind a Midrash on the phrase—one which attempts to make God’s Biblical promise literally true. The Rabbis explain that “Honey” refers to date honey, the gelatinous syrup that drips from overripe dates. The Promised Land was so rich that the dates ripened and literally dripped honey onto the ground: Eretz Yisra’el flowed with honey. As for the milk, the earth was so rich that the goats and sheep didn’t even have to be milked: their milk dripped from their udders onto the ground: the Land also flowed with milk.

Of course, this literal reading of the text is fanciful—a kind of grandiose testimony of God’s miraculous deeds. But for those involved in working the land, the real miracle is that, when the land is worked, the crops grow. Here is a passage from this week’s Torah portion that speaks of the abundance of the land—which we must work:
“For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land with streams and springs and fountains issuing from plain and hill: a land of wheat and barley, of vines, figs, and pomegranates, a land of olive trees and honey; a land where you may eat food without stint, where you will lack nothing; a land whose rocks are iron and from whose hills you can mine copper.” (Deuteronomy 8.7-9)
The blessings will be abundant, but they will only be brought forth when we work the land and mine the hills. 

Then, a very famous instruction:
“You shall eat and be satisfied and give thanks to the Lord your God for the good land that has been given you.” (Deuteronomy 8.10).
This is the prooftext for Birkat Hamazon, the traditional Blessing After a Meal. Notice the order: eat, experience satisfaction, and then bless the Lord our God. Notice also the mitzvah of experiencing satisfaction. 

Though God promises plenty, our ancient ancestors realized that satisfaction is not simply a function of enough: it is that mental process in which one sees and feels “enough.” This seems to be what Ben Zoma had in mind when he taught, “Who is rich? One who rejoices in things already owned.” (Avot 4)

It is actually part of a longer perek in Avot:
“Who is wise? He who learns from every man, as it is said: “From all who taught me have I gained understanding” (Psalms 119:99). Who is mighty? He who subdues his [evil] inclination, as it is said: “He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that rules his spirit than he that takes a city” (Proverbs 16:3). Who is rich? He who rejoices in his lot, as it is said: “You shall enjoy the fruit of your labors, you shall be happy and you shall prosper” (Psalms 128:2) “You shall be happy” in this world, “and you shall prosper” in the world to come. Who is he that is honored? He who honors his fellow human beings as it is said: “For I honor those that honor Me, but those who spurn Me shall be dishonored” (I Samuel 2:30).”

The point is that wisdom, riches, strength, and honor are all qualities that spring, in large part, from our own attitudes. This is not to say that certain minimums are not required for health and security, but it does identify our attitudes as a major factor in our ability to find happiness. 

I believe that we are all intelligent enough to realize that “the glass is half empty.” There are certainly problems in the world and in our lives. We are caught between infinite desires and finite possibilities. However, the question of human happiness lies in our ability to see that “the glass is half full.“ It is a skill we can hone and use, and we can start with appreciating the blessings we are given. 

“Eat your fill and be satisfied and give thanks to the Lord your God.”

The Ten Commandments and The Shema

July 31st: Va’et’chanan
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When I was growing up, we learned that the first commandment is, “I am the Lord your God Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.” That was it, though what this commandment commands is a matter of some conjecture. The second commandment thus prohibited other gods and included two clauses, “You shall have no other gods besides Me,” and the longer passage prohibiting graven images and idol worship.

Some consider the opening passage merely a prologue—one that identifies the Deity issuing the upcoming ten commandments. Thus the first commandment would be, “You shall have no other gods besides Me,” and the second commandment would be the prohibition against making and worshipping idols.

This is one of the problems with an ancient text that does not provide numeration.

If we regard the prologue as a commandment itself—as I learned as a child, we need to address the question of what exactly it is commanding. Though it does not seem to instruct us in any particular behavior, it does insist that we acknowledge the Lord God. Some might even see it as a command to believe in God.

There is an opinion, often heard, that Judaism is a religion of deeds and not doctrines, but a closer look at Tradition shows a number of beliefs that are emphasized mightily. In the Bible, we are frequently reminded that all humans need to acknowledge that “the Lord is God in heaven and on earth.” In the Rabbinic world, this belief is enhanced to include not only belief in God and in God’s revelation of the Torah, but also in God’s revelation of the Oral Torah (Talmud) and Olam Haba, the World-to-Come. Then, several centuries later, we have the most famous statement of Jewish belief, Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ “Thirteen Principles of Faith.” This text—derived from the Bible and Talmud—clearly states the mandatory beliefs of traditional Judaism.

So, perhaps it is not so far-fetched to think of the first commandment as a command to acknowledge the One God. Indeed, this imperative is reiterated in the powerful sequel to Deuteronomy’s presentation of the Ten Commandments. In the very next chapter, we are given the Shema and Ve’ahavta: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might...” (Deuteronomy 6.4-9) We are again instructed to acknowledge the Divine and to express our devotion.

We all know the Shema. Many of us recited it daily as children, and many continue to recite it as a devotional practice. Many see it as a declaration of our belief in One God: “The Lord is One.” This is certainly a time-honored understanding, but there is more.

Notice that there are two names for God in the passage, “Adonai/The Lord” and “Elohaynu/Our God.” The Torah has four names for the Deity. God is called “Elohim/God,” “Adonai/The Lord,” “Adonai Elohim/The Lord God,” and also “El Shaddai/God Almighty.” “God” is English for “Elohim”—used in the possessive form in the Shema as “Elohaynu:” our God. “The Lord” is an English translation for “Adonai,” a title used instead of pronouncing God’s four letter ineffable Name. Whenever we see the four letters, “YHVH,” we do not pronounce them; instead we use the title, “Adonai/ Lord.”

One can see in the Shema an interest in reconciling the two names, “Adonai” and “Elohim.” These two names do not refer to two different gods, but to a single Deity: “The Lord is our God.” Some commentators say that the Torah uses “The Lord” in passages describing God’s unique relationship with Israel, while “God” is used in passages describing God as the universal Creator and Ruler. (This is often the case.) Thus can the Shema state our belief that the God of Israel is also the God of all humanity.

Other commentators—particularly mystics—view the two names as two dimensions of the Divine. “God”—particularly “Our God / Elohaynu”—represents the aspect of God Which is perceptible and present to us: the part of God of which we have knowledge and to which we relate. This is in contrast to “The Lord” (the YHVH ineffable Name) which refers to the transcendent aspect of God which is far, far, far beyond our understanding and experience—the “Ayn Sof” or Infinite. Thus would the Shema be reminding us that both the Transcendent Divine and the Immanent Divine are part of the One God. There is unity in the cosmos.

A final insight relates to the last word, “Echad /One.” In addition to the belief that there is only One God, this last word can be understood as almost a verb—that by declaring God’s Oneness, we can contribute to the unity and strength of the Deity. In the mystical teachings of Rabbi Isaac Luria, the imperfection of the world is attributed to an injury suffered by God during Creation. Humanity was created to help God in healing, and our actions—both ritual and ethical—can heal the rift in the Divine. This is the original meaning of the phrase Tikkun Olam. Though we in the Reform Movement use the term to give spiritual depth to our social justice work, the original Lurianic term speaks of our ability to repair/heal God. Among the things we can do is declare God’s Unity and act in concert with God’s will for the world. Thus do mystics interpret the phrase, “The Lord is One,” as the spiritual and intellectual merging of all forces and all existence into the Oneness of God—or, as the prayer book puts it, “l’yached’cha b’ahavah, to unite God in love.” 

For me, reciting the Shema with full kavanah (intention) means reaching out both to identify the Divine and to identify with the Divine. The Lord our God is present and accessible—and hoping to be united with us.

Retelling Our Sacred Story

July 24th: Devarim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the Bible is presented as history, it is not a history book. It is rather a collection of episodes and teachings compiled for the purpose of presenting particular messages. In other words, there is a lot that happened in those days that did not get included. For example, the Biblical figures about whom we know the most—Abraham, Jacob, Moses, and David, have gaping holes in their Biblical curriculum vitae. There is a lot about their lives and experiences we do not know. 

A case in point came up a few weeks ago, in Numbers 12, when there is some domestic drama in Moses’ family. “Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman he had married.” We may feel like we know Moses, but we have no idea who this Cushite (Ethiopian) wife is. It could be a reference to Zipporah, who was from Midian and might have had darker skin than most Israelites. It could be a reference to a second wife Moses might have married at some point. And, we have no idea why Aaron and Miriam complain. In other words, this is a highly edited story, leaving out most of the details and including only what the editor found relevant to the intended message. We do not know who selected and compiled these stories, but, whether it was God or human editors, a selective editorial process was clearly at work. 

This simple and perhaps obvious fact is important in understanding the Book of Deuteronomy, which we begin this week. It is presented in the Torah as a series of farewell lectures by Moses. The Israelites are poised to enter and conquer the Promised Land, and Moses has been informed that he is being retired. This is his last chance to communicate the experiences and wisdom of the last forty years, and he undertakes telling the people their story. 

If one were to compare the stories in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers with Moses’ retelling in Deuteronomy, one would notice a number of differences. Among the most famous are a few changes in the Ten Commandments (which come in next week’s portion). It may not seem like a big deal in Commandment #10 when Moses inverts the order of whom one is not supposed to covet: Exodus 20 says not to covet one’s neighbor’s house and wife. Moses says not to covet one’s neighbor’s wife and house. However, Commandment #4, on the Sabbath, has some larger interpretative issues. In Exodus 20, we read: “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy. Six days shall you labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath of the Lord your God: you shall not do any work—you, your son or daughter, your male or female slave, or your cattle, or the stranger who is within your settlements. For in six days the Lord made heaven and earth and sea and all that is in them, and God rested on the seventh day; therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and hallowed it.”

However, in Deuteronomy, Moses recounts it this way: “Observe the Sabbath day and keep it holy, as the Lord your God has commanded you. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath of the Lord your God; you shall not do any work—you, your son or your daughter, your male or female slave, your ox or your ass, or any of your cattle, or the stranger in your settlements, so that your male and female slave may rest as you do. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt and the Lord your God freed you from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath Day.”

Moses is not repeating the historical event at Mount Sinai; he is interpreting God’s words. 

Another example is in this week’s Torah portion where Moses explains the development of the Israelites’ leadership hierarchy. In Exodus 18, Moses’ father in law, Jethro, notices Moses’ burden and suggests designating responsibility to other leaders. However, in Deuteronomy 1.9, Moses “remembers” it this way: “I cannot bear the burden of you (the Israelites) by myself. The Lord your God has multiplied you until you are today as numerous as the stars in the sky—May the Lord, the God of your fathers, increase your numbers a thousandfold, and bless you as promised. How can I bear unaided the trouble of you, and the burden, and the bickering! Pick from each of your tribes men who are wise, discerning, and experienced, and I will appoint them as your heads...”

There is a tradition that everything in the Torah is dictated by God and therefore represents a set of immutable instructions. However, a closer reading shows a multiplicity of voices and opinions—not only in the Torah, but also in the Prophets and the Writings. In fact, sometimes there are outright debates. Should all the Levites be priests, or is the priesthood reserved for one family of Levites, the Sons of Aaron? Is Solomon a hero, or do his habits of conspicuous consumption and “promiscuity” (300 wives and 700 concubines!) represent a problem with unbridled authority? Does God want and need sacrificial worship, or is God more concerned with piety and righteousness? Is intermarriage with non-Jews a way to increase our population, or is it a threat to our communal “purity?” (See Ezra and Nehemiah.) 

Through the panoply of Jewish experiences and texts, many have sought to record the stories and wisdom of our historical and spiritual experiences. While some regard the textual tradition as a unanimous set of instructions dictated by God, we in the Liberal Jewish community (Reform, Conservative, Reconstructionist, Renewal, etc.) see it as a sacred discussion that began long ago and continues into the future. Moses’ interpretative re-telling of the story reminds us that the story is ours—ours to tell and ours to craft. 

Ancient Feminism? Take #2

July 17th: Mattot - Mas’ay
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Last week, we read about the Daughters of Zelophehad. As you may recall, Zelophehad dies in the wilderness and leaves no sons to take possession of his portion of the Promised Land. His five daughters approach Moses and ask that the law of male-only succession be amended. Moses turns it over to God Who allows the women to inherit their father’s portion. This is always heralded as a feminist story in the Tradition—a seed which 3000 years later helps to establish egalitarianism in modern Judaism.

The problem is that some of the Israelite tribal leaders object to the inheritance’s implications. In week’s portion, they approach Moses and argue: “The Lord commanded my lord to assign the land to the Israelites as shares by lot, and my lord was further commanded by the Lord to assign the share of our kinsman Zelophehad to his daughters. But, if they marry persons from another Israelite tribe, their share will be cut off from our ancestral portion and be added to the portion of the tribe into which they marry; thus our allotted tribal portion will be diminished.” (Numbers 36.2-3).  If Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirztah marry someone outside of their tribe, then Manasseh, one of the Josephite half-tribes, loses territory. Moses turns to God, and God makes a compromise. The women’s inheritance is affirmed but with a caveat: they must marry men in their own tribe. It is not exactly the feminist ideal. In fact, as Rabbi Hara Person explains in The Women’s Torah Commentary, since they end up marrying their first cousins, the daughters essentially hand over their inheritance to the same men who would have received the land had they not stood up for themselves in the first place.

So, is the story of the daughters of Zelophehad an important step in women’s rights, or does it reveal a trick of the patriarchy? Or, is this an example of the incremental steps in the long, long fight for female rights? Or, is this a case where there are more issues involved than just feminism? 

Or, is this a case of moderns analyzing an ancient story from our modern perspective? Inasmuch as we moderns are supposed to find meaning in the ancient texts, it only stands to reason that we would try to put ourselves and our sensibilities into the stories. Sometimes, this is good, but sometimes, it can skew the story’s context. In this case, I can understand modern frustration with the limited autonomy granted to the daughters of Zelophehad, but these women were given more autonomy than they would have otherwise had. In this ancient patriarchal, male-dominated context, this is a step forward. Is it far enough? Of course, not, but the inertia of social institutions is not easy to break.

This leads me to two debates being held today—debates in which modern sensibilities and agendas are being forced onto historical situations. The debates involve (1) who freed the slaves in America’s South, and (2) who got women the vote.

In the promotional material for a PBS program, The Vote, we hear someone declaring, “Textbooks say women were given the vote. No one gave us anything. We took it!” This is very inspiring and empowering, but it is factually inaccurate. Since women were not allowed to vote, the campaign for Women’s Suffrage involved persuading the men who did vote to change the system. Of course, the work of thousands of suffragettes made a great difference, but the name of the game was persuading male voters.

The same can be said of the argument about the role African-American slaves played in their liberation. Of course, many Africans participated—buying their freedom, running away, fighting in the Union Army, speaking, and manning the Underground Railroad. However, suggesting that the African slaves freed themselves ignores the fact that the White people in the Union gave blood and money in the Civil War—ultimately passing  amendments to the Constitution and laws that ended slavery and produced civil rights. In abolition work and in the subsequent civil rights efforts, the main strategy was to persuade White people that Black people should be treated fairly. 

It is even true today. What are “White Privilege” and “Woke” and “Black Lives Matter” if not arguments to persuade non-Black people that racism needs to be acknowledged, stopped, and remedied?

What is happening here, I believe, is that historical situations are being reinterpreted to fit modern agendas. Female empowerment remains a goal, and claiming that Women got The Vote for themselves is a way to encourage and inspire modern women to keep up the fight for total gender equity. Similarly, claiming that the Black slaves freed themselves is a way to remind modern African Americans that they have both the responsibility and the ability to help with their own continued liberation and equality. In other words, though couched in the language of history, these are modern rhetorical strategies.

I understand the motivation, but I am still bothered by misreading history. To my mind, we should look at history with both a critical eye and an appreciation for the small steps and principles that eventuate in societal improvements. Less than complete solutions can nonetheless be helpful.

The male-dominated society of ancient Israel does not measure up to our modern ideas of equality. Women like Mahlah, Noah, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirztah bat Zelophehad have suffered from unfair treatment since time immemorial. However, the ideals of equality and fairness have always been there, and they have been forwarded in a number of subtle actions and messages. It reminds me of a verse from Psalm 90 and a prayer from the weekday Amidah. In Psalm 90, we read, “Light is planted for the righteous, gladness for the upright in heart.” Then, in the Amidah, we are bidden to pray, “We praise You, O Lord, Matz’mi’ach keren y’shu’a, Who causes salvation to sprout and blossom.” The seeds of righteousness and truth were planted long ago. When they sprout and when they blossom, let us give thanks.

Developing Judaism—Developing God

July 10th: Pinchas
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Jewish sense of historical connection is extremely important: we feel ourselves to be the continuation of what Abraham and Sarah started some 4000 years ago. And yet, our faith today is not the same as theirs or our other ancient ancestors’. In fact, it is technically inaccurate to call the Bible’s religion “Judaism” at all. We started out not as “Jews,” but as “Ivrim / Hebrews.” Then after Abraham and Sarah’s grandson Jacob fathered twelve sons, we were known as “B’nai Yisra’el / The Sons of Israel.” As the sons’ families grew into tribes, we kept this name—often rendered in English as “Israelites.” Though we use words like “Hebrew,” “Israelite,” and “Jew” interchangeably, the words “Jew” and “Jewish” do not become historically accurate until after the Babylonian Exile (586 - 538 BCE). The predominant group to return from Babylonia was the tribe of Judah—who were called “Judeans,” in English translation, “Jews.” 

We can also get technical about the word we use for our religion. “Judaism” really should refer to the post-Biblical religion that the Rabbis crafted from the Biblical religion. Over some 400 years (200 BCE - 225 CE), succeeding generations of scholars—called Pharisees, Tanna’im, and Rabbis—shaped the Bible’s religious teachings into the spiritual and ritual lifestyle that we know as “Judaism.” Though based on the Bible, Judaism is defined in the Talmud (Mishna and Gemara).  

As I like to explain to non-Jewish visitors to the synagogue, neither Judaism nor Christianity are the religions of the Bible. Christianity is the religion of the Bible viewed through the lens of the New Testament. Judaism is the religion of the Bible viewed through the lens of the Talmud. Both religions identify certain elements of Biblical religion and interpret and adapt them into their own religious sensibilities, beliefs, and practices. We revere the Bible, and we trace our ancestral search for God to our forebears in Biblical days, but their ancient religion has grown and developed into the religious systems that express and nurture spirituality today.

To illustrate this developmental process, consider the holy day of Rosh Hashanah that is described in this week’s Torah portion: “In the seventh month, on the first day of the month, you shall observe a sacred occasion: you shall not work at your occupations. You shall observe it as a day when the shofar is sounded. You shall present a burnt offering of pleasing odor to the Lord: one bull of the herb, one ram, and seven yearling lambs, without blemish. The meal offering with them—choice flour with oil mixed in—shall be three-tenths of a measure for a bull, two-tenths for a ram, and one-tenth for each of the seven lambs. And there shall be one goat for a sin offering, to make expiation in your behalf—in addition to the burnt offering and the regular burnt offering with its meal offerings, each with its libations as prescribed, offerings of fire of pleasing odor to the Lord.”  (Numbers 29.1-6) 

Notice that the Holy Day is not called “Rosh Hashanah,” nor is there anything about the Book of Life, Unetaneh Tokef, or “Who shall live and who shall die.” There are no details about the shofar calls, or the “Avinu Malkaynu” prayer or the special High Holy Day tunes or additions to the regular prayers or even the Holy Day candle blessing. There is no mention of Tashlich (casting our sins into the water) or apples and honey. In other words, the observance that we call “Rosh Hashanah” has its roots in the Torah, but it has grown and developed over the centuries. And, as much as this is true for one holy day, it is true for Judaism in general. Our faith has grown and developed in a continuing quest to cultivate our relationship with the Divine. 

But lest we think that this reforming tendency is strictly post-Biblical, consider another passage in this week’s Torah portion, the case of Zelophehad’s daughters. As the forty years of wandering in the desert draw to a close, it is time for Moses to divide the Promised Land into tribal territories and individual holdings. However, one of the Israelites, Zelophehad, has died before his assignment. If he had a son, then the son would get his share, but he has five daughters, and daughters do not inherit land. (The system assumed that women would live with their families of origin or their husbands or children.)

So, Zelophehad’s five daughters—Mahlah, No’ah, Hoglah, Milkah, and Tirtzah—approach Moses and make a claim: “Our father died in the wilderness...and has left no sons. Let not our father’s name be lost to his clan just because he had no son! Give us a holding among our father’s kinsmen.” (Numbers 27.1-4)

Moses realizes that the women have a point, but he does not feel able to accommodate them within the law. So, he brings their case before the Lord. The Lord agrees with the women and amends the rules, allowing Zelophehad’s daughters AND all daughters in a similar situation to inherit land. Even at this early point, the Tradition has begun to develop, and this progress continues today. 

One could ask what this says about the nature of God—Whom many view to be perfect and unchanging from before the beginning to after the end. Many believe that the Torah—given around 1200 BCE—was/is/will be perfect as well. No changes are ever necessary—or allowed. However, this view does not take into account the changing situations in which humans find themselves, or the changes in humanity and our human sensibilities. Despite what our Orthodox co-religionists claim, the developmental process in the Bible, Talmud, and subsequent Jewish legal literature is obvious to anyone who carefully looks. This is the basis of the innovations of Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist Judaisms. God may not change, but humans do. 

On the other hand, there is a modern view that sees God as changing and developing, too. Known as “Process Theology,” it suggests that, as “existence” proceeds, the Divine Force behind it—or encompassing it—grows from the experience and adapts, matures, and processes. If this is the case, then it only stands to reason that our understanding of the Divine and our techniques for living in relationship with the Divine would also process and progress. The seeds of the Torah sprout and blossom in our traditional and continuing partnership with God.

The Many Meanings of Symbols

July 3rd: Chukkat
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Everyone knows that Jews do not have idols, but some Biblical customs seem to flirt with the idea. In Exodus, right around the time when the Israelites are learning (the hard way) that a Golden Calf is not the way to get God’s approval, they get instructions about putting two large Cherubim, fierce looking winged angels, on the Ark of the Covenant. 

Then, in this week’s portion, we have the installation of a large copper sculpture of a serpent in the camp—and then later in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. The reason is an incident of rebellion in the wilderness: “The people grew restive on the journey, and the people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why did you make us leave Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no bread and no water, and we have come to loathe this miserable food (the manna).’ The Lord sent fiery serpents against the people. They bit the people and many of the Israelites died. The people came to Moses and said, ‘We sinned by speaking against the Lord and against you. Intercede with the Lord to take away the serpents from us!’ So Moses interceded for the people. Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Make a seraph (fiery serpent) figure and mount it on a tall pole so that it is visible. And anyone who is bitten and looks at it shall recover.’ Moses made a copper serpent and mounted it, and anyone bitten by a serpent would look at the copper serpent and recover.” (Numbers 21.4-9)

The technical difference between an idol and a symbol is that an idol is worshipped, and a symbol is not. The Cherubim’s wings provided God a place to sit in the Tent of Meeting, and the copper serpent is a reminder that the snake bites are a punishment from God for disrespect—and that repentance and respect can get a person healed.

However, by the time we get to King Hezekiah (739-686 BCE), some 500 years later, the copper serpent has become a problem. In Second Kings (18.4), Hezekiah refers to it with a derogatory name, Nehustan, and has the serpent destroyed because the Israelites are burning incense to it—a practice akin to idolatry. Thus does the meaning of this symbol change over time—beginning as a commandment from God, and turning into an affront.

It is neither the first nor the last symbol to change, and we who find meaning in symbols are often of different minds about their validity and significance. Some seek to understand a symbol by finding its original meaning, and they reason that the original meaning is still valid. Thus is the Christmas Tree really a pagan custom (the Yule Log), and Halloween really a Satanic observance. One could apply the same logic to the little bells on the Torah ornaments—originally put there to scare away evil spirits. But, we should ask, is it possible that symbols change? Do succeeding groups, cultures, or religions take symbols that mean one thing in one context and co-opt the symbols and use them for completely different messages? I think they do, and the examples, I believe, prove the point. Christianity took a number of pagan customs and symbols and converted them to Christian purposes. Halloween is an amalgam of several customs, and, though it may have pagan or Satanic origins, I find it hard to believe that children dressed up as cartoon characters and begging candy from the neighbors are actually or even inadvertently observing a pagan rite. We need to beware the Myth of Primitivism—the belief that a symbol has a fixed and permanent meaning. 

Our society is now in the midst of a reevaluation of symbols. What did they mean originally? What do they mean now? How do they affect people?

I believe that we have a role to play in the meaning of symbols—in the management and interpretation of symbols. We could talk about the controversy over statues of Confederate generals, but we can also talk about Jewish symbols—about something as volatile as the yarmulke. There was a time in the 19th Century when most all Jewish men wore hats or skullcaps in synagogue. Then, around 1900, the Reform Movement dispensed with yarmulkes. Not wearing a yarmulke was a sign of modern, enlightened Judaism and was experienced as a liberating and purifying of the ancestral faith. Then, starting in the 1960s, the custom staged a comeback and was seen by many of us as an enhancement to our spiritual work. As a religious symbol, yarmulkes or the lack thereof have great symbolic power, and yet, the people who wear them do not accept a single meaning (as though it were handed down on Mount Sinai). The people who wear this symbol, or the Tallit, or who participate in the the rich symbol system of Kashrut all have a say in the meanings they find. When people ask me about the the meaning of such a symbol, I need to talk about a range of possible meanings. The people using the symbol are involved in the symbol’s management and definition.

A case in point in the current Zeitgeist is that of the statue of President Lincoln with a newly freed, kneeling African in Washington, D.C. When it was dedicated in 1876, Frederick Douglass spoke quite critically about Lincoln’s racial attitudes, though to the hundreds of former slaves who paid for the statue, Lincoln was a hero. Today, some African American activists are citing Douglass to get the statue removed, but many others love the statue and their historical appreciation of the President whom they consider their Redeemer. Who owns the meaning of the symbol when both interpretations are legitimate?

One can also see a multiplicity of meanings in the recent discussion of Juneteenth, a celebration of African American freedom that refers to several different anniversaries in the gradual process of release from slavery. Whether it is observed in some families—as it has been for years—or is celebrated more widely or is established as a national holiday, it is a symbol which will be construed and managed. Symbols do not control us; we control them. 

Symbols can be powerful expressions of concepts and experiences, but they are flexible and manageable. We can honor them or dishonor them or interpret them as we will. Just like the copper serpent originally commanded by God, the meanings of symbols change because people regard them differently. We can be active in this process.

Korach and Us

June 26th: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Korach is both one of the most distressing and the most satisfying of Torah portions. It is delightfully satisfying because Moses’ egotistical and selfish enemy is literally swallowed up into the earth. "Moses said, 'By this you shall know that it was the Lord who sent me to do all these things; that they are not of my own devising: if these men die as all men do, if their lot be the common fate of all mankind, it was not the Lord who sent me. But, if the Lord brings about something unheard-of, so that the ground opens its mouth and swallows them up with all that belongs to them, and they go down alive into Sheol, you shall know that these men have spurned the Lord.' Scarcely had he finished speaking all these words when the ground under Korach and his followers burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach's people and all their possessions." (Numbers 16.28-33)

It's not that I'm bloodthirsty, but wouldn't it be lovely to win an argument so decisively?! Argument over! Case closed! Boom! Then, of course, the angel within takes over, and I wonder why Korach's complaints had to lead to such a total and tragic disaster. 

The text is not particularly helpful in understanding his issues. He complains about Moses’ leadership and status, but the details are rather vague. When he and his band of 250 accost Moses and Aaron, they say, "You have gone too far! For all the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord's congregation?" (Numbers 16.3)

It seems that all they want is fairness and equality—a point noted by every Bar/Bat Mitzvah student of mine who has worked with this portion. The Torah text does not show any nefarious motives on Korach’s part, and the aspiring teenagers side with him because his demands seem quite reasonable. Why should not all the Israelites be on equal-footing with Moses?

Well and good, but the text does provide another salient factor, God’s FURY! God is so angry at Korach and anyone who listens to him that the initial Divine inclination is to destroy the entire Israelite nation (except Moses and Aaron). As dramatic and devastating as the earthquake is, it is God’s less severe response. So, figuring that God knows Korach’s true motivations, the Tradition has always read Korach’s demands as nothing but selfishness, jealousy, and rebelliousness for its own sake. 

If we read the Torah as a a manipulative document justifying one group’s rule over another group, then Korach’s complaint seems reasonable and his treatment a miscarriage of justice. However, if we read the Torah as a history of God training a stiff-necked people to be a holy community, then Korach’s protest seems inappropriate and possibly disruptive to the mission. Is he sincere, or is he ego-driven? Is he attempting to help, or is he thriving on disruption as a means to raise his stature? Is he telling the truth, or is he couching his selfish, power-grabbing aspirations in high-sounding platitudes about equality? Though we moderns like to think in terms of democracy, that is not the the Weltanschauung (worldview) of ancient Israelite society. They see themselves in a military model—with a Commander (God) giving commandments (mitzvot) to the commanded (the Israelites). Discipline and obedience are central to the Torah’s approach, and Korach presents as disruptive and disloyal.

And, we must sadly admit, even if it were a democratic setting, dishonest people can use the ideals of equality and fairness as pretenses for less-than-democratic goals. Korach speaks of equality, but there is no indication that he is willing to give up his own special Levitical status—a never-earned privilege that he attains just by being born into the Tribe of Levi. Do his demands really call for full equality, or is he hoping to use his new-found stature to rise among the Levites to Moses’ level? When I think of his possible subterfuge, I think of George Orwell’s Animal Farm and Napoleon the Pig, a leader who speaks of liberty and equality but who twists them into: “All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.” When we hear the words of idealistic reformers, it behooves us to look into their souls and ascertain their sincerity and how they will respond to power.

Perhaps a hint to Korach’s true motivations can be found in the way he presents his message. He gathers and whips up an angry mob and then accosts Moses and Aaron. Though he cites no evidence, he accuses Moses—his cousin and a man known as the humblest of human beings—of ill-gotten gains and haughtiness. Rather than present his complaints and proposals in a constructive way, he ramps up the anger and tries to turn “democracy” into a mob. Whatever political capital he may have—with perhaps legitimate issues, he squanders it with his ego-involvement and hostility. Perhaps we should ask about Korach’s real audience? Is he trying to convince Moses to be more democratic, or is his real goal to stir up a rebellion that he can take over? As I look around at political leadership, I get the feeling that some are more interested in prominence than improvement—more interested in being seen as tough enough “to take on the man,” than in trying to work with the system for actual solutions. Let us beware of such Korach’s. I worry they are not leading us to the Promised Land.

The case of Korach is exceedingly troubling because we do not know his heart. He could be a legitimate reformer, or he could be a demagogic rebel. His disapproval of Moses could be based on a different vision of a holy community, or it could spring from no more than his own jealousy and greed. The Tradition comes down hard on Korach based on God’s rather decisive judgment, and we are left wondering what this human being really intended. I believe that the ultimate message is less about this ancient character and more about us—us and our own motivations. When we lead or when we object, when we support or when we rebel, what is truly in our hearts? Are our goals noble, or are they selfish? Are they pure, or are they tainted with an over-abundance of ego and self-indulgence? Let us conclude with these words from Rabbi Yochanan the Sandalmaker in Pirke Avot (4.14): “Every assembly which is for the sake of Heaven will eventually endure. And one which is not for the sake of heaven will not endure.”

The Message of Tzitzit

June 19th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I have always thought of Judaism as a thinking religion—a religion where our greatest spiritual heroes have had both the right and the gumption to argue with God. Abraham challenges God’s justice with, “Shall not the judge of all the world deal justly?!” (Genesis 18.25). Jacob wrestles with God and, though he limps away, “prevails” and becomes a Patriarch (Genesis 32). Moses, too, encounters God not just as an obedient servant but also as a partner who challenges the Divine when God loses His/Her temper (Exodus 32).

Thus does a particular phrase in this week’s Torah portion comes as a kind of surprise. It is part of the mitzvah of Tzitzit in Number 15 (verses 37-41). God instructs the Israelites to “wear Tzitzit on the corners of their garments throughout their generations.” The purpose of these knotted fringes is to remind us of all of God’s other mitzvot. “They shall be Tzitzit for you so that when you look at them you will be reminded of all the mitzvot of the Lord and do them.” Thus does the Tallit, the holy garment with Tzitzit on its corners, represent an invitation from the Divine. When we robe ourselves in our Tallesim, we are robing ourselves with God’s influence. Just as the Holy One is robed in holiness—“You are clothed in glory and majesty, wrapped in a robe of light” (Psalm 104.1), so can wearing the Tzitzit clothe us in holy possibilities.

The surprise and challenge comes in the next phrase: “This is so you will not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you have so wantonly gone astray.” The Torah seems to be putting a halt to independent thought, and, in Orthodox circles, that is exactly how it is understood. There are very strict boundaries around what is permissible and what is forbidden. As long as one adheres to dogma and follows all the mitzvot, one can think and ponder and argue. However, for Orthodox Judaism, the Tzitzit are seen as reminders that it is beyond the limit to question the Divine origin and validity of the mitzvot.

Liberal Judaism, with its autonomous approach to religiosity, looks at this passage differently. Since we define mitzvot in a different way, the mitzvot represent a different kind of limit. We consider the Bible and Talmud to be human documents reflecting our ancestors’ attempts to understand and live in relationship with the Divine—and not as literal instructions from God. As a result, we see the mitzvot as possibilities for sacred awareness and connection. They offer us opportunities to gain an apperception of God and to respond with holiness. They also represent the compelling principles of righteousness, compassion, and holiness. Thus can we look at the Torah’s warning, “so you will not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you have so wantonly gone astray,” as a reminder that our urges can overtake our better sensibilities. Whether our temptations are a fattening dessert, a juicy bit of gossip, the opportunity for some larceny, or some other nefarious possibility, we all have Yetzer HaRa, an Evil Inclination, that can lead us to folly or calamity. Pausing to consider our actions in the light of Yetzer Tov, our Good Inclination, gives us time to remember the importance of our core values and godly principles. This is our best chance to turn aside from evil and follow the path of goodness. 

Temptation is, by definition, tempting; it seems like it will result in pleasure. The problem is that the temporary pleasure can do considerable damage—to our health, to our relationships, to communal trust. Illicit behaviors are ill-advised because they cause harm. Taking the time to process our urges through the filter of our principles can help us put a pause on impulsive actions and be the blessings we were intended to be.

Holiness is not a defense against sin. It is a reminder of better possibilities. When we wrap ourselves in the Tallit with the Tzitzit, we remind ourselves that we can do better—that we can make godly choices.

Emotional Intensity and Logical Thinking

June 12th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There is nothing wrong with emotions or emotional responses; they are a natural part of our humanity. However, emotions can cloud our logical faculties and result in decisions that are counterproductive. Perhaps this is what Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar was thinking when he cautioned (in Pirke Avot 4.18), “Do not try to appease your friend during his hour of anger; Nor comfort him at the hour while his dead still lies before him; Nor question him at the hour of his vow; Nor strive to see him in the hour of his disgrace.” 

I do not believe Rabbi Shimon was saying that we should not be supportive of our friends and neighbors or take an active role in their lives. However, we should be aware that times of grief or other emotional intensity may not be the best times for philosophical and logical discussions. In my own work, I learned this through the experience of visiting families in grief. When someone asks through his/her tears, “Why?”—why the deceased had to die, I quickly learned that this was not an actual question about the disease process or the meaning of life, death, and suffering. No. It was/is an emotional statement expressing grief and exasperation. There may be a time in the future for philosophical thinking, but that moment is a time for care and support—for giving a physical or verbal hug. 

In both this week’s Torah portion and the world, there is a lot of emotional intensity, and some of the things being said may prove to be counterproductive in the long run.

In the Torah portion, in Numbers 11 and 12, everyone seems to be “losing it.” The people get hysterical at the boredom of their diets—at the manna which God provides them everyday in plenty. They heap abuse at Moses who loses his temper and unloads on God. Joshua gets very proprietary about religiosity and tries to stop two Israelites, Eldad and Medad, from having personal religious experiences. Later, Miriam and Aaron get involved in petty domestic gossip and lose sight of their roles as agents of the Lord. It’s a mess, and, while the commentators explain why these human responses are wrong, I find myself seeing myself in these stories of human frailty. In times of stress, my thinking is not always as clear-headed as it should be. 

We can start with the manna. “The manna was like coriander seed, and in color it was like bdellium. The people would go about and gather it, grind it between millstones or pound it in a mortar, boil it in a pot, and make it into cakes. It tasted like rich cream. When the dew fell on the camp at night, the manna would fall upon it.” (Numbers 11.7-9) It seems like a rather perfect situation—plenty of food for little work, but the lack of variety drives some of the Israelites crazy. I can understand their frustration, but it strikes me how we humans have the ability to take our blessings for granted—and to find dissatisfaction in the midst of plenty.

When Moses unloads his frustration on God, he disrespects the Israelite people. “Did I conceive all this people, did I birth them, that You should say to me, ‘Carry them in your bosom as a nurse carries an infant’”—all the way to the Promised Land?! (Numbers 11.12). Why is Moses taking on the responsibility for the people’s dissatisfaction? Why is he referring to them as children—and not as responsible adults who have the ability to manage difficulty and frustration on their own?

As for Joshua’s over-functioning, in Numbers 11.27, someone reports that two Israelites, Eldad and Medad, are “prophesying in the camp!” Joshua thinks that this is inappropriate—that intimacy with God is the preserve of Moses and Aaron and the priests, and he  seeks to stop them. Moses, however, sees no problem at all. In fact, he seems to think that it is a good thing for individual Israelites to have religious experiences. “Are you wrought up on my account? Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets—that the Lord would put the Spirit upon them!” Perhaps Joshua is feeding off of Moses’ stress and forgetting that religiosity—a connection with God—is the purpose of the entire endeavor. He is focused on Moses and the stress and not on God’s Presence.

Finally, we have a nasty family squabble. “Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Cushite woman he had married.” (Numbers 12.1) Whether this involves criticism of Zipporah or a possible second wife, the Torah does not give us much insight. Nor does it specify what the complaint is. It does, however, tell us that Miriam and Aaron take their intra-family concerns to the public arena, complaining about Moses’ leadership role. “Has the Lord spoken only through Moses? Has God not spoken through us as well?” God does not seem to get involved in the family process. What God sees, however, is the blurring of personal and public realms and how this is a gross misunderstanding of the prophetic process. Moses is not the key player here. God is! And, whoever God chooses is God’s business. (God is not managing this process based on focus groups—or on the opinion of the staff.)

In each of these less than admirable incidents, I think I can understand the emotional field. Something is bothersome or wrong and people get hot-headed. The problem is that their anger and frustration do not always lead to cogent thinking. 

I find it interesting how advocates often recall for their audiences their emotional reactions to the wrong they want to right. It can be an effective means of persuasion. However, if they are too effective and put their audience in that same state of anger, bewilderment, or panic, then the thinking process is impeded. The people may respond, but the solution preferred may not be the best long-term solution. This is why I read Rabbi Shimon ben Elazar’s warning as both personal and societal advice. Emotional intensity is an important part of life. We need to mourn, to be angry, to celebrate, and to be overwhelmed with delight. However, we also need to settle down, calm the emotional field, and proceed with logic and reason—with an eye to the bigger picture and the long term.

Translating the Holy

June 5th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The re-translation of well-known Biblical texts is a very delicate endeavor. When people know a passage and find it meaningful, changing the translation can be quite disturbing. 

I remember how disconcerting it was when the Reform Movement’s 1975 prayer book, Gates of Prayer, changed the Shema from the translation I had grown up reciting. Instead of, “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one,” we were instructed (forced!) to say, 
“Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one.”
Adding that extra “is” changed the grammar and the rhythm—and, to me, the holiness and mantra-like quality of this “watchword of our faith” was disrupted. 

Similarly disturbing was the change of the next line (from Deuteronomy 6). The old version (Jewish Publication Society, 1917, and “old” Union Prayer Book, 1940) had rendered it,
“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, with all thy soul, and with all thy might. The new version: 
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your mind, with all your strength, and with all your being.”
Many modernists appreciated changing the Elizabethan “thou’s, thee’s, and thine’s” to “you’s and your’s,’” but many traditionalists felt that the archaic language gives the passage a special and holy feeling. A larger problem was the retranslation of heart, soul, and might to mind, strength, and being. Though the old translation is literally correct, it does not accurately convey the original meaning. The ancient Hebrews thought that the mind resided in the heart, so references to the lev/heart involve the intellect—and not the emotions. The word nefesh/soul can refer to the divine part of us that God implants within our bodies to give life, but, idiomatically, it means one’s resolve. The final word of the three, m’odecha is much more ambiguous, and all your might does not seem that much different from the newer all your being. The three terms seem to be a hendiadys, a grouping of words intended to convey a single thought: you shall love God completely. 

One may wonder why scholars feel the need to re-translate ancient texts since the texts themselves are set and unchanging. As it turns out, this is not the case. From time to time, slightly different versions of the ancient texts are found—in archeological digs or in rare manuscript collections. Or, other ancient texts may be found that use words or phrases differently. When a variant version or usage is found, scholars must then try to figure out which is more authentic and what the differences can tell us about the original intent. This is one of the issues in translating Isaiah 7.14, which Christians see as a prophecy of the Virgin Birth. While the Hebrew alma is clearly young woman (a reference to Isaiah’s wife who will shortly give birth), the Septuagint, a Greek translation that Christians consider a revealed translation, has a Greek word that, at the time of the Septuagint translation, seems to describe a young woman without sexual experience, a virgin. Finding additional ancient manuscripts in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek can help us to understand better terminology, connotations, and the figures of speech—and this can lead to the need for newer and better (?) translations.

There is also the fact that modern languages change. There was a time when English speakers used terms like “thy, thine, and thou,” but that is not the way we speak anymore. While some people like the archaic language because it sets the Bible and prayer apart from daily English and makes it more special, many moderns prefer modern English usage—a usage that continues to change every year. Each new translation must come to terms with what words will mean to the people who read them. 

Examples may be found in this week’s Torah portion, in the very well known Priestly Benediction. The older translation renders Numbers 6.24-26 as:
“The LORD bless thee, and keep thee. 
The LORD make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. 
The LORD lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.”  
The new one changes/improves it to: 
“The LORD bless you and protect you! 
The LORD deal kindly and graciously with you! 
The LORD bestow His favor upon you and grant you peace!” 
Aside from the Elizabethan “thee’s,” there are some other issues here. First is the term keep. In olden days, this word could often mean guard or protect, but modern people think of it in terms of acquisition and control. It is not a bad thing to think about God possessing us and holding us dear, but the Hebrew yish’m’recha is talking about protection. Hence, the modern (New Jewish Publication Society translation 1964-2000) translation renders it, “...and protect you!”

Another issue is the second line’s “make his face shine upon thee.” The Hebrew does use the word for face, panim, but what does it mean for someone’s face to shine on someone else? One could also ask about the phrase “and be gracious unto thee.” Is this a separate blessing, or is it a synonymous and parallel part of the first phrase?  The newer translation sees the whole line as an idiom with a single meaning (hendiadys) and renders it, “The Lord deal kindly and graciously with you!” 

The third blessing line involves a matter of English meaning. What is a “countenance?” The Hebrew uses the same word as in the second line, panim/face, and I do not know why the King James translators used this Elizabethan synonym for face. Perhaps it was an attempt to minimize repetition. In any event, the modern translators also approached the phrase as an idiom and spoke to the idea of God favoring the person being blessed—a beaming face being an indication of approval and fondness. Thus do we have, “The Lord bestow His favor upon you...”

We could also ask a question about the choice of grant over the traditional give, but I think we’ve had enough for today.

Suffice it to say that this ancient blessing asks for protection, favor, and a sense of closeness. When God is paying attention to us and we know it, then we feel loved and are induced to bring forth the best that is inside!

Uniting God in Love

May 29th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The idea of Israel being the Chosen People is at the heart of the Mount Sinai story. So, as we celebrate Shavuot, the traditional anniversary of Matan Torah, the Giving of the Torah, let us consider this significant assignment. In the chapter leading up to the Ten Commandments, God explains: “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to Me. Now then, if you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.4-6)

Apparently, many people—both Jews and Gentiles—failed to read this verse carefully and somehow thought that the Chosen People status meant that Jews were better than other human beings. To remedy this false impression—for both Jews who might think they can get away with ungodly behavior and for Gentiles who think the Jews consider themselves better than everybody else, prophets as early as Amos decried the idea that God’s love is particular and not universal. “To Me, O Israelites, you are just like the Ethiopians—declares the Lord. True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, but also the Philistines from Caphtor, and the Arameans from Kir.” (Amos 9.7) The Rabbis followed suit, creating Midrashim about Israel being God’s last choice. God needed someone for the mission of bringing the Torah to the world, and, since no one else would take the job, God was stuck with us! 

The details of this holy mission are found in many places in Jewish Tradition. One of the more vivid is in the second section of Alaynu, where doing God’s work is likened to hard farm labor. We look forward to the day when everyone else will join us in bearing “Ol mal’chut hashamayim,” the Yoke of the Kingdom of Heaven. Some may not consider it a compliment to be compared to an ox, but, if everyone is an ox, is it not an honor to to be the ox that pulls God’s load?

More details are found in Ahavah Rabbah, the second prayer after Barchu in the Morning Service. After thanking God for the overwhelming love shown for us by teaching us the chukay chayim, the laws of life, we ask God to help us learn, teach and observe these laws. “Enlighten our eyes with Your Torah; focus our minds on Your Mitzvot; and unite our hearts and minds to love and revere Your Name.” Part of our holy purpose is to devote ourselves to God’s Name—that is, to God’s reputation in the world. We are God’s representatives.

A few sentences later, we get a glimpse into another of our sacred duties. “For You are God...Who chose us, drawing us near to Your great Name...so that we may give thanks to You and unite You in love.” Note that the Hebrew, l’yached’cha does not say unite with You, but rather unite You, suggesting that our work is not just for the benefit of God’s reputation. There are things in our holy mission that have an effect on God’s substance—bringing God together, helping God, enhancing God. Lurianic Kabbalah even suggests that our holy work can heal God. This is the origin of the term Tikkun Olam, the Repair of the World. Though we now use it to refer to social justice work, the original Kabbalistic term meant repairing or healing a primordial injury experienced by the Deity.

There are several ways to understand this dynamic, two of which appeal to me. First is the idea of God being in need—in need of connection with the world. God created the world, but the separation between God and the Creation can potentially leave God out of contact and yearning for closeness. When we do godly things—helping the poor, healing the sick, feeding the hungry,  struggling for justice, and fostering our awareness of God’s Presence, we connect God to the Creation and create a profound unity. Rabbi Akiva likened this to the connection between a mother cow and its calf. “More than the calf wants to drink, the cow want to give the milk.” (Talmud Pesachim 112) 

Second is the spiritual process we effect when we focus on God in prayer. Being the God of all the universe, God can be pulled in all directions and suffer from an in-cohesiveness. This is reflected in the Hebrew word for God, Elohim, which is actually a plural term. God is the combination of all the godly forces. However, we have the ability to focus God’s Presence into a unity—l’yached’cha, uniting God with our spiritual energy. This is one way for us to understand the Shema: “Shema Yisrael, Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad. Hear O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.” The forces and dynamics in the universe can seem disparate and disarrayed, but we have the ability to recognize the unity at the heart of it all. The Ayn Sof, the Infinite, can be united—can be understood as One. 

The profundity of this sublime insight can be sensed in the Mount Sinai story when we imagine the interface of this finite world with Infinity: “As morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the shofar; and all the people who were in the camp trembled. Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain. Mount Sinai was all in smoke, for the Lord had come down upon it in fire, the smoke rose like the smoke of a kiln, and the whole mountain trembled violently. The blare of the shofar grew louder and louder. As Moses spoke, God answered him in thunder.” (Exodus 19.16-20)

Spiritually speaking, we are called to listen carefully and still hear that thunder.

Numbers

May 22nd: Bemidbar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the Book of Numbers deals with lots of subjects, it is called “Numbers” because its first story is of an ancient census. God instructs, and the Israelites do a count of Israelite men who are suitable for military service. 

We usually think of a census as counting everyone, but the census in Numbers was only for men—a fact that rankles those of us who believe in egalitarianism. In fact, since women were not counted—and their stories generally not told in our ancient texts, Rabbi Dr. Carole B. Balin has worked up a series of alternative stories in Numbers—the women’s view—that she will be presenting for the next several weeks on the Union for Reform Judaism’s weekly Torah commentary. If you would like to read Professor Balin’s commentary, go to URJ.org and scroll down until you see “This Week’s Torah Portion.” Her goal is to represent those who were not counted.

For every set of statistics or opinion polls, there are multiple interpretations. It is one thing to have the numbers, but another thing to figure out what they mean. In the case of the Biblical census, the assumption was that 600,000 fighting men would be sufficient to take the Promised Land. However, as we shall read in a few weeks (Parshat Shelach Lecha), Israeli’s 600,000 fighting men did not have the heart to do God’s work, and we were thus forced to wander in the desert for forty years. They had the numbers, but the meaning of the numbers was not so clear.

In the Jewish world today, we have similar questions about what numbers mean. In Israel’s last three elections—conducted over the last year and without a clear majority or even a working coalition, the struggle has not been between the Labor Party—Israel’s founding party and the stalwart of the Left—and Likkud, Menachem Begin’s, Yitzchak Shamir’s, Ariel Sharon’s and now Benjamin Netanyahu’s Right-Wing party. No. The Labor Party has receded into obscurity, and the entire political debate is taking place Right-of-Center. The main rival to Likud has been another Right-Wing party, Kachol Lavan (Blue and White), led by former General Benny Gantz. 

Many of us think of Israel in terms of its great Labor Party tradition—with heroes like David ben Gurion, Golda Meir, Moshe Dayan, Yitzchak Rabin, and Shimon Peres, but that party has receded to a point of insignificance in real political deliberation and power. Why? The prevailing opinion is because of the failure of the Left’s peace efforts over the last forty years. After the Second Intifada and the continuing terrorist attacks from Gaza, Lebanon, and Syria, most Israelis have despaired of peace with the Arabs in the near future and are hunkering down with the political Right as the best hope for national survival. 

With this ascendancy of the Right, there are lots of issues and values at stake. Among them is religious freedom and civil liberties for non-Orthodox Jews. The Chief Rabbinate has a complete monopoly over religious life, and the Orthodox minority (only some 20%) has fueled opposition to a variety of civil liberties such as gender equality and LGBT rights. These are the numbers. What do they mean for our idealistic vision of the Jewish State?

I recently heard a talk about these issues from Rabbi Uri Regev, head of Hiddush, an organization dedicated to religious freedom in Israel. I’ve known Rabbi Regev for many decades—since we were co-counselors at summer camp back in the 1972. He is a lawyer and a Reform Rabbi and has been at the forefront of civil liberties efforts in Israel for many years—leading the Israel Religious Action Center and the World Union for Progressive Judaism. 

When he looks at the numbers—at the shift from a balanced electorate to a decidedly Right Wing polity, he sees a surprise in the details. While the vast majority of Israelis are voting Right, they are doing so strictly for security reasons and not to endorse the Right’s traditional social policies.  This is the significance of Benny Gantz and his Kachol Lavan Party. His supporters—the same number as Netanyahu’s—want the former General to shepherd Israel through its security challenges, but they are overwhelmingly supportive of religious freedom for Reform and Conservative Jews, gender equality and feminism, and LGBT rights. They want a safe society, but they want a tolerant and kind society, too. That’s why they did not vote for Netanyahu who has based his power on pandering to the ultra-Orthodox. They voted for a Right-Wing alternative, and the latest National Unity Government has Gantz and his Kachol Lavan party as partners with Likud—with Gantz as Vice-Prime Minister now and slated to become Prime Minister in the Fall of 2021.

Though the Ultra Orthodox (Haredim) and Religious Zionists get a lot of attention, the fact is that they constitute only some 20% of Israel’s Jewish population. The other 80% of Israelis are secular, traditional non-Orthodox, or Progressive, and these Israelis overwhelmingly support tolerance and religious freedom. 

Rabbi Regev believes that the current power sharing agreement has the ability to protect and extend religious freedom and other civil liberties IF Gantz can successfully exert power within the coalition. The coalition agreement affirms principles of civil liberties and religious tolerance and gives him and his party veto power over efforts to pander to the Ultra-Orthodox. However, Netanyahu sees the ultra-Orthodox parties as important political supporters, and there have already been some opening salvos in this burgeoning intra-government battle. 

Rabbi Regev and his Hiddush organization (www.hiddush.org) and a large number of Israelis believe that pressure from American Jews can help bolster the Israelis who believe in civil liberties and help the Blue and White party to do what its own charter promises. We are being invited to participate; we are being invited to be part of the count.