Our God and God of Our Fathers and Mothers

September 24th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is Rabbi Ostrich’s Kol Nidre D’var Torah.

As much as we Jews are individuals living in our own times and places, we also know that we are part of a long and continuing historical tradition, a sacred process in which we are the heirs of the ancients and the progenitors of Judaism’s future. There are many expressions of this sense of tradition, but we need go no further than the opening words of our Amidah. We praise God Who is: “Our God and God of our Fathers and Mothers.”

The relationship we have with the Eternal One is both individual and communal, both modern and generational. Moreover, we are directed to consider the particular relationships our forebears had with our Creator. “God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob; God of Sarah, God of Rebekah, God of Rachel, and God of Leah.”

It has been asked why we say “God of” before each name. It is not like there are many gods—a different one for Abraham and a different one for Isaac, etc. So, why do we not say,
“God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel and Leah?”
The reason is that each Matriarch and each Patriarch came to his or her own personal understanding of God and developed his or her own relationship with God.

The same can be said of our relationships with God; though there are certainly communal commonalities, each one of us sees God through our unique set of eyes and relates to God in our own ways. Some of our non-Jewish neighbors speak of a personal God, and we can agree. God has always had a personal relationship with each and every Jew—seeing each of us as an individual and precious child. This is the Jewish Tradition.

When we pray the Amidah, we are focusing on God, but what if we turn the camera around and consider God’s view of our developing family? Think of God noticing the generational line from Abraham and Sarah to Isaac and Rebekah, and then to Jacob and Leah and Rachel. While having an individual relationship with each Matriarch and Patriarch, God also must have had a sense of how the line is doing. God loves the line—loves the family, but God is also aware and evaluative about how the family is doing at any point in time.

It is in some ways how sports fans love a team and then follow the team over the years, remembering the years that were good and those that were not so great. Some of you may remember the 1982 and the 1986 Penn State Nittany Lions who won the national championship and also the 1984 Nittany Lions who went 6-5, losing to Alabama, Notre Dame, and Pittsburgh. Fans loved the team regardless, but there is always an awareness of how the team is doing. Could God be looking at us the same way?

I can imagine God looking at us on Yom Kippur and thinking, “I wonder how the Jews will do this year.”

There is a tendency to see the Patriarchs and Matriarchs as continually and consistently heroic—that every year was a saintly one for them. Even in cases where a one of them seems to falter, the Rabbis of the Midrash recast the story to show that our ancestor is right and holy at every step along the way. Jacob is perhaps the best example for he seems, at first look, to have some major behavioral flaws. He stingily demands Esau’s birthright in exchange for some lentil stew, and, in a more dramatic and morally felonious incident, tricks his old blind father and steals Esau’s blessing. The Rabbis of the Midrash, however, cannot imagine a Patriarch or Matriarch ever behaving in a less than holy and proper manner, so they invent an evil characterization for Esau and cast Rebekah and Jacob as saving the Jewish people from him.

While this always a hero approach increases the stature of our ancient forebears, something about it does not ring true. Is it reasonable to think that the Patriarchs and Matriarchs were always right, always in control, and always on moral high ground? For building myths, this may work, but, for presenting humans with whom we can relate, some commentators see a greater value in contemplating the struggles of our ancestors as they went through the same competing priorities and temptations that we experience. Are they heroic because everything they did was right? Or, are they heroic because, in the messiness and frustration of life, they were able to muster nobility and morality some of the time, perhaps growing as people and improving?

Let’s go back to our example of Jacob, an ancestor whom we can well view as a work in progress. As a youngster and a young adult, Jacob thinks he can get by on fast talking— finagling his way into Esau’s birthright and blessing. There is even a passage where he tries to finagle God. In Genesis 28, when Jacob beholds the ladder between Heaven and Earth, God appears and promises Jacob a great life. Jacob sort of accepts God’s largesse but with conditions: “If God remains with me, if God protects me on this journey... giving me bread to eat and clothing to wear, and if I return safe to my father’s house, then I’ll accept the Lord as my God.” That’s chutzpah! That’s impudence. It may not be admirable, but it is Jacob, an insecure, fast-talking kid who has some growing-up to do. He thinks he can get by on his wits until he meets his Uncle Laban, a master at the craft of finagling, and, boy, does Jacob pay the price. He is married to the wrong sister. He is cheated of his labor and livestock. He tries to steal away with his wives and children, but Laban catches them, and, in a conflict over stolen idols, Jacob inadvertently curses his beloved Rachel and brings about her death. Of Jacob, one could say that One who lives by the finagle gets finagled by a better finagler.

It is only after these many experiences that Jacob seems to outgrow his fast-talking ways and heel-grabbing to become Israel, one who can hold his own with God and with other human beings. His Patriarchal status is not automatic, nor does it come at birth. Jacob is a heel-grabber, but Israel is a Patriarch: after much trial and error and growth, he attains the wisdom and foresight to lead the tribe.

As an example to us, this can be both instructive and hopeful. When we look into our lives, opening our eyes to both our strengths and our weaknesses, we have the chance to grow and improve. This is certainly the hope of God Who, we are assured, is interested in us and yearning for us to become better. As Ezekiel (18.23) reminds us: “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.” This is God’s perspective, watching the family progress or not, watching the tribe progress or not, watching each of us—year by year—progress or not.

And, year by year, God hopes that we will approach these holy days with the desire for introspection and improvement. Imagine being God and watching all the Jews stand before the Ark on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Though Abraham and Sarah probably had different ceremonies, the idea would have been the same: standing in the Divine Presence, beating their breasts with their ancient equivalent of  עַל חֵטְא שֶׁחָטָֽאנוּ לְפָנֶֽיךָ / For the sin which we have committed against You and אָבִֽינוּ מַלְכֵּֽנוּ, they would have looked inside and prayed for improvement. It has been many years, now, but God keeps watching us come forward prayerfully and think thoughts of תְּשׁוּבָה / repentance. From God’s perspective, it is a matter of loving and long-term attention.

 When we say in our prayer, וְזוֹכֵר חַסְדֵי אָבוֹת וְאִמָּהוֹת, that God remembers the good deeds of our ancestors, it is a realistic memory: Sometimes Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebecca, Jacob, Leah, and Rachel were able to rise to the spiritual and moral occasion and live up to their godly potentials. Other times, they were fully human, which is a nice way of saying that they succumbed to selfishness, impatience, petty jealousy, gossip, etc. This is all our heritage—and our possibility.

The Sefat Emet, Rabbi Yehudah Aryeh Leib Alter, used to teach that each character and incident in the Scripture represents a  possibility for us. We have the opportunity to be Pharaoh or Moses, Goliath or David, Jezebel or Miriam. The possibilities for heroism or villainy are ever-present, and the choices lie before us over and over again. Just because we chose to be a Pharaoh or Amalek or Delilah last time, we are not fated to make the same choice this time. This time, we could choose a better path—the path of a Nathan or a Joshua or a Deborah or a Sarah on those days where they achieved a kind of moral immortality.

When we think about the long line of  Jews who have come before us—from the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of yore to the Patriarchs and Matriarchs of our own families and congregations, they represent our continuing relationship with the God of all the world.  Within the jumbled possibilities of their humanity, they worked on themselves. Through the ups and downs of their very human lives, they found opportunities to respond to the Divine Presence with goodness and kindness and righteousness and holiness—and they are standing with us tonight as we contemplate these blessed possibilities for ourselves.

Imperfection and Forgiveness

September 17th: Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Rabbi’s D’var Torah for Rosh Hashanah Morning

Very few of us have been exposed to the judgement of media or social media—especially on a large scale, but those who have often describe the experience as horrible. Everything one has ever said and every moment one has ever lived and every inopportune photograph are suddenly on display and subject to comment, ridicule, outrage, and judgment.

It sort of sounds like Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. As we read in our Machzor,
“Are not all things known to You, both the mysteries of eternity and the dark secrets of all that live? You search the inmost chambers of the heart, and probe the deep recesses of the soul. Nothing is concealed from Your sight.” As we know, from many years of reading the prayerbook, God knows everything about us, and God judges us exactingly.

The difference between Rosh Hashanah and social media, of course, is the perspective and quality of the judges.

Those who proffer opinions on media and social media have a variety of agendas—from political to personal to pathological, and their opinions are generally based on limited information. Think of the opinions we all have on the various stories that appear before us—Simone Biles, Brexit, the Eviction Moratorium, Critical Race Theory, the NCAA—and how  our limited knowledge does not affect our ability to form these opinions. Then, think of how these opinions change as the stories proliferate and we learn more and hear other opinions. Our thought processes are subject to a thousand different and continuing inputs, and what we think about any given subject is inevitably going to change frequently. Now imagine publishing these furtive thoughts and adding to the cacophony of judgment. It is not a pretty sight.

One of my favorite examples of a changing story revolves around the tragic drug overdose death of actor Heath Ledger. He died, and an enterprising reporter’s research yielded the fact that Mr. Ledger’s address was the same as Mary-Kate Olsen—one of the Olsen twins. Immediately stories arose about a secret relationship and the role Ms. Olsen might have played in the tragedy of Mr. Ledger’s death. This side of the story took on a life of its own until someone figured out that the “same address” was one of those New York apartment buildings with hundreds of apartments and thousands of residents. It was just sloppy journalism—which is a sin in and of itself, but too frequently nefarious motivations spur the stories and conjectures and implications of what is no less than high tech gossip.

Another example came when Breitbart News published a video-clip of an African American official in the US Agriculture Department speaking about an encounter she had with some racists. Some people whom she knew to be racist—and who had actually persecuted her family—came to her for governmental assistance. She spoke about getting revenge and denying their request. Well, you can imagine the furor this created, and the outrage shot right up to the White House: President Obama fired the official immediately. Come to find out, however, after a little more reporting, that the remarks of the African American Agriculture official were taken out of context. In her speech, after confessing her initial evil inclination, she talked about how her religiously based morality made her resist the temptation to persecute them. She overcame her personal and vengeful feelings and did the right thing, treating them with the courtesy they deserved under the law—and that was her duty. The brouhaha continued for a few days, and she was reinstated, redeemed from malicious film-editing and high-tech gossip.

One hopes for a more judicious attitude from God. Indeed, our Tradition makes a point of describing the Lord’s attitude as utterly just and utterly merciful. God is certainly aware of our foibles, failures, and profound imperfections—and God is often disappointed in us. However, God approaches us with understanding, compassion, and love—working with us and begging us to do better. Listen to the words of Ezekiel (18.23) as he describes God’s judicatory orientation:
“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.”
The Machzor then adds, “Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.” 

This is the unrelenting message of the Scripture, and it is accentuated in that most classic of Yom Kippur lessons, the Book of Jonah. After getting his little attitude adjustment in the belly of the fish, Jonah invests himself and his prophetic reputation in the certainty of God’s awesome punishment. He is looking forward to a bloodbath. Thus, when the king and people and even animals of Nineveh repent—and God accepts their repentance, Jonah is grief-stricken and disgusted with God: “O Lord! Isn’t this just what I said when I was still in my own country? That is why I fled beforehand to Tarshish. For I know that You are a compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in kindness, renouncing punishment. Please, Lord, take my life, for I would rather die than live.”

Jonah refuses to extend the same compassion and forgiveness that God gives to him and continues his complaint about God’s compassion and forgiveness. Finally God explains to us what Jonah refuses to see: I care about Nineveh, that great city, and its more than 120,000 people who are still in need of moral education. I even care about the animals! God cares about them as God cares about us.

It may not seem particularly profound to suggest that the God of the Universe is more thorough and judicious than the Twitterverse. What is profound, however, at least to me, is the question of what kind of judging model do I want to follow? Do I follow God’s example, or do I follow the shallow, sanctimonious, arbitrary, anonymous, and far-too-often mean-spirited digital monster known as social media?

Think about it: even those of us who do not immerse ourselves in FaceBook and Twitter and all of the other universes of opinion cannot escape the stories and discussions. Whether the subject is a political leader or a celebrity or just a random citizen who happens to be involved in something unusual, the judgments of strangers come hard and fast. The stories are originally told because they are interesting, but they are often retold in ways designed to seize our attention and provoke feelings of disgust or outrage. Realizing that there are real people at the origins of these salacious tales, perhaps it would be judicious to take a moment and try to see through the shallowness or slanted presentation or meanness of the stories before we join in the judging.

We may not be “influencers” or public personalities with large followings, but our reactions are the basis of the propagation of these stories, and, as anyone who has been the subject or victim of these stories can tell you, this stuff can hurt. It can be humiliating and devastating, and, at a certain level, impossible to deflect or defend. The grammar school adage may say that “words can never hurt you,” but, that is often not the case. When the hearers of gossip join in and add to the criticism and hating, words can hurt very deeply. I believe that we all play roles in the propagation or lack of propagation of gossip: our acquiescence or refusal to participate can make a lot of difference.

It can also be a matter of self-purification. What does it do to our souls when we join in mean-spirited attitudes, judging and hating and piling on? By putting our energy into lashon hara, the evil tongue, we turn ourselves into vessels of maliciousness and hate. Even if we never speak or tweet or post our comments, our spirits and sensibilities are defiled by such ungodly thinking. Let us pray for forgiveness and repentance.

I am not suggesting that people are without imperfections—that there are not people out there who do dishonest or illegal or corrupt things. Is not the message of Rosh Hashanah that we are all guilty of sin? My thought, however, is that we should approach the reports we hear about other people’s behavior the way God approaches the imperfections in our lives. Does a misstep or misdeed render the sinner worthless? Does a case of stupidity or insensitivity or youthful foolishness signal the complete irretrievability of someone being considered for employment or political office? Is an embarrassing detail from the past indicative of a secret and nefarious agenda, or is it something that the candidate regrets and for which he or she has sought repentance? Remember, repentance—teshuvah—is the name of the game.
וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹֽעַ הַגְּזֵרָה
Repentance, prayer, and charity: these return us to God.

My thought is that we should try harder to follow God’s example—seeing both the good and the bad, praising the good, calling out the bad, and working with the sinner to return to godliness.

 בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ, חוֹנֵן הַדָּעַת, הָרוֹצֶה בִּתְשׁוּבָה
חַנוּן הַמַּרְבֶּה לִסְלֹֽחַ
We praise You, O Lord, Who graces us with knowledge, Who desires our repentance,
and Who graciously abounds in forgiveness.

May we remember how God thinks of us, and, when we think of others, may we emulate God’s justice and compassion.

The Necessity of Jewish Power

September 10th: Shabbat Teshuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
Erev Rosh Hashanah D’var Torah:

Welcome to the annual meeting of the Jewish People! I’m going to do something this evening that I have never done before: read someone else’s essay as my High Holy Day D’var Torah. Bret Stephens is a columnist for the New York Times who has recently taken the role of  Editor-in-Chief of a new Jewish magazine, Sapir: A Journal of Jewish Conversations. I recently read his lead essay, The Necessity of Jewish Power, in the second issue of the journal, and it is so good that I just have to read it to you. There are some slight abbreviations, but this is Mr. Stephens’ message, and it provides us with some profound thoughts on this important day.

The relationship of the Jewish people to power is complicated, to say the least. We are terrified by its absence, uneasy in its possession, conflicted about its use. We are accused by those who hate us of having it in inexhaustible abundance — and we are haunted by the fear that what power we do have could dry up like a puddle in summer. Historically, most civilizations have hungered for power, gloried in it, and vanished in its absence. Jewish civilization, by contrast, never had much power even in its ancient sovereign days—and then somehow endured for nearly two millennia without any power at all. Even now, Jews are at least as concerned about abusing power as we are about squandering it.

These ambivalent attitudes regarding power are not just defining aspects of Jewish identity. They are also, in many ways, ennobling ones. For much of the world, power is a simple idea: The more of it, the better. For Jews, power has always been a difficult idea. Judaism is perhaps the first and arguably the finest sustained attempt to subordinate power to morality—to insist that right makes might, rather than the other way around. From the time of the prophets, Jews have made the critique of power a canonical aspect of our tradition. The quintessential Jewish prophet, Nathan, is the one who rebukes the quintessential Jewish king, David.

As in the Bible, so, too, more recently. Jews were among the founders of the many peace movements, from the German Peace movement in the 19th Century, to the 20th Century’s anti-nuclear movement, Amnesty International, Greenpeace, and Human Rights Watch. These Jewish founders all had in common a shared horror at the abuse of power and a conviction that those abuses could be curbed by arousing public conscience. They were, in their way, latter-day prophets, secular in their religious observance but spiritually rooted in Jewish ethics, history, and sensibility.

Yet it’s also impossible not to take note of two facts, one tragic, the other ironic. The tragedy is that none of these groups have made a decisive impact. The politicians and generals who took Germany to war in 1914 were not hampered by their domestic peace movement. The nuclear powers have rarely done more than pay lip service to the “No Nukes” activists. And Bashar al-Assad is neither shamed nor deterred by outraged press releases from human-rights groups. The gap between conscience and action remains as wide today as it was at the dawn of the human-rights and international-law movement.

The irony is that many of the organizations and institutions founded by Jews have dedicated themselves with curious intensity to attacking Jewish power. In April 2021, Human Rights Watch issued a report accusing Israel of practicing apartheid. The antinuclear movement often makes a fetish of a “nuclear-free Middle East,” an ill-disguised euphemism for wanting to strip the Jewish state of its insurance policy against a second Holocaust.

There has always been an allure to powerlessness. It means freedom from the personal and political burdens of responsibility, the moral dilemmas of choice. In an age in which victimhood is often conflated with virtue, it has social cachet. To be powerless is to be pure. To be pure is to be innocent. But innocence comes at a price, one that has been particularly terrible for Jews. Nineteen centuries of expulsions, ostracism, massacres, blood libels, torture, and systemic discrimination led to Zionism, which was, very simply, a movement for sovereign Jewish power in the Land of Israel. Had that demand been met a decade sooner, it might have prevented or mitigated the horrors of the Holocaust. That the State of Israel was born, raised, and remains under fire isn’t a sign of the failure of Zionism. It’s a reminder of its necessity.

What passes for Jewish “power” in the West—wealth, influence, and institutional position based on individual merit — isn’t really power at all. It is status, and it requires the acquiescence of a non-Jewish majority. Jewish status also offers diminishing returns in an era of diminishing trust in institutions and growing hostility to wealth, influence, and the very concept of individual merit. Success is a double-edged sword when “privilege,” no matter how fairly it was earned, becomes a synonym for evil. Jewish status can be revoked at any moment, for any reason. It is a sandcastle built at the water’s edge.

Some may find it improbable that it could ever be taken away again, at least in the United States, but history shows us many other Jewish communities who were robbed of their place in countries in which they thought of themselves as safe. In recent years, has not Jewish life in Europe started to feel intolerable?

As for the U.S., think back to May of this year, to the responses of many to the fighting between Israel and Hamas. It wasn’t just that Jews were being hunted and assaulted in Times Square or West Hollywood. This had happened before, in Pittsburgh and Poway and Jersey City and Monsey, in ways that were far worse. The horror lay in the fact that so few of America’s institutional leaders — the same university presidents, civic leaders, and CEOs who have been nothing if not outspoken in their denunciations of racism, sexism, transphobia, Islamophobia, anti-Asian hate, and so on — could bring themselves to condemn this rampaging anti-Jewish violence, and even then, only in the most cautious of terms.

Jewish security in the West has always rested on a set of social values and assumptions that are now being systematically undermined — on the right, through increasing hostility to the ideal of an open society; on the left, through increasing hostility to the ideal of an open mind. On both sides, too, there is a turn to conspiracy thinking, a suspicion of success, a vituperative hostility toward elites, a fetishization of racial identity, and a worldview that sees life as a battle between the virtuous and the wicked. Whenever illiberalism overtakes politics, including democratic politics, the results never augur well for Jews.

For decades, the core Jewish critique of Israel has been that a Jewish state is not safe enough for the Jews—that it too small and weak; that it has no oil or water; that it is boycotted by its neighbors; that its religious and ethnic tribalism makes unity, strength, and survival impossible.

More recently, the critique has changed: Israel is too strong for its own good — and for the good of the Jewish soul. Some American Jews on the ideological left feel ashamed of Israel: ashamed that it hasn’t created a Palestinian state, that it continues to build settlements, that it uses what they see as excessive military force against its enemies, that it fails to empathize enough with Palestinian suffering, that it has forged strong ties with morally unsavory foreign actors, and so on. Many of these Jewish critics wear this shame as if their own moral reputations and personal well-being rested on it. Implicitly, they buy into the antisemitic slander that every Jew is on the hook for the misbehavior — real or perceived — of any Jew.

As with Mark Twain, reports of Israel’s impending demise have so far been greatly exaggerated. But the critique of Israeli strength deserves a closer look on two grounds, one factual, the other philosophical.

The factual question is whether Israel is really abusing its power. “Abuse” is a subjective term—with many factors to weigh on whether the use of force is excessive. Are there plausible alternatives to using force? Is it restrained by considerations of domestic law and respect for innocent life? Is it proportionate to its objective, and is the objective worth the cost? How would other states, including other democracies, respond in similar situations — that is, if rockets fired by a terrorist group began raining down by the thousands on their own cities and towns?

What there is no doubt about is that Israel is using far less power than it has. Israel’s military would have no trouble inflicting vastly greater damage in Gaza and retaking the Strip in its entirety. Similarly, if Israel wanted to expel the Palestinians—much as the United States did to Native Americans, Poland and Czechoslovakia to ethnic Germans, India to Muslims, Pakistan to Hindus, and Turkey to Greeks, it could easily have done so as well. But Israel doesn’t, because it tries, not always successfully, to live by the idea that there are moral limits to the use of force. The only territory that Israel has actually ethnically cleansed is Gaza. In 2005, Israel forcibly removed all of Gaza’s Jewish population.

And then there is the philosophical question: Is strength more corrupting than powerlessness? Lord Acton may have observed that power tends to corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely, but does this mean that the reverse is also true — that powerlessness tends to ennoble and absolute powerlessness is positively saintly?

Powerlessness can be corrupting, too, when ordinary people choose self-abasement, or cowardice, or faithlessness, or dishonesty, or silence, all for the sake of simply being left alone and alive. The moral life, for people and nations alike, requires the possibility of meaningful choice. That, in turn, requires power, including sovereign power. Israel exists so that a Chosen People can exercise the full meaning of chosenness by also being a choosing people.

Power does not have to be an obstacle to a moral life. It can be a basis for it.

A basis is not a guarantee. But part of the measure of how much Israel has enriched Jewish life is that it has allowed Jews to explore questions of power and morality from the standpoint of practice, not critique; to understand the dilemmas of politics, foreign relations, warfare, welfare, and similar subjects through experience rather than observation. Above all, it raises the possibility that a Jewish state might pioneer a Jewish way of practicing statecraft and peoplehood that is distinct from, and potentially better than, the way statecraft and peoplehood are practiced elsewhere. A Jewish state may have at least as much to teach as it yet has to learn.

In December 1941, on a beach on the Latvian coast called Skede, German soldiers and their local henchmen murdered 2,749 Jewish women and children, stripping them to their underclothes and shooting them in groups of 10 over three days of methodical slaughter.

 Among those victims were three members of my extended family, Haya Westerman and her sisters, Becka and Ethel. Shortly before she was murdered, Haya told an acquaintance, “If you meet any of my children, tell them I was not afraid. Tell them to continue living knowing that I was not afraid.”

 That acquaintance survived and did, in fact, meet Haya’s daughter, Raya Mazin, to whom she told the story of her mother’s final days. The daughter lived for many years in Israel, and, when her time came at age 96, she, too, died unafraid. But, unlike her mother, Raya Mazin died knowing that, thanks to Jewish power, there is a Jewish future — a future in which what happened on that beach 80 years ago will never happen again.

"The Life and the Length of Our Days"

September 3rd: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, poetry is evocative, and other times it can obscure. Sometimes, it can do both and give us an example of the multivalent meanings in Torah.  

The phrase in question is,

כִּי הוּא חַיֶּיךָ וְאֹרֶךְ יָמֶיךָ
“Ki hu chayecha v’orech yamecha.”

Older translations render it literally: “your life and the length of your days.” The King James Version sees God as the subject: “He is thy life and the length of thy days,” whereas the Jewish Publication Society 1917 edition sees a godly life/the mitzvot as the subject: “That is thy life and the length of thy days.”

This poetic Hebrew phrase comes from our Torah portion this week, Deuteronomy 30.19-20, but the New Jewish Publication Society version (1962 and 1967) gives it a much more practical translation:
“I call heaven and earth to witness this day: I have put before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life—that you and your descendants would live—by loving the Lord your God, heeding the Divine commands, and holding fast to God. Ki hu chayecha v’orech yamecha.  For thereby you shall have life and shall long endure upon the soil that the Lord swore to your ancestors, Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, to give to them.”  

The passage is speaking of the covenantal relationship which is a frequent theme in Deuteronomy: Obedience to the Divine Will results in earthly success and blessings, whereas disobedience results in all kinds of calamities. The phrase in question is simply a reminder of these consequences. When you follow the rules, “You shall thereby have life and long endure…”

Life and prosperity are clearly important, and, to this extent, the reminder is much appreciated. However, there is something deeper in the older translation—a deeper meaning to a contractual phrase. When we speak of Torah (a godly life and cleaving to God through the mitzvot) as “the life and the length of our days,” we reference meaningfulness in life, a realm explored and developed in Rabbinic Judaism. Yes, we want life, but we also want a sense of connection to God, a spiritual sense of purpose and love.

Thus it should be no surprise that our contractual phrase from Deuteronomy finds its way into a Rabbinic prayer that combines Torah and love—or, rather, that sees Torah as God’s loving gift to us:
“With eternal love do You love Your people Israel. Torah and mitzvot, laws and precepts have You taught us. Therefore, O Lord our God, when we lie down and when we rise up, we shall meditate on Your laws and rejoice in the words of Your Torah and mitzvot forever. They are the life and the length of our days, and we will think about them both day and night. May Your love never leave us.”
(Ahavat Olam, second benediction of the Shema and Its Blessings, Evening Service)

This sensibility of Torah being the essence of our lives is the point of an ancient story about Rabbi Akiva. During the years of the Hadrianic Persecutions (132-135 CE), the Romans forbade teaching Torah. “One day, the apostate Pappos ben Yehuda encountered Rabbi Akiva—who was convening assemblies in public and engaging in Torah study. Pappos said to him, Akiva, are you not afraid of the Roman Empire? Rabbi Akiva answered him with a parable: To what can this be compared? It is like a fox walking along a riverbank when he sees fish gathering and fleeing from place to place. The fox said to them: From what are you fleeing? They said to him: We are fleeing the nets that people cast upon us. He said to them: If you come up onto dry land, we can reside together just as my ancestors resided with your ancestors? The fish said to him: You are the one of whom they say, he is the cleverest of animals. But you are not clever; you are a fool. If we are afraid in the water, our natural habitat which gives us life, then we will be more in danger in a habitat that causes our death. So too, we Jews. We sit and engage in Torah study, about which it is written, “For that is your life and the length of your days.” We fear the empire to this extent: if we proceed to sit idle from Torah study—its abandonment being a habitat that will cause our death, all the morso will we fear the Roman Empire.” (Talmud, Berachot 61b)  

 Whether we study Torah frequently or only on occasion, we always have the opportunity to connect with the Holy One when we engage in leaning and living the mitzvot. As we read:

הֵם חַיֵּֽינוּ וְאֹֽרֶךְ יָמֵֽינוּ
“The words of Torah are the life and the length of our days.”

Prayers Lovingly Crafted

August 27th: Ki Tavo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Most of us are acquainted with the following excerpt from the Passover Seder: “Rabban Gamliel used to say: Whoever does not explain these three things at Passover has not fulfilled the obligation to celebrate: the Pesach Lamb, the unleavened bread, and the bitter herbs.” (Mishna Pesachim 10.5) In the Seder, it reminds us of the rules and introduces the last few rituals before the meal is served. We contemplate the lamb shank bone; we contemplate, bless, and eat the matzah and maror. However what we might not realize is that this teaching from Rabban Gamliel represents his position in an ongoing discussion/debate about how the ritual of the Seder was to be designed.

Here is a passage from the Mishna in which the debating positions are more obvious: “After they have mixed him his first cup (of wine), the School of Shammai say: Say the Blessing first over the day and then the blessing over the wine. And the School of Hillel say: Say the Blessing first over the wine and then the Blessing over the day.” (Pesachim 10.2) They are debating the order in which the Kiddush is said. Do you say “Boray p’ri hagaffen / Who creates the fruit of the vine” before saying “M’kadesh Yisrael v’hazmanim / Who sanctifies Israel and the festivals,” or vice versa? Someone had to decide, and this passage reflects two positions in the discussion.

One of my favorite debates regards one’s posture while reciting the Shema. “The School of Shammai say: In the evening all should recline when they recite the Shema, but in the morning, they should stand up, for it is written (Deuteronomy 6.7), And when thou liest down and when thou risest up.  But the School of Hillel say: They may recite it everyone in his own way, for it is written, and when thou walkest by the way.  Why then is it written, And when thou liest down and when thou risest up?  It means the time when people usually lie down and the time when they usually rise up. Rabbi Tarphon said: I was once on a journey and I reclined to recite the Shema in accordance with the words of the School of Shammai, and so put myself in jeopardy by reason of robbers. They said to him: You deserved what befell you in that you transgressed the words of the School of Hillel. (Mishna Berachot 1.3)

My point is that all of the rituals we know had to be invented or crafted by someone—and this process usually involved extensive discussions, often over generations. How will services be organized? What subjects will be covered in various prayers? Which words will express the prayerful thoughts? And, if there are several variations in the Tradition, which should a particular community follow?

The Rabbinic teaching—still believed by the Orthodox—is that the exact wording of the Shemonah Esreh (Amidah) was revealed by God to the Anshay K’neset Hag’dolah, the Men of the Great Assembly, several centuries BCE, and that any deviation from this authorized text will negate the efficacy of the prayer. Of course, this belief flies in the face of Talmudic evidence which clearly shows how the prayer service and the wording of individual prayers are the results of a lengthy evolutionary development. Additionally, one can see multiple variations as one travels around and prays with Orthodox, Sephardic, and Hassidic groups. For example, in Nusach Sepharad, the Mourner’s Kaddish in Nusach Sepharad has a few extra words (compared to the standard Ashkenazic version), and Ayn Kelohaynu has different last verses in Sephardic versus Ashkenazi prayer books. The many Sages of many generations prayed the words and innovated and worked on the words and prayers—all to the end of supporting the spiritual processes that connect the Jewish people with the Divine.

It is this context that I approach the opening chapter of this week’s Torah portion. The sedra begins with instructions for an ancient ritual: what to say and do when bringing offerings before the Lord. My suggestion is that we read it in a spiritual way, thinking about the way this ritual worked for our ancient ancestors. How did it help them understand God, and how did it help them express their own spiritual sensibilities?
“When you enter the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a heritage, and you possess it and settle in it, you shall take some of every first fruit of the soil, which you harvest from the land that the Lord your God is giving you, put it in a basket and go to the place where the Lord your God will choose to establish the Divine Name. You shall go to the priest in charge at that time and say to him, ‘I acknowledge this day before the Lord your God that I have entered the land that the Lord swore to our ancestors to assign us.’

The priest shall take the basket from your hand and set it down in front of the altar of the Lord your God. You shall then recite as follows before the Lord your God: ‘My father was a wandering Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor upon us. We cried to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery, and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched arm and awesome power, and by signs and wonders. God brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which You, O Lord, have given me…

 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 promised to our ancestors.’” (Deuteronomy 26.1-15)

Just as our ancestors approached God in these ritual processes, may we find ways to encounter the Divine with our own spiritual and liturgical techniques. As we enter the most intense time of our Jewish year and prepare to use our lovingly crafted liturgical tools, let us invest ourselves in the possibilities of uniting with the Holy One of Israel.

Working With the Law to Make it Just

August 20th: Ki Tetzei
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, focusing on the passage, “You shall appoint for yourself judges,” I wrote about the ways that laws should fit the mores and sensibilities of a community. Sometimes, this means adjusting the laws. Throughout the Talmud, one can see a continually adjusting approach as the various generations of Rabbis observe the interactions between laws and life.

One very interesting situation has its basis in this week’s portion. In Deuteronomy 23.3, we read about illegitimate children, mamzerim: “No one misbegotten (mamzer) shall be admitted into the congregation of the Lord; none of his descendants, even in the tenth generation, shall be admitted into the congregation of the Lord.”

This seems like a rather harsh statute, and it raised/raises a number of questions. First, what is a mamzer? Though many of us may be acquainted with the term as an insult, its historical definition is a bit elusive. Often translated “bastard” or “illegitimate child,” it can be confused with the Western/Christian understanding of illegitimacy. In Christianity, any child born to a set of parents who were unmarried was considered illegitimate. In Biblical Judaism, this was not the case. Though marriage certainly took place in Biblical Hebrew and Israelite religion, there are no rules as to what made it official or legal. The Bible simply refers to a man taking/acquiring a woman. Sometimes, the woman acquired had status as a wife. Sometimes, she had a lower status and was a kind of servant wife or concubine. Then, there were situations where a child was born after a fleeting encounter—as with Judah and his disguised, widowed daughter-in-law Tamar (Genesis 38). In all these cases, the marital status of the couple seemed to have had no bearing on the legitimacy of the child.  

Though the Hebrew word in the passage is mamzer, the translators of the New Jewish Publication Society translators render the word misbegotten and add the following footnote: “Meaning of Hebrew mamzer uncertain; in Jewish law, the offspring of adultery or incest between Jews.” In other words, they are not sure of the Biblical meaning, but, in an effort to render the passage meaningful to modern readers, they move on to the definition determined by the Rabbis post-Biblically—in the Talmud. There, in addition to the category of incest (defined in the Torah as a number of prohibited relationships between relatives), the Rabbis seem to focus on the possession/ownership of a married woman’s reproductive system: it belongs to her husband, and, if it is employed by anyone other than her husband, the resulting child is a mamzer. If a woman is unmarried, then the mamzer rule does not apply. If the man is married but the woman is not, then the mamzer rule does not apply.

I realize that this sensibility runs counter to our modern understanding of personhood and individual identity and autonomy. I am just trying to explain these ancient sensibilities—while we all celebrate the progress we have made!

Another question regards the meaning of the phrase, “admitted into the congregation of the Lord.” This does not seem to have anything to do with Jewish Identity. Rather, it involves the ritual of entering the courtyard of the Mishkan—or, later, the Temple. There were many people who were part of the community but whose ritual status prevented them from worshipping in the sacred precincts. Our verse is preceded and followed by prohibitions of categories of other people who are ritually unacceptable: men with crushed testes or who had been sexually mutilated, and men and women descended from Ammonites and Moabites.

Nothing suggests that these ritually unfit people were banned from the community in general; rather they were just excluded from the sacred precincts. There is also the famous case of a Moabite becoming quite important in Jewish Tradition. Ruth, the archetypal convert, was a Moabite. When she refused to leave her mother-in-law Naomi and returned with her to Bethlehem, they were able to participate in communal activities. Moreover, she ended up marrying her deceased husband’s cousin, Boaz, and their union produced Obed—who fathered Jesse, who fathered David HaMelech, the most important king of our Tradition. Thus this prohibition seems to have been nuanced both Biblically and in later generations.

Another “nuance” in the Law came during the First Century CE. The Romans were very harsh rulers, utilizing what they called Pax Romana, the Roman Peace: If you behaved, everything was peaceful. If you misbehaved, the Romans would kill you, and then things would be peaceful. This was a very hard time for the Jews in the Land of Israel, and one of the very brutal techniques the Romans used was rape. Thousands of Jewish women were raped by Roman soldiers. In addition to the personal trauma, there were often children born of these violent encounters, and the Rabbis had to figure out the legal status of these children. The basic approach was to say that, if it was possible that the woman got pregnant with her husband, then the Halacha would assume as much. Some Rabbis even amended the laws of nature to suggest that pregnancy could last for many more than nine months. One suspects they knew the biology but worked the system to keep these children out of the category of mamzer. Some scholars think that this crisis might have been the catalyst for changing the Halacha on Jewish status. In Biblical times, Jewish identity was based on a child’s father; in the Rabbinic period, we have matrilineal descent: any child born of a Jewish mother is Jewish.

As for actual adultery, there is one additional question. Since mamzerim can only marry mamzerim, and their children are perpetually considered mamzerim as well, why did there not develop a caste of mamzerim among the Jewish people? It was a category from which one could never escape. One possible answer is that no one in the Jewish people ever committed adultery—or that adulterous unions never resulted in any children. Another possible answer is that mamzerim simply left the community and lived as non-Jews. However, given a continually adapting Halacha—one working on the intersection between Law and Life, there is another possible answer. Some Rabbinic passages suggest that Jews with problematic backgrounds simply move far away and never reveal their origins. Without any knowledge of the mamzerut, they would be accepted in the distant Jewish communities and live their lives without the stain of their parents’ indiscretions.

Regardless of the circumstances of relationships that resulted in mamzerim, the one thing we can say for sure is that the children are not to blame. Thus Halacha worked with a law intended to scare people away from adultery and shielded innocent children from that law’s harsh consequences.

Appointing Judges for Ourselves

August 13th: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Sometimes, seemingly benign passages or words in the Torah can hold deeper wisdom. Take, for example, the opening verses in this week’s Sedra:
“You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for brides blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” (Deuteronomy 16.18-20)

Usually, when I read this paragraph, I sort of skip the first sentence as simply a prologue and jump to the part about not judging unfairly and not taking bribes, landing full footed on the phrase, Justice, justice shall you pursue.” This is the most important part of the passage, and yet, there is also something in the prologue that is worth considering on its own. What we translate as “You shall appoint” has an interesting construction in the Hebrew. “Titen-lecha,” literally give to/for yourself, suggests a process whereby the community does the appointing itself and for its own benefit. As opposed to the many prescriptions given by God—who is a prophet, who is a priest, who gets to participate in worship rituals and when, the instruction here calls for the Israelites as a body to appoint judges and to do so in a way that reflects their own interests and values. This is not talking about slanting the justice system to benefit anyone in particular but rather speaking to the importance of a justice system that reflects communal values and mores.

What we have here is an early instance of combining legal principles with the community context in which the principles are to be applied. Such a combination or synthesis is not always easy. There can be tension between laws and the ways things are done in a particular place—especially if the laws come from a larger or far-away governmental entity. This tension can be seen in American history in the various “States’ Rights” controversies as well as in the Supreme Court’s rulings on the definition of “obscenity” (national standard or contemporary community standards?). One can also sense this kind of thinking in the doctrine of stare decisis where the stability of customary interpretations and the ways things have been done are seen as valuable and worth preserving, even if there are legal objections—which, after all, are subject to individual judicial opinion and the latest fashions in interpretation.

This dynamic between competing value systems is addressed in the Talmudic principle of dina malchuta dina—that the law of the state is Halachically incumbent on Jews. While Halachah (Jewish Law) is certainly the basis of Jewish life, and while there are situations in which Jews are expected to deviate from secular laws, the presumption is that Jews will follow the local or national laws: that is the default position. (By the way, this Rabbinic principle is also referenced in the Christian Bible, in Matthew 22.21, Mark 12.17, and Luke 20.25, where Jesus says: “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.” )

An attempt to resolve the tension between high-level rulings (which, as stated above, are always subject to the latest interpretation) and the way things are done can be found in the Jewish legal concept of minchag hamakom: the custom of a locality has an integrity and validity all its own—regardless of what an outside authority may decree is the proper way. For example, though we are no longer dependent on mountain-top signal fires announcing the New Moon in Jerusalem to Babylonia, the custom of observing two days of Biblical holidays has its own integrity and is to be continued. Or, even if one could identify a Talmudic passage or Rabbinic ruling specifying the proper size of a Kiddush cup, cups used in families or villages for generations have a validity of their own—even if they differ from the size the legal authority instructs.  

In other words, the judges are to apply the rules to the community, making it fit into the context of the community in which they are judging. “You should appoint judges for yourselves.”

 
There is also a personal application. Compare this Deuteronomy passage to the proverb in Pirke Avot 1.6, where Joshua ben Perachiah teaches: “Make for yourself a teacher. (Aseh l’cha rav).” He does not tell us to find a teacher but rather to put effort into developing a relationship in which we can learn from a teacher. This does not mean that the teacher is off the hook in terms of techniques and efforts. There are plenty of other Pirke Avot proverbs telling the teachers about their responsibilities. However, this proverb speaks to the work students often need to do to learn how to learn from a particular teacher.

Applying this Pirke Avot thinking to the Deuteronomy passage about appointing judges “lecha / for yourself” leads me to consider how I look for and work on relationships in which I get feedback. Whose opinions do I trust? Upon what bases do I accept other people’s evaluations or reactions to me? Of course, we cannot be dependent upon the opinions of everyone we meet, but there are some people whose insights are valuable—whose vision of us is true. They are, in a sense, the judges we appoint for ourselves.

As we begin the self-evaluations of this season of Teshuvah / Repentance, let us pay attention to the voices—both internal and external—which help us identity both our strengths and our weaknesses, both our good deeds and our moral failures. There is, presumably, much about which we should feel pride, and there is, most assuredly, much for which we should repent.

Balaam: Equal to Moses?!

June 25th: Balak
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

What do we do with other religions? What does one religion do conceptually with the existence of other religions? In our Tradition, it is very clear that other gods do not exist. Thus does the Torah regard the “gods” worshipped by pagans and idolators as false gods. As the traditional version of the Aleinu puts it, “They worship gods of wood and stone that do not save!” Our position is that there is only One God—the One we address as Adonai, and our Lord does not want us to “have any other gods!”

Nonetheless, other religions which worshipped other gods did exist, and our ancestors lived in close proximity to these various pagans and idolators—whom the Talmud refers to as AKU’M, an acronym for Ovday Kochavim uM’zolot, Worshippers of Stars and Constellations.  We lived side by side with them and participated with them socially, civically, economically, and personally. This is why the Prophets were so insistent that we resist their religions.

There were so many possible entanglements and opportunities for enabling idolatry that an entire section of the Mishna, Avodah Zara / Idol Worship, is devoted to drawing lines so we can avoid or evade them. (It is in this context that we get the modern rules for the kashrut of wine—and Scotch Whisky.)

On the other hand, there is a clear sense that non-Jewish religions can be valid and godly—and much of that sensibility springs from this week’s Torah portion. The story itself is rather strange. The Torah usually focuses on God’s revelation and continuing interest in the Hebrew/Israelite people—and on the singularity of God’s main prophet, Moses. In this story, however, the attention turns to a non-Jewish prophet, Balaam, who also communicates directly with God. The story of King Balak’s attempts to hire Balaam to curse the Israelites seems to be the main narrative, but the theological revelation is what captivates the Rabbis of the Midrash. For them, more than the drama and the talking donkey and the failure of King Balak’s plan is the mystery of this non-Jewish prophet of the One God. Remember, when he speaks the words, “Mah tovu ohalecha, Ya’akov, mish’k’notecha, Yisrael. How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwelling places, O Israel”( Numbers 24.5), this is not the first or only instance of Balaam speaking the words of the One God.

Though the story in the Torah reveals relatively little about Balaam, there are indications that he was well known among both Gentiles and Israelites, and from these clues, the Rabbis of the Midrash craft a remarkable theological scenario. Since God created all people and loves all people—not just the Jews, God is interested in communicating with every nation and giving them advice about how to live. For the Israelites, God gives these instructions through Moses, and, for the Gentiles, God gives these instructions through Balaam. He is, in this legendary construct, equal to Moses in prophetic ability and importance—and in God’s eyes. So, though we certainly have our own sense of chosen-ness and our special relationship with the Divine, we also have these voices in our Tradition thinking positively of non-Jew’s ability to connect to God and godliness.

This appreciation of non-Jewish religiosity has two prominent legal expressions. First is the famous statement of Rabbi Joshua ben Hananiah (in the Talmudic tractate Sanhedrin) that “The righteous of all nations have a place  in the World-to-Come.” Second is Rabbi Moses Maimonides’ extending of this principle to include not just non-Jewish righteousness but also non-Jewish religiosity: “The pious of the nations of the world have a portion in the World-to-Come.” (Mishna Torah, Yad, Teshuvah 3.5).

For our sacred mission—to be “Mam’lechet kohanim v’goy kadosh / A kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19.6) and “L’or goyyim, A Light to the Nations,” (Isaiah 42.6), we have been assigned our own special mitzvot (613). Other nations/religions, however, have their own roles, and they too are expected by God to live up to the standards of their covenant, the Noachide (Rainbow) Covenant and it seven mitzvot: Do not worship idols, Do not curse God, Do not commit murder, Do not commit adultery, bestiality, or sexual immorality, Do not steal, Do not eat flesh torn from a living animal, and Do establish courts of justice. This, according to the Babylonian Talmud Sanhedrin 561a-b (and Tosefta Avodah Zarah 8.4), is how non-Jews can be faithful to God and accepted into the World-to-Come.

Of course, the inter-religious dynamic became different once our main competitors were also monotheists. With the advent of Christianity and later Islam, the anti-idolatry concerns in the Bible and Talmud became less applicable. The differences between our religions are real, and it is very important that we maintain the authenticity and integrity of our unique spiritual tradition, but the ferocity of Biblical attitudes about AKU’M are out of place in our modern world.

To be fair, there are also voices in the Tradition that are parochial, chauvinistic, and exclusivist, but we who strive for mutual respect and cooperation with all other religions have ancient precedent and textual support for our open-minded and universalist approach.  

Taking Care of the Social Fabric

June 18th: Chukat
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Social Fabric is an interesting term and phenomenon. It refers to the way the relationships in our lives are interwoven. Living in relationship with our families, friends, neighbors, and fellow citizens (of our towns, states, nation, etc.) creates a context in which we can feel connected and covered—hence the term fabric. And, of course, there are our other connections: social, civic, and professional groups, political affiliations, sports loyalties, charitable favorites. They all work together in myriad ways, setting a context in which we live.

While the Torah’s main lessons involve our relationship with the Divine, there is a hint in this week’s Torah portion about the crucial and fragile social fabric of Israelite life—and some lessons we should consider. At the beginning of Numbers 20, Miriam the Prophet, Moses’ and Aaron’s sister, passes away and is buried. It is an obviously sad time, but this personal sadness is quickly followed by a national crisis. The people have a hard time finding water, and they complain bitterly to Moses: “If only we had perished when our brothers perished at the instance of the Lord (see Korach’s rebellion in last week’s portion)! Why have you brought the Lord’s congregation into this wilderness for us and our beasts to die there? Why did you make us leave Egypt to bring us to this wretched place, a place with no grain or figs or vines or pomegranates? There is not even water to drink!” (Numbers 20.2-5) Moses and Aaron are pretty flustered and “fall on their faces” before God. The Lord then instructs them to gather the people and speak to a rock so that it will produce water. Moses, still very angry, berates the people for their ingratitude and lack of faith in God and then strikes the rock with his rod. To most readers, this seems an understandable flash of anger and a misunderstanding of God’s instructions. However, God is not so understanding. “The Lord said to Moses: Because you did not trust Me enough to affirm My sanctity in the sight of the Israelite people, therefore you shall not lead this congregation into the land that I have given them.” (Numbers 20.12)

Some modern commentators see the two events—Miriam’s death and Moses’ serious misstep—as connected, suggesting that Miriam’s role in Israelite society is to work the social fabric and keep the polity functioning. When she dies, there is no one to support Moses’ and Aaron’s work,  no one to finesse the various factions and interest groups, and their leadership loses focus and effectiveness. We should note this important feminist lesson: while women’s work has not always made the headlines or history books, much of the cohesion and progress of human life has only been possible because of the real contributions of the women who work and maintain the social fabric.

There is also a lesson about the many groups which comprise or strain our social fabric. Though Moses will not lead the Children of Israel into the Promised Land, he is still in charge for a while, and his task is to help the Israelites in their encounters with a number of groups in the neighborhood: Edomites, Canaanites, Moabites, and Amorites. When each group is encountered, Israel sends messengers asking for permission for transit: “Allow us, then, to cross your country. We will not pass through fields or vineyards, and we will not drink water from wells. We will follow the king’s highway (an ancient trade route), turning off neither to the right nor to the left until we have crossed your territory.” (Numbers 20.17) As it turns out, no one wants the Israelites to pass through their territory. (With 2,500,000 people and the mighty empire of Egypt in tatters, one can understand their trepidation.)

The reactions to these refusals, however, vary significantly. The Edomites—who are considered by Israel to be “brothers” (since Edom/Esau was Jacob’s twin)—are not confronted. When Edom says No, the Israelites pursue a detour. It is a different story, however, when the Canaanites, Moabites, and Amorites say No. Wars break out, and the Israelites—with God’s help!—utterly destroy these inhospitable kingdoms. Thus do the Israelites vanquish a number of ancient rulers, including the celebrated Sihon, King of the Amorites, and Og, King of Bashan. These stories remind us that our social fabric includes those both within and without our community—with some being closer than others.

Next week, we read about a Moabite plan to curse Israel—and a Gentile Prophet who is just as close to God as Moses. 

Who Loves the Palestinians? Certainly Not Hamas!

May 28th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Let us accept, just for the sake of argument (!), the proposition that Israel is an evil entity and that it oppresses the Palestinian people—and that the court case involving property in Sheik Jarrah is a colonialist attack on all Palestinian, all Arabs, and all Muslims. The question then becomes: Who is best suited to take on the cause of the residents of that tiny neighborhood?  If, indeed, the problem requires a military response (and not the legal remedies available in Israel—or the civil demonstrations of Jews and Arabs in Israel), then we should consider which Arab or Muslim entity is the best suited to take on the evil Zionists.

Among the nominations are the Arabs of Egypt, Jordan, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates, Yemen, Syria, Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, or Morocco. Among the non-Arab Muslim countries, we have Turkey, Iran, Pakistan, and Indonesia. All are well-armed and capable of warfare. And, they are able to defend their own populations.

Thus it is surprising that, of all the possible Arab and Muslim defenders of the Arabs in Sheik Jarrah, the one entity that rose to the challenge is Hamas in Gaza. It is certainly armed—as the thousands of rockets rained upon Israel have shown, but its military might is limited. There are no real ground troops. There is no Navy or Air Force—unless one wants to count the incendiary kites and drones used to burn Israeli crops. Moreover, Hamas has no ability to defend its own citizens. A pretty well-known and logical fact of international relations is that, when one country attacks another, the attacked country generally counterattacks. So, when attacking from an undefended area, Hamas is setting up the civilian population of Gaza for terrible destruction. Could the victory they seek be the photos, videos, and angry editorials that seem to be covering the planet?

What has happened to the Palestinian people in Gaza is terrible. We should all recoil and mourn at the loss of life and at the destruction and despondency that these people face. The tragedy is especially devastating because these victims all know that a big portion of the aid they will receive to rebuild their country will be siphoned off for the reconstruction of terrorist tunnels and the purchase of armed missiles for the next round. They also know that, instead of buying electricity or clean water or better health care or education—or building up an infrastructure for a real Palestinian State, the Hamas tyranny will keep them suffering for the sake of heart-rending photographs.

Part of the discussion of Israel’s strategy involves the tragedy of civilian deaths. The Israelis explain—and it is well-documented—that Hamas places military installations in close proximity to civilians. In a number of cases, Hamas and Hezbollah have even prevented civilians from evacuating structures after Israeli phone calls and pamphlets dropped from the air warn them about imminent attacks. Why would they prevent civilians from saving themselves? Why would they put missile launchers next to day-care centers and residential dwellings? The goal of these terrorist organizations is civilian casualties—both Israeli and Palestinian. As Gilad Erdan, the Israeli Ambassador to the United Nations, mournfully explained, “Israel uses missiles to protect its children. Hamas uses children to protect its missiles.”

We could argue about the particular choices of targets—like the building which housed some press organizations, and we could ask if the Associated Press or Al Jazeera were free to report on Hamas corruption or placement of military targets in civilian buildings, but the fact is that it is not a matter of individual buildings or neighborhoods. The entirety of Gaza is used by Hamas as a “human shield.” That is the logic of Hamas—of all the Arab and Muslim countries—“taking on the Zionists.” There is no chance that Hamas will destroy Israel. There is no chance that Hamas will affect the Israeli legal process that is considering the rights of Arab homeowners whose ancestors seized Jewish land in 1948 and are now being threatened by developers. The only chance Hamas has is of drawing enemy fire and then parading reporters by the victims.

Weep for the Palestinians who are oppressed by the tyranny of their own leaders. Weep for the thuggery which prevents free elections in Palestine. Weep for the diversion of humanitarian funds to build terrorism tunnels and purchase weapons. Weep for the moral blindness of naïve observers whose moral worldview is played like a fiddle by heartless terrorists.

There is an interesting passage in this week’s Torah portion, one which evokes a “them vs. us” or “friend or enemy” kind of thinking. “Advance, O Lord, May Your enemies be scattered, and may Your foes flee before You!” (Numbers 10.35) It makes sense back in the context of the Exodus generation: As they well knew, there are enemies out there, and we need to defend ourselves. A similar awareness is found at the end of Psalm 29: “The Lord will give strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.” Sometimes, the best course of peace is through strength and self-defense.

 
A final thought. Though Hamas’ inhumane strategy purports to defend Arab rights in Israel, it has actually had the opposite effect. Due to the frequent cycles of Hamas attacks, Israeli responses, and Iranian re-arming, the Left-Wing in Israeli politics has pretty much collapsed. Whereas Labor and its Liberal successors used to command a solid 40% of the electorate, the last several elections have seen them getting only a handful of Knesset members. The siege mentality provoked by Hamas and Hezbollah have removed the political power of the one segment of Israeli society that wants to make peace with the Arabs, both within and without. There are lots of Israelis who want peace and equality and prosperity for all, but these concerns are being shoved to the back seat by the constant state of war with Hamas and Hezbollah—and with the international audience that is being hoodwinked by human shield policies and propaganda.

God's Loving Gaze?!

May 21st: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Anthropomorphism is a curious technique. It can be both very helpful and problematically limiting. Given that God is Infinite—is beyond our ability to place definitional boundaries, we need to realize that any understanding we have of the Deity is inevitably less than complete. Like a line in geometry, we can visualize the line going from one point to another, but the continuation of that line in both directions and forever is something we are taught but cannot really fathom. Forever is a long way—beyond comprehension and certainly beyond verbalization. This was the thinking of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel who referenced God with the word ineffable—God being so far above and beyond anything we can conceive or verbalize; our best course is just to stand back in awe. Rabbi Moses Maimonides wrote of the Negative Attributes of God—that, since we cannot say what God is, all we can say is what God is not. God is not corporeal; God is not limited in time; God is not limited by human logic, etc. Kabbalists are a little more compartmentalized, thinking about God from two angles: the Transcendent (Ayn Sof / Infinite) and the Immanent (Shechinah / Indwelling Presence of God). Another way to look at it is in the Shema. When we say, “The Lord is our God,” we can read “The Lord” as the transcendent aspect of God—the Ayn Sof—and then “Our God / Elohaynu” as our experience of the Infinite. We can indeed be in touch with the Infinite—our hold / “our God”—all the while realizing that there is much more to God that we know or experience. That is why the Torah speaks of nora / awe and yir’ah / reverence.

That being said, there is something in the human soul which yearns for a more personal relationship with God, and that is where anthropomorphism finds its purpose. It helps us when we want to understand something that is far beyond our ken. When Balaam could not see the sword-bearing angel standing in his way—and his donkey could, having that donkey speak begins the process of opening the prophet’s eyes to reality. “The Lord opened the donkey’s mouth, and she said to Balaam, ‘What have I done to you that you have beaten me these three times?’ Balaam said to her, ‘You have made a mockery of me! If I had a sword with me, I’d kill you.’ The donkey said to Balaam, ‘Look, I am the donkey that you have been riding all along until this day! Have I been in the habit of doing thus to you?’ And he answered, ‘No.’ Then the Lord uncovered Balaam’s eyes and he saw the angel of the Lord standing in his way, his drawn sword in his hand; thereupon he bowed right down to the ground.” (Numbers 22.28-31; though the text does not say that Balaam ever apologizes to the donkey.)

One can see a similar dynamic in the many anthropomorphic descriptions of God. When God “walks in the Garden of Eden in the cool of the day” (Genesis 3.8), we have the stage set for God to encounter Adam and Eve hiding in their barely covered nakedness. God is all around before, but this literary device reminds Adam and Eve—and us--that God is aware. When God frees the Israelites from Egyptian slavery, the notion of God’s  “mighty hand and outstretched arm”  gives dramatic power to the narrative and a reference that humans can understand. In Exodus 24.10, when God is described as “standing on a pavement of sapphire stones,” it gives an enterprising Rabbi in the Midrashic tradition the opportunity to comment on how God is so lovingly invested in humanity that God suffers alongside the Israelites when they are slaves in Egypt.

And then we have very personal and parental imagery in this week’s Torah portion. In Numbers 6.22-27, we are presented with the Priestly Benediction, an ancient technique for putting or placing God’s Name on the people of Israel.
“The Lord spoke to Moses: Speak to Aaron and his sons:
Thus shall you bless the people of Israel. Say to them:
May the Lord bless you and protect you!
May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious to you!
May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace!
Thus shall they put My Name upon the people of Israel, and I will bless them.

Though the New Jewish Publication Society translation renders v’samu as link—giving us: “Thus they shall link My name with the people of Israel, and I will bless them,” I think that the more literal imagery of putting / v’samu  God’s Name on us is quite evocative. One can see this as a furthering of the first part of the blessing: “May the Lord bless you and protect you!” When we are so closely associated with God—the Deity being on us, we are certainly both protected and blessed.  

More than that is the image of a very parental God Who may not always be paying attention to us—and Whom we hope will turn from other concerns to gaze favorably upon us: “Ya’er Adonai panav elecha” literally means “May the Lord lift up His face to you.” And “Yisa Adonai panav elecha” literally means “May the Lord lift up His face/countenance upon you.” Though we try to de-genderize the language, the imagery of a parent’s face turning or looking up to gaze at us goes to a very deep place. We yearn for God’s attention just as a child years for a parent’s loving gaze. “Look at me, Mommy/Daddy!” is not just a sentiment for the very young. We see ourselves through our parents’ eyes and crave approval and love.

We are cautioned not to make images of God (in the Ten Commandments, Number 2!), and we should realize that our intellectual constructs can be just as idolatrous as statues. On the other hand, this humility should remind us that a truly Infinite or Ineffable God is also not limited by our logic or reasoning. God can be both ineffable and knowable, both transcendent and personal. The idea that the universal God can also pay attention to us should not be out of the question. If Infinity is really infinite, then all kinds of possibilities are present. Thus can we stand in awe at the ineffable presence that contains all the cosmos while we also hope for our loving Divine Parent to pay attention to us and embrace us with love.

Some Numbers to Consider

May 14th: B’midbar and Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I was not at the “committee meeting” some 2000 years ago when the Greek names were given to the Books of the Torah. Whereas the Hebrew custom was to name a book by the first significant word in it, the Greeks chose titles that summarize the main themes of the book. Thus, the fourth book of the Torah is called B’midbar in Hebrew, based on the first sentence: “The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai…” The Hebrew word for in the wilderness is B’midbar. The Greeks based the name Numbers on one of the first stories in the book, where God commands that a census be taken. If I had been at that committee meeting, I would have suggested that the Hebrew term is a much better summary than Numbers: Yes, there is a census, but it only takes up four of the book’s thirty-six chapters. The rest of the book tells about the forty years Moses and the Children of Israel spend wandering in the wilderness.

When Moses is commanded to take the census, God also appoints twelve men to supervise the count. Their names are recorded in the Torah (Numbers 1.5-15), but none of the other 603,550 non-Levitical Israelites’ names are recorded. (Separate census counts are ordered for the clans in the Tribe of Levi.)

It is interesting to think about all those people—and how their legacy is us. There is a chain, both physical and spiritual, that goes all the way from them to us, and we are all connected in a common covenantal commitment to holiness.

 
Another set of numbers we should remember this week are the Ten Commandments—the giving of which we celebrate on Shavuot, Sunday May 16th and Monday May 17th. Though God gives us many instructions on how to effect holiness in the world (some 613!), the ten in Exodus 20 and  Deuteronomy 5 are considered the most important:
(1) I am the Lord you God, Who brought you out of the Land of Egypt, out of the House of Bondage:
You shall have no other gods besides Me.
(2) You shall not make any graven images or idols and bow down and pray to them.
(3) You shall not take the Name of the Lord your God in vain.
(4) Remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy.
(5) Honor your father and your mother.
(6) You shall not murder.
(7) You shall not commit adultery.
(8) You shall not steal.
(9) You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.
(10) You shall not covet.

A number of years ago, there was a billboard campaign where each sign featured one of the Ten Commandments. Then it would have this question: “What part of commandment did you not get?” These communications from God are not suggestions; their moral intensity is much, much stronger. When we see the world and our lives through the lens of these ten Divine utterances, good and evil are defined, and we have a much clearer path. We should read them seriously many times a year.

This year, there is a new set of numbers for us to consider. They are not commandments, but they are very important suggestions or questions. When we read news stories about Israel—or anything else, should we just accept whatever is written or spoken, or should we consider the origin, orientation, and the perspective or perhaps lack of perspective in the report? The author of these Eight Tips for Reading About Israel should know of what he is speaking. Matti Friedman is a former editor for the Associated Press in Israel, and he has learned of the wisdom of listening carefully. Here are the titles of his Eight Tips, but I really encourage you to read his whole essay. It is published in the Sapir Journal, a new magazine by the Maimonides Fund, and, though written specifically about news coverage in the Middle East, it gives principles for all reading and all reports. Here is the hyperlink: Eight Tips for Reading About Israel – Sapir Journal

The Eight Tips for Reading About Israel:
(1)  Does the source speak the language?
(2)  Why are you telling me this?
(3)  Are you sufficiently suspicious of shocking images and details?
(4)  What are other countries up to?
(5)  Is the scope rational?
(6)  Is the regional context clear?
(7)  Is the chronology straight?
(8)  What else is going on?

 
As we plot our way b’midbar, through the wilderness of life, let us remember that we are part of a long line of path-finders—and that we have much wisdom to point us in good directions.

A Just Society for All

May 7th: Behar-Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich                                     

In most cases of communication from God, Moses is told simply to repeat mitzvot to the Children of Israel. However, in the opening passage of Parshat Kedoshim (Leviticus 19.1-2), God adds the distinctive word Adat / Congregation: “Speak to the whole congregation of the Children of Israel and say to them: You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” Professor Devorah Weiss of the Hebrew Union College suggests that “whole congregation” is invoked because much of the work of holiness is communal. These are not just personal mitzvot; our whole community is commanded to establish a holy society.

This is a noble aspiration, but a variety of passages indicate the challenges of getting everyone “on the same page.” Throughout the legal and ritual sections of the Torah, we find instructions which would only have been necessary because of a lack of unanimity in moral, ritual, and aesthetic judgment. Wrangling the Israelites to do things properly was and is a continuing effort.

Then there is the issue of non-Israelites. At least the Children of Israel can be presumed to be under the authority of God’s covenant. Gentiles, on the other hand, may subscribe to any number of other religious or cultural traditions. It is one thing to insist that they refrain from murdering and stealing, but what about their religious practices. Should it be prohibited for Gentiles to have their own gods and worship them? (When King Solomon welcomed his 300 wives and 700 concubines to Jerusalem, he allowed many of them to bring their religions with them, building temples for their gods and supporting their priestly attendants. As you might imagine, this policy was quite controversial…)

Though the Torah seems to assume that Israelites are in charge—that we ruled the land and allowed Gentiles to be present if they behaved according to our laws, many other passages indicate that this was never the case. There have always been non-Israelites living in close proximity, and the various rules for God’s righteous society have had to be mediated through the eyes and practices of people who are not part of the covenant.

This question comes into play in this week’s Torah portion when we consider the utopian visions of the Sabbatical Year and the Jubilee Year. The first involves the right of redemption—that, in the 50th year, all property goes back to the original families that owned it. As the Torah explains in Leviticus 25.23: “The Land must not be sold beyond redemption, for the land is Mine. Throughout the land that you hold, you must provide for the redemption of the land.” This means that all real-estate transactions are really leases and only provide “ownership” by the purchaser for the years remaining in the fifty-year Jubilee cycle. Even then, there is a right of redemption in which relatives of the owner/seller have the right to swoop in before the jubilee and forcibly re-buy the land from the purchasers. This applies to both Jewish and Gentile purchasers. “If your kinsman is in straits and has to sell part of his holding, his nearest redeemer shall come and redeem what his kinsman has sold…he shall compute the years since its sale, refund the difference to the purchaser…If he lacks sufficient means to recover it, what he sold shall remain with the purchaser until the jubilee; in the jubilee year it shall be released, and he shall return to his holding.” (Leviticus 25.25-28)

The same principle holds in regard to debt slavery. In Biblical days, in lieu of institutions like loan companies or credit cards, individuals unable to pay their debts could “sell themselves” into temporary servitude. It was not exactly slavery: “If your kinsman, being in straits, comes under your authority…do not subject him to the treatment of a slave.” The Torah explains a historical and theological reason: “For they are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt; they may not give themselves over into (permanent) servitude.” (Leviticus 25.42) Note the word for the person in straits: kinsman. Inasmuch as all the Israelites were redeemed by God from slavery in Egypt, any debt slavery must be temporary—only until the jubilee year—and involve kind, respectful treatment. And, as in the case of real estate transaction, Israelites under debt slavery to Gentiles can be redeemed by an Israelite relative. The Gentile must be fairly paid, but the law of redemption applies to all owners of debt slavery. “You shall have one standard of justice for stranger and citizen alike; for I the Lord am your God.” (Leviticus 24.22)

However, in one rather shocking passage, there seems to be a very different standard. While Israelites can never be permanently enslaved,  Gentiles can be subject to chattel slavery. “The male and female slaves you are permitted to own must come from the nations round about you; from them you may acquire male and female slaves. You may also buy them from among the children of aliens resident among you…these shall become your property: you may keep them as a possession for your children after you, for them to inherit as property for all time. Such you may treat as slaves. But as for your Israelite kinsmen, no one shall rule ruthlessly over the other.” (Leviticus 25.44-46)

What do we do with such verses? While one can see a perverse logic in it—given that these Gentiles were not part of the covenant community freed from Egyptian slavery, the very idea of human chattel is anathema to anyone who reads the Exodus narrative seriously. It violates any number of Biblical principles about justice and human dignity. What do we do with it?!

When confronted with an offensive or morally unacceptable Biblical passage, our Tradition has developed a number of strategies. Sometimes, the Rabbis add on so many qualifications that the rule is effectively nullified: this passage (which we find offensive) did not refer to all Gentiles, but just to the enemies of our people whom God expelled from the Land; no one in that category exists today. Sometimes, the Tradition “walks back” such passages—neglecting a direct disavowal, but dismissing the rule with remarks like, But we do not do that anymore. Thus ancient laws that contradict God’s principles are de facto rejected. Then, of course, there is the modern approach in which we admit that our ancestors were not immune to the barbarity of the world around them—that such passages reflect time-bound and culture-bound attitudes that we reject today. Thanks be to God that our moral sensibilities have improved over time.

A final thought: It is interesting to consider our American quest to form a holy and righteous society. Operating under the First Amendment’s prohibition of government “establishing religion,” we balance the religious sensibilities of many different groups as we try to cobble together a values-oriented society. It is quite a challenge, but one well worth the effort.

Those Who Are Holy...

April 30th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week’s Torah portion, Kedoshim, begins with a particularly inspirational charge:
“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord, your God, am holy.”
Holiness / Kedushah is a very noble aspiration, but its exact definition is a bit amorphous. Is God talking about righteousness? Or is it more a matter of honesty? Or charity? Or respectfulness or respectability? It is the kind of term that has inspired many Midrashim and sermons over the years—perhaps because the term is more elevated and ethereal than specific. We are called to a higher role in the world, to aspire to a nobility of character and action.

Part of that nobility involves a powerful attraction to the Presence of God. In his definition of Religion, the philosopher William James speaks of the human response to “the more,” an undefinable, non-empirical feeling of a Presence. There is, in some human beings, an intense attraction to the Divine—a desire to draw closer and understand and develop a relationship. It is a yearning experienced by many and one that is expressed in a prayer in the Evening Service:
Atah kadosh, v’Shim’cha kadosh, uk’doshim bechol yom yehal’lucha, Selah!
You are holy, and Your Name is holy, and those who are holy declare Your holiness every day.
There are those of us who want—nay, yearn—to be among those holy ones who declare God’s holiness every day.

This sensibility is reminiscent of the charge God gives to the Israelites at Mount Sinai, just before speaking the Ten Commandments. As we read in Exodus 19,
“You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.”
While very inspiring, it cannot be a literal command: throughout Exodus and Leviticus, God is very clear that the various priestly duties are only to be carried out by the Kohanim (Priests) and Levites—and not by the general population. How, then, are we to understand these very general, probably metaphorical, exhortations?  

In understanding the religious development from Biblical Judaism to Rabbinic/Talmudic Judaism—a process that originated around 200 BCE in the Second Temple Period and continued to around 200 CE with the compilation of the Mishna, the historian Ellis Rivkin sees these metaphors as a modus operindi. While certain duties were reserved for the Levites and the Kohanim (Priests), the Pharisees/Rabbis responded to the yearning of average Israelites to be active participants in declaring the holiness of God and crafted new practices. In the Temple religion, the bulk of the religion was performed by the Priests and Levites, while average Israelites merely supported the Temple worship with occasional sacrifices and attendance. In Pharisaic/Rabbinic/Talmudic Judaism, however, we find a holy lifestyle enabling regular Jews to be among those who proclaim God’s holiness every day. As one can see in the texts of the Mishna, many of these “holinesses” were adapted from the rules for the priests.

This week’s Torah portion, Emor, give us several examples. The first is in Leviticus 21.5. Though obviously sad when close family members pass away, the priests are not supposed to do what were apparently ancient mourning practices: “They shall not shave smooth any part of their heads, or cut the side-growth of their beards, or make gashes in their flesh. They shall be holy to their God and not profane (de-holy) the Name of their God; for they offer the Lord’s offerings by fire, the food of their God, and so must be holy.” This particular requirement for priests evolved into a custom for all Israelites—and not just in times of mourning. It is seen today in the payot/payos and beards that ultra-Orthodox Jews wear as a sign of holiness.

Another example are the various purity/impurity regulations for working priests. In Leviticus 22.3-7, we learn that priests who have recently had sexual relations are prohibited from officiating in the Temple until they complete a period of purification. Though the ritual reading of the Torah Scroll is never mentioned in the Torah itself, this ritual purity for the Temple service was transposed to the synagogue’s public Torah reading: Orthodox Jews who have had recent sexual relations are prohibited from reading from the Torah or even blessing the Torah until they have completed a period of purification.  

Even more significantly, the Rabbis took a verse in that same paragraph (Leviticus 22.8), which prohibits priests from eating trayfe, and transposed it to all Jews, moving kosher-slaughtered animals from strictly a priestly and worship issue to that of all food for all Jews. “…the sacred donations are his food (the priest’s); he shall not eat anything that died or was torn by beasts (t’rayfah).”  

As Dr. Rivkin explains in A Hidden Revolution: The Pharisee’s Search for the Kingdom Within, the ancient Rabbis were scholars and pietists seeking an enhanced sense of holiness. Using the metaphorical passages from Exodus 19, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation,” and Leviticus 19, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy,” the Pharisees/Rabbis found a theme and crafted Jewish observances that could make each Jew feel a special closeness to God—a participatory relationship with the Divine.

While we date this particular innovation and enhancement of our religion to around 200 BCE, there are hints that this yearning to be especially close to God has more ancient roots. As we shall soon read in the second portion of Numbers, there existed in Torah times a mysterious institution where individual Jews, both male and female, could dedicate themselves for special holy activities. They were called Nazirites, and we have very limited information about what they did and why they did it. All we know are the rules for declaring their temporary status as Nazirites, the prohibition of cutting their hair or consuming any wine or grapes during their terms, and the rituals for concluding their times as Nazirites. We do not know what they did while Nazirites, but we do know that, during their terms, they were considered “holy to the Lord” (Numbers 6.8).

Religion is understood and experienced in many ways. Among them is the apperception of the Divine and the yearning to be closer and live in relationship with It. To these spiritually motivated individuals, our Tradition offers opportunities for holiness—for connecting to God.
Atah kadosh, v’Shim’cha kadosh, uk’doshim bechol yom yehal’lucha, Selah!
You are holy, and Your Name is holy, and those who are holy declare Your holiness every day.

How We Can Be Like God

April 23rd: Acharay Mot and Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week, we have one of the most important and most mysterious mitzvot in the Torah: “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy.” (Leviticus 19.2) It is a very inspiring verse, but the exact details of what we are supposed to do are hard to figure. We all know what the word holy means—until we try to define it.

Some would say the word means religious, and it is certainly used that way, but the specifics of religiosity vary widely. Some would say the word means good, but there are lots of definitions of goodness—and lots of differing opinions about what is good. Some suggest that it means sacred, but that is just using a synonym from the Latin word for holy.

The earliest use of the word kadosh / holy comes from texts talking about marriage—that, in marriage, the bride and groom set each other apart as special from all the other people in the world. So, perhaps set apart or special is the way to understand kedushah / holiness. But, the words special or set apart are particularly non-specific. None of these terms are specific enough to tell us exactly what God wants.

Some commentators see the verses following the “you shall be holy” mitzvah as an operating definition: revere our parents, observe the Sabbath, take religious rituals seriously, be generous to the poor, be honest and do not steal or defraud, etc., culminating with verse 18 which commands us, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  Scholars even call this chapter The Holiness Code because it lists the ways God expects humans to behave.

In a conceptual sense, one could thus see kedushah / holiness as the process of drawing from within that part of us which is b’tzelem Elohim, the image of God, and bringing it forth into human actions. Since we are being asked to be like God—“You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy,” we can emulate behavior that God models: feeding the hungry, healing the sick, doing justice, etc.

The modern mystic, Rabbi Marcia Prager of Philadelphia, offers a very interesting possibility about what God wants. Rabbi Prager takes the understanding of kadosh / holy as different / set apart and magnifies it exponentially. When it says that God is kadosh, it must mean that God is more different than anything else in creation. Being infinite is one aspect of God’s profound specialness, but Rabbi Prager suggests another. Everything else in existence is either present or not present in any particular spot. Putting aside the conundrums of quantum physics, presence is a Yes or No quality. I am here; I am not there. You are where you are; you are probably not—given the pandemic—where I am. God, on the other hand is utterly different from anything else in the universe in that God is both present and not present in every location.

While we may think about God’s omnipresence as being consistent, the fact is that God can be ignored. It is possible for human beings, despite God’s theoretical presence everywhere, to  ignore God’s presence and do remarkably ungodly things. Though we think of God as being omnipotent (all powerful), the fact is that God is dependent upon people drawing upon the godliness available within and bringing it forth into the world. In other words, we are a necessary part of God’s manifestation in the world, and Rabbi Prager sees this as God’s holiness. God is both present and not present in every place at every moment; God is both possible and block-able, and we are being asked to bring God into the world. “The Lord spoke unto Moses saying: Speak to the whole Israelite community and say to them: You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God, am holy.”

The People That Walked in Darkness Have Seen a Great Light

April 16th: Tazria, Metzora, and Yom Ha’atzma’ut
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is perhaps the yuckiest Torah portion, the one that deals with hideous skin conditions on our bodies and mildew infestations in our homes. As one can imagine, the fear surrounding such afflictions made those suffering from them pariahs. Indeed, part of the priestly procedure was to determine whether the problem was infectious or not. Upon that determination entire families’ fates hung. Could the afflicted hope for healing? Could the afflicted re-enter the family and community? While films such as Ben Hur dramatize the plight of lepers in ancient times, leper colonies persisted until modern times. There were two in the United States, one in Molokai, Hawaii and another in Carville, Louisiana. The Louisiana colony did not close until 1999, and, though no longer legally quarantined, the Hawaii colony still has some residents.

The Torah portion’s therapeutic procedures—both medical and spiritual—represent pathways to return from a kind of living death to full participation in life. Is this not an image which resonates today? Whether recovering from cancer or some other serious disease, the healing process represents a kind of T’chiyat Metim, a “Resurrection of the Dead.” Thus is there a lively conversation when questions arise about the second paragraph of the Amidah—the prayer that praises God Who M’chayeh Hametim/Re-enlivens the dead. While most read the prayer as praying for the Messianic resurrection of the dead, some read the phrase metaphorically as praise to God for the healing power that can bring us back to life—physically, psychologically, socially, and spiritually.

Another kind of healing power is celebrated this week: Saturday is Yom Ha’atzma’ut, Israel Independence Day. Think for a moment about the dramatic ups and down of the last few centuries of Jewish life. In Isaiah’s words: “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light. On those who dwelt in a land of gloom has brightness dawned.” (Isaiah 9.1-2) Or, as Ezekiel describes it, God can take a valley full of dry bones and bring them back to life! God said to Ezekiel, “O mortal, these bones are the whole House of Israel. They say, ‘Our bones are dried up, our hope is gone; we are doomed.’ Prophesy, therefore, and say to them: ‘Thus said the Lord God: I am going to open your graves and lift you out of the graves, O My people, and bring you to the land of Israel. You shall know, My people, that I am the Lord, when I have opened your graves and lifted you out of your graves. I will put My breath into you, and you shall live again, and I will set you upon your own soil.’” (37.11-14)

Though we generally focus on the practicalities of current day Zionism—its politics, its relationship with the many Arab polities, and its internal religious dynamics, sometimes it is good to step back and reflect on the miraculous rebirth of the Jewish people. “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

In so many ways, the spiritual energy that fills the world can bring healing. Our Tradition speaks of this healing as both miraculous and practical. God provides the possibilities, and we do our part, channeling divine energy into Tikkun Olam, the Healing of both the Divine and the World. Thus did Ezekiel prophesy: “Oh dry bones, hear the word of the Lord…Who will cause breath to enter you so you may live again!” (37.4-5)

Disparate Messages and the Wisdom We Seek

April 9th: Shemini and Yom Hashoa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Balance in life is often found in a creative tension, and such tension is certainly on display in our Torah portion this week. In Leviticus 10, we find a tragic scene where Aaron’s two older sons die while performing a sacrificial service. “Now Aaron’s sons, Nadab and Abihu, each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it; and they offered before the Lord alien fire, which God had not enjoined upon them. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died before the Lord.”

They obviously do something wrong, but the text is rather ambiguous about exactly what it is. Is it simply that they go outside of the instructions? When we discussed this passage in Teen Torah, one of our students suggested that, since there are no witnesses—other than the deceased Nadab and Abihu, no one could report what exactly they do wrong. This is an excellent point, but we still wonder. One would think that the Torah would want to be specific and thus warn future priests what not to do, but we are left with a purposely ambiguous warning not to get creative with God’s instructions. Personal expression is part of life, but there are times when the prescribed details are literally a matter of life and death. This is Tension #1.

Tension #2 comes in the difficult situation of Aaron and his family. While obviously heartbroken, Aaron is prohibited from the rituals of mourning. “Moses said to Aaron and his (remaining) sons, Eleazar and Ithamar, ‘Do not bare your heads and do not rend your clothes…but your kinsmen, all the house of Israel, shall mourn the burning that the Lord has wrought. Do not go outside the entrance of the Tent of Meeting, lest you die, for the Lord’s anointing oil is upon you.’” (Leviticus 10.6-7) They must remain on duty. How many of us have experienced this kind of tension—caught between professional or leadership responsibilities and our personal or family concerns?

Tension #3 comes in our understanding of the deaths of Nadab and Abihu. It seems pretty clear that the young men do something wrong and are punished. However, there are those who wonder if that is indeed the case. What if theirs is a spiritual and ritual perfection—that they achieve a perfect connection with God and are simply absorbed into Infinity? In our earthly plane, we think in terms of this world, but, in God’s view, the real world is Olam Haba (The World to Come)—and Nadab and Abihu complete all the work and development assigned to them for this world: they reach human perfection and culminate their Earthly experience.

This kind of reinterpretation of earthly tragedies is a theme in some Hassidic stories. When a young person dies—or when a young couple is murdered during a pogrom at their wedding, some Hassidic rabbis speak of a kind of reincarnation. We are put on this earth to accomplish a specific number of things. If we finish them in our lives, then, when we die, we die—and enter Olam Haba. However, if we do not accomplish our assigned tasks, we are reborn and given opportunities to get them done. And, if we get them done—for example, if the young people had done everything else except get married, then there is no need for us to continue living. God absorbs us into Olam Haba; we are complete. Some Hassidic teachers speak of this kind of reincarnation happening up to three or four times. There is, in short, a tension between the allure of both this world and the World to Come.

 
This Hassidic notion of reincarnation inspires a curious theory about the victims of the Holocaust—the horrible Shoah / Catastrophe that we commemorate this week. Some have connected the large number of gerim/ converts over the last half century to the millions of Jewish people who were murdered by the Nazis and their collaborators. Since these people died before their time—with their souls’ work being incomplete, there were not enough Jewish families for these Jewish souls to be reborn. The result was that many Jewish souls were born into non-Jewish families and made the spiritual journey to return to Judaism. One cannot prove such a notion, but it does resonate with the sense reported by many gerim that they have always felt Jewish. Many report an affinity to Jews and Jewish culture that far predated their formal decision to convert. And, this possibility parallels the ancient Midrash which teaches that all Jewish souls—of all time—were standing together at Mount Sinai and hearing the voice of the Eternal One.

Our Tradition has been crafted from moments of both incredible brightness and utter darkness, and this is our Tension #4. We mourn the horrors that too many of us have suffered, while we also remember moments when God has broken through. How can we face the tragedies of life while remaining hopeful and prayerful and productive? That is the wisdom breathed into us by the All Knowing and Compassionate One: the possibilities of God are always present. Present in This World; present in Olam Haba. Present for us.

A Festival of Sacred Imagination

April 2nd: Conclusion of Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Passover is an experiment in imagination. Whatever our current situation, we are asked to put ourselves into the Torah’s narrative and imagine what it would have been like to experience both slavery in Egypt and the miraculous rescue. As Rabban Gamliel teaches in the Mishnah (Pesachim 10.5): “In every generation, each person should feel that he/she personally went out of Egypt, as it is commanded in Exodus 13, “You shall tell your child on that day, ‘I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.’”

Pretty much everything in the Seder is devoted to this purpose—this extended imaginative experience. That is why we dip the parsley in salt water. That is why we eat the bitter herbs. That is why we eat the matzah and charoset. That is even why we scrounge around for a lamb shank bone. Remember, the whole Passover Seder experience comes from that single commandment (though repeated three times), “You shall tell your child.” Telling the story is the purpose, and our Sages developed the entire narrative meal to get us to immerse ourselves in the story.

Some years, it is easier to feel the story. Depending on our mindsets and circumstances, the story may resonate more or less with our souls. Indeed, the phenomenon of the Passover story being applied to current events is an example of this imaginative enhancement. Think about the “Freedom Seders” held when the current oppressive concern involved Civil Rights for African Americans. Remember the fervor when the Seder’s message paralleled the need for freedom for Jews in the Soviet Union.  There is also the continuing tradition of Women’s Seders, Jewish celebrations which run a double track, recounting the Exodus from Egypt and yearning for full liberation for women.

While the story of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, is our story, it is also a universal story. I remember, in particular, a model Seder I led in the early 1990s at a Metropolitan Community Church—a Christian denomination dedicated to LGBT individuals and their families and friends. I as led the Seder and told our story, the eyes of the participants glistened with the tears of their hopes and struggles. The hope for liberation and meaning is universal.

Of course, there are some great ironies in the story’s application. Back in the 1800s, while African slaves in America were aligning their stories with that of the Israelites in Egypt, so were the Dutch South Africans—the Afrikaners. In their Transvaal Trek to escape British domination, they saw themselves as the Hebrew slaves marching across the wilderness to the Promised Land. Here was a group that developed one of the most oppressive racist regimes in the world, while their nationalistic mythology cast them as the oppressed Israelites yearning for freedom.)

By the time most of us are in our teens, we know the story quite well. We might even be able to tell our Christian friends about it—as we explain why we eat Matzah for lunch at school. We know the parts of the Seder, and we have opinions about the tunes and the recipes and the way the Seder is conducted. But, do we really feel the story? Do we respond to the prompts of the Seder and, as Rabban Gamliel’s urges, feel as though we personally experienced Yetzi’at Mitzrayim?

Of the many teachers with whom I have studied, one of the most inspirational and insightful was Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi, z’l. He had a particular take on this notion of putting ourselves into rituals that I find most helpful. Borrowing from Maslow’s terminology, Reb Zalman spoke of moments like Yetzi’at Mitzrayim as peak experiences. Collected in Torah, our communal spiritual memory, they happened once but, hopefully, continue to happen in our lives. How do we relive these peak experiences? In our rituals. They, according to Reb Zalman, are peak experiences domesticated. They are our efforts to take moments that are miraculous and completely unexpected and make them accessible when we need them in our lives. These rituals, he taught, are the ways that we can experience God’s awesome presence and be reminded of the Divine’s ever-present possibility.

So, when we chant this week’s Torah portion, Shirat Hayam, the Song of the Sea (Exodus 15), we are urged to put ourselves in the minds and souls of our ancient ancestors—just escaped from Egyptian bondage, seemingly safe, but then faced with terrifying death. The thunder of the Egyptian cavalry was a horrible reversal of the reversal of fate that God had wrought. They knew the ferocity and ruthlessness of the people who had enslaved them for 400 years. They knew what the Egyptians were thinking. “The foe said, ‘I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; My desire shall have its fill of them. I will bare my sword—my hand shall destroy them!” (Exodus 15.9) The certainty of death was so intense that our ancestors cried out to Moses, “What? Was it for a lack of graves in Egypt that you brought us out here to die?” (Exodus 14.11)

As Professor Dvora Weisburg teaches (in this week’s Ten Minutes of Torah on the Union for Reform Judaism website, ReformJudaism.org), “When the Israelites saw the Egyptians, they forgot about the power of God manifested in the ten plagues; all they could think of was their present peril.” But then, there was the miracle: the Sea split, and a pathway opened up before them. “The Lord is our strength and our might; God has become our deliverance!” (Exodus 15.2)

This is the feeling—the historical and holy sensibility—that we are taught to regain and to reimagine. This is the spiritual memory we are taught to preserve. When we read Shirat Hayam in the Torah, or we chant Mi Chamocha in our services, we have the opportunity to sample a peak experience domesticated—and to feel awe and amazement and joy and appreciation. God is an ever-present possibility.
“Who is like You, O Lord, among the mighty?!
Who is like You, glorious in holiness, awesome in praises, working wonders?!”  (Exodus 15.11)

The Conversation with God

March 26th: Tzav and Shabbat HaGadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Tzav, the second portion in Leviticus, continues the detailed instructions for sacrificial worship. In the olden days—pre-Temple and during the days of the Temple, our ancestors would bring animals, grain, oil, and wine to the Lord, and these foodstuffs—along with frankincense—would be used for a variety of worship occasions. These rules were very important for they were commanded by the Lord, and they were the official methods of coming close to the Divine. The Hebrew word for sacrifice, korban, comes from the root KRB which has to do with closeness.

The specificity of instructions even extended to what we might consider janitorial chores. In Leviticus 6.1-4, we read: “This is the ritual of the burnt offering: the burnt offering itself shall remain where it is burned upon the altar all night until morning, while the fire on the altar is kept going on it. The priest shall dress in linen raiment, with linen breeches next to his body; and he shall take up the ashes to which the fire has reduced the burnt offering on the altar and place them beside the altar. He shall then take off his vestments and put on other vestments and carry the ashes outside the camp to a clean place.” When dealing with holy things, even cleaning up must be done with kavannah—with concentration and sincerity.

Our holy books are full of this kind of thing—of telling us exactly how to do rituals. We want to be diligent, but sometimes we can focus so much on the rules that we lose sight of the relational process the rules are supposed to facilitate.

There is a Mishna which may help us to reorient ourselves and understand the reason for the rules. It is in the very beginning of the Mishna, Tractate Berachot 2.1. It first addresses the way the Shema is to be read: “If a man is studying the Shema in the Torah, and the time comes to recite the Shema, if he directs his heart, he has fulfilled his obligation; otherwise, he has not fulfilled it.” In other words, just reading the words is not enough. One must mean the words of the Shema and use them to connect with God. Then, there is the matter of interrupting the reading because someone comes up and says Hello. “Between the sections he may salute a man out of respect and return a greeting; but in the middle of a section, he may salute a man only out of fear of him and return a greeting. So says Rabbi Meir.” The concern here is that a potentially hostile Roman may get insulted if the worshipper ignores him. To save one’s life—and perhaps the lives of the whole community, one is permitted to interrupt his fervent recitation of the Shema. By the way, the sections they are discussing are the three paragraphs of The Shema: Deuteronomy 6.5-9, Deuteronomy 11.13-21, and Numbers 15.37-41. Rabbi Judah, however, seems concerned that returning a Roman’s greeting may not be enough. One may need to greet the Roman pre-emptively in order to avoid insulting him. And there is the matter of politeness to friends as well. “Rabbi Judah says: In the middle he may salute a man out of fear of him and return a greeting out of respect; between the sections, he may salute out of respect and return the greeting of anyone.”

I think we can understand the issue of a potentially hostile greeter—and even of returning courtesies in the synagogue, but is this the real issue? Why are the Rabbis concerned about interrupting a prayer at all? Is not a prayer just some words—that we can continue after a brief chat? Not exactly. The problem is the conversation that is taking place in the prayer—the conversation with God! Taking a break in the midst of a prayer suggests that one is not fully involved in the relational process—that words are being recited without kavannah. This is hardly the way to treat the Divine. Even more than that, however, is the plain rudeness of interrupting a conversation with God. Assuming one is fully involved with God in the words of prayer, interrupting the time together is like a conversation in which your partner is constantly looking over your shoulder—searching for someone more important or more interesting. One could even compare it to the way some people answer every cell phone call—even when they are involved in a face-to-face conversation with someone else. There are certainly some phone calls which need to be taken—like the potentially hostile Roman saying Hello, but there are lots of cell phone calls that can wait. We owe it to the people with whom we are conversing to give them priority, some directed attention. And, if we are conversing with God, then it is all the more important to maintain our focus on the holy—on our connection with the Eternal.

As we sit down for our Passover Seders this next weekend, let us pay attention to the details of the Seder—the symbolic foods, the prayers and songs, and the family traditions, but let us also realize that they are all instruments for the real work of the Seder—focusing on the spirit of God that manifests in our lives and on the Presence of God in every human being. We can also celebrate our family and friends, realizing that they are a manifestation of God and that together we can join in our conversation with the Eternal.

The Spiritual Infrastructure of Leviticus

March 19th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most frustrating moments in my film watching years occurred in The Hundred Foot Journey, starring Helen Mirren as a snobby French restauranteur. A poor immigrant family from India moves across the road from Dame Mirren’s acclaimed restaurant and opens their own restaurant. The Indian family’s son is quite talented as a chef but is accorded no respect by Ms. Mirren’s haughty (hauté cuisine?) character. After hostility and drama, he finally wrangles an audition: if he can make the perfect omelet, then he can cook at her fancy restaurant. As the young man begins with great earnestness to cook, using his special blend of rare Indian spices, Helen Mirren projects smug skepticism. However, when she tastes his omelet, her countenance changes dramatically: she is overwhelmed with the wonder of its flavor, and the Indian immigrant chef is on his way to stardom. A beautiful scene…but I wanted to taste that omelet! I wanted/want to be overwhelmed by the incredible flavor, but alas, it is a movie, and my sensual experience was thus significantly limited.

I realize that this is not the most earth-shaking problem, but it points to a problem with this week’s Torah portion. In Vayikra, the beginning chapters of Leviticus, we are treated to a series of sacrificial recipes that neither we nor any of our ancestors for the last 1900 years have ever experienced. Since the Temple was destroyed back in 70 CE, we Jews have been worshipping God with prayers instead of sacrifices. Even though there is theological and textual equivalency, the Levitical details of those sacrificial meals—with their various purposes, prescriptions, and options—are limited in their ability to seize our minds and spirits. They are as hard to access as that incredible omelet.

Perhaps this is why the Sages who paired the Torah and Haftarah portions chose a passage from Isaiah for this week. Given our inability to resonate with the sacrifices, the Prophet offers a conceptual look at the role the sacrifices played in our relationship with the Divine. Beginning in 43.21, Isaiah specifies God’s desire for our attention. We are, according to God, “The people I formed for Myself that they may declare My praise.” God wants two things in our relationship/covenant. (1) That we draw close to God, and (2) that we follow God’s moral commandments. Have we maintained this relationship? Hardly! “But you have not worshipped Me, O Jacob, that you should be weary of Me, O Israel. You have not brought me your sheep for burnt offerings, nor honored Me with your sacrifices…Instead, you have burdened Me with your sins, you have wearied Me with your iniquities.” We have not drawn close—which is the meaning of the Hebrew korban / sacrifice, and we have broken the moral law. God is willing to “wipe your transgressions away and remember your sins no more,” but we have to engage God; we have to work on our relationship. “Help Me remember! Let us join in argument, tell your version, that you may be vindicated…” God is not asking us for a criminal defense—an argument in which we try to justify our misdeeds. No, what God wants is a relationship discussion, hoping that with this engagement, we can rebuild our sense of connection and joint purpose.

Isaiah then proceeds into an extended diatribe against idolatry—the essential problem being that people are worshipping the work of their own hands. Idolatry represents a mistaken understanding of reality and of the actual forces in which we exist. It has us relating to ourselves rather than to our Creator, and such a misperception is limiting both to us and to our Creator.

The Kabbalists speak of our partnership with God—that we have a role to play in Creation and in Tikkun Olam. Such a relationship involves knowing each other and working together—being on the same page with God. This is the point of worship. In the olden days, people believed that God loved the aroma of roasting meat and would come around to enjoy it. Thus could we invoke God’s Presence with our sacrificial meals (as outlined extensively and in excruciating detail in Leviticus), and then engage in prayer. When the change from sacrifices to prayers occurred after 70 CE, we sought to continue the relationship but with slightly different techniques. Instead of the sacrificial meals with meat, pan bread, and wine, our Sages developed an extensive conversation with God and codified it. Some of our worship service is Tefilah/Prayer—when we speak to God, and some of the service is Torah—when God speaks to us. In most traditional prayers, Torah and Tefilah are combined—with Biblical verses interspersed with Rabbinic thoughts. The texts of the prayer book thus comprise a vessel for our relationship with God.

This, I believe, is the message of Isaiah as well as many subsequent Prophets and Sages: the techniques of the service—be they sacrificial meals or prayer book services—are all purposed as vehicles for conducting this relationship. They are valuable primarily to the extent that they foster and develop and enhance our time together with the Lord.

In more modern times, this message has found different wording. Reb Israel, the Baal Shem Tov, spoke of it in terms of opening ourselves to God’s Presence and influence: “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.” Reb Menachem Mendel of Kotzk put it in almost existential terms: “Where is God? Whenever we open our hearts.” This relational aspect of prayer was also taught by Rabbi Leo Baeck, “The purpose of prayer is to leave us alone with God.”

The science, art, history, and literature of prayer are vast, but the essential kavannah / purpose is that we use the prayer and worship techniques to spend time with God and deepen our relationship. This is not something to learn about from a distance; it is something we can experience ourselves.