An Ancient Event Celebrated Today

April 15th: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Since Passover coincides with Shabbat this year, the Tradition postpones the weekly Torah reading and prescribes a special Passover passage: the actual story of that fateful night, Exodus 12.21-51. God’s instructions to Moses were read a few weeks ago. Now Moses relays God’s instructions to the Israelites, and they obey. They choose a lamb, slaughter it, and paint the doorposts and lintels of their homes with the blood. They roast the lamb and eat it with bitter herbs and matzah, and they do so in a state of acute anxiety, in Hebrew b’chipazon. 

We usually think of the night as triumphant. “The length of time the Israelites lived in Egypt was four hundred and thirty years; at the end of the four hundred and thirtieth year, to the very day, all the ranks of the Lord departed from the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12.41-41). Imagine the sense of relief and happiness that must have prevailed. Or not.  

According to the Torah, this first Passover—the original Passover—is not a night of happiness. All around the homes where the Israelites huddle, screams pierce the night. “In the middle of the night the Lord struck down all the first-born in the land of Egypt, from the first-born of Pharaoh who sat on the throne to the first-born of the captive who was in the dungeon, and all of the first-born of the cattle…there was a great cry in Egypt, for there was no house where there was not someone dead.” (Exodus 12.29-30). Though the Egyptians have been cruel to the Israelites for centuries, their suffering does not fall on deaf ears, and we know intuitively that our ancestors’ hearts are breaking for the punishments their neighbors’ sins have provoked.  

Add to this the doubts and fears the Israelites have for themselves. Will God really deliver us? Will the Egyptians just let us go? What will our freedom provide us? How will we respond to whatever God has in mind? 

It is a night full of anxiety, and the instructions from God make sure it is not fun. Notice the cooking instructions: “They shall eat it roasted over fire—roasted with the head, legs, and entrails.” (Exodus 12.9) Apparently, one of the reasons slaughtered animals are gutted is that cooking causes innards to explode and fill the meat with all sorts of unpleasant aromas and tastes. Thus, this purposely un-gutted lamb is not a gourmet feast but a bitter source of nutrition. God also instructs  a less than comfortable posture: “This is how you shall eat it: your loins girded, your sandals on your feet, and your staff in your hand; and you shall eat it hurriedly.” (Exodus 12.11) 

The first Passover night is not a celebration. The celebration must wait for next year. “You shall observe this as an institution for all time, for you and for your descendants. And when you enter the land that the Lord will give you, as has been promised, you shall observe this rite. And, when your children ask you, ‘What do you mean by this rite”’ you shall say, ‘It is the Passover sacrifice to the Lord, because God passed over the houses of the Israelites in Egypt, smiting the Egyptians but saving our houses.’” (Exodus 12.24-27) 

The transition from the event to the commemoration of the event is interesting to consider. Rabbi Zalman Schachter-Shalomi used to describe ritual as peak experience domesticated—domesticated things being similar to wild things but not identical. Something really special happens, and we seek to remember it by crafting various memory-inducing techniques: songs, stories, foods, discussions, etc. We want to create enough of the drama to set up the miracle and inspire appreciation, but we do not want to make it so tenuous that we miss the celebratory purpose of the ritual. 

When we transition from the original Passover to our Seder, we move from eating in anxiety to reclining and relaxing, from eating bitter meat to enjoying gourmet Seder meals, and from eating with loins girded, sandals on our feet, and staffs in our hands to beautiful tables, set with delicate family heirlooms. While our ancient ancestors huddled together while the Angel of Death went through the neighborhood, our anxiety is of a different kind: we worry whether the matzah balls will be right, whether the food will be tasty, and whether the family members will get along.  

This is not to say that our Seder celebrations are less holy; it is just that they are a different kind of event—one in which we try to remember our ancestral experience in Egypt, learn its lessons, and appreciate the blessings we have. It is a peak historical experience domesticated. 

One additional thought: there is an interesting tension when it comes to teaching about traumatic events. One school of thought wants the learner to feel the terror and despondency of those who actually suffered the trauma. Any retreat from “showing the true horrors” does the actual sufferers a disservice—and renders the learning inadequate. This is also the case with news coverage. Some believe that readers should themselves be plunged into the horror and suffering of the victims—else the story/learning is incomplete and not respectful enough. The other school of thought sees no reason to traumatize learners—or readers. It is possible to “learn the lessons” of dramatic and tragic events without plunging into the depths of horror and despair themselves. Granted, people who have experienced horrific events may appreciate the stories (or Seder) in a different way than those whose lives have been easier, but is suffering the idea—or is learning the lessons the goal? As we consider the various lessons of the Exodus story, we face an interesting spectrum of learning and spiritual possibilities.

The main thing with the Seder is that we put ourselves into the story. “Not only our ancestors alone did the Holy One redeem but us as well, along with them, as it is written, ‘And God freed us from Egypt, so as to take us and give us the land sworn to our ancestors.’” (Deuteronomy 6.23) And “Had not the Holy One brought our ancestors out of Egypt, we and our children and our children’s children would still be slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt.” 

When we gather for Passover, there are many experiences to celebrate. There is the original story which we remember and commemorate. There are the family celebrations that have enhanced our lives with beautiful customs and loving relationships. There are the social justice obligations that the Passover story invokes. And there is the appreciation for freedom and blessings that should flow in our hearts and minds. May we enter the Seder wholeheartedly and appreciate its many gifts.

God and Us: Partners in Redemption

April 8th: Metzorah and Shabbat Hagadol
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Tradition presents us with two interesting themes this week. The first is a kind of Passover theological tension: Do we wait for God for miraculous solutions, or do we try to solve our own problems? The Rabbis never want to doubt God or Divine Intervention, but they also do not want us to sit around and idly (or even  prayerfully) wait for God. You may remember the Torah’s description of the people and Moses at the Red Sea, crying out to God about the onrushing Egyptians. “The Lord said to Moses, ‘Why do you cry out to Me? Tell the Israelites to go forward! Lift up your rod and hold out your arm over the sea and split it!’” (Exodus 14.15) God is not dismissing prayerfulness, but this is not the time for praying; this is the time for action.

The Midrash continues this theme in a story repeated in our prayer book (page 38). Originally recorded in the Babylonian Talmud (Sotah 37a) and Numbers Rabbah (13.77), it suggests that Moses’ initial effort to split the Red Sea does not work. Only when the brave Nachshon realizes that the people must faithfully instigate the miracle—and leads them into the water up to their noses—does God’s miracle actually take place.

Another Midrash suggesting that people have a role in God’s miracles comes in Leviticus Rabbah. Though God certainly performs lots of miracles to get Israel out of Egypt, this Midrash asks a question about the people’s role in the Exodus:
“What did Israel do to merit redemption? Four things:
(1)  They kept their Jewish names.
(2)  They kept the Hebrew language.
(3)  They did not gossip (lashon hara, the evil tongue).
(4)  They were not sexually promiscuous (like the Egyptians).”
One can certainly see how these behaviors could be seen as meritorious—good behaviors which warrant a reward from God. However, one can also see them as survival strategies—things the Hebrews do themselves to maintain their “national” identity and moral standards.  

In modern times, this Midrash is often used to inspire survival behaviors—encouraging Jews to strongly maintain both their Jewish Identities and their Jewish sense of righteousness. 

So, as we meditate on Pesach’s messages about Divine Deliverance, we should also remember the parts we can play in our own redemption. 

Coinciding with this notion of strong Jewish Identity promoting our survival is the weekly Torah portion in which we learn the ancient rules for diagnosing and treating leprosy. These disparate themes may seem unrelated, but there is an interesting psychological connection. In Parashat Metzorah’s discussion of tza’arah, an ancient malady that affected both humans and houses, there is a both a quasi-scientific angle and a lack of science. The descriptions of both the skin and the house afflictions suggest an actual biological problem. However, we now know that leprosy/Hansen’s Disease and building mildew are not related. There is also scholarly doubt about whether the traditional translation for tza’arah, leprosy, is medically or chemically correct. Something was clearly wrong with both the people and the housing, but there is an air of mystery about exactly what the problem was/is.  

Moreover, the Rabbis suggest a moral component to this physical problem: that tza’arah is caused by ethical indiscretion and corruption. We could certainly dismiss this Rabbinic notion as superstition—doubting that God really inflicts leprosy on people who have sinned. However, given the mysterious nature of the maladies—and the non-scientific forms of treatment, the Rabbis may have been on to something. Regardless of the physical malady, there is a kind of moral rot or cultural disfunction/illness that can eat away at our society and our souls. Wisdom urges us to seek protection from it. 

This is where the Leviticus Rabbah text comes in. As much as our cultural/religious and moral behaviors while slaves in Egypt might have been rewarded by God’s redemption, viewing them as survival strategies suggests a kind of personal and communal wall of defense. Though we are tempted and challenged by all sorts of stimuli, our integrity as individuals and as a sacred community depend on certain basic standards: a strong Jewish Identity and strong ethical mores.

The myriad situations in our lives defy a simple solution, but our Tradition has provided us a guiding principle. The ancient leader Hillel also lived in a time of great moral and political difficulties, and he counseled the simple value of being a mensch: “In a place where no one is behaving like a human being, strive even harder to be human.” (Avot 1.5)  

Our humanity—our innate ability to bring forth the Divine Image—is perhaps our most potent weapon. In the midst of a tidal wave of injustice, violence, mean-spiritedness, rudeness, and evil, we do not need to succumb to the bad examples that abound. We can choose to be menschen; we can choose to stand up for our religious truths and our moral truths. Such strength can bring redemption. As Rabbi Tarphon reminds us: “It is not your duty to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it.” (Avot 2.16) 

"Negotiating" The Law

April 1st: Tazria and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I recently heard a quip about Judaism that was sort-of right on the mark. “Judaism is a religion of laws—and very clever ways to get around them.”  

I can understand this impression, for we do indeed interpret and negotiate with our traditional ways. Even people who take the Law very seriously may seem to work at circumnavigating its more difficult requirements. Among the examples that come to mind are some Shabbat accommodations in the Orthodox community like the “Shabbos oven.” Kindling fires on Shabbat is expressively forbidden. (In Numbers 15.32, a man is executed for gathering firewood on Shabbat!) However, many Orthodox families have ovens that can be programmed on Friday afternoon to turn-on and cook food on Saturday morning. There is also the curious institution of the “Shabbos Goy,” a non-Jew who comes over to a Jewish house and turns on the furnace or oven during the Sabbath—and just happens to find a payment next to the furnace for his/her trouble.

Such “adjustments” certainly seem suspicious, but there is a very reasonable basis for them. As with most legal systems, some principles and rules can find themselves in conflict with other principles and rules that are just as significant. In the case of Shabbat, there are two possibly conflicting mitzvot. There is clearly the prohibition against work, but there is also the positive commandment to enjoy Shabbat. We are commanded to find joy on the Sabbath (Oneg Shabbat), and sometimes the prohibition of the thirty-nine kinds of work make that difficult if not impossible. The oven and furnace are prime examples. On a cold Saturday, the absence of heat and a hot meal are impediments to the enjoyment that Shabbat requires. If there could just be a way to respect the prohibition of work while also enjoying heat, then both Divinely commanded instructions could be obeyed. Enter the technical thinking that works with ovens and furnaces and utilizes round-about means to enable their functioning. Actually, the modern pre-setting of an electric oven is an adaptation of an old Shabbat custom. The village baker would fill the oven with wood before Shabbat, and the people of the village would bring pots of uncooked stew to the bakery. The food would be cooked over this low and long-lasting fire until the next day at lunchtime. Then, the villagers would retrieve their casserole dishes and have a hot and satisfying Shabbat meal.

By the way, in the Talmudic period, there was a furious controversy about this kind of reasoning. The Karaites, a sect of Jewish literalists, believed that “no fires” meant no fires at all. Any fires lit before the Sabbath had to be extinguished before the holy day began. As a result, they spent their Sabbaths huddled under covers and eating cold food. The Rabbis, who were strict but not literalists, reasoned that the prohibition against kindling fires on Shabbat did not exclude fires lit beforehand. In fact, to emphasize this point, they instituted a ritual in which candles were/are lit before Shabbat so that they could burn on into the evening.

Another reason to “negotiate” ancient laws is that they may assume conditions that are no longer present. Think of the dozens and dozens of laws detailing the sacrificial worship system. When the Temple stood, they were applicable, but, when the Temple was destroyed in 70 CE, they became impossible to observe. The Rabbis could have simply scrapped the sacrifice-oriented worship system, but instead they chose to repurpose the mitzvot, crafting what has become our prayer-book worship tradition. Is our Amidah an avoidance of the ancient sacrifices, or is it an adaptation that promotes reverence and praise and a drawing-close to the Holy One? As the Prophets and Psalmist themselves explain, God does not need the meat or blood; what God wants is attention, appreciation, and morality! Thus the repurposing and reconfiguring of the worship system was not escaping or eluding it; the prayer book worship captured the spiritual essence in the sacrificial system and reconfigured it to enhance our worship of God.

One can also identify a number of laws that were only meant to be observed once or for a limited period of time. Painting the doorposts of the houses on the very first Passover is an example. As we read in this week’s special portion, Hachodesh, “…the Israelites shall slaughter the lambs at twilight. They shall take some of the blood and put on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they are to eat it.”  (Exodus 12.6-7). This was not a mitzvah to repeat but to remember. There are also the many laws about the Mishkan, the “tent temple” in which our people worshipped in the wilderness and for the years before the Temple was built in Jerusalem. Though these mitzvot occupy many chapters in Exodus and were very important then, they have not been applicable for many centuries.

There are also those laws which are too general and call for practical adjustment. In those same instructions for the original Passover, God gives this general rule: “The Israelites…shall take a lamb for each family—one lamb per family.” Then, however, the Lord seems to pause and rephrase the mitzvah. “But if the household is too small for a lamb, let them share it with a neighbor—based on the number of persons who will eat the lamb.” (Exodus 12.3-4) One can imagine someone raising his/her hand and questioning the original mitzvah: “What if there aren’t enough people to eat a whole lamb? Should we cook more than we can eat and be wasteful?” The narrative does not include this detail, but God seems to anticipate the objection and issues the clarification before the question can even be asked. Even God understands that some general instructions need adjustments to fit individual situations.

Though there are clearly great principles and mitzvot in the Halachah (Jewish Law), Rabbinic legal discussions and decisions are almost always case-based: we know the general rules, but how are they to be applied in a particular situation—one which is different enough to raise questions?

The quip with which we began is true enough. We Jews are always negotiating with the obligations that Tradition has bequeathed to us. However, there is a sacred point to it all. Halachah is and has always been a living body of law—one in which God and humans work on their relationship. There are times for strictness, and there are times for liberality. There are times for earnestness, and there are times for tranquil joy. There is always the commanding Presence of the Eternal, but how we humans are to understand, approach, and live in relationship with this Presence is matter of continuing conversation.

What Do We Think About Kashrut?

March 25th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion gives the first detailed description of what will later be known s Kashrut, Keeping Kosher. “These are the creatures that you may eat…” (Leviticus 11.2 ff) Some of the rules are for mammals: they must have cloven hooves and chew their cuds. Some of the rules are for water creatures: they must have both fins and scales. There are no rules for birds, but there is a list of prohibited birds—most of which are not considered good eating today (with the exception of the ostrich, bat ya’anah!) And, some of the rules are in regard to insects: if they walk on four legs and the legs are jointed above the feet—like some locusts and crickets, then they are permitted. There is also a prohibition against “roadkill,” an animal which would have been permitted but which has died of causes other than ritual slaughter. 

This question of ritual slaughter brings up an interesting question. Are these dietary rules for all the Israelites, or are they just for the priests? Since the terms and penalties are related to ritual purity (in re sacrificial rituals), and since some other passages seem to accept people eating meat from animals they kill themselves, some scholars think that these are Levitical rules for the Levitical priests. In any event, as the system grew and developed—adding sh’chitah, ritual slaughter, and the separation of meat and dairy, Kashrut generally became incumbent on all Jews. 

This brings up a few questions. (1) Why were these things commanded (what is the purpose of Kashrut)? (2) What other reasons/justification have attached to these ancient and developing rules? (3) Why do some Jews not keep Kosher? 

(1) Why were these things commanded (what is the purpose of Kashrut)? 
The Bible and Talmud give no reason other than that God commands them. In all but a few cases, God does not explain the rationale for any of the mitzvot/commandments. The general sense is that God is the Commander, and we are supposed to follow whatever God commands. 

(2) What other reasons/justification have attached to these ancient and developing rules?
For some people, obedience to the Divine Will is satisfaction enough, but others yearn to find deeper meanings in the various mitzvot. So, over the years, a variety of rationales have been suggested. Philo Judaeus, a Jewish Platonic Philosopher in Alexandria, Egypt (20 BCE – 50 CE), taught that Moses was a philosopher and scientist who noticed the health benefits of eating only the Kosher animals. The medieval philosopher (and physician) Moses Maimonides (1138-1204) taught that many of the mitzvot were intended to teach us discipline—to help us tame our insatiable desires. Other thinkers have noted the separation that Kashrut creates between Jews and non-Jews. While some see this as a problem, others see it as a community-enhancing custom—the strong bond involving Kosher butchers, grocers, food preparers, and eaters making the Jewish community stronger. 

Some Jews do not particularly identify with the “religious” reasons for Kashrut, but they find meaning in continuing a traditional practice. This could be a generational family practice or a practice that has defined Judaism for some 2000 years. And there are Jews who keep Kosher so that Kosher relatives will feel comfortable eating at their homes. The interesting thing about these assorted reasons is that they are secondary—the primary reason in Jewish theology being that God commanded them. 

For an interesting Talmudic take on the primacy of obedience, consider this passage from Bechorot 30b: “In the case of a gentile who comes to convert and takes upon himself to accept the words of Torah except for one matter, he is not accepted as a convert. Rabbi Yosie, son of Rabbi Yehuda says, If a proselyte accepts all the mitzvot except one, he is not accepted.” If one presumes to choose even one mitzvah not to follow, it is seen as a denial of God’s command—and the proselyte is considered unacceptable. Of course, this opinion is not reflective of the way that Reform, Reconstructionist, and even Conservative Judaism approach the traditional mitzvot. In modern Liberal Judaism, we are supposed to make informed and spiritual choices. However this passage does explain the Orthodox view in which choice is not a prerogative. For the Orthodox, whatever “meaning” one may find in the mitzvot, the salient and overriding factor is obedience to God’s commandments. 

(3) Why do some Jews not keep Kosher?
The answer may seem obvious: they do not want to keep Kosher. They want to eat shrimp and ham and cheeseburgers. However, there is more to this position. Going back to that Bechorot 60b passage, the decision not to keep Kosher implies a belief that these dietary customs are not the direct instructions from God—or, as one of my teachers put it, that God does not really care about what foods we choose to eat. This is the classical Reform position as expressed in the Pittsburgh Platform (1885): “We recognize in the Mosaic legislation a system of training the Jewish people for its mission during its national life in Palestine, and today, we accept as binding only its moral laws, and maintain only such ceremonies as elevate and sanctify our lives, but reject all such as are not adapted to the views and habits of modern civilization. We hold that all such Mosaic and rabbinical laws as regulate diet, priestly purity, and dress originate in ages and under the influence of ideas entirely foreign to our present mental and spiritual state. They fail to impress the modern Jew with a spirit of priestly holiness; their observance in our days is apt rather to obstruct than to further modern spiritual elevation.” 

Many felt and feel that the traditional dietary laws separate Jews from Gentiles and make our inclusion and participation in modern life difficult if not impossible. Some would even say that the separation is dangerous—keeping us out of society and leaving room for anti-Semitism. On a positive note, many maintain that being part of modern society allows us better access so that we can pursue our God-given task of bringing spiritual enlightenment to the nations of the earth. For many over the last 200 years, the decision to stop keeping Kosher has been a matter of matir asurim, a release from the strictures of past parochial thinking.  

Of course, the Pittsburgh Platform has bequeathed an ironic legacy in what has turned out to be an “elastic clause.” When Reform Jews are called upon to judge which ceremonies “elevate and sanctify our lives,” many have found that these dietary customs—while perhaps not being the literal instructions of the One God—are nonetheless elevating and sanctifying. So goes our continuing relationship with the Divine—as we listen and study and respond to the Presence of God in our lives.

What God is Seeking in Us

March 18th: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Chapter 8 of Leviticus details the anointing of the Tabernacle and its furnishings and the anointing of Aaron and his sons as priests. Sprinkling these things and these people with God’s holy oil sets them apart for the purpose of connecting Heaven and Earth—of bringing the Infinity of God to the finite lives of the people. With everything and everyone consecrated, the stage is set for the encounters that are the purpose of worship. Usual worship will involve the Kohanim / Priests lighting the sacrificial fires, but this first sacrifice invokes a miracle. As we shall read next week, “Moses and Aaron went inside the Tent of Meeting. When they came out, they blessed the people; and the Presence of the Lord appeared to all the people. Fire came forth from before the Lord and consumed the burnt offering and the fat parts on the altar. And all the people saw, and shouted, and fell on their faces.” (Leviticus 9.23-24)

One could focus on the importance and status of Aaron and his sons, but the lesson they are to learn is that their anointing is for a purpose—a holy purpose. They are dedicated for their whole lives to the connection between God and the Israelite people. Whatever status may attach is much less important than their tasks and their focus (kavannah).

Their election as priests is akin to our election as God’s “Chosen People.” As the Lord explains just it immediately before speaking the Ten Commandments, “If you will obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, you shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” (Exodus 19.5-6)

It is clearly good to be God’s Chosen People, but what does this status mean? Some have said that our election makes us innately better than other people—that our souls have a moral and spiritual quality that others lack. Some have suggested that our chosen-ness grants us special privileges—inasmuch as we are “relatives of the Boss.” Others, however, have been aghast at the prospect of God liking some humans more than others—and on the havoc such a thought can wreak on the human psyche. They prefer to focus on the mission: we were and are chosen for the purpose of teaching God’s Torah to the world.

This teaching can take many forms. Sometimes, we strive to be moral exemplars, choosing honor and truth over personal advantage. As the Psalmist explains, “Who shall dwell on God’s holy mountain?...One who does what is right and heartfully acknowledges the truth…who stands by an oath even when it proves to be difficult.” (Psalm 15). Other times, we focus on spiritual purity, withdrawing from a world that is too corrupting—too contagious. Sometimes, as in our celebration of Purim, we show how self-defense is both a necessity and a right. As Hillel used to say, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?” (Pirke Avot 1.14) Other times, we inspire others to take the lessons of the Scriptures to heart and work on God’s long-term project of Tikkun Olam. As Hillel used to counsel in that same lesson, “But, if I am only for myself, what am I?”

Sometimes, however, our mission is to maintain our faith and morality in the midst of great difficulty. We may not choose the vicissitudes of life that assault us, but, in those difficult situations, we have choices about maintaining our humanity and bearing witness to the messages of Torah. In the midst of terrible and heartbreaking events, holiness and the beauteous possibilities of humanity can nonetheless shine through.

This process can be understood through a story I recently heard from my cousin, Rabbi Fred  Davidow of Philadelphia. (Originally from Greenville, Mississippi, he too found his way North.) The source of the story is unknown—and probably not Jewish, but it is Biblically based and points in a universal way to the value of preserving and striving for menschlikeit. The text is from the Prophet Malachi (3.3), “God shall sit like a smelter and purger of silver and shall purify the descendants of Levi…”

There was once a group of women in a Bible study working on the book of Malachi. As they were studying chapter three, they came the verse just cited: “God will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver…” This verse puzzled the women and they wondered what this statement meant about the character and nature of God. One of the women offered to find out about the process of refining silver and get back to the group at their next Bible study.

The woman called up a silversmith and made an appointment to watch him at work. She didn't mention anything about the reason for her interest in silver beyond her curiosity about the process of refining silver.

As she watched the silversmith, he held a piece of silver over the fire and let it heat up. He explained that in refining silver, one needed to hold the silver in the middle of the fire where the flames were hottest in order to burn away all the impurities.  The woman thought about God holding us in such a hot spot; then she thought again about the verse that God sits as a refiner and purifier of silver.

She asked the silversmith, “Is it true that you have to sit there in front of the fire the whole time the silver is being refined?” The man answered,  “Yes, I not only have to sit here holding the silver, but I also have to keep my eye on the silver the entire time it is in the fire.  If the silver were left even a moment too long in the flames, it would be destroyed.”

The woman was silent for a moment. Then she asked the silversmith, “How do you know when the silver is fully refined? He smiled at her and answered, "Oh, that's easy. It’s finished when I can see my image in it.” 

As Aaron and his family shall soon learn, the fire of God is inspiring and illuminating but also purging. Holiness can be found in moments of elation and in the dark times that try our souls. Through it all, the goal is for us to bring forth the Divinity that God knows is within—the Divinity that God places in each one of us.

God, Strength, and Peace

March 11th: Vayikra and Zachor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

For many years, one of my mentors was Rabbi Lawrence Jackofsky. Affectionately known as Jake, he was the regional director of the Union of American Hebrew Congregations (now, the Union for Reform Judaism) for the Southwest, and I used to see him in a variety of contexts: my home congregation in Lafayette, Louisiana, student-congregations in Arkansas and Mississippi, the congregation I served in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, regional congregational and rabbinic meetings, and at the Henry S. Jacobs Camp in Mississippi. As an important official, he was often asked to give the benediction at services, conventions, or meetings, and, no matter what he said, he invariably concluded with the same verse: “Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo vashalom. The Lord will give strength to our people; the Lord will bless our people with peace.”  (Psalm 29.11)

I do not know why he focused so much on that verse, and I must admit that, in my younger years, I wished he would find another verse. However, as the years have gone by, I have come to appreciate more and more Rabbi Jackofsky’s insistence on this message from the Psalmist. There is a theology here than we all need. Especially in times of war.

We need the oz / strength from Adonai, so that we can defend ourselves against evil. There are bad guys out there, and, if we do not have strength to confront them, then we shall not be around to experience shalom.  

I believe that this need for self-defense is the reason for our special extra Torah portion. In addition to Vayikra, the opening section of Leviticus, Tradition enjoins us to read a paragraph from Deuteronomy 25 (verse 17-19). It is called Zachor: “Remember what Amalek did to you on your journey, after you left Egypt—how, undeterred by fear of God, he surprised you on the march, when you were famished and weary, and cut down all the stragglers in your rear. Therefore, when the Lord your God grants you safety from all your enemies around you, in the land that the Lord your God is giving you as a hereditary portion, you shall blot out the memory of Amalek from under heaven. Do not forget!” (Deuteronomy 25.17-19)

Sometimes, we joke about the similarity in themes of Jewish holidays: “They tried to kill us; God stopped them; Let’s eat.” We could get picky and point out that this is only the theme of three Jewish holidays (Chanukah, Purim, and Passover), but that is beside the point. There is a persistent theme in our liturgy, our rituals, and our holy days about the ever-present dangers that have threatened us for some 4000 years. In this case, we read a paragraph about Amalek (circa 1200 BCE) to remind us about the upcoming celebration of Purim—a story set some 700 years later (483-473 BCE). As the Midrash explains, the evil Haman is a descendant of Amalek, and this family is our perpetual enemy.

The peace-loving among us hate to think in terms of perpetual conflict. We worry about a national mindset that is too military, and we are concerned that too many of our resources are spent on guns and not butter. Then, a bad guy appears and does terrible things, and I find myself very appreciative of everyone who wears the uniform in defense of our country and our values and our friends. I also give thanks for all the preparations that have gone into our military preparedness.

I mentioned the old joke about Jewish Holidays, “They tried to kill us, God saved us, let’s eat,” but Purim does not fit precisely into this paradigm. According to the story in Esther, God does not save us; we save ourselves! The Book of Esther is a totally human story—without a single mention of God. Our salvation begins with Esther’s courage to go before the king uninvited, and it continues in Jewish self-defense as described in chapters 8 and 9. All throughout the Persian Empire, Jews muster their communities and literally fight the anti-Semites in the streets. As much as we might assume that God is behind the saving acts in the story, Purim celebrates the value of humans solving our own problems and defending ourselves.

We may hate to see the world as a dark place, with enemies lurking at every turn. We may find ourselves hesitating when we pray Hashkivaynu: “Shield us, we pray, against enemies, disease, war, famine, and sorrow, and strengthen us against the evil forces that abound on every side,” preferring to think of the world as a good place, a hopeful place. We may yearn for peace so much that we doubt our fears and think of danger as a thing of the past. But then, facts break through our idyllic visions as we see real evil hurting real people—and not just Jews. Whether the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia, the Hutus in Rwanda, Idi Amin’s forces in Uganda, the Serbs in Bosnia, the Buddhists in Myanmar, Al Qaeda and the Taliban and ISIS and Hamas and Hezbollah in the Levant, and now the Russians in Ukraine, the spiritual descendants of Amalek are real and ever dangerous.

We also see how international deterrence is a long-term process, and how many victims fall as the wheels of diplomacy and economic pressure begin to roll. There is no substitute for well-trained troops on the ground, on the sea, and in the air, ready to fight the bad guys. This is a lesson for the United States, for Israel, and for every nation on earth.

As with most challenges, our Tradition counsels a double path. On the one hand, we pray for help from the Divine. “You are a God Who guards and rescues; You are a God who rules with graciousness and compassion, guarding our goings and our comings to life and to wholeness, from this time forth and forever.” (from Hashkivaynu, in the Evening Service) On the other hand, we strive to solve problems ourselves, looking as did Mordecai and Esther for the resources we can muster. Our prayer, then, is that these two hands work together. “Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo vashalom.” May the Lord give strength to our people. And, may we use our God-given strength to work through danger and toward the blessing of peace.

Keva and Kavannah: A Delicate and Holy Balance

March 4th: Pekuday
THIS WEEK IN THE TORH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the challenges in teaching Bar/Bat Mitzvah students is helping them to understand how the many details they have to master can combine to make a moment of holiness and Kavannah—connection with the Eternal. There is a lot for these children to master: Hebrew prayers and their various tunes, a Torah portion read without vowels, English prayers with a specialized vocabulary, posture in front of the congregation, enunciation, volume, remembering which parts are whose, and, of course, not being distracted by potentially giggling friends in the congregation. Another issue is the tallit: keeping it on the shoulders can be a challenge. So, in the midst of all these details, there is a tendency to focus on them—rather than on the greater goal of connecting with God.

I like to think that we help B’nai Mitzvah experience this greater purpose. And, I like to think that we can help all of our worshippers make this connection whenever they join us in worship. There are details to be sure, and the fact is that the details make a difference. Mispronounced Hebrew words, tunes that wander off key, poorly worded sermons, bad sound systems, and various distractions can impede the spiritual experience. We need to focus on skills and proprieties and Tradition. However, they are not the ultimate worship experience. The ultimate comes when we use these in our personal and communal relationships with God.

The Torah portion this week highlights this interesting dynamic. The bulk of the three chapters is basically the ledger book and employment records of the Mishkan: the income in materials, the work assignments and their execution, the delivery of the completed items to Moses, and the assembling of the elaborate “tent temple” where our ancestors encountered God in a formal way. This is pretty much the third time we have heard all this. (It is like the Torah predicted Aristotle’s advice on giving a speech: tell them what you are going to tell them; tell them, then tell them what you told them.) Starting in Exodus 25, we hear God’s instructions to Moses, then Moses’ repetition of them to the people, then the narrative of the people following God’s instructions, and now this review. Thorough, yes. Riveting or inspiring, maybe not so much.

Then, however, we get to the point of it all. When Moses finishes all the work of assembling the tent and the enclosure and the altar and the Ark and putting all of the furniture and utensils in their places, “the cloud (of the Lord) covered the Tent of Meeting, and the Presence of the Lord filled the Mishkan/Tabernacle.” (Exodus 40.34) The Israelites attend to all of the details with great diligence, and they ultimately achieve their mission. As they were charged at the beginning of the process, “Let them make be a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8) They do their work, and God comes to dwell in their midst.

In the long history of Jewish worship—from the Mishkan in the wilderness and the Temple in Jerusalem, to the synagogue system in its thousands of places, there has been an interesting balance between Keva and Kavannah, between fixed prayer formulas and the improvisational and intuitive prayerfulness that springs from the heart. We are instructed by Tradition in the finer details of worship, but we are also counseled in Pirke Avot (2.18),  “When you pray, let not your prayer become fixed routine, but let it be a sincere supplication for God’s mercy.” There is form and structure, Keva, and there is Kavannah, the intensity and concentration and improvisational spontaneity that brings worship alive.

We do not know when the specific formulas of the traditional Siddur arose. Legends say that the words of the Shemonah Esreh (the nineteen-blessing main or standing prayer) were revealed by God to the Anshay K’nesset Hag’dolah, the Men of the Great Assembly, around 200 BCE, but this is improbable. Throughout the Rabbinic Period (200 BCE – 200 CE), there seems to have been a pattern of themes in the worship service upon which the prayer leader would improvise. When he finished his improvised prayer, he would conclude with a chatimah, a summary statement of the prayer’s theme, and the other worshippers would respond “Amen,” indicating their agreement—“okaying” the prayer as their own.

The first complete written  prayer book ever found comes from much later, the 9th Century. With so many written texts of the Rabbinic and Talmudic periods, it is curious that there are no prayer book examples, a fact which leads many scholars to think that established and written prayers were a much later addition to Jewish Tradition. Then, even as written prayer books proliferated, there was a significant amount of variety and innovation. Consider poems like Adon Olam, Yigdal, Ayn Kelohaynu, and Lecha Dodi, newly composed in the 10th-15th Centuries, but eventually becoming “traditional:” There were also regional and subregional variations of the liturgy. And, as Hassidism was created and crafted in the early 18th Century, the Hassidim used a prayer book different from the more standard Ashkenazic and Sephardic Siddurim. Their Nusach Sefarad, with its mystical enhancements, was both “cutting edge” and controversial.

In other words, even the most “Orthodox” or “traditional” of Siddurim are results of a long tradition of liturgical creativity and adaptation. While Reform and Reconstructionist Judaism have made worship creativity much more active, they are part of the same continuum of following Keva/tradition while embracing Kavannah-enhancing changes.

This larger and historical dynamic frames the sensibilities we bring to our worship. We each feel a connection to Keva, Jewish Tradition and its various liturgical, linguistic, choreographic, and customary forms. These details are an important part of our familial connection to God and to Judaism. That being said, there is also the need for each individual Jewish soul to connect to the Divine—or to rise to an awareness of the Divine. That is where Kavannah enters the mix, where we work with the traditional forms to make worship into a personal spiritual connection with the Eternal One.

A modern Midrashic take on a verse from Mah Tovu can express this important connection. The verse from Psalm 69.14 reads, “Va’ani tefilati-lecha Adonai et ratzon / As for me, may my prayer to You, O Lord  come at a moment of favor.” However, one could look only at the first two words, “Va’ani tefilati,” and read them, “May I be my prayer.”

Just as the ancient specifics of the Mishkan/Tabernacle set the stage for an encounter with the Divine Presence, so may our attention to both detail and Kavannah help us in our relationships with God.

Counting Without Counting and Tzedakah

February 25th: Pekude and Shekalim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the problems in Biblical interpretation is thinking that one verse or passage represents the entirety of the Bible’s opinion on a subject. The Bible has all sorts of opinions for all sorts of situations, and a judicious understanding of “The Biblical Opinion” requires a broadly based review of relevant passages.

As case in point comes up in this week’s special reading. In addition to the weekly portion, Vayakhel (Exodus 35.1 – 38.20), there is also one of the four special pre-Passover portions that Tradition prescribes. This week, we have Shekalim, Exodus 30.11-16: “The Lord spoke to Moses saying, When you take a census of the Israelite people according to their enrollment, each shall pay the Lord a ransom for himself on being enrolled, that no plague may come upon them through their being enrolled. This is what everyone who is enrolled in the records shall pay: a half-shekel by the sanctuary weight—twenty gerahs to the shekel—a half-shekel as an offering to the Lord. Everyone who is entered in the records, from the age of twenty years up, shall give the Lord’s offering: the rich shall not pay more, and the poor shall not pay less than half a shekel when giving the Lord’s offering as expiation for your persons. You shall take the expiation money from the Israelites and assign it to the service of the Tent of Meeting; it shall serve the Israelites as a reminder before the Lord, as expiation for your persons.”

One could look at this passage and think that taxation should be the same for individuals of all income levels: “The rich shall not pay more, and the poor shall not pay less.” Is the Bible therefore against progressive taxation—where higher income individuals pay more than lower income individuals? One could also look at this passage and think that the Bible endorses charging to be enrolled as a member of a community. Does this mean the Bible approves of “poll taxes?”

 The problem with any such extrapolations is that this passage is very narrowly focused—talking about a census and not a system of taxation—and being only one of many passages which discuss contributions to the public good. Moreover, it is affected by a particular belief that “counting people” could bring about a plague: “that no plague may come upon them through their being enrolled.” In order to get a “count” without counting, God instructs the collection of half-shekels and, from the amount collected, an accurate population size can be determined.

This ancient belief is carried on today in what some might call a superstition. The Tradition warns against counting people for a minyan. . Instead of saying, “one, two, three, etc.,” some suggesting saying, “Not one, not two, not three, etc.” Why? As it was explained by one of my teachers, Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, there is a fear that the Evil One could be listening, and, upon hearing, “We have ten,” would kill one of them. It is akin to the expression “Kaynahorah / Kayn Ayin HaRah / Against the Evil Eye.”  We should never say something good without invoking protection against the dark forces that abound on every side—and look for excuses to hurt us. Another technique for “counting but not counting” is to recite a Biblical verse with ten words—each word corresponding to a person present. For example, Psalm 5.8 has ten words (in the Hebrew): “Va’ani berov chas’decha avo vaytecha, esh’tachaveh el haychal kod’sh’cha b’yir’atecha. Thanks to Your abundant lovingkindness, O God, I am able to enter Your house and, in this sacred place, to bow down reverently.”

As for taxes in ancient Israel and in the Rabbinic Period, there is a lot more to consider. First, their tax system was far, far different from ours. There were mandatory payments to be made to the Temple—tithes of harvests and offerings for worship. Though standard offerings (goats, sheep, or bulls, grain, and oil) are prescribed, allowances were made for those who were without means (turtledoves or just flour instead). As for support for the poor, there was not a taxing mechanism, but there were a number of social mores. Farmers were to leave the corners of their fields unharvested, and they were not to go back and pick fruit that was late to mature. This was all left to the poor. The size of the “corners” of the field was a matter of personal choice. The Mishnah (Peah) suggests that generosity in this life will be rewarded in the next life, but it stands to reason that poorer farmers with smaller fields might have legitimately left smaller corners than a wealthier neighbor. There were also injunctions for those with means to share holy day feasts with the widow, the orphan, the stranger, and the Levite.

The Talmud has many passages discussing the question of propriety and generosity, and some Rabbis are a bit more exuberant than others. In a fascinating passage about how much charity people deserve, one opinion is that poor people should be supported according to the lifestyle they enjoyed before their financial ruin. This means that a person accustomed to eating meat and drinking fine wine every night should be supported charitably the same way—even if the donors eat beans and drink water for their own meals. In one instance, Hillel went so far as to pay for a horse for a formerly rich man so he could ride it through the market—and Hillel, the chief rabbi of all the Jewish community, ran before the horse, announcing the man’s arrival. That is what the man was used to before his ruin, and preventing his humiliation was Hillel’s main priority. Was this just an exaggeration to make a point, or did Hillel really believe that charity should be adjusted to the lifestyle a poor person had before sinking to poverty?

Drawing conclusions from the Bible or Talmud about modern government taxing policy and public assistance is a tenuous affair—with lots of principles that may or may not apply. Better in my mind is to focus on the Traditional Jewish mitzvah of Tzedakah / Charity. Charitable generosity is a matter of personal choice, and God is always watching.

“These are the things that have no definite quantity: The corners [of the field]. First-fruits; [The offerings brought] on appearing [at the Temple on the three pilgrimage festivals]. The performance of righteous deeds; And the study of the Torah. The following are the things for which a man enjoys the fruits in this world while the principal remains for him in the world to come: Honoring one’s father and mother; The performance of righteous deeds; And the making of peace between a person and his friend; And the study of the Torah is equal to them all. (Mishnah Peah 1.1)

The Golden Calf incident: Beware the Mob

February 18th: Ki Tisa
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we study the Golden Calf Incident, we usually focus on the apostasy of the Israelites. Just six weeks after the Revelation at Mount Sinai and just a few months after the miraculous Exodus, they begin worshipping an idol! It is a shocking and terrible sin.

However, there is another shonda (disgrace and scandal) in the story: the mob that seems to take control of everyone and their sensibilities. “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, the people gathered against Aaron.” (Exodus 32.1) They do not turn to Aaron, seeking counsel; rather, they gather against Aaron, threatening him. The Midrash fills in the story by telling us that they go to another leader first. When Hur refuses to make an idol, the mob attacks and kills him. Thus do they gather against Aaron.

This unbridled behavior is confirmed by Moses later in the chapter. After he descends from the mountain and shocks everyone by smashing the Ten Commandments, the crowd is still berserk. “Moses saw that the people were out of control…so that they were a menace to any who might oppose them.” (Exodus 32.25). It is a mob scene, and only a violent military response brings order to the camp. (The Cecil B. DeMille film The Ten Commandments highlights this riotous behavior.)

Mob mentality is an unfortunate and dangerous aspect of human social behavior, and there have been far too many outbreaks that have resulted in tragedy and destruction. Something fearful occurs—or is reputed to occur, and anxiety spreads in a group. This anxiety paralyzes logical thinking, and someone directs the anxiety to a “solution to the problem.” Unexamined and undebated—because heightened group anxiety makes such logical thinking impossible, the group follows instructions and lashes out at the perceived/identified problem.

When discussing mob mentality, we usually think about pogroms, lynch mobs, or the Crusades. Sometimes, however, “the mob” is not violent. Sometimes, it manifests in a kind of groupthink—a sensibility which stifles analysis and reasoning. Groupthink can become panic, and the panicked group prizes loyalty and obedience above analysis and strategic thinking. Then, if someone  objects or questions the groupthink, he/she is immediately branded a traitor and is shunned or expelled from the group.

We all feel the power of our groups. It is nice to find like-minded people and to unite to pursue common goals. However, we can sometimes be swept along into opinions or actions we doubt—or we can ignore our critical thoughts for fear of being labeled disloyal to the cause. Imagine wondering aloud about the crowd’s plan to worship a Golden Calf. Would you or I have had the courage to stand up and say No? Would we have survived the experience?

In that ancient context, the problem begins with a misanalysis of Moses’ delayed descent from Mount Sinai. Rather than realizing that he is just staying up with God a little longer, some Israelites panic and decide that he is dead. “When the people saw that Moses was so long in coming down from the mountain, they said, ‘…that man Moses, who brought us from the land of Egypt, we do not know what happened to him.’” (Exodus 32.1) Not only do they mistakenly assume Moses’ death, but they also ignore the Presence of God—the One who brought them out of Egypt. Once these anxiety-driven and inaccurate thoughts take hold, who can resist? The Midrash says that Hur tries, but his death sends a message to anyone who might oppose the mob.

So often, groupthink and mob mentality begin with misanalysis. The Jews are the reason the Czar’s taxes are squeezing the Russian peasants; pogroms will ease the tax burden. The Jews are the cause of Germany’s economic humiliation in the 1920s; getting rid of them will bring Germany back to life. The Jews killed Jesus back in 28 CE; a crusade through the Rhineland 1000 years later will fix things—and give Crusaders practice in killing as they work their way down to the Muslims in the Holy Land. Imagine a thinking Christian standing up to a pogrom or a crusade or the Nazis. Once the mob forms, evil and destruction are sure to follow.

While there are still actual mobs in some places, the same kind of dynamic can present itself psychically in ideological or political groupthink. On both the Right and the Left, enemies are identified, and attackers are sent to vanquish them. Not convince them; attack them. And, if anyone questions the thinking, he/she is labeled both disloyal and dangerous—another enemy to be attacked and destroyed. Whether in Democratic or Republican circles, real thinking about real problems can be obfuscated by anxiety-ridden calls to loyalty and action.

My impression is that it is just as difficult to question Global Warming or the notion of Systemic Racism on the Left as it is to question Gun Rights or Donald Trump on the Right.

 
Reb Nachman of Breslov used to teach that evil actions are often based on good intentions. What begins as a good inclination takes a wrong turn and ends up causing great harm. The key to repentance is identifying the initial good thought and finding a moral and righteous way to pursue it. So often, people choose one set of values and pursue them vehemently—often to the exclusion of wisdom. Yes, people have the right to defend themselves and their property, but this does not justify getting in our pickup trucks and killing a Black jogger. Yes, everyone should be respected, but this does not justify destroying the career of someone who is not supportive enough of marginalized groups.

When we dial down the emotions and consider our problems with logic, calm, and grace, we have an opportunity to analyze both problems and possible solutions. We can look at both pros and cons and work toward answers that take into account the complexity of our lives and the presence of both good and bad in people and situations.

In Talmudic days, a great tragedy and controversy occurred when one of the most influential rabbis, Elisha ben Abuyah, became a heretic. What did this mean for his devoted students and for all of the wisdom he had taught over the years? The Midrash suggests that even God considered rejecting everything Elisha had ever taught, but then the Divine Mind was instructed by Rabbi Meir. As the Talmud explains, “Rabbi Meir found a pomegranate and ate its contents while throwing away its peel.” (Hagigah 15b)

Will this Golden Calf be the solution to our problems, or should we think though this problem? Thinking, analyzing, judging, and looking for righteousness: these lead to redemption.

Elitism or Purpose?

February 11th: Tetzaveh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The main theme of our Torah portion is the clothing and the consecration of the priests—the Kohanim. Speaking to Moses, the Lord says, “You shall bring forward your brother Aaron, with his sons, from among the Israelites to serve Me as priests: Aaron, Nadab and Abihu, Eleazar and Ithamar, the sons of Aaron. Make the sacral vestments for your brother Aaron, for dignity and adornment.” (Exodus 28.1-2)

Though the priests are servants of the Lord, there is certainly something elitist and undemocratic about their elevation over the other Israelite tribes. Their tribe, Levi, is chosen from all the other tribes for a special status and role. Then, from among the Levites, Aaron and his sons are chosen for an even more special status and role. Why are these people lifted above the others?

As with any question about Biblical rules, the initial answer should be that this is the way God commands it. Though we may try to figure out God’s reasoning, the importance of obedience to the Divine Will is a major principle of both Biblical and Rabbinic Judaism. We do not have to understand God’s motives or judgments; we just need to follow God’s mitzvot.

Nonetheless, we try. Some commentators look back on the actions of the progenitor of the tribe, Jacob’s son Levi. Perhaps he showed some qualities that are applied to his descendants as inherited merit, zechut avot.

Then, there is a historical possibility—one that revises the Torah’s story of Yetzi’at  Mitzrayim. Though we tell the story and celebrate the miraculous Exodus from Egypt, a number of the details just do not stand up to analysis. First, how could such a large number of people (600,000—or, if you believe the Midrash, 2,500,000!) depart Egypt without any kind of historical record? One could also ask about how a country could withstand all those plagues and the destruction of its army in the Red Sea without any kind of mention in the Egyptian records. There is also the practical matter of organizing, leading, and feeding all those Israelites. Think of the complexity of parking and getting 100,000 fans into Beaver Stadium, and then increase it by six times and take away the walkie-talkies, cellphones, and years of planning. We also have the problem of the tribal society in the Book of Judges—which supposedly happened AFTER the Exodus—closely resembling the Patriarchal society BEFORE the Exodus. And, there are some theological problems in the story. Why does God have two names—the four-letter name we do not pronounce (saying Adonai or The Lord instead) and Elohim, God? The koshis (difficulties) go on and on and lead many to question the historical veracity of the Torah story.

There are Traditional answers to all of these questions—the biggest being the miraculous nature of God and God’s works. However, the many koshis have led many thinkers to consider alternative explanations.

Among them is the theory that not all of the Israelites experienced all of the stories. Perhaps most of the tribes stayed in the Land of Israel while only the Tribe of Levi went down to Egypt and experienced slavery, liberation, and the revelation at Mount Sinai. If the Exodus involved only one tribe—and the few thousand slaves fled over a number of years, then the migration would not have been so noticeable. And, if the miracle of escaping slavery were simply that—escaping slavery—then stories like the splitting of the Red Sea might have been exaggerations of something less worthy of special effects but nonetheless existentially amazing. If the route to freedom involved marshes—where pursuing chariots could not follow, the liberation would have certainly been miraculous—just not in the way the legend grew.

This theory may also explain why the Levites never got a territory in Israel. All the Israelites who had stayed in the Land had their territories, so, when the Levites arrived from Egypt, they were landless. What they had, however, was a tradition of a miraculous encounter with the Lord—both in the Exodus and at Mount Sinai, and they became the teachers of religion and the workers of the religion.

So, rather than an election, lifting the Levites above the other Israelites, perhaps this was a special role carved out for a landless tribe—whom the other tribes wanted to include as family, but who needed a special way to provide for itself and be part of the greater community. Their spiritual legacy gave them a special skill that could serve the other tribes.

When I think about elitism—and my reaction to it, I feel a palpable tension. While I may feel rankled or jealous when someone is lifted above me, I generally do not feel discomfort when I am lifted above someone else. Could I be a secret admirer of Napoleon the Pig—who used to say, “All animals are created equal, but some are more equal than others?”  Or, is it simply a matter of me feeling special—and of feeling threatened when someone else becomes special?

In our Jewish Tradition, this issue of specialness or chosen-ness has long been a concern. It begins in Exodus 19 (v.5-6) where God says, “You shall be My treasured possession among all the peoples. Indeed, all the earth is Mine, but you shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” Some Israelites saw this as a mission-oriented selection, while others began to see it as a statement of racial superiority. Such thinking was anathema to the Prophets such as Amos who made the point that our selection does not make us better. “To Me, O Israelites, declares the Lord, you are just like the Ethiopians. True, I brought Israel up from the land of Egypt, but I also brought the Philistines from Caphtor, and the Arameans from Kir.” (9.7) Though eloquently stated, many Israelites must have persisted in thinking that being chosen by God makes us Jews better than the other nations. So, the Rabbis continued Amos’ message in several Midrashim which assert that we were not God’s first choice. Indeed, the Rabbis teach, we were God’s last choice among all the peoples of the earth.

The point throughout our history has been that our election/selection/sacred calling is for a purpose—as the original Exodus passage clearly states, “Now then, if you obey Me faithfully and keep My covenant, then you shall be My treasured possession…”  We are not talking about elevation for status’ sake; we are talking about a role and a mission. What makes Israel great is not our blood or our selection but rather how we respond to God’s Presence. The same can be said for the selection of the Levites and then Aaron and his sons. Their appointment does not make them better; it just specifies their tasks and holy calling.

Making a Comfortable Home for the Lord (And God’s Children)

February 4th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion begins with a shopping list: “The Lord spoke to Moses, saying, ‘Tell the Israelite people to bring Me gifts; you shall accept gifts for Me from every person whose heart is so moved. These are the gifts that you shall accept from them: gold, silver, and copper; blue, purple, and crimson yarns; fine linen, goats’ hair, tanned ram skins, dolphin skins, and acacia wood; oil for lighting, spices for anointing oil and for the aromatic incense; lapis lazuli and other stones for setting—for the ephod and for the breastplate.” (Exodus 25.1-8)

Then God explains the purpose of these items: “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”

This list and the instructions that follow were very important 3200 years ago. The Mishkan, the portable tent-Temple, provided a place for our people to encounter God and worship during their years in the wilderness and their first centuries in the Promised Land. The bulk of this week’s and next week’s portions involve the construction of the tent complex and the crafting of its furniture and utensils. It was not enough to be granted freedom. The freedom was for a purpose: encountering God and living consciously in the Divine Presence.  

One could ask, however, why we moderns need these instructions for a no-longer-used Mishkan. While we did use the tent-temple from around 1200 to 950 BCE, we then moved our worship to the stationary Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. The First Temple functioned from around 950 to 586 BCE, and the Second Temple functioned from around 516 BCE to 70 CE. Then, since 70 CE, we have worshipped God in synagogues—not a sacrificial temple and not a tent! In other words, we have not needed or followed these tent-temple instructions for a long, long time. Why should we study them every year?!

The answer is that our Tradition has transcended this sacred irrelevancy by looking at the text metaphorically. Though we do not follow these particular details, we are urged to approach our worship with care and respect—realizing that every gesture and motivation is reflective of our encounter with the Eternal One. Every breath and movement can either connect us to God or strain that connection. This is true in the devotional sense and in every other aspect of life. Our attitudes and actions can make God feel “at home” in our midst—or we can alienate the Divine Presence. Remember the affective mitzvah: “Let them make me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.”

The breadth of our calling to make God feel comfortable in our presence was made clear a few weeks ago in the Ten Commandments. Whereas most other ancient religions focused exclusively on treating the gods right, we were commanded to treat both God and our fellow humans right. More than half of the Ten Commandments deal with ethical treatment of other people. God is invested in all of us and wants all of us treated with justice and compassion.

This double mitzvah—to love God and to love people—is the theological basis of our Prophetic call to social justice. “Let justice well up like water, righteousness like a mighty stream!” (Amos 5.24) In fact, for Amos and Isaiah, prayers without righteousness are affronts to the Lord.

As much as God wants us to live prayerfully—relating to the Divine with sincerity and intensity, God also wants us to establish and maintain a society where our brothers and sisters in humanity can feel safe and secure. Thus are we called to our various social action causes—feeding the hungry, healing the sick, freeing the captives, and keeping faith with those whose lives are dangerously close to oblivion.

Among the many realities that call us to action is the recent arrival of the refugees from Afghanistan. After the tragic fall of Afghanistan’s hope for democracy and progress, thousands of Afghans—people invested in the reforms we tried so hard to establish—found themselves in need of rescue from their homeland. Those who were fortunate enough to escape and arrive on our shores can count their blessings, but their resettlement is not yet complete. They need to be assisted in finding new homes and building new lives.

Fortunately, our congregation’s Social Action Committee is working with organizations both local and national to help in this important resettlement. We recently sent out a description of the work and a call for assistance. This would be a good time to help, and I urge you to contact either Naomi Altman (nsa1@psu.edu)  or David Post (post@psu.edu) to find the best way for you to participate.

One of our synagogue’s hallmarks is the depth of volunteerism and social justice work done by congregants of all ages. Our members are hard workers in dozens of local, regional, and national charities. We take seriously the injunction to be God’s Hands in the world, bringing the blessings of heaven to all the earth.

As Hillel counsels, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But, if I am only for myself, what am I? And, if not now, when?” (Avot 1.15)

The Torah, Religion, and Abortion Rights

January 28th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

When we are faced with a challenging ethical situation, many of us turn to our religious traditions for guidance. Usually based on ancient religious texts, religions offer a range of principle and precedents. Of course, sometimes the ancient texts do not address later questions directly, and we are left speculating as to how our spiritual forebears would have responded.

In Judaism, we have had to consider such things as driving automobiles or using microphones—or Zoom—on the Sabbath. There have also been questions about blood transfusions, medicines made from unkosher ingredients, organ transplants, and other possibilities that the ancients could never imagine. Among these difficult modern questions is what the Halakha (Jewish Law) says about contraception and abortion. Interestingly enough, contraception is not a new concern. One can find the Talmudic Rabbis discussing it in regard to both humans and livestock. Sometimes, they understood, reproduction is not safe for females, and contraception is not only allowed but required.

Abortion is another matter. There is no mention of abortion in the Bible or the Talmud. The first Halakhic reference to it (in my knowledge) is a comment made by Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Itzchaki, 1040-1105). Considering a situation in which continuing a pregnancy endangers the life of a pregnant woman, Rashi compares the fetus to a rodef / a pursuer, and the Halakha allows killing a pursuer to save one’s life.

Of course, Rashi was speaking about life-threatening pregnancies, not unwanted pregnancies. An unintended pregnancy or discontinuing a pregnancy when the woman is not able to care for an eventual child is not a scenario the ancients considered in the legal literature. So, in this modern and very difficult situation, we are left searching for principles and precedents—and there are very few.

Though some claim that a number of Biblical verses relate to abortion, the fact is that the Bible does not address this issue. The only possibly relevant passage is one in which the subject is only sort of approached—and it happens to occur in this week’s Torah portion. In Exodus 21.22-25, we read:  “When men fight, and one of them pushes a pregnant woman and a miscarriage results, but no other damage ensues, the one responsible shall be fined according as the woman’s husband may exact from him, the payment to be based on reckoning. But if other damage ensues, the penalty shall be life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burn for burn, wound for wound, bruise for bruise.” The loss of the pregnancy is considered an injury to the woman and not the loss of a life. That is it. There is no other place in the entire Bible—both the Jewish Bible (“Old Testament”) and the Christian Bible (“New Testament”)—that is directly and specifically relevant to elective or therapeutic abortion. Anyone who brings another passage to the debate is simply stretching the chosen passage beyond reasonable interpretation.

This is not to say that religious people have no right to be opposed to abortion. Nor should we say that religious people have no right to support abortion rights. What we have here is a situation in which the ancient religious texts do not address a modern situation, and modern people of faith have been forced to come up with opinions on their own—based on factors and opinions outside of the traditional Scriptural proof-texts.

For many, the big question regards ensoulment—that moment when a soul is put into a developing fetus. Medical science has been unable to answer this question, and Halakha (Jewish Law) has respected the uncertainty and not ventured its own speculation. Indeed religions in general have not addressed this question until very recently.

While some believe that “life begins at conception,” their opinion has not been reflected in religious practice. Scientists estimate that 50% of fertilized eggs (conceptions) do not implant in the uterus or are spontaneously expelled. The woman never even knows she has conceived. In such cases, there is no religious observance marking the existence or loss of a human life. Even in the case of an early-term miscarriage, traditional religions respond with sympathy and comfort but not with a naming ceremony, baptism, blessing, or funeral. In other words, the “life begins at conception” idea is not a “traditional” religious belief; it is a modern religious opinion.

There is nothing wrong with modern religious opinions; we all have them. However, honesty requires identifying them as such and not falsely claiming Biblical authorization.

Unfortunately, I do not have an answer to the debate on this divisive issue. And, whatever the Supreme Court rules in the Spring will not settle the matter either. The best we can do is to honestly appraise the reasons for each opinion and to respect how deeply this issue affects individuals.

In the Reform Movement’s thinking—and in the thinking of the many denominations in the Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice, this profound individuality is a major factor. Realizing that pregnancy is a blessing for some and a crisis for others, the Union for Reform Judaism and its affiliates and colleagues have focused on the individual choice that each pregnant woman faces. As much as choice is seen as a right—a matter of legal and moral autonomy, the Reform Movement also regards the choices women make about their bodies and fertility as rites—moral and religious practices as individual women weigh the many and complex factors and make personal decisions.

One of the most hopeful stories in this conflict was a program in Missouri a few decades ago in which anti-abortion and pro-choice groups combined to create a “Venn Diagram” solution that served both sides’ interests. While the anti-abortion forces want less abortions, the pro-choice advocates do not want more abortions. They want fewer unwanted pregnancies. So, the two groups teamed up in promoting sex-education and contraception information in the community—and their efforts worked: there was a marked decrease in the crises that lead some women and girls to see abortion as their only choice. Even in this difficult conflict, progress and cooperation is possible.

Heavenly Law and Earthly Application

January 21st: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

While the highlight of Yitro is the revelation of the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai (Exodus 20), the earlier part of the sidra has some more subtle but equally important lessons. The context is the visit of Moses’ father-in-law, Jethro. He brings Moses’ family—wife Zipporah and sons Gershom and Eliezer—from Midian to join the newly freed Hebrews. They had apparently stayed at home in Midian when Moses was off in Egypt. Now, after more than a year apart from Moses, the family is reunited. As important as national liberation is, the Torah reminds us that family and individual relationships are vital as well.

While observing the newly freed Israelite society, Jethro notices that Moses is trying to run everything all by himself. “Moses sat as a magistrate among the people, while the people stood about Moses from morning until evening. But when Moses’ father-in-law saw how much he had to do for the people, he said, ‘What is this thing that you are doing to the people? Why do you act alone, while all the people stand about you from morning until evening? ...the thing you are doing is not right; you will surely wear yourself out, and these people as well. For the task is too heavy for you; you cannot do it alone.’” (Exodus 18.13-18) Jethro then counsels Moses to set up a hierarchy of administration and justice—advice that Moses takes. In other words, before the presentation of God’s law, the Israelites have to figure out how to organize themselves—and thus set up a system where God’s law can be transmitted and translated from God’s infinity to the individual situations of human life. The law originates with God, but it is put into practice by humans. As the Psalmist observes, “Hashamayin shamayin l’Adonai, v’ha’aretz natan liv’nay Adam. The heavens belong to the Lord, but the earth is given over to humans.” (Psalm 115.16)

This brings us to a less Divine but similarly hierarchical disposition of authority. Theoretically, the U.S. Supreme Court speaks on the law qua law and does not get involved in politics—a realm the Constitution assigns to the Legislative and Executive Branches. However, the law and the realm of day-to-day life are certainly connected, and, if Supreme Court decisions are untranslatable and unapplicable, then we have problems. Consider two examples.

The first is the Shelby vs. Holder decision from 2013. Shelby County, Alabama, and a large number of other (mostly) Southern counties had been under Justice Department supervision in which any changes in voting rules or districts needed approval. Whereas most state and local governments operate with relative sovereignty, these particular districts had a long history of discrimination against African Americans and other racial minorities and were thus penalized with Federal supervision lest they resort to their old discriminatory habits. The counties argued that the determination of their discriminatory conduct was from long ago (the 1960’s), that it was no longer necessarily valid, AND that the list in the statute was unfair because it did not include many other counties (many in the North) where discrimination is routinely practiced. There is logic to this argument, and Pennsylvania is an example. No counties in Pennsylvania are on the list, and yet civil rights advocates object to a number of Pennsylvania rules that are considered unfair—including Voter Identification Laws. The Court sided with Shelby County and the other supervised districts, declaring the law’s provisions null and void and instructing Congress to legislate protections that are fair and up-to-date. It would seem that Congress’ instructions were clear, but the decade-long gridlock in Congress means that an updated list of offending voting districts was and remains pretty much out of reach. So, while the Court’s decision is logical in a theoretical sense, the decision removed all constraints, and counties all over the country began enacting restrictive voting rules. It is like God decreeing things from heaven that are beyond the ability of earthly authorities to effect. Presumably God is aware of what is going on down here. We wonder whether the Supreme Court is locked in its ivory tower and not paying attention—or is ruling in a disingenuous manner.

The second example involves Abortion Rights and the anxiously awaited Supreme Court decision due in the Spring. (Next week, I shall discuss the issue of abortion rights from the Halachic and religious points of view.) For now, let us imagine that the Supreme Court changes the Roe vs. Wade decision and only allows abortions before 12-15 weeks. As Michael Gerson of The Washington Post observes, this is the way most European countries provide abortion rights, balancing the autonomy of a pregnant woman and the sanctity of the developing life inside her womb. If this were to be the decision, part of the logic would be that 12-15 weeks is plenty of time to arrange for an abortion. However, with the practicalities and politics, would this really be the case? Remember all the ways that anti-abortion forces work to impede the decisions and forestall abortion choices: blockading clinics and harassing patrons, threatening physicians, requiring hospital privileges and then refusing them, and fighting public funding for Planned Parenthood and other contraception and abortion providers. (Difficulty raising the money is frequently the cause for delays in getting the procedure.) In other words, if the anti-abortion people do not stand down and allow real clinic access, then what the Court might determine an “adequate amount of time” will not be adequate. Such a decision would ignore the real situations that women in trouble face and will in effect be a prohibition of abortion rights.

Our Constitution requires the Supreme Court to focus on the principles of the law. However, the Court should not be unconnected to the realities that people face—or to the ways that legal principles are actually applied in real life. We cannot expect the Supreme Court Justices to be on the same level of God, but we can expect them to be guided by practical wisdom and an awareness of the whole system over which they preside.

Rushing to Greet the Waters

January 14th: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The columnist and broadcaster Fareed Zacharia recently observed that most people do not read the details of policies, laws, and programs. Rather, when asked about their opinions, they respond viscerally. They have a general feeling about the worth or lack thereof, and they trust leaders to take care of things.

Though I might pretend to be a deeper thinker, I must admit that I resemble that remark. Once, back in the 1990s, I was part of a large rabbinic delegation that visited Vice President Al Gore in the White House. As he was speaking, I fell asleep. Yes, asleep. The room was hot, and I had just eaten lunch, but the overriding factor was the excessive and tedious detail of his explanations. As I drifted off into slumber, I remember my visceral reaction: I cannot follow all these details, but this very intelligent man seems to know what he’s talking about. I trust him.

How many other people or ideas do we trust—or distrust—based on visceral impressions or reactions? How many of us really understand the way computers or cell phones work? How many of us understand the complexities of economic policy or the Coronavirus or global warming? We drive our cars and take our medications and enjoy music without really knowing how these things function. We live our lives with a kind of trust that those who know will take care of things. What happens, then, when we find out that the people we trust are abusing the responsibility we have given them?

Our Torah portion this week has an excellent example of trust betrayed. Think of the Egyptian soldiers caught in the Red Sea—individuals who trusted Pharaoh and followed his orders. Think of the ways their trust was betrayed as Egypt was destroyed—morally by the continuing enslavement of the Hebrews and then physically plague by plague. Think of the way they still followed his orders, rushing headlong into the sea after the escaping Israelites. Then remember how they died in a foolhardy attempt to thwart the Will of the Lord. “Moses held out his arm over the sea, and at daybreak the sea returned to its normal state, and the Egyptians fled at its approach. But the Lord hurled the Egyptians into the sea. The waters turned back and covered the chariots and the horsemen—Pharaoh’s army that followed them into the sea; not one of them remained.” (Exodus 14.27-28)

Whenever I read this in the Hebrew, something strikes me that the translation does not catch. The Hebrew says, “U’mitzrayim nasim lik’ra’to,” which is usually translated as “the Egyptians fled at its approach.” However, the word “lik’ra’to” usually means “greeting.” (We sing this every week in Lecha Dodi: “Lecha, dodi, LIKRAT Kallah / Come, my beloved, to GREET the bride…” The Egyptians are rushing to greet the disastrous waters—rushing headlong into a catastrophe that they finally meet. Their trust in Pharaoh’s leadership led them first to moral corruption, and now their trust in him is leading them to terror and physical destruction.

There are many issues confronting our society, and there are many opinions about how to solve them. We should be glad for those who take the responsibility for leadership. However, when we see our society plunging headlong into immorality or corruption, perhaps it is time to put aside our trust and get involved in pursuing justice and fairness.

Among the most complicated issues facing our state is that of fair voting districts. We all know what gerrymandering is, but determining when a district is drawn fairly is often quite difficult. Population is not evenly distributed. There are a variety of different governmental and regional lines that define/comprise communities. And, there are a variety of different interest groups pushing for different maps. Too often, however, and in too many places, large numbers of Pennsylvania voters have been strategically disenfranchised. This is not a benign political exercise; it is a moral depravity, and it indicates that that our trust has too often been misplaced.

We could be encouraged by the fact that the Commonwealth’s Constitution provides guidance—with specific goals and principles for drawing fair district lines. The question, however, is whether our political leaders are following these guidelines with righteousness or with guile. There are certainly the natural consequences of elections, but there is a difference between reasonable partisanship and political hackery.

We are fortunate to have two major state leaders in our community, Jake Corman and Kerry Benninghoff. Each purports to be a decent human being, but each seems to be pulled by the temptation to take unfair advantage of his political power. (This is not unique to these two individuals; it is the ubiquitous human situation whenever any of us attain authority.)  Our responsibility is to insist that they behave decently, honestly, and fairly—staying on the right side of the line and following their sworn duty to uphold the Constitution and pursue its goals. Realizing that all leaders are drawn by extreme and tempting voices, we need to support them when they rise above the partisan and do the right thing. This applies to all of us, whether Democrat or Republican.

Judging the comparative redistricting plans is very difficult. Figuring out where to draw the lines amidst the many regions and communities is a headache-invoking exercise. Fortunately, there are resources and opportunities to get involved. The Reform Movement’s Pennsylvania Religious Action Center has identified fair voting districts as its primary project this year, and our congregation’s Social Action Committee is joining in this important work. Our liaisons to the RAC and our Social Action Committee members will be drafting a letter to the Legislative Reapportionment Commission making detailed suggestions with regard to districts in Central Pennsylvania. Please contact either David Post (post@psu.edu) or Emily Fogel Conway (emilyfogelconway@gmail.com) if you wish to be part of this effort.

Brit Shalom is also sponsoring a community-wide discussion on this important matter of justice. On Sunday February 20th, at 4:00 PM, Dr. Lee Ann Banaszak, Head of the Department of Political Science at Penn State, and Dr. Chris Fowler, Associate Professor of Geography and Demography at Penn State, will offer insights on how our current redistricting process is unfolding and how we, as concerned citizens, can continue to raise our voices for justice. See our website for details.

Let us be careful where we put our trust, and let us do our part to make sure that justice is done. To do otherwise is to rush headlong into moral corruption.

Social Justice and the Torah

January 7th: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As we begin our study of Exodus, a number of social justice concerns present themselves. The overarching theme of the book is that of national liberation—liberation from unjust enslavement and oppression and the establishment of a society that is both just and caring. Over the next weeks of Torah study, we shall find social justice imperatives and teachings over and over again.

We begin with Parshat Bo, in which the conflict between God’s Will (“Let My people go!”) and Pharaoh’s (“Who is the Lord that I should heed Him and let Israel go? I do not know the Lord, nor will I let Israel go!”) is in full swing. Pharaoh is clearly cast as the “bad guy,” but there is one disturbing twist: God has “hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers…” (Exodus 10.1) We assume that moral/immoral actors have choices, that their choices are freely made, and that moral responsibility comes from these choices. However, if God hardens Pharaoh’s heart, then how can it be fair to exact punishment? What if Pharaoh were to change his mind and decide to free the Hebrews? Would God allow this to happen?

As one can imagine, a Tradition so focused on morality and holiness could never let this issue remain unaddressed, and Jewish thinkers have wrestled with it for centuries. There are several explanations, but the one that makes the most sense to me is embedded right there in the passage: “I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your children’s children how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My signs among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.” (Exodus 10.1-2)

There was a time over hundreds of years when Pharaoh and his ancestors were moral agents and had plenty of time for repentance. Now, however, that time is over; there are no more second chances. Now is the punishment phase, and God’s hardening of Pharaoh’s heart and the plagues and humiliation of Egypt are the prices to be paid for the unrepented sins of enslaving and oppressing the Hebrews. Pharaoh and Egypt are no longer moral deciders; they have become object lessons for other moral deciders to consider.

For 400 years, Pharaoh and his ancestors have been oppressors. For 400 years, they have treated their subjects with cruelty and a lack of respect. For 400 years, they have resisted and refused every opportunity to rectify their mistakes and repent for their sins. There is always a reason to put off improvements and resist changes. Change can be difficult. Change can be expensive. But, there is a limit, and sins and oppression are cumulative—expanding and growing more profound as the years of evil or neglect continue.

Are there any problems like this in our lives? There are probably quite a few, but today I would like to look at the conundrum of immigration reform.

For many decades now, the economic flow of immigration has not been adequately handled by governmental systems, and the results involve millions of people considered “illegal.” They are undocumented, but they are here and working and participating. Many have been here for years, raising American children. This is not a problem that will go away. It is not even a problem we want to go away. Sending them back would be terribly disruptive on both the human and the economic levels: American industries and society have come to depend upon these millions of undocumented/illegal immigrants. As human beings, they deserve respect, but their in-between status (economically needed but legally undocumented) results in insecurity and cruelty. As citizens of the United States, we need to manage our country, but we also need to look at the realities—economic, societal, cultural, and moral—of our reality. We need to reform our bureaucratic system to find a resolution. Letting it continue will do no one any good and will continue to inflict unnecessary stress on millions of fellow human beings.

This is a problem where everyone already knows the eventual solution. As it was voiced by President George W. Bush, some kind of legal accommodation/forgiveness has to be structured for the undocumented immigrants, and our government needs to regain control of our borders. Those focused on penalties for breaking the immigration laws need to keep in mind our profound economic need for immigrant labor and treat them as welcome helpers—not as criminal usurpers. Those focused on completely open borders need to calm down and recognize the bureaucratic necessity of knowing who is here—who needs to pay taxes and who gets to vote, etc. Letting this situation fester does no one any good.

The historian Ellis Rivkin used to comment on the inherent lack of anti-Semitism at the core of Christianity. Clearly, there has been plenty of anti-Semitism among Christians, but Rivkin maintained that Christianity at its core is not an anti-Jewish religion. His proof is the absence of any concentrated effort across Christendom to rid the world of Jews. Whenever one Christian tyrant would rise and attack the Jews of his country or region, other Christian leaders would invite the Jews to come and find refuge. As bad as it has been in many places over many years, Christianity has never united in the goal of getting rid of the Jews.

Similarly, though we hear all kinds of anti-immigrant rhetoric, note the absence of any wide-spread and systematic efforts to drive out the undocumented. We could regard this as a kind of moral index for America, but I suspect the real reason is economic. Too many people would be hurt by the mass expulsion of illegal workers from the building trades, the dairy and meatpacking industries, restaurants, domestic help, and child-care. And so the rhetoric continues, and nothing really happens. Nothing happens in terms of resolving the crisis, but, in the lives of the undocumented, there is insecurity, danger, exploitation, and a profound lack of respect. This is a festering moral mess, and real suffering occurs.

While these workers did immigrate without proper legal procedures, it was economic factors that brought them here and that keep them here. They needed work, and we needed their labor—and focusing on anything other than regularizing these human beings is a distraction and for no one’s benefit. We can focus on the “breaking of the law,” but, after this many decades and this many millions of illegal immigrants, the fact is that “the law” is broken. Now, the question is: How shall we fix it?

We need to insist that our legislators fix the system and fix it now. Our hesitation and inattention have created a moral outrage, and we need to heal this open wound in our social covenant.

Tzimtzum: A Lesson to Learn, Now or Later

December 17th: Vayechi
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our portion begins with the words “Vayechi Ya’akov: And Jacob lived for seventeen years in the land of Egypt” (Genesis 47.28), but it is really about our ancestor’s final days. He blesses his grandsons, Ephraim and Manasseh, and implores Joseph to carry his body back to the Land of Israel. He wants to be buried with his family at the Cave of Machpelah near Hebron. He also calls all of his sons to his bedside for some final words.

Often known as his blessing, it is a combination of character analysis and prophecy. In fact, Jacob begins with this in mind: “Come together that I may tell you what is to befall you in days to come. Assemble and hearken, O sons of Jacob; Hearken to Israel your father.” (Genesis 49.1-2) As he progresses with the poem, Jacob/Israel notes characteristics of each son and what he anticipates in terms of the son’s/tribe’s future. Generally, good behavior portends a good future. Bad behavior will beget problems down the road.

In considering this deathbed dynamic, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner once quipped, “Someone who makes deathbed demands does not understand the point of dying.” The point of dying, as he would put it, is that we are no longer active players. Yes, we do live on in the influence which our lives and deeds inspire. Yes, we are remembered—hopefully as a blessing, but the fact is that, when we die, our turn at life is over. Now, it is the turn of others.

In the Kabbalah, we are taught that God once inhabited all of existence—everything, everywhere. There was nothing that was not God. In order to make room for the creation, God withdrew from part of the universe—shrinking Itself in what the Kabbalah terms Tzimtzum. God was still enormous to an ultimate magnitude, but there was then some room for creation and for us and our free choices. In addition to giving our independent existence a chance, God’s Tzimtzum also models a kind of holy behavior: withdrawing from some aspect of existence to give someone else a chance.

It is like parents withdrawing from total authority in the family and giving children room to think and choose and act. There may be mistakes, but, without autonomy, there is no growth or maturity. It is the same with employers who give the workers some latitude in doing their work—in using their training and insights and wisdom to figure out solutions.

One way to look at the death of Jacob—and every other human death—is that it is the ultimate Tzimtzum: leaving the world (and our affairs) to others. Our turn is over. It is their turn.

Of course, no one wants to give up. Like we read in our prayer in the Yom Kippur Yizkor service, “Like a child falling asleep over a bed full of toys, we loosen our grip on earthly possessions only when death overtakes us.” Death is not something we want, but when it happens—and may that be at a ripe old age (Jacob was 147),  there comes a time to let everything go. And trust.

Jacob is at that point, reluctant to give up his leadership, but facing the inevitability of being gathered to his people, and he chooses to speak these last words to his sons. Though described as “what will befall you in days to come,” much of what he has to say involves his observations—and his evaluations of their characters and their past behavior. Can such evaluations be helpful?

As the recipient of many evaluative statements over the years, I must admit that some are more helpful than others. Sometimes, critiques just seem mean: random shots meant to injure rather than help. Other times, they fall on deaf ears—that is, regardless of their intention, I do not see their relevance or applicability; they do not resonate. However, sometimes, these critiques are amazingly helpful. I recall one—at a rabbinical meeting where I made a very cynical comment. One of the older rabbis—who had known me since I was a teenager and apparently had watched me grow and develop over the years—called me down: “That is not the David Ostrich I’ve known all these years. The David Ostrich I know is kinder, more hopeful, and more  constructive.” The comments were not easy to hear, and they stung. My immediate impulse was anger and resentment. Who is this guy to attack me? But, then I answered my own question. He is a guy who knows me and has had hopes for me and has been well acquainted with my thinking and actions. He is precisely the kind of guy to offer an evaluation!

So back to Jacob’s evaluations of his sons. Perhaps Jacob understands Rabbi Kushner’s point—that dying means giving up one’s turn and letting the next generation give it a try. Perhaps the “prophecies” are less instructions trying to restrict his sons’ action than evaluative observations—urging them to make the most of their opportunities. One hopes Jacob approaches his sons with fondness and hope—that the relationships he has with his sons and his perception of what they can hear will make the communication effective.

Every decision of the new generation may not be a good one—just as every decision made by Jacob was not perfect! Nonetheless, Tzimtzum calls on Jacob to trust his sons to plot their own course. And, there is trust in God: God who keeps the human endeavor moving forward, Who helps us recover from missteps, and Who guides us through the messes we invariably make.

A final observation: I think it is a mistake for one generation to think that its challenges and its choices are more important than those of other generations. We may feel the urgency of our decisions, but let us not indulge in the fantasy that we are somehow more important. If we are links in a chain, then each link is important and worthy of respect and trust. The eternal chain depends on every single one. Tzimtzum, humility, and trust: these can lead us to God.

Trying to Understand the Past

December 10th: Vayigash
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In a few weeks, we shall read the ominous words, “A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them…’ So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor…” (Exodus 1.8-11)

This is so different from the wonderful greeting we get in this week’s Torah portion! “Pharoah said to Joseph, ‘As regards your father and your brothers who have come to you, the land of Egypt is open before you: settle your father and your brothers in the best part of the land; let them stay in the region of Goshen.’” (Genesis 47.5-6)

What happens between Genesis 47 and Exodus 1?

One of the interesting things about antiquity is that evidence—textual or archeological—can be both abundant and limited, leaving lots of room for ambiguity and interpretation. For a modern example, consider the American Civil War. There is a lot of evidence, but we do not know everything—leading to a multitude of different takes and interpretations: Why did the North fight? Why did the South fight? Why did the various soldiers fight? And, in a question that recently had a monument in Washington, D.C. removed, were the African slaves freed by Lincoln and other white people, or did the African slaves participate in their own liberation?

There can also be significance in the absence of evidence. A recent article in the The Smithsonian magazine reports on an interesting controversy at the archeological excavations in Timna, in the Arava desert in the south of Israel. In a place that seems to be the site of a sophisticated ancient copper mining operation, there is a surprising lack of archeological evidence of who did the mining. Archeology usually focusses on buildings and other physical artifacts, but there are no buildings. Does this mean that no one lived there—or does it mean that the inhabitants lived in non-permanent dwellings? The current thinking is that a very sophisticated society (based on evidence in the mines) lived there in tents and therefore did not leave the kinds of city ruins upon which archeology so depends. In other words, the lack of evidence may suggest a different take on the story.

In the case of ancient Egypt and the Israelites—and what happened to turn a great relationship into an oppressive one, the key may be in the continuing applicability of the term “the Egyptians.” While someone ruled Egypt, the ruling parties or ethnic groups were not the same over the whole history of “Ancient Egypt.” In addition to “local” power politics, there was an invasion of people from Anatolia (modern day Turkey) back in the Second Millennium BCE. These Hyksos swept down through Syria, Lebanon, Israel, and the Sinai, leaving interesting architectural artifacts as they eventually took over Egypt. Then, a few centuries later, they seem to have been expelled, and Egypt was ruled by a different group of “Egyptians.” Many historians think that both the welcoming of foreigners at one time and the oppression of foreigners at a later time are part and parcel of this larger story of the Hyksos in Egypt.

Another angle of the Joseph story involves a massive societal reorganization that is described in Genesis. First, let us recall how Joseph comes to his high position. Pharaoh has two disturbing dreams which none of his advisers can interpret. Joseph is called from prison and asked by Pharoah to explain the dreams’ meanings. “I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.” However, Joseph draws an important distinction. “Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.” (Genesis 41.15-16) So, speaking God’s message, Joseph explains the dreams: a fourteen-year situation is approaching—with seven years of plenty and seven years of famine. Joseph suggests that Pharoah use this knowledge to plan and deal with both the blessing and the curse. Pharaoh likes what Joseph says and sees in him an excellent administrator. “‘Could we find another like him, a man in whom is the spirit of God?” So, Pharaoh appoints Joseph as head of the entire royal court. Further, “See, I put you in charge of all the land of Egypt.’ And removing his signet ring from his hand, Pharaoh put it on Joseph’s hand….thus he placed him over all the land of Egypt.” (Genesis 41.38-43)

During the seven years of plenty, Joseph supervises a great collection of grain. Then, when the seven years of famine strike, Joseph dispenses the grain—but at a price, and the coffers of the Egyptian monarchy are swelled. When the people’s money runs out, “…all the Egyptians came to Joseph and said, ‘Give us bread, lest we die before your very eyes; for the money is gone!’” So, Josephs accepts their livestock in payment for the foodstuffs. Then, when the livestock runs out, the people offer all that they have left. “Take us and our land in exchange for bread, and we with our land will be serfs to Pharaoh; provide the seed, that we may live and not die, and that the land may not become a waste.’ So Joseph gained possession of all the farmland of Egypt for Pharaoh, every Egyptian having sold his field because the famine was too much for them; thus the land passed over to Pharaoh.”  (Genesis 47.13-22) The rest of the chapter describes a massive population relocation—with people moving off their farms and into labor pools to work Pharaoh’s land.

In other words, in the face of this major economic crisis, Joseph and Pharaoh effect a major change in the Egyptian social and agricultural structure. This too must be seen as part of the story of the Hyksos dominion of Egypt.

How all these factors mixed and how this dynamic set the stage for the dramatic change of fortune for the Israelites provide fertile ground for theories and doctoral dissertations. As I said before, there is both evidence and lack of evidence—with enough ambiguity for many, many interpretations.

While the historical story is thus relatively malleable, the religious approach has been remarkably stable. In all of this drama—both family and geopolitically, God is present. God is aware of how we react to the stimuli of our lives and times, and God is with us in weathering the difficulties. God is always present, as well, in inspiring us to find purpose, goodness, and holiness. As Joseph will explain to his brothers in next week’s Torah portion, “Though you intended me harm, God intended it for good…” (Genesis 50.20) We may not understand God’s ways or be privy to God’s timing, but we are taught to keep God in our thinking all the time. God is with us, and God has hopes for the ways we respond.

Potiphar’s Wife, Robert Bly, ‘Unorthodox,’ and Ineptitude

December 3rd: Mikketz and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In last week’s Torah portion, we read about Joseph’s encounter with his employer’s wife. Joseph is serving as a slave in the house of Potiphar, and, through his own diligence and the favor of God, “the blessing of the Lord was upon everything Potiphar owned…He left all that he had in Joseph’s hands and, with him there, he paid attention to nothing save the food that he ate. Now Joseph was well built and handsome. After a time, Potiphar’s wife cast her eyes upon Joseph and said, “Lie with me.’ But he refused…” (Genesis 39)

He refuses and explains his two reasons. First, it would be a betrayal of his master’s trust. Second, it would be a sin against God. Mrs. Potiphar is not persuaded and accuses Joseph of attempted rape. She is believed by her husband, and Joseph is thrown into jail.

The Torah tells the story as though Potiphar’s wife is a predator. Privileged, with power, she is not to be refused. This is certainly possible, but it is also possible that there was a mutual attraction and some flirting. When the power dynamic is vastly uneven, romantic possibilities can be fraught with complexity and misunderstanding. There is also the possibility that Joseph is at first receptive to her advances, but at the last minute realizes the sins and halts the affair.

There are many stories told about sexual predation—and tragically this is too often true. But, sometimes, the culprit in romantic disasters is nothing more than misunderstanding—or ineptitude.

Take the story in the Netflix series, Unorthodox, where a young woman breaks free from Satmar Hassidism and an unfulfilling marriage. Pushed into an arranged marriage, the young woman and her husband experience “problems in bed.” She has some physical issues, and he is not sensitive or helpful. As the story is told, he is a real problem. But, we should ask, where would a young ultra-Orthodox man get the training or experience to be what his wife needs? She is not the only neophyte in the relationship. Haredi boys do not date or discuss these subjects and get as little information as their wives. For most in the Haredi environment, relationships develop and, with or without happiness, procreation takes place. But, when problems occur, the resources and sensibilities to remedy them are extremely limited. In other words, the young husband may not be the bad guy. He may just be inexperienced, unprepared, and inept.

Enter Robert Bly, the poet and guiding voice of the “Men’s Movement” of the 1980s and 1990s. Mr. Bly, who passed away last week, believed that modern men are emotionally stunted because the skills of how to be a mature man have not been passed down or prized in modern society. His work is both complicated and controversial, but there is much sense in it. The insights are not meant to excuse bad behavior in men but to help men exert responsible and creative stewardship over their animalistic sides, learning how to balance the animal and the angelic.

Rabbi Rami Shapiro did some interesting work on this notion, seeing this conflict between the animal and the civilized in the story of Jacob and Esau. Could every man have both an Esau side and a Jacob side—and must these two innate proclivities wrestle in order for menstchlikeit (full humanity) to be achieved?

I participated in a “men’s discussion group” back in the 1990s, and it was very interesting how these mature and successful men still grappled with a host of competing masculine ideals and definitions of success. While detractors of the Men’s Movement spoke of foolishness (men beating drums in the woods) or wimpiness (grown men whining and weeping), my limited experience was quite mature, realistic, and poignant. Which, among the many models of male success, should a man choose and upon whose insistence? How does one achieve success or confidence in the many and varied realms of life—adjudicating the possibilities of male strength, restraint, courage, kindness, judgment, weakness, and accomplishment?

Joseph in the Bible is certainly challenged in a number of different realms. As a boy, he is the favorite son, coddled and spoiled by his elderly, detached, and grieving father. Oblivious to—or in spite of—his brothers’ jealousy, he seeks continued approval from his father by tattling on his brothers. He prances around in his special clothes (Midrash), refusing to take on the responsibilities of adulthood. Though he cannot control his dreams, he insists on sharing them and lording his visions over his brothers. He suffers kidnapping and slavery and is tempted by his master’s wife. He is imprisoned and abandoned by his friends. Finally, he is raised to a high and powerful office, but he still harbors emotional distress—a turmoil that comes to the surface when his unknowing brothers appear before him to procure food during the famine.

At each step along the way, he is challenged mightily. What should he be or do? Should he be a warrior, or a scholar, or a political manipulator, or a devoted son who—as soon as he gets power and status in Egypt—goes to visit his beloved Father? Does he manage his own family better than Jacob manages his? Does he succeed in Egypt because he is obsequious or because he is clever or because he is a long-term thinker who works with Pharaoh in a mature manner? How does Joseph—at each step along his complicated path—choose virtues and aspire to success? What does he do right, and what does he do wrong?

One senses a complexity within this ancestor—a complexity that is endemic in human personality and experience. He embodies the challenges we all face: managing our diverse inclinations and role models in a variety of situations. While his father wrestles, Joseph juggles.

We all come into this world inept, and we continue to be inept throughout. Those moments and occasions when we manage to succeed are to be prized, and those moments when our natural ineptitude predominates are to be endured and hopefully corrected.

The Sins of Onan

November 26th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This is one of the Bible lessons they don’t teach you in Sunday School. In Genesis 38, we read a very disturbing story about Judah, son of Jacob and namesake of all us Jews. He marries a woman named Shua, and they have three children: Er, Onan, and Shelah. When Er grows up, he marries a woman named Tamar, but, before they can have any children, Er dies. The Torah does not explain what happens; it just says, “But Er, Judah’s first-born was displeasing to the Lord, and the Lord took his life.” (Genesis 38.7) This explanation may be a matter of post hoc, ergo propter hoc reasoning—seeing a result and assuming the reason for it. Why else would a young man die? God must have had a good reason. This is disturbing theology even before we get to the rest of the story.

Er’s widow, Tamar, is then plunged into a very awkward ancient custom. When a married man dies without children, his brother is supposed to father a child with the widow—and the child is considered the dead brother’s progeny. This is called levirate marriage or the levirate obligation. When it comes time for Onan to do his brotherly duty, things get complicated. “Judah said to Onan, ‘Join with your brother’s wife and do your duty by her as a brother-in-law, and provide offspring for your brother.’ But Onan, knowing that the seed would not count as his, let it go to waste (spilt it on the ground) whenever he joined with his brother’s wife, so as not to provide offspring for his brother. What he did was displeasing to the Lord, and God took his life also.” (Genesis 38.8-10)

At this point, Shelah is too young for the levirate obligation, so Tamar returns to her family, thinking that she will wait for him to grow up. Judah, however, determines that Tamar is a danger to his family, and he seeks to disassociate from her—sort of “forgetting” about her and Shelah’s obligation to her (and to Er).

Time passes, and even though Shelah grows up, Tamar is never contacted. She then takes matters into her own hands. Hearing that Judah is traveling near her family’s home, she disguises herself as a sacred prostitute (associated with a pagan shrine) and entices Judah to lie with her. When she gets pregnant and Judah hears about it, he suddenly feels a proprietary interest in her and wants her executed for adultery. Fortunately for her, she has Judah’s seal and cord in her possession, and before her execution, she proclaims that she is with child by the owner of these tokens. Judah realizes his sin and says, “She is more in the right than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah.” (Genesis 38.26) She is brought back into the family, bears twins Perez and Zerah, but she and Judah are not intimate again.

What a mess!

There are several ways of understanding the levirate marriage. Some think it is designed to give the widow a place of respect in the family. In a society where a woman’s only significance is as a wife or a mother, having a child garners this settled position and prevents her from being cast out. Others think the custom may be related to Biblical thinking about the afterlife. Though Sheol, the Bible’s explanation of where dead people “live,” is not a place of reward or punishment, there is a notion that the dead are aware of their descendants and can root for them. Providing the widow with a child provides the dead brother with someone to watch and support from Sheol. This explains Judah’s phrasing of the instruction to Onan (and perhaps Tamar): “Join with your brother’s wife and do your duty by her as a brother-in-law, and provide offspring for your brother.” Another possible reason for the levirate obligation is to dissuade brothers from fratricide—killing a brother to inherit his share of the estate. As hideous as this seems, there have been cultures in which brothers killed brothers for tribal/imperial leadership and possessions. If, however, the dead brother’s share would pass to “his son,” then such a terrible option would be less of a temptation.

We then get to the question of Onan’s sin. What exactly does he do wrong? There are several possibilities—and perhaps this multiplicity of sins is what makes the punishment so severe. First, he refuses to provide his brother with offspring. Second, he refuses to help his sister-in-law gain the status necessary for a respectable life. Third is Onan’s callous disregard for Tamar’s intimate sensibility—making her suffer the humiliation of sex with a man she does not love and then preventing her from using the encounter for pregnancy. Notice the habitual nature of his disrespect. He spills his seed upon the ground “whenever he joined with his brother’s wife.” It is not a single incident, but a regular practice.

It says in the Talmud that “God counts the tears of women.” Despite the power that men have in Biblical and Talmudic Law, this teaching reminds men that women’s feelings matter—and that part of the religious life is being considerate and respectful to women.

Despite these other offenses, the focus of traditional commentaries has been on the physical “spilling of his seed”—the deposit of semen in any place other than a woman’s reproductive system. Thus traditional religions have used Onan’s terrible punishment to prohibit male masturbation and—in more modern times—barrier method contraception. The Roman Catholic Church has even carried this grave concern to the opposite of contraception and sees in Onan’s sin reason to prohibit in vitro fertilization—or even testing of semen for potency. The problem, as the Church sees it, is in any production of or collection of semen other than its “natural” context.

In Judaism, there is a different judgment. The mitzvah of procreation is deemed more important than the prohibition of “spilling seed,” and thus collection of semen for testing or fertility techniques is allowed. And, the two mitzvot of pikuach nefesh (saving a life) and of sexual gratification (for both wives and husbands) are deemed more important than the prohibition of “spilling seed, and thus Halachah allows barrier contraception when a pregnancy would be deleterious to the wife’s health.

As with all Biblical stories, there are multiple interpretive possibilities, and it is always interesting how different readers in different contexts draw their conclusions.

A Major Misunderstanding

November 19th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Our Torah portion begins with a monumental misunderstanding. Jacob is on his way home to the Land of Israel and sends messengers ahead to let Esau know he is coming. “The messengers returned to Jacob, saying, ‘We came to your brother Esau; he himself is coming to meet you, and there are four hundred men with him.’ Jacob was greatly frightened; in his anxiety, he divided the people with him and the flocks and herds and camels, into two camps, thinking, ‘If Esau comes to the one camp and attacks it, the other camp may yet escape.’” (Genesis 32.7-9) The reason for Jacob’s fear is understandable. The brothers parted on very bad terms—with Esau threatening to kill Jacob because of the stolen blessing incident. (Genesis 27.41) This is why Rebekah suggests a trip up to Haran to visit the family. Jacob has now been gone over twenty years, and we do not know if there has been any contact between Jacob and his parents and brother—or if Esau is still furious.

As it turns out, Esau has cooled down. He has grown and become successful and powerful, and he is no longer intent on murdering his brother. In fact, he is coming to greet Jacob with open arms. Jacob may have reason to suspect Esau, but the fact is that Esau has no ill intentions. The threat is all in Jacob’s head.

When I read this story, I think about the term “micro-aggression,” a term that assumes ill-intent—even if it is not present. Those identified as “aggressors” are often surprised that a comment or term is received as insulting or demeaning, and they are also often surprised at the ferocity of the response—both by the person who perceives the insult and those in society who have decided to be the arbiters of such micro-aggressions. Are these terms or comments a priori demeaning, or is it a matter of the listener’s mood or current opinions?

Following the story of Jacob and Esau, is the insult or danger really there, or is it all in the listener’s head? And, if it is all in the listener’s head, how can the perceived insult be addressed without oppressing the innocent speaker?

There has been a recent trend for scholars or journalists to research the origins of a term or ceremony and discover its hidden racist or derogatory roots. Though there may not be a current consensus about the “real meaning” of a term, the researcher seeks to inform everyone of their hidden racism and thus ban the term. A case in point is the term “cake-walk.” Some have traced this term back to slavery days when African slaves would be required to compete in elaborate dance contests to win a cake. Since the white people would watch and be entertained, we are counseled that any modern uses of the term are inherently or at least historically racist and should be discontinued. This is quite curious to me because, whatever the researcher’s understanding of the origins, the term has evolved and developed and is frequently used by African Americans who understand the term differently. Two examples: the acclaimed trumpeter Wynton Marsalis—a significant figure in Black culture—has included in his sets of classic jazz Sidney Bechet’s 1925 “Cake Walkin’ Babies From Home.” It is a cute song—with great opportunities for jazz improvisation, and, since Marsalis does not usually include a vocalist in his band, all the players—most of whom are African American—join in the fun and sing the vocals in unison. Are they “micro-aggressing?”

Another example is from the work of perhaps the most significant African American classical composer, William Grant Still. In his 1940 ballet, Miss Sally’s Party, the final and climactic movement is called “The Cake Walk Contest.” The party is hosted and attended by African Americans, and a contest involving fancy dancing is part of the fun. Whatever the origins of the term “cake walk,” it has evolved beyond its original context of oppression and evolved into a term for fun or frivolity—and is used by perfectly respectable Black people.

There is also the matter of individuals changing their opinions and sensitivities. In a recent interview on Here and Now (NPR and WBUR), Chef Bryant Terry, a food historian and celebrator of the African American culinary tradition, discusses his changing attitudes about watermelon. When he was growing up, “his family talked about watermelon as a sacred fruit that helped newly freed Africans to reach financial stability. But for a long time, he refused to eat watermelon because of the associated racist stereotypes about Black Americans.” He did not want to buy into or reproduce racial stereotypes that were detrimental to his people. However, after some time, he changed his mind and started enjoying watermelon again. As he explains, not eating watermelon was “what I needed to protect myself at that time,” but getting over that hump and really embracing it reflected “my own ability to grow and to live my life without concern for the white gaze. If I like watermelon, I'm going to eat watermelon and I don't care what anybody says about it.”

Is the problem in a racially meaningful food or ceremony or term inherent, or is the problem in the mind and current sensitivity of the listener? To be sure, there are insults that are lobbed as emotional grenades, but, then again, there are many terms which have evolved and no longer mean what a historian declares them to mean permanently and forever. Esau could have been coming for blood, but, as the story unfolds, the fear and danger are all in Jacob’s mind. As Dr. Freud is reputed to have said, “Sometimes, a cigar is just a cigar.”

As we try to establish a more just culture—with due regard for everyone, we are beset with changeable opinions, sensitivities, and attitudes. And we never know at what point in a person’s developing attitudes a comment will be considered problematic or not. That is why a more judicious approach might be to treat perceived insults (“micro-aggressions”) the way the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission treats off-color jokes in the workplace. While some people find them amusing, and others find them extremely offensive, there is no way to set a standard by which such jokes are judged a priori offensive. It is a matter of individual perception. So, if a person in the workplace finds such jokes offensive, he/she should notify the office comedians—and supervisors—and go on record as requesting that such jokes not be told in their presence. Then, if such a joke is told around them, it can be construed as harassment. These rules call for communication rather than outrage and hostility—and give potential offenders a chance to be nice. Potentially weaponized situations can be humanized.

 When Jacob’s fear and panic come face to face with a gracious and welcoming Esau, Jacob declares, “Seeing your face is like seeing the face of God, and you have received me favorably.” (Genesis 33.10). When Jacob sees the humanity and Divinity in his brother, the family bond is restored.