Making Room in Ourselves for God

June 10th: Naso
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to the very famous Priestly Benediction, Numbers 6 (Parshat Naso) includes the rules for the ancient and curious custom of the Nazarite. “Nazarite-ship” was a special holy status that one could adopt and practice for various periods of time—the length to be determined when one took the vow. We do not know why people chose to be Nazarites, and we do not know what they did while they were Nazarites. We just know that the rules prohibited them from drinking wine, eating grapes, or cutting their hair. And, we know the ceremony for the end of one’s term as a Nazarite. It included bringing sacrifices and cutting one’s hair—and then burning the consecrated hair on the altar. 

As I said, being a Nazirite was a voluntary obligation and for a limited time. There is, however, one example in the Bible of a person who was assigned the Nazarite status before his birth and with the term running for his entire life. Samson, whose birth story is told in this week’s Haftarah, is known for his great strength, long hair, and poor romantic choices, but his origin story involves a Heavenly directive. His parents live in Tzor’ah (near the modern city of Bet Shemesh), and the couple suffers from infertility. Whereas many Biblical stories tell about a couple praying for fertility, this story just mentions the problem. Then, suddenly, and out of nowhere, an angel appears to the wife. “You are barren and have borne no children, but shall conceive and bear a son. Now be careful not to drink wine or other intoxicant, or to eat anything unclean. For you are going to conceive and bear a son; let no razor touch his head, for the boy is to be a Nazirite to God from the womb on. He shall be the first to deliver Israel from the Philistines.” (Judges 13.3-5) 

When the woman reports this surprising encounter to her husband, he does not quite believe her, and he prays for another visit from the angel. The angel returns and re-explains the situation, but the man still does not understand what is happening. Thinking that the visitor is a prophet and not an angel, he offers him hospitality. The angel’s response is interesting. “The angel of the Lord said to Manoah, ‘If you detain me, I shall not eat your food; and if you present a burnt offering, offer it to the Lord’…Manoah said to the angel, ‘What is your name? We should like to honor you when your words come true.’ The angle said to him, ‘You must not ask for my name; it is unknowable.’” (Numbers 13.16-18) 

Notice the absence of ego in the angel, eschewing hospitality and even thanks. This is an important characteristic in Jewish Angelology—that m’lachim/angels are not beings independent from God. According to the Tradition, they have no names, no egos, and limited lifespans—just for the duration of their errands. This is in contradistinction to other religions’ tales of angels who are filled with ego and who sometimes even rebel against God. The Jewish understanding of angels is that they are agents/extensions of the One God—as waves are part of the sea. 

If we humans were to take the angels as examples to follow, we might think about giving ourselves over to God and God’s influence. We are certainly created to be our own selves, but we can go astray when we let our egos dominate or subdue our noble impulses. We are capable of muting the Divine that we carry inside. 

In this regard, Reb Israel, the Baal Shem Tov, remarked that “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.” In similar fashion, the modern Rabbi Rami M. Shapiro explains that true prayer involves emptying one of oneself and thus leaving room for God. We see an example of this self-emptying in the story of Joseph. When Pharaoh calls on Joseph to interpret his dreams, he says, “’Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.’ Joseph answered Pharoah, saying, ‘Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.’” (Genesis 41.15-16) Though Joseph starts out with less than an ideal character, he has apparently grown in maturity and spiritual wisdom. He is not the interpreter; he is merely a vessel for God’s wisdom.  

In addition to his Nazirite status, Samson is also blessed with incredible strength, and he finds purpose for this strength as he saves the Israelites from the Philistines. However, when he lets his ego and self-gratification become his main focus, he falls into disaster. He fails to see Delilah’s deceptions, and he loses everything. Only when he subsumes himself in his mission does he regain his strength and purpose and gain one final victory over the Philistines. His self-sacrifice not something we are taught to emulate, but the lesson of an unrestrained ego is an important one for us to remember. We find our greatest significance when we—like the angels—allow ourselves to be vessels/vehicles for God’s blessings. 

This does not mean eschewing any personal enjoyment or satisfaction. As Hillel counsels, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me?!” God wants us to enjoy our lives. However, lives filled with nothing but selfish pursuits lose significance. “But, if I am only for myself, what am I?!”  (Mishnah Avot 1.15) Something of our value is based on how much we devote ourselves to others. 

We have the ability to open ourselves to the influence of the Divine and to be m’lachim/angels, bringing God’s blessings to all the earth. Whether with physical strength or intellect or spiritual determination, we can be God’s Hands in the world.  

“May the Lord bless you and protect you.
May the Lord smile upon you and be gracious unto you.
May the Lord shine upon you and bless you with peace.”  (Numbers 6.24-26) 

Our Gift and Our Purpose

 June 3rd/4th/5th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This weekend, we celebrate Shavuot, the holiday where we commemorate Matan Torah, the Giving of the Torah. According to Exodus, the Ten Commandments are given some fifty days after the Children of Israel depart Egypt, reminding us that both events are part of a single process. We are brought forth to freedom for a purpose—to comprise and live in holy community. The Torah represents the idea that God has preferences for the ways humans live our lives. 

The Midrash on Shir Hashirim (The Song of Songs) puts the story into a more romantic, fairy-tale kind of paradigm. Israel enslaved in Egypt is a damsel in distress, and God rescues her/us and brings us to Mount Sinai to marry us.
“I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine,
As we browse among the lilies…”   (Song of Songs 2.16)

“Who is she that comes up from the desert…
In clouds of myrrh and frankincense?
Leaning upon her beloved?”  (Song of Songs 3.6)

“You have captured  My heart, My own, My bride!
You have captured My heart with one glance of your eyes,
With one coil of your necklace.
How sweet is your love, My own, My bride?”  (Song of Songs 4.9-10) 

This message of love is accentuated in the difficult tale of Hosea—whose story is the weekly Haftarah portion. Comparing his own marital difficulties to the stresses between God and Israel, Hosea implores his unfaithful wife to return to him. The analogue is the unfaithfulness of Israel who is attracted both to idolatry and the immorality of their times. Hosea the Prophet sees a similarity in his situation and God’s, and his message is that God is lovingly waiting for us, if we but only return to our Divine union. This drama is summarized and remembered daily in the traditional Tefillin ritual: as the worshipper wraps the Tefillin strap around a finger, the verses from Hosea bind us to God and God to us:
“I will betroth you forever:
I will betroth you with righteousness and with justice,
With goodness and with mercy.
I will betroth you with faithfulness.
And you shall know the Lord.” (Hosea 2.21-22) 

In many ways, the Exodus is a story of God doing something for us. We are passive participants in God’s great campaign against Egypt and its tyranny. At Sinai, however, we are given an opportunity to be active partners with the Lord. A window to the Infinite is opened for us, and that which shines through shows how we can bring God into the world. Though God created the world, God is not always welcome here. Torah invites us to play a role in God’s long-term project of filling the world. As we read in Zechariah,
“The Lord shall be Ruler over all the earth.
In that day, there shall be One Lord with one Name.”  (Zechariah 14.9)
Or, as I like to translate it:
“The Lord’s influence shall hold sway over all the earth.
On that day, the Lord shall be One and God’s Name shall be One.” 

When we were and are given Torah, we are provided with an opportunity to open ourselves to God and to the possibilities of godliness. Thus can we fill ourselves with holy purpose and usher God into the world.
“Baruch Shem kevod malchuto le’olam va’ed uv’chol makom.
Blessed be the Name of God’s glorious kingdom forever and ever and in every place.”

Torat Kohanim and Us

 May 27th: Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The flow of time in the Torah is sometimes difficult to remember. Whereas Genesis tells stories that happened over some two thousand years—from 3760 BCE (Creation of the World) to about 1500 BCE (the relocation of the Hebrews to Egypt), Exodus tells stories from a much shorter amount of time. Other than the initial story of “a new Pharoah” arising “who did not know Joseph” and the imposition of forced labor on the Hebrews, almost all of Exodus takes place over some eighty-two years—and everything after the Burning Bush (in Chapter 3) takes place over about two years. According to the Biblical chronology, Moses is about eighty years old when he is called by God from the Burning Bush. The Exodus process—with “Let My people go” and all the plagues—takes about a year. Then, after the Israelites leave Egypt, the rest of the Book of Exodus takes about a year. As we read in Exodus 20.17 (the last chapter of the book), “In the first month of the second year, on the first of the month, the Mishkan/Tabernacle was set up.” 

We then get to the Book of Leviticus—which we complete this week. Here is the last sentence of Leviticus: “These are the commandments that the Lord gave Moses for the Israelite people on Mount Sinai.” (Leviticus 27.34) This conclusion and summary of the book reminds us that the entire book—all twenty-seven chapters divided among ten weekly portions—happens while the Israelites are still at Mount Sinai, a place where they arrived some two and a half months after departing slavery in Egypt. 

This small passage of time will come up in several weeks when we read in Numbers 9 about the first Passover observance—the first anniversary of the original Passover night back in Egypt. 

The forty years of wandering in the wilderness are all in Numbers, and Deuteronomy is Moses’ farewell address before he passes away and the Children of Israel enter The Land. 

So, what do we have in all of these Levitical “commandments that the Lord gave Moses for the Israelite people on Mount Sinai?” Most in Leviticus are about ritual life. There are rules for the many different categories of sacrifices and for various communal sacred practices—such as the Sabbatical and Jubilee Years that we studied last week in Behar. So much of the early part of the book is devoted to priestly procedures that the Rabbis referred to it as Torat Kohanim (The Torah of the Priests), which was picked up by the Greek Leuitikon and then the Latin Leviticus. Of course, the official Hebrew name is based on the first important word in the book, Vayikra: “Vayikra el Moshe, And He (the Lord) called to Moses.”  

In the traditional understanding of the Torah, this interlude of a handbook for the priests was included in God’s original organization of our religion. The priests needed to know exactly what to do. However, for those who see the Torah as a composite document, woven together from four pre-existing texts of ancient Israel, Leviticus is considered the province and the instruction manual for the Kohanim, the priests who officiated in the sacrificial cult.  

Some wonder whether it was ever intended to be read and studied by non-priests. Not that it was a secret. Rather it was a technical manual which non-priests did not need to read. (I do not read medical textbooks, auto repair manuals, or do computer programming; I trust the professionals to do so—and I appreciate their expertise.) If this were the case, then some wonder whether the ritual restrictions on food were for general Israelite practice or just for ritual/sacrificial events. We discussed this curious possibility several weeks ago (March 25th in Shemini) when we read about prohibitions of slaughtering animals away from the Tabernacle and then read about how to slaughter animals away from the Tabernacle. Perhaps the rules of Kashrut were only for the priests, with regular Israelites observing them only during sacrificial rituals.  

Our Torah portion, Bechukotai, begins with some very dramatic passages about obeying or disobeying God’s commandments. If we obey God’s commandments, wonderful things will happen. But, if we do not obey God’s commandments, misery and calamity and starvation and every kind of terrible thing will be our fate. Both the blessings and the curses section (Leviticus 26) are quite poetic, and one can sense in the elevating and doom-saying poetry an attempt by the ancient author to imbue the message with emotional intensity.  

However, we moderns must ask (some 2500-3000 years after these words were recorded), “Exactly which commandments are we to follow?” Given the different and sometimes contradictory rules outlined in the Torah (remember the four different ancient sources) and the many adaptations of the Rabbis and their disciples over the centuries, the identification of exactly what God wants us to do is uncertain and subject to many different opinions. When we read an ancient passage about “observing all the mitzvot of the Lord,” does this include the many layers of development in the Rabbinic and Talmudic periods and all the innovations and changes enacted by various Rabbis over the centuries? Does the phrase “all My commandments” include the innovations or applications of the Baal Shem Tov or Rabbi Shneur Zalman of Lladi (the founder of Chabad Chasidism) or Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch (the founder of Modern Orthodox Judaism) or any other Torah sage? What about the refinements and adaptations of the Conservative, Reform, and Reconstructionist Torah sages: are they closer or further from the Will of God? 

The challenge for modern Jews who revere our ancient texts is to look at them not as irrevocable instructions from God but rather as the efforts of pious and wisdom-seeking Jews to navigate this life in consecrated ways—to search for holiness and godliness in every aspect of their lives—and thus to be vehicles for God’s presence in the world.  

I believe that the ancient authors of Leviticus—as well as the rest of the Torah—were engaged in this quest and recorded their best insights and wisdom in the texts that have grown to be so important in our Jewish Tradition.

All Real Estate Deals are Off!?

May 20th: Behar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
Our weekly Torah portion describes the Jubilee Year, a most curious institution. Every-fiftieth year, each Israelite was to return to his ancestral homestead—the one assigned to the family by Moses. As the Torah explains, at the end of forty-nine years (“seven weeks of years—seven times seven years”), “You shall have the shofar sounded loud throughout the land—you shall proclaim release/liberty throughout the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof!” (Leviticus 25.10) At this time, “each of you shall return to his holding.”  

This was not to be a family-reunion weekend; this was a move-back-home and reclaim the property situation. All real-estate transactions were nullified, and the land was to return to the original owners. In other words, property sales/purchases were conditional and temporary—valid only until the next Jubilee Year! “When you sell property to your neighbor, or buy any from your neighbor…you shall charge only for the years remaining before the next Jubilee.” (Leviticus 25.15) The purchasers were tenants or leaseholders, not property owners. 

To those of us who think in terms of land ownership, this seems a strange concept. As usual, however, the Bible is thinking on a very different level. “The land is Mine,” saith the Lord. “You are but sojourners resident with Me.” (Leviticus 25.23) This still may seem strange—given the reality of the earthly context, but the fact is that there are quite a few modern situations where “ownership” is both conditional and temporary.  

When we lived in Florida, we were surprised to find out that the residents and businesses on Pensacola Beach did not own their land. The part of the barrier island open to development is owned by the county and made available for development (beach houses, condominiums, restaurants, and hotels) via long-term (ninety-nine year) leases. People act as though they are property owners, but technically, they are temporary sojourners.    

It is similar out West where ranchers graze their herds on land leased from the Federal Government. The ranchers may feel like “the land is theirs,” but it is a temporary and conditional tenancy. Other examples are the large tracts of land leased to oil and mineral extraction companies—and the curious distinction between ownership of surface property and “mineral rights.” Farmers often find themselves in precarious situations when the owners of subterranean oil, gas, or coal want to disrupt cropland and pastures to remove it. 

There is also the curious and controversial concept of Eminent Domain in which land owned by a private citizen can be deemed necessary for public purposes and then seized by the State. Theoretically, the seized land is purchased at a fair market value, but the “landowner” has little recourse. When private land is repurposed for “rights of way” or roadbuilding/widening, it becomes very clear that our ownership is conditional. 

In Israel, a good part of the land is owed by the State or major agencies (like the Jewish National Fund) and then leased for homes, businesses, and kibbutzim or moshavim via long-term (ninety-nine year) arrangements. I always wonder what will happen when the ninety-nine years are up.  

Speaking of Israeli real estate, landowners and purchasers there often encounter a maze of competing claims of ownership through different legal systems. Property may be “owned” according to Ottoman Law (1517-1917) or British Mandatory Laws (1917-1948) or Jordanian Law (for the West Bank, 1948-1967), or Bedouin tradition or Arab Tribal sensibilities or modern Israeli law. Couple this complexity with “squatters’ rights” and Eminent Domain, and you have lots of challenges for Israeli jurists. How does one claim ownership? How does ownership in one historical system impact ownership in another? By the way, these kinds of ownership disputes are frequently in the background of stories reported as “political.” 

The question can also be asked in a larger context. What is national sovereignty other than a question of ownership? If the Russian Empire or the Soviet Union “owned” Ukraine, then what does that say about modern Russia’s claims of ownership? Of course, theirs is not the only contested region. Should places like Catalonia or the Basque country be part of Spain or independent from it? Should Ireland or Scotland be part of Great Britain? Indeed, did Great Britain’s membership in the European Union mean that they did not “own” their own kingdom? 

A quick look at historical maps of the world shows that boundaries can change significantly over time. The currently tiny Baltic state, Lithuania, occupied most of Eastern Europe some 700 years ago, stretching from the Baltic Sea to the Black Sea! India once included Pakistan and Bangladesh. Panama was once part of Colombia, Texas was once part of Mexico, and Florida once stretched all the way to the Mississippi River (hence the “Florida Parishes” of Louisiana). 

And, let us not forget the Native Americans who used to own “our” land. Who knows which tribes owned the land around State College—and which tribes owned the land before them? Some social activists like to note the tribal nations who used to own their land. An example is a friend in Madison, Wisconsin, Rabbi Jonathan Biatch, who includes the following as a signature/tagline on his e-mails: “Temple Beth El sits on land in the traditional territory of the Ho-Chunk Nation, and I strive to respect and honor this heritage.” When I read his e-mails, I am reminded of the ephemeral nature of time and ownership.
 

Given the flow of time and human geography, the very notion of anyone owning land is a curious, temporary sensibility. Yes, we have deeds and records stored at the courthouse, but the spiritual lesson of the Torah should be kept in mind. God owns all the land—and we are temporary sojourners. Indeed, we are temporary inhabitants of Life—an enterprise owned and operated by God. We are here at God’s behest and for God’s purposes. Earthly possessions and pursuits are part of the human experience, but they are only one of our realms—and not the most important. Consider the words of the modern Catholic thinker, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin: “We are not physical beings having a spiritual experience; we are spiritual beings having a physical experience.” The ancient Biblical Jubilee Year is a reminder of this quintessential and existential truth.

Gifts Without Blemish?

May 13th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I had a really tough time explaining this week’s Torah portion to a Bat Mitzvah student. The problematic passage is in Leviticus 22, verses 21-22: “When a man offers, from the herd or the flock, a sacrifice of well-being to the Lord for an explicit vow or as a freewill offering, it must, to be acceptable, be without blemish; there must be no defect in it. Anything blind, or injured, or maimed, or with a cyst, boil-scar, or scurvy—such you shall not offer to the Lord; you shall not put any of them on the altar as offerings by fire to the Lord.” In a world where our morality insists that we value everything and everyone—regardless of their relative imperfections or differences, this kind of discrimination seems wrong.  

One of the great advances of modernity has been the growing awareness that people formerly considered “unacceptable” are fully human and worthy of respect and kindness. Just consider the list of people who have been in recent years “upgraded” to full humanity: women, people with dark skin, LGBT+ individuals, mentally and physically disabled people, and, of course, religious groups—like us Jews! Can the Torah really be calling for discrimination against creatures because of physical “imperfections?”   

Taking a breath, I noticed that I had made a great and curious logical jump—applying a description of ritually acceptable livestock to the general acceptability of human beings. Hmmm. 

Perhaps this jump is not justified. Only some tuna or salmon is “sushi grade.” Only some beef is “choice” or “prime;” only some cuts are appropriate for steaks while others are better suited for stew meat or dog food. People, on the other hand, can be “imperfect” and still quite capable and worthy of respect. Indeed, the work of the modern disability movement has been to display how people disabled in one area of life can be quite able in others. The notion of denying a person with a limp or scoliosis the right to vote is both offensive and absurd. 

The problem in the Torah, however, is that this notion of physical imperfections disqualifying holy service is not limited to animals. In the previous chapter of our Torah portion, God specifies to Aaron restrictions for active priestly service: “No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too short or too long; no man who has a broken leg or a broken arm; or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes….may eat of the food of his God…he shall not enter behind the curtain or come near the altar, for he has a defect.” (Leviticus 21.17-23) 

What are we to make of this passage? Is this one of those offensive passages in the Scriptures that we dismiss as a culture-bound and time-bound opinion that could not possibly be the Will of God? We in Liberal Judaism certainly do this with a number of Biblical passages. And, we are not alone. Though we may do our dismissals more directly, even the most Orthodox/Traditional of authorities approach some Biblical rules and subtly but thoroughly shut them down. An example is the “wayward and defiant son” passage from Deuteronomy 21.18. According to the Torah, such a young man—“who does not heed his father or mother and does not obey them even after they discipline him”—shall be taken by his parents out to a public place—and the men of the town shall stone him to death! This is a hideous passage, so much so that the Rabbis rarified it out of existence. While giving lip-service to the Torah commandment, they tightened and tightened the conditions, piling condition upon condition until the actual stoning could/would never take place. 

So, did the priesthood really disqualify Kohanim for the various physical defects that are present in just about every human body? Would every mole or scar or remnant of an illness actually disqualify members of priestly families—especially important priestly families? Would they really look that carefully, or would the inspecting priest simply declare, “This physical anomaly is not what the Torah was describing as a ‘defect?’” Whatever the ancient practice—or resolution, Judaism has not had to worry about this problem for almost 2000 years. In Rabbinic Judaism—the system that replaced the Temple and Priestly system, physical qualifications were/are not of great concern. Knowledge, intelligence, and piety are the qualifications of Rabbinic standing, and there have been a number of famous and well-respected rabbis with various physical issues.  

That being said, let us return to the initially problematic passage—the one dealing with acceptability of livestock for sacrificial offering. If we do not jump to the “quality” of human beings, there may be other reasons why blemished animals are banned from sacrificial offerings. It could be a matter of contractual integrity. If I vow the gift of a “lamb without blemish” in a moment of great need, delivering a blemished lamb would violate my obligation. The principle in this Torah passage could be that of fulfilling one’s word. 

It could be a matter of the relative worth the worshipper himself places on the sacrifice. If I do not value the gift I give, then how should the receiver value it? We have been taught to be gracious and appreciative when given gifts, even if they are not to our liking or of the quality we prefer. However, if we know the giver’s intention is less than sincere or respectful—as God certainly would, then the quality of the motivation must certainly be a factor in the relationship.  

Perhaps a joke is the best way to explain the point. Once upon a time, a person was digging in the back of their freezer and found an old frozen turkey. It had been there for a while—and had passed its expiration date some three years ago. Wondering what to do with it, the person noticed the “Turkey Hotline” phone number on the label. Quickly calling the Turkey Hotline and being connected to a chef, the person explained the situation. “How can I prepare this turkey and enjoy it?” The expert sighed and explained that enjoyment would be impossible. There is a limit to how long a frozen turkey can maintain enough taste to be good or perhaps even safe. “So there’s nothing I can do?” whined the consumer. “No, I’m afraid not,” said the chef. “Oh well,” resolved the consumer, “I can always give it to the church bazaar.” 

When we bring gifts to the Lord, we need to offer them lir’tzon’chem—so that they are acceptable. It is a matter of respect for God and for the relationship we hope to foster.

Kavanah and the Golden Rule

May 6th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Kavanah is the Jewish term for the concentration and sincerity that a worshipper brings to prayer. When one really focuses on the prayer—meaning each word and nuance in the prayer, the idea is that one can establish a connection with God. Theoretically, God is always present and always paying attention to us. However, we are not always aware of this, and God may feel far away. Kavanah represents our attempts at making and feeling the connection. The word can be used both for the effort involved and for the sense of completeness the effort can bring.  

Among the verses in our prayerbooks that spur the kavanah connection is one from Psalm 69 (verse 14). It is included in the kavanah-inducing collection of verses, Mah Tovu and reads, “As for me, may my prayer to You be at a moment of kindness/receptivity. O God, in Your great lovingkindness, answer me with the truth of Your salvation.” The Psalmist expresses a plaintive desire for God to pay attention and to respond, hoping that God is in a good or at least receptive mood.  

There is also the notion that God’s answer may not be exactly as ordered. Notice the request that God’s answer be “the truth of Your salvation.” The Psalmist knows that our human thoughts and desires may not be the best—may want things that are ultimately not good or godly or strategically sound. Thus the prayer hopes that whatever we say, God will take our human emotions and transform them into salvation.  

Of course, this is also a goal for us as we choose or shape our prayers. We may begin with our desires and thinking, but striving to be godly requires working on our thoughts and prayers so that they may fit into the truth and holiness of the Divine. “Purify our hearts and our intentions so that we may stand before You and feel nothing but Your love.”  

Another way of reading our verse from Psalm 69 suggests this very process. The words, “Va’ani tefilati lecha, Adonai,” can be understood as, “May I be my prayer to You, O Lord,” and thus represent a deeper sense of kavanah: may I apply my full intention and sincerity, myself, into the holiness for which I pray. May I aspire to be the godly words I utter.
 

It may come as a surprise to speak of kavanah in this week’s Torah portion. Leviticus 19 is known as The Holiness Code because it provides us with the theme and commandment of holiness and then provides operational definitions of what that means in daily life. We begin with the stirring, “You shall be holy, for I, the Lord your God, am holy,” and eighteen verses later are given perhaps the most important mitzvah of them all: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  From revering our parents to declining idolatry, from sharing our bounty with the poor to refraining from dishonesty and theft or profaning God’s Name, from fair labor practices to respect for the disabled, from fairness in judging to a sense of responsibility and respect for our fellow citizens, this passage from Leviticus is at the center of the kind of behavior God hopes will be ours. When God tells us to “be holy,” these practical instructions explain how holiness is to be achieved.

In the midst of all these ethical commandments, there is a rather long passage that seems out of place: “When you sacrifice an offering of well-being to the Lord, sacrifice it so that it may be accepted on your behalf. It shall be eaten on the day you sacrifice it, or on the day following; but what is left by the third day must be consumed in fire. If it is eaten on the third day, it is an offensive thing, it will not be acceptable. And he who eats of it shall bear his guilt, for he had profaned what is sacred to the Lord; that person shall be cut off from his kin.” (Leviticus 19.5-8) With all these profound mitzvot—conveyed in a sentence or two, why does the Torah spend four verses on this rather laborious discussion of sacrificial protocol? I must admit, when I study this well-known chapter, my tendency is to skip this passage or read it over very quickly and with little regard.  

There may be a reason for its inclusion in the Holiness Code—in something hidden in plain sight. Note the word “lir’tzon’chem / that it may be accepted on your behalf.” It is based on the root word ratzon which means will or desire—as in the Will of God, something which will match the will of God, which will be acceptable to God. The details of eating sacrificial leftovers aside, this passage speaks to kavanah, to participating in the ritual for the purpose of connecting with the Divine. The sacrificial experience should not be merely a pro forma presentation, following the rules that religion or society or family prescribe, but rather a ritual vehicle that establishes our relationship with God. More than the blood or meat or fire—or the finely crafted words of our liturgy, what God wants is our attention and devotion.

Lir’tzon’chem and ratzon speak to the ultimate importance of kavanah. Along with all of the other paths to holiness, our sincerity in prayer and ritual is key to the kind of life God hopes we will live.  

We can even connect this torah to the climax of the chapter. While we usually read, “Ve’ahavta le’re’acha kamocha, You shall love your neighbor as yourself,” (Leviticus 19.18) as a lesson about how we should treat fellow human beings (which it is!), we can expand this mitzvah to our relationship with God. Just as we hope that God will treat us with attention and love and sincerity and patience, we should treat the Lord as we would like to be treated ourselves—directing our souls to God’s with sincerity and love—with kavanah.

Ancient Roots for Modern Piety

April 29th: Acharay Mot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

There are four basic categories in the Laws of Kashrut: the animals which may be eaten, the methods for slaughtering and butchering these animals, the separation of meat and dairy foods, and the special Passover rules. 

While all of these areas have undergone development over the centuries, they are first broached in the Torah. The rules about allowable animals were presented a few weeks ago in Leviticus 11 (Parshat Shemini). Mammals must both have split hooves and chew the cud. Water creatures must have both fins and scales. There are no descriptions of acceptable birds, but there is a list of prohibited birds—the absence of typically eaten birds (chickens, ducks, geese, doves, etc.) implying that they are acceptable. There is also a description of allowed insects—certain kinds of locusts, but the details are generally not part of the Ashkenazic or Sephardic traditions. I am told that Yemenite and other Mizrachi Jewish traditions preserve/practice this part of Kashrut.  

The special Passover rules are initiated in Exodus 12 (Parshat Bo and Hachodesh). Though the Torah tells us (1) to eat matzah and (2) not to eat chametz, a specific definition of chametz is not given, and we must wait until the days of the Mishnah (200 BCE – 200 CE) to learn exactly what chametz is. And then, as the Tradition grew and dispersed, different groups of Jews (e.g. Ashkenazim and Sephardim) developed different understands of the Biblical prohibitions. As with everything else in Judaism, Passover is a developing spectrum of traditions.  

The separation of meat and dairy foods is based on a curious mitzvah found in three places, Exodus 23.19, Exodus 34.26, and Deuteronomy 14.21: “You shall not boil a kid in its mother’s milk.” Though time has led from this specific commandment to a general separation of meat and poultry from dairy, the original meaning is unclear. Some archeological evidence suggests that there was a particular Canaanite religious custom in which a baby goat was boiled in its mother’s milk. Perhaps, the mitzvah was simply a prohibition against participation in a popular pagan custom. Nonetheless, by the time of the Mishnah, this mitzvah had been elaborated beyond goats to all kosher mammals and prohibited not just the boiling ritual but any consumption of mammal meat and dairy. Then, there was the further expansion to poultry. Though some prominent Sages disagreed—because chickens and ducks do not produce milk, the majority inclined to include the flesh of poultry in the milk-meat separation. (This expanded definition did not go as far as fish or locusts.) As is usual, our developing Tradition has many opinions and practices. 

As for the special methods kosher animals are to be slaughtered and butchered, we have our first approach in this week’s Torah portion. In Leviticus 17, we read:
“If anyone of the House of Israel slaughters an ox or sheep or goat in the camp, or does so outside the camp, and does not bring it to the entrance of the Tent of Meeting to present it as an offering to the Lord, before the Lord’s Tabernacle, bloodguilt shall be imputed to that man: he has shed blood; and that man shall be cut off from among the people.” (Leviticus 17.2-4)
The rule seems pretty straightforward until one realizes the very limited context of the mitzvah. It is commanded in a time and place where the Tabernacle is readily available. Once, however, the tribes spread out to their assigned territories in The Promised Land, it does not make sense that every animal would be brought the many miles to the location of the Tabernacle. What is the Torah’s concern? 

A hint comes a few verses later: “…that they may offer their sacrifices no more to the goat-demons after whom they stray.” (Leviticus 17.7) It seems that there was—either at the time in the wilderness or at the time when the stories were compiled and edited—a problem with local pagan customs. Could requiring priests to be involved comprise an attempt to stem the worship of other and false gods? 

A few verses after that, we get to what is perhaps the crux of the matter: the ancient prohibition of consuming blood: “If anyone of the house of Israel or of the strangers who reside among them partakes of any blood, I will set My face against the person who partakes of the blood, and I will cut him off from among his kin. For the life of the flesh is in the blood...” (Leviticus 17.10-11). Blood is the real issue because of our ancient ancestors’ belief that the soul resides in the blood. Such a thought may seem primitive, but even we moderns do not really know where the soul resides—and simple observation reveals the fact that, as blood bleeds, life is less and less present. 

In any event, God gives us permission to eat meat, but God does not want us to eat the souls—i.e., the blood—of the animals we consume. That is where we get to the Biblical origin of kosher slaughter: “If any Israelite or any stranger who resides among them hunts down an animal or a bird that may be eaten, he shall pour out its blood and cover it with earth. For the life of all flesh—its blood is its life.” (Leviticus 17.13-14) So, though the Torah is concerned with idolatry and paganism, the main issue is that blood should not be eaten by people. Thus begins the tradition developed in Mishnaic times about proper kosher slaughtering methods—a discussion that continues to this day.  

Two concluding points. First, the notion of a Hechsher, a Kosher authorization, is fairly modern and stems from the industrialization of slaughtering and butchering—that is, these days, the consumer does not know who kills and prepares her/his meat. Just 120 years ago, my great-grandfather, Lazar Stein, a peddler who lived far away from major Jewish centers, took a course so he could shecht (kill) his own chickens. The key was the technique and the draining of the blood—and not Rabbinic supervision.  

And second, this Torah portion introduces the word Trafe. Though the word is commonly used to describe anything that is not kosher, its Biblical meaning is torn—as in an animal that has been killed by other animals and then found and possibly eaten by a human. “Any person, whether citizen or stranger, who eats what has died or has been torn by beasts (terefah) shall wash his clothes, bathe in water, and remain unclean until evening.” (Leviticus 17.15) So, just in case you are planning to attend a sacrificial service at the Tabernacle or Temple, it is a good idea to temporarily resist eating roadkill. 😊

Why Are We Always Fighting the Egyptians?!

April 22nd: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Many years ago (and in a galaxy far, far away), a congregant complained to me, “We’re always fighting the Egyptians. Egyptians this. Egyptians that. I get so tired of hearing about Egyptians. Why can’t the prayer book leave them alone?” 

A wittier rabbi might have responded with the old joke about a parishioner complaining to the priest, “Every time I come to church, it’s the same thing: Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!” 

For my part, however, I just reflected upon how right he is. The theme of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt is quite persistent in Jewish liturgy. In the Traditional prayer book, the entire Song of the Sea (Exodus 15) is recited every morning of the week. Mi Chamocha, an excerpt from that song, is part of every Morning and every Evening Service. It is referenced in the third paragraph of the Shema. It is part of Birkat Hamazon, the blessing after meals. The Exodus is mentioned in the Shabbat Evening Kiddush—as one of the three themes of Shabbat. It is a theme in lots and lots of the Psalms—especially in the Hallel Psalms which we recite on New Moons, Major Festivals, and Chanukah. In other words, my friend was correct: we are always talking about the Egyptians—or, more correctly, our essential, existential redemption when God rescued us FROM the Egyptians.  

In our Tradition’s summary of God’s relationship with us, three events are highlighted. First is the Creation of the World. Second is the Giving of the Torah. Third is the Redemption from Egypt. With Creation, we have existence. With the Torah, we are given a taste of Eternal Wisdom and a key to understanding how we can best navigate this life. And, with the Redemption, we are given three things. First, we were/are redeemed from the valueless existence of slavery. This is not to say that we were valueless but rather that the Egyptians regarded us as valueless. God took us and made us significant—not only in the eyes of the Egyptians but also in our own eyes. We were/are worth God’s interest and God’s saving energy. Second, we were/are redeemed from the valueless existence that comes without a holy purpose. This is not to say that people without holiness lack value but rather that the value human beings find in holiness is exponentially more profound. All life is precious, but a life imbued with the Ol Malchut Hashamayin, the Yoke of God’s Holy Purpose, is raised to the level of the Divine. We can be partners with God. 

And there is a third aspect of the Redemption. The Tradition understands the redemption from Egypt, Ge’ulah, as a harbinger and promise of the redemption God will give us when we complete our earthly existence. Not only does God help us in life; God will take care of us forever. 

So yes, we do talk about Yetzi’at Mitzrayim  a lot. We talk about it a lot because it is at the essence of our awareness of God’s Presence in the world and in our lives—and because it typifies the relationship we have with the Divine. We start with the story of the Exodus from Egypt, and then we move on to some of the most profound conversations we can have. 

As we read in our Haggadahs,
“B’chol dor vador chayav adam lir’ot et atz’mo k’ilu hu yatza mimitz’rayim, she’ne’emar ‘V’higad’ta l’vin’cha bayom hahu lemor, Ba’avur zeh asah Adonai li b’tze’ti mimitz’rayim.’”
”In every generation, each person should feel that he/she personally went out of Egypt, as it is commanded in Exodus 13, “You shall tell your child on that day, ‘I do this because of what the Lord did for me when I came out of Egypt.’”

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.