Do Not Pray for an Easy Life; Pray to be Strong

September 9th: Ki Tetzei
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The thing that always strikes me about Ki Tetzei is that it does not paint an idyllic picture. “When you go forth to war against your enemies…” is speaking about unfortunate circumstances, situations which may be necessary but are certainly not ideal. While our Tradition understands that wars must be fought, armed conflict is never a good option. Though our Tradition bids us to prepare ourselves militarily and to be able to protect ourselves, we are not urged to be a warlike people. While our military is to be supported and our soldiers appreciated, the ideal our Tradition holds aloft is that of peace, tranquility, and prosperity. As King Solomon counsels in Proverbs (12.20), “Unto the counselors of peace there is joy.” 

The nature and dynamics of our vision of peace is sketched in a very famous passage from the Prophet Micah (4.1-5). Notice how he combines godly influence with peace and religious tolerance: “It shall come to pass, in the end of days, that the Mountain of the Lord’s House shall be exalted above the hills. The nations shall flow unto it, and many peoples shall say: Come ye, and let us go up to the Mountain of the Lord, to the House of the God of Jacob. God will teach us holy ways—that we may walk in holy paths. For out of Zion shall go forth the Torah, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. God shall judge between many peoples and shall decide concerning far away nations; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, nor shall they study war anymore. But they shall sit everyone under their vines and fig trees, and none shall make them afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken it. All the peoples shall walk in the name of their gods, while we walk in the Name of the Lord our God forever and ever. 

While the Prophet hopes for a time when implements of war—and “studying” how to use them—will no longer be necessary, he does not preach pacifism. Human history has always involved conflicts in which survival meant defending oneself and one’s tribe. Indeed much of the wisdom of Ki Tetzei and other passages in the Torah involves how we can behave both strategically and morally—how we can bring a moral perspective to intense and brutal conflict. 

An example of this balance is the word shalom. Shalom means peace, and, as such, it is used for Hello and Goodbye. However, the root of the Hebrew word approaches the concept of completeness. Kaddish Shalem is the whole/complete Kaddish. When one pays a bill, the term is l’shalem, to complete/balance the exchange. In its expansive form, shalom speaks of well-being and preparedness. As much as we want to live relaxed, we also want to be able to respond well to the challenges that may arise. Like the proverb says, “Do not pray for an easy life; pray to be strong.” Or, as the Psalmist (29.11) explains, “Adonai oz l’amo yiten; Adonai yivarech et amo vashalom. The Lord gives strength to our people; the Lord blesses our people with peace.”  

The less-than-ideal situations in Ki Tetzei remind us of the strength and determination that life requires—of knowing how to take care of ourselves both strategically and morally. Whether we are sitting under our vines and fig trees or struggling furiously, God offers us guidance and support. 

Justice, Justice

September 2nd: Shoftim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Every once in a while, one of “our” judges makes the news. I will be reading the paper, and all of a sudden, there is a judge I know making the ruling on a big case. Sometimes it is Renee Cohn Jubelirer, President Judge of the Pennsylvania Commonwealth Court, who makes rulings and dispenses justice on the state level. Other times, it is Brian Marshall of the Centre County Court of Common Pleas, handling cases on the more local level. I say “our” in an expansive sense for they are both members of our congregational family and ours as citizens of the Commonwealth.

They are what the Torah portion this week describes in Deuteronomy 16.18-20: “You shall appoint magistrates and officials for your tribes, in all the settlements that the Lord your God is giving you, and they shall govern the people with due justice. You shall not judge unfairly: you shall show no partiality; you shall not take bribes, for bribes blind the eyes of the discerning and upset the plea of the just. Justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Lord your God is giving you.” 

Though an ancient instruction, these words remain crucial today. Our judges are appointed by us—either through elections or by elected officials, and they are enjoined to deal with the many matters that come before them “with due justice...without partiality.” “ 

Though we only occasionally read their names in the paper, our judges work every day—pursuing justice in cases both big and small. Though only some of their decisions are newsworthy, every single one of their cases is important. This is the message of the Holy Yehudi, Rabbi Yaakov Yitzchak Rabinowicz of Peshischa, who looked at our Torah portion and focused on the repetition of the word Tzedek / justice in verse 20. “Why does the Torah double the words in, ‘Justice, justice shall you pursue?’ To teach us that “we ought to follow justice with justice, and not with unrighteousness.” In other words, one case of justice is not enough. Justice must be done over and over and over again. This is the continuing mission of the court, to dispense justice for every person and in every case.  

One of the issues that must certainly arise for judges is when the litigants in a case are not strangers. Though there are cases where a judge should recuse him/herself, the fact is that, in a small town—or in the upper reaches of state government—the people who appear before judges may very well be known to them. They could be social, political, or business contacts, or they could just be well-known enough to present a sense of positive or negative familiarity. This is a time when the discipline of the law is vitally important—when the judge focuses solely on the facts of the case and law and not on non-relevant factors. Justice demands no less. 

A Biblical example of this challenge can be found in Leviticus 19.15: “You shall do no unrighteousness in judgment; you shall not respect the person of the poor, nor honor the person of the mighty; but in righteousness shall you judge your neighbor.” First, notice how the Torah understands that judges judge their neighbors. Though familiarity may be inevitable, fairness is still the goal. Second, notice how the Torah seems to give us a problematic instruction. “Do not respect the person of the poor?!” Are we not commanded to be helpful to the poor and widow and orphan and stranger? Is the Torah changing its tune?

No. The Torah is delineating two different spheres in which different standards apply. Help for the poor is paramount, but NOT in the courtroom. In the courtroom, justice is the priority. If a poor person is in the wrong, he/she should be judged as wrong. Just as it would be unfair to automatically favor a wealthy or mighty person, it would be unfair to automatically favor a poor person. In the courtroom, justice must prevail. After the court is adjourned, however, and the judge returns to a civilian status, that is when the mitzvot of Tzedakah come into play, and the judge—as are all other children of God—commanded to give charity. The judge must bifurcate her/his responsibilities—in the courtroom as a judge, and outside of the courtroom as a citizen.  

The work of our judges is complex and challenging, and we should appreciate all who work in this important and holy endeavor. Elected or appointed, they are our judges, through whom we as a community follow the mitzvah: “Tzedek, Tzedek tirdof. Justice, justice shall you pursue.”

Is Korach Treated Fairly?

July 1st: Korach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

For fans of Moses, the story of Korach is a vindication—an example of God’s extreme support for those doing the work of the Divine. For those looking at the story more objectively, the episode can be quite disturbing.  

Korach, you may remember, is a cousin of Moses. Their fathers, Izhar and Amram, are brothers and grandchildren of Levi. In Numbers 16, Korach bands together with some 250 disgruntled Israelites and launches a rebellion against Moses. The details of their complaints are unclear, but they are generally unhappy with Moses’ and Aaron’s elevated positions. “You have gone too far! For all of the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourself above the Lord’s congregation?!” (Numbers 16.3) 

Moses is hurt by this personal attack, and he responds by reminding the rebels that Aaron and he are not in charge. God is in charge. This important fact is accentuated as the story continues with a kind of priestly challenge. If Korach and his band offer sacrifices of incense, will God accept them? The answer is a decided No, and God is tempted to destroy the whole Israelite community because of Korach’s effrontery. Moses and Aaron defend the community, falling on their faces and importuning God, “O God, Source of the breath of all flesh! When one man sins, will You be wrathful with the whole community?!” (Numbers 16.22) So God instructs everyone to move away from Korach and his followers. Most of the people follow the Lord’s order (warning!), but some stay with the rebels.  

Then, God gets downright “Old Testament” on the rebels. “The ground under Korach and his followers burst asunder, and the earth opened its mouth and swallowed them up with their households, all Korach’s people and all their possessions. They went down alive into Sheol, with all that belonged to them; the earth closed over them, and they vanished from the midst of the congregation.” (Numbers 16.31-33)

 (I have serious theological objections to the term “going Old Testament” and am generally offended by its use. However, it can be quite the dramatic turn of phrase.)

As I said, the details of Korach and Company’s complaints are not specified in the text, and this leads many of us to wonder whether Korach is treated fairly. What is the problem with challenging authority? Why does God get involved in a human conflict? Why does God come down so hard on Korach and his followers? Why are their families and children included in the punishment?  

This story is particularly difficult for those in their teenage years. As teenagers seek to understand reality—a world that, due to their increased brain power and experience, gets larger every day, they often question assumptions and authority. This is a normal and appropriate part of their learning process. So, when a famous figure is shut down for questioning authority, many find Korach’s plight personally challenging. When Abraham argues with God about Sodom and Gomorrah—“Shall not the Judge of all the earth deal justly,” he is praised. (Genesis 18) Why then is Korach’s argument so unacceptable? Would not a more appropriate response be to explain God’s reasoning—or to let him learn from his mistakes? (If teenagers’ challenges to authority and convention were punished with death, few of us would survive until our twenties.)  

Balance this ambiguity in the story with the unequivocal message that Korach and his followers are devastatingly wrong, and we are face to face with the Rabbinic dilemma. In the absence of a textual explanation, the Rabbis are left searching for Korach’s sin. 

The best the Tradition can figure is that there is a big problem with Korach’s motivations. He does not object—as Abraham does in re Sodom and Gomorrah—on the basis of a righteous principle. Rather, the Rabbis infer, he is jealous of Moses and Aaron and selfishly wants their power and status. His motivation is, in the Rabbinic parlance, Lo Leshem Shamayim / Not for the Sake of Heaven. As the Talmud explains, “Every dispute that is for the Sake of Heaven will in the end endure; but one that is not for the Sake of Heaven, will not endure. Which is the controversy that is for the Sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Hillel and Shammai. And which is the controversy that is not for the Sake of Heaven? Such was the controversy of Korach and all his congregation.” (Pirke Avot 5.17) 

This notion of conflicts being Leshem Shamayim / For the Sake of Heaven or not is, admittedly, a hard quantity to parse. So often, those who take an intense stance couch their ferocity in the importance of their principles. Are they sincere about these principles—or are they using the principles for more nefarious purposes? Are they well-informed, or are they responding from ignorance and superstition? Are their sources of information trustworthy and sincere?  

And, what about us? Are we sincere and well-informed and depending on sources that are trustworthy and sincere? 

In so many ways, the Rabbinic teaching about a Mach’lochet Leshem Shamayim / Controversy for the Sake of Heaven is a direction for introspection and self-evaluation. We may try to judge others, but we never really know what is in the heart of another—or lurking behind it. Sometimes our judgement is accurate, and our trust is well-placed; other times, we are played. Some people deserve the benefit of the doubt; others use our trusting natures (gullibility?) to continue the con. 

Ultimately, the only heart anyone of us can know is our own. We must look inside and ascertain the sincerity and truth of our beliefs. Are our causes and the way we pursue them Leshem Shamayim / For the Sake of Heaven or not? Are we bringing forth the purity of godliness, or are we allowing ourselves to be diverted by greed and less noble motivations? 

As for Korach and his guilt, we are left with no more information than the ancient Rabbis, and thus perhaps we can understand their reasoning. We may not know what is truly in Korach’s heart, but God does. God knows the workings of our inner hearts, and God’s judgment, we trust, is fair, just, and true.

What "They" Think of Us, and What We Think of Ourselves

June 24th: Shelach Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Haftarah portion (a selection from the Prophets) is always linked to the Torah portion—though sometimes the connection is obscure or tangential. Not so this week! Here, we have two very similar situations, spaced some forty years apart. In the Torah portion, Moses sends forth twelve spies to reconnoiter the land. “Go up there into the Negev and the hill country, and see what kind of country it is. Are the people who dwell in it strong or weak, few or many? Is the country in which they dwell good or bad? Are the towns in which they dwell open or fortified? Is the soil rich or poor? Is it wooded or not?” (Numbers 13.17-20) 

Forty years later, in the Book of Joshua, the Israelites again send spies to scout out the land. This time, there are only two spies, and the scope is more limited. “Go, reconnoiter the region of Jericho” (Joshua 2.1)—Jericho being the first target of the Israelite conquest. 

In Numbers, the spies sent by Moses return with mixed reports. Joshua and Caleb are enthusiastic about God’s mission. Caleb says, “Let us by all means go up, and we shall gain possession of it, for we shall surely overcome it.” The other ten are not so optimistic. “We cannot attack that people, for it is stronger than we…The country that we traveled and scouted is one that devours its settlers. All the people we saw in it are men of great size…and we felt like grasshoppers compared to them; they must have thought so, too!” (Numbers 13.31-33) 

Even though the Israelites are commanded by the Lord to take possession of the Land—as part of God’s decision to take it away from the Canaanites because of their sins, the people believe the negative reports of the ten spies and start complaining. “If only we had died in the land of Egypt, or if only that we might die in the wilderness! Why is the Lord taking us to that land to fall by the sword?!...Let us head back to Egypt.”  (Numbers 14.2-4) 

The Torah presents God’s response as a punishment. If the Israelites will not follow God’s commands, then they must wander in the wilderness for forty years. After this generation dies, perhaps their children can do the Lord’s work and take possession of the Promised Land. 

Some commentators, however, see it more as a realization by the Divine that this generation is just not up to the task. Fine, I’ll take care of you here in the desert; then we’ll see if your children are capable of My holy work. 

Some forty years later, Joshua is now the leader of Israel, and the two spies he sends to Jericho find themselves in an interesting situation—one in which a non-Jew in Jericho turns against her people and supports the Israelites. 

When the two spies enter Jericho, they go first to a brothel. Are they going for the regular customer service, or is it a place of privacy and perhaps a place to find out important intelligence? Perhaps it is like the old Long Branch Saloon in Gunsmoke. In addition to whatever services might be offered upstairs, there is a bar and gaming tables downstairs, and travelers and locals gather and relax and talk.

Some patrons apparently sense danger in the Israelites, and they report them to the local authorities. Meanwhile, the Israelite spies have made the acquaintance of the proprietor of the establishment, Rahab the zonah/harlot. When the authorities come for the spies, Rahab hides them and gives the Jerichoan soldiers false information, sending them off on a wild goose chase. Why? Why would Rahab turn against her own city and help the soon-to-invade Israelites? I can see two reasons, one socio-political and the other theological. 

Prostitutes are at the low end of the socio-economic ladder and are not treated with respect. We do not know about the ancient world, but modern knowledge suggests that this is not a profession chosen for anything other than desperation. One would imagine that life or the culture or the powers-that-be in Jericho have not been kind to Rahab and her family, and she has been reduced to this degrading and dangerous work. So, when one is looking around for loyal defenders of Jericho—individuals for whom Jericho is worth saving, one can easily understand why Rahab would not be in their company. Besides, she sees the approaching Israelites as the next ruling power. “I know that the Lord has given the country to you, because dread of you has fallen upon us, and all the inhabitants of the land are quaking before you. For we have heard how the Lord dried up the waters of the Red Sea for you when you left Egypt, and what you did to Sihon and Og, the two Amorite kings across the Jordan, whom you doomed. When we heard about this, we lost heart, and no man had any more spirit left because of you…” (Joshua 2.9-11) Since the Jerichoans have not been particularly loyal to Rahab, why would she be loyal to them? She goes with the power. 

She may also have a theological reason, as she explains to the Israelite spies: “…for the Lord your God is the only God in the heaven above and on earth below.” (Joshua 2.11) This statement is pretty much a quotation from Moses (Deuteronomy 4.39), and Tradition sees it as a realization that Jericho’s religion is wrong. Rahab wants to convert to Judaism and worship the One God. Indeed, some Midrashim say that she marries Joshua and is the ancestress of many of Israel’s great prophets—and King David! 

In the Christian tradition, Rahab is considered an ancestress of Joseph, the “father” of Jesus—and is one of several examples of lowly-esteemed women whose repentance and faith make them exemplars of virtue.  

A final thought. As much as we believe in our faith and sing its praises, there is something particularly gratifying when a non-Jew acknowledges the truth or wisdom of Judaism. So, when Rahab quotes Moses and declares, “The Lord your God is the only God in the heaven above and on earth below,” we feel affirmed and respected. The theological truth realized by this non-Jewish woman is particularly persuasive. If the Gentiles can see this truth, shouldn’t we?!

Wanting to Draw Close to the Lord

June 17th: Beha’alotecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

One of the most confusing terms in the Torah is chatat /  “sin offering.” It sounds like a sacrifice one would bring to atone for a sin, but that is not the case at all. It is required in situations that are not the result of wrongdoing but that leave the worshipper in a state of spiritual weakness, a time a sin would be particularly dangerous. When are chatat offerings required? After childbirth, or menstrual cycles, or ejaculations, or contact with the dead. These experiences are not sinful. Menstrual periods are part and parcel of the God-created female body. Ejaculation and childbirth are part and parcel of the first mitzvah in the Torah, “be fruitful and multiply.” (Genesis 1.28) When it comes to attending the dead, that is a mitzvah too. Why, then, would such circumstances require a “sin offering?” 

Rabbi Herbert Chanan Brichto, late of the Hebrew Union College, used to explain this as a concern about over-exposure to the life-force. We are bidden lehak’riv, to come close ritually to God and thus absorb God’s energy, but some activities of life leave us with ample dosing—and we should not allow ourselves to overdose. So, when we already have been exposed—and are thus in a vulnerable state, the Torah calls for us to wait for a while, bathe, and then wait until the evening before we offer a chatat / a “sin” offering to protect us from any danger while we are in our exposed/vulnerable situation. Then, once we are ritually cleansed, we can resume our participation in the sacrificial rituals.  

This issue comes up in this week’s Torah portion, Beha’alotecha. It has been a year since the Exodus from Egypt which means that it is time for the “first” Passover observance—the first ritual remembrance of the actual Passover back in Egypt. In Numbers 9, we read: “The Lord spoke to Moses in the wilderness of Sinai, on the first new moon of the second year following the Exodus from the Land of Egypt, saying: ‘Let the Israelite people offer the Passover sacrifice at its set time. You shall offer it on the fourteenth day of this month, at twilight, at its set time; you shall offer it in accordance with all its rules and rites.’”  

Moses tells the people the Lord’s instructions, and the people obey. “Just as the Lord had commanded Moses, so the Israelites did.”  

However, some of the Israelites are in a state of ritual impurity and do not participate. “But there were some men who were unclean by reason of a corpse and could not offer the Passover sacrifice on that day.” The rules forbid their participation. Some of us would figure we are “off the hook” and do not “have to” offer the sacrifice, but these men feel left out; they want to participate. “Appearing that same day before Moses and Aaron, those men said to them, ‘Unclean though we are by reason of a corpse, why must we be debarred from presenting the Lord’s offering at its set time with the rest of the Israelites?’”  

Realizing that the men’s case is good—but that the rules have no remedy, Moses asks the men to wait while he consults God. God then responds with what we would call some holy practicality: “When any of you or your descendants are defiled by a corpse or are on a long journey (and cannot offer the Passover sacrifice at the proper time and place), they may offer it in the second month, on the fourteenth day of the month, at twilight. They shall eat it with unleavened bread and bitter herbs.” Thus do we have at God’s instruction Pesach Sheni / a second Pesach where people legitimately unable to participate in the regular Passover have a chance to show their appreciation to God and to draw close to the Divine Presence a month later.  

I see two main lessons in this Bible story. 

First, we have God modeling a practical spirituality in which the Halacha takes into account the legitimate realities and complexities of life. This is not an isolated example. When someone cannot afford the standard sacrifice of a lamb, God is understanding and allows a turtledove. When Israelites live far away from the Tabernacle or Temple, God allows them to sell their offering (lamb, bull, grain, etc.) and then travel with the money and buy replacement animals and grain in Jerusalem. Such a pattern of practicality is present in the Bible, and it continues in the Mishnah and Talmud—in hundreds of places. Perhaps the most dramatic is the Rabbi’s decision after the Temple is destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE. Without the possibility of sacrificial offerings, how could/should Jews pray? Consulting the Prophets, the Rabbis reason that God wants piety and obedience much more than lambs and grain, and they substitute (temporarily) the prayer service in place of the sacrificial service. Thus does our Amidah take the place of the ancient sacrifices—until God determines it is time for the Temple to be rebuilt. The point of religion is to infuse/suffuse life with holiness; thus it needs to be expressed in the practical realities of God’s world. 

Second, we are reminded that drawing close to God through ritual is a good thing, a spiritually and emotionally pleasurable thing, something that we should want. These men who are unclean because of a corpse could just figure they are relieved of their obligation, but they do not see it only as an obligation. To them, participating in the ritual worship of God is something that they want to do—something that they will miss with regret. Theirs is an attitude for us to consider.  

In many of the mitzvot—among them the Passover rules, there is a penalty phrase that talks about someone who breaks the rules being “cut off from the people,” in Hebrew, karet. While history shows us examples of individuals who have been expelled from the tribe or Jewish community, the modern reality is more personal and autonomous. When we desist from Jewishness or Jewish ways, we cut ourselves off from the people. It is not necessarily a matter of official membership; rather it is the choice we make about being Jewish or ignoring our Judaism. These ancient Israelites see the value of being part of Judaism’s spiritual community, and they actively seek ways to participate.

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.