Being Good or Doing Good?

October 14th: Sukkot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Yom Kippur Morning D’var Torah.

There’s an old saying that goes, “Jews are like everybody else, only moreso.” We could apply this to guilt. Everyone experiences guilt—and some are quite adept at getting other people to feel guilty, but we Jews are masters of this game. We’ve even invented a season of guilt—and the holiest day of our year, Yom Kippur, is ostensibly a festival of guilt.

The same can be said of arguing. Everyone loves to argue, but we Jews have raised the art and practice of arguing to sacramental status. While the ancient Rabbis cautioned us against  מחלוקת שלא לשם שמיים/ an argument that is not for the sake of heaven, that did not stop them or us. We love to discuss and argue and pit our thinking against all comers. It is a foundational element of our intellectual tradition.

The ancient Rabbis even imagined the Angels in Heaven arguing. Remember the verse in Genesis 1 when God says, “Let us make the human in our image.” In response to the question of to whom God is speaking, the Midrash suggests that is the angelic assembly. God discusses the possible creation of humans with the angels, and they all get into a furious argument. Some anticipate the wonders of love, cooperation, holiness, and righteousness, and they heartily endorse God’s idea. Others foresee the cruelty, oppression, immorality, and degradation that all too often spring from the human heart, and they counsel God to abandon this flawed proposal. The argument goes on and on and on. Finally, God slips out the back door of the council chambers and goes and creates the human being. Returning, God says to the angels, “You can stop arguing. I’ve already created the human being. Now, it’s a matter of the choices they’ll make—how they will handle their existence.”

This angelic debate is akin to one in which we humans love to engage. Are people basically good or basically evil? This is one of those discussions that can go on long into the night in dorm rooms, living rooms, and bars. It is amenable to insights from psychology, sociology, anthropology, biochemistry, and theology. It is among the most fecund of subjects, and it is not new. Even the Lord God seems to be of two minds on the subject. In Genesis Chapter 1, God looks at all that has been created—including humans—and gives the seal of Divine approval. “And God saw everything that had been made, and, behold, it was very good.” (Genesis 1.31).

However, in Genesis Chapter 8, after the debacle of human society that ends in the Great Flood, God reflects on human nature and sighs to Noah: “The devising of the human heart is evil from childhood on.”

So, what is it? Are we basically good, or are we basically bad? Believing that everything in the Torah is God’s wisdom, the ancient Rabbis resolved this apparent contradiction as follows: we are neither intrinsically good nor intrinsically evil. What we have is the potential for both good and evil—and we need to learn to choose wisely. The Rabbis see human nature as a balance between two competing impulses, Yetzer Tov, the Good Inclination, and Yetzer HaRa, the Evil Inclination. The two are ever-present as soon as we reach moral consciousness, and they compete for our attention and acquiescence.

How do we negotiate this competition? Some counsel focusing our efforts on good things—so much so that the Evil Inclination has no openings into our attention. Think of nothing but Scripture and mitzvot and thus be protected. One can see this approach on busses in Israel where some passengers keep their noses in the Book of Psalms lest their attention be diverted to less-than-holy possibilities.

Others counsel developing a sense of discipline where one simply denies Yetzer HaRa. Strength and moral resolve can, if we have iron wills, resist temptation. And, there are a number of protection Psalms to keep us on the straight and narrow.

Then, there is the possibility of taking the power of the Evil Inclination and channeling it into good purposes. If I have a desire to be famous, let me fulfill my ego seeking fame for good things. If I want to have my name on a building, make it a building dedicated to health care, research, or education. If I have an overwhelming desire to be rich, let me share that wealth with the needy and downtrodden. The Yetzer HaRa is powerful, but it can be directed and put to good use.

And, of course, there is the lesson of our season of repentance. When the Evil Inclination gets the best of us, when we fail to respond to our Good Inclination, God is always available for our teshuvah—for our repentance and atonement. Ezekiel the Prophet (18.23) reminds us, “This is Your glory, O God: You are slow to anger, ready to forgive. It is not the death of sinners You seek, but that they should turn from their ways and live.” And, the Machzor assures us, “Until the last day You wait for them, welcoming them as soon as they turn to You.  וּתְשׁוּבָה וּתְפִלָּה וּצְדָקָה מַעֲבִירִין אֶת רֹֽעַ הַגְּזֵרָה. Repentance, prayer, and charity: these return us to God.”

In other words, it is not a matter of being innately good or bad; the challenge for human beings involves making good choices. Every single day, we are presented with opportunities for choosing Yetzer Tov or Yetzer HaRa. Every single day, God implores us, as in the Torah portion today (Deuteronomy 30):
הַחַיִּים וְהַמָּוֶת נָתַתִּי לְפָנֶיךָ הַבְּרָכָה וְהַקְּלָלָה וּבָחַרְתָּ בַּחַיִּים לְמַעַן תִּחְיֶה אַתָּה וְזַרְעֶךָ:
“I set before you life and death, blessing and curse; choose life, that you and your descendants may live...” 

Let me conclude with an unexpected text. In the MCU, the Marvel Cinematic Universe, there is a new show that has proved delightful. Based on a Marvel comic book, Ms. Marvel tells the story of Kamala Khan, a teenage superhero who is a Muslim girl living in Jersey City. She and her family and friends are very Muslim and very American, and the show presents a very sympathetic and normalized vision of the Muslim American experience. Among the characters in the story is the local Imam, Sheikh Abdullah, a friendly, calm, and wise presence in the lives of his congregants. At one juncture, Kamala is struggling with her abilities, her mission, and whether she is good at heart. She presents her quandary to Sheikh Abdullah, and he gives her this answer: “Good is not what you are. Good is what you do.” 

It is a great proverb—and one that I immediately knew had to go into a High Holy Day sermon. However, I was hoping that it had a more glorious origin than that Marvel screenplay—perhaps a Zen Monk or a Hassid from the Carpathian Mountains. I would have been fine with a Native American Shaman or even a New Age Guru. So, I looked it up and was immediately disappointed. According to the Internet, it comes from The Twilight Series—the one about vampires and werewolves and humans all falling in love with each other—by author Stephenie Meyer. Another search brought me back to Ms. Marvel comic book. The author, G. Willow Wilson, had apparently included this proverb—Good is not what you are; good is what you do— in Volume One. Ms. Wilson is a Muslim American writer who attributes the proverb to an unspecified Koranic source she heard from her father. The Internet’s version of her recollection of her father’s teaching sounds suspiciously like passages from the Rabbis in Midrash Rabba—at which point I remembered that all the great faith traditions share insights. We borrow from each other, sharing the wisdom that the Divine bestows upon all humans.  

So, I conclude as I began. We Jews are just like everyone else; only moreso. When we gather on Yom Kippur to reflect on our moral standing—our successes and failures, our strengths and weaknesses, our goodness and our evil, let us remember God’s love for us and God’s hope for us. It is not a matter of being good; it is a matter of doing good. 

Boneh V'rachamav Yerushalayim: Building Jerusalem with Compassion

October 7th: Ha’azinu
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Rosh Hashanah Morning D’var Torah,

We are presented today with one of the hardest choices a human has ever faced. Out of nowhere, God instructs Abraham to kill his son. To kill! His son! One could argue that God’s instruction—וְהַֽעֲלֵ֤הוּ שָׁם֙ לְעֹלָ֔ה  , to lift him up as a sacrifice—is more purposeful, more righteous or holy, but the words do not dress up the horrible choice forced on Abraham. 

There have been many debates on what Abraham did and what he should have done. There have been various opinions about what God really had in mind. For today, however, let us just think about the fact that our Rosh Hashanah liturgy celebrates this holy day with an impossible, mind-breaking and soul-breaking story. Whatever Abraham chooses or should chose, there is no right answer. Abraham’s choice is a paradox, a conundrum, an unanswerable question. What we have here conceptually is an intellectual whetstone on which Jews have been sharpening our minds for hundreds and hundreds of years. 

Perhaps the deeper lesson of Akedat Yitzchak is that life sometimes presents us with impossible situations—situations with no right or good answers, but situations which must nonetheless be navigated as best we can.  

This dynamic could describe many modern issues, but the one foremost on my mind is that of the continuing and continuingly impossible מצב / matzav’/situation, the conflict between Israel and its neighbors. I do not think that I am alone in my perpetual distress at this difficult and perplexing situation. 

I am distressed at the slowness of progress toward peace.  

I am distressed at the suffering of far too many Israelis who are subject to terror--and whose children must serve in war zones. 

I am also distressed at the suffering of Palestinians whose leadership keeps putting them in the line of fire—who spend money on futile military efforts while ignoring economic and humanitarian improvements. I am incensed every time I hear a reporter or commentator acting as though the Israelis alone are responsible for the misery of Gaza and the West Bank. 

I am distressed at the temporary demise of the political Left in Israel: with the never-ending threat of rockets and terrorists incursions and stabbings, many Israelis have been persuaded that peace is not a present possibility. Thus have so many new centrist and right-of-center parties come into being and taken the leadership. Though many Israelis long for peace and a good life for Palestinians, it is as though peace is not even on the agenda. 

I am distressed at the unfair blaming of Israel and the ignorance-based analysis one sees and hears in media and on campus. I am disgusted by news reports and op-eds that somehow do not see a problem with missile attacks, or terrorist attacks, or dropping incendiary devices on Israeli crops—as though attacks against Jews are somehow not a problem. 

I am distressed that false analogies about racism and colonialism and “indigeneity” are foisted onto a situation that is vastly different from other world and historical conflicts. I am distressed at the ahistorical pontificating of people who should know better—who don’t look back beyond 100 years to see that the Muslim and Arab world has been colonizing Israel for centuries, and that the vast majority of Palestinians are colonists from Egypt and Syria and Lebanon, people who only came to Eretz Yisrael after Zionist Jews brought the moribund land back to life. One has higher hopes for our supposed intellectual leaders, but all too often, willed-ignorance is pushed through and illiberal thought is demanded as the price of admission into academic respectability.  

I am also distressed at how so much of what we read and hear is based on poor reporting—on seeking extreme voices that reinforce preconceived notions and keep the conflict popping.  

I am distressed that many, many efforts toward peace and cooperation between Jews and Arabs are not better known. And, I am distressed that Arabs and Muslims who do engage in peaceful pursuits with Jews are threatened and worse.  

There is an interesting phrase in Birkat Hamazon, the traditional blessing after meals, which speaks of a kind of conditional messianism. It praises God Who בונה ברחמיו ירושלים “Builds Jerusalem with compassion.” 

We can, of course, read the verse as thanking God for the exceeding compassion evidenced in the rebuilding of our ancient holy city.  But, we could also read the verse as speaking of רחמיו / godly compassion as a necessary component in Jerusalem’s rebuilding. If we are to participate in the messianic dream of rebuilding Jerusalem, בונה ברחמיו ירושלים , a main ingredient, a major building block must be compassion. 

Fortunately, this is an approach understood by many on all sides of the conflict. All over the Land of Israel, there are individuals and community organizations dedicated to developing relationships and bringing peace. There are Jewish, Muslim, and Christian dialogues--in which religious and civic leaders model and lead encounters of mutual respect and cooperation. There are neighborhood get-togethers, book clubs, charitable endeavors, and shared commercial endeavors. There are many restaurants where Jews and Arabs eat together, shopping centers and grocery stores where they share the aisles, neighborhoods and towns where they live together. There are outreach efforts between Jewish villages and Arab villages. There are athletic and cultural connections in every corner of the land.  

Thus do I arrive at my first lesson for today: The dreams of peace are not dead. Though the leaders of Hamas and Hezbollah manipulate hate—and though many Israelis cannot see beyond this murderous opposition, there is human-to-human compassion and neighborliness in the Land of Israel. Psalm 122 speaks of Jerusalem as two cities  יְרוּשָׁלַם הַבְּנוּיָה כְּעִיר שֶׁחֻבְּרָה־לָּהּ יַחְדָּו: two cities that can hopefully be united as one. One Jerusalem is in heaven and is the perfect example of righteousness and holiness. The other is on earth and requires effort to make it better. There are thousands of Jews, Muslims, and Christians committed to practical messianism and working toward this unification—when the earthly Jerusalem will approach the Jerusalem in heaven. 

My second lesson is more difficult—and brings us back to the impossibility of Abraham’s situation. In many of our minds, there is an intellectual impatience. We want to figure things out, fix them, and then move on. Unsolvable problems test our patience and can get us angry. Indeed, we can respond emotionally and act out at those immersed in these problems, blaming them for the intractability of their situations. This is a departure from reasonable thinking—a sin—that is devoutly to be avoided. Some problems are not amenable to easy solutions—or to solutions on our timetable. Some actors really are too far apart to bring together. Some situations are simply impossible, and we need to negotiate through the difficulties as best we can. 

May peace come soon to Eretz Yisrael and all the world. But, in the meantime, keeping the people safe and fed and employed may be the best that is possible. It is certainly better than the alternative. Let us keep our dreams of peace alive, but let us not abandon the dreams because they are currently beyond the horizon.
ברוך אתה ה' בונה ברחמיו ירושלים
“Blessed is the Lord, Who with compassion rebuilds Jerusalem.”

The Persistence of Divine Love

September 30th: Shabbat Teshuvah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich
The following is Rabbi Ostrich’s Erev Rosh Hashanah D’var Torah.

In the ritual of putting on Tefillin, as you wrap the leather strap as a sign around your arm, it is traditional to recite a verse from Psalm 145--familiar to many of us as part of Ashray:
“You open Your hand to satisfy every living thing.”  

Sometimes, when I recite this verse, I think of it in terms of God’s hand. The verse prays that the God will open the Divine Hand and bestow upon us the blessings we need.
”Please open Your Hand to satisfy our needs.”

 Other times, I think of Rabbi Shefa Gold’s interpretative translation--that turns the verse into a yearning for the ability to be grateful:
“You open Your Hand; I open my heart to this abundance,
And all life, all will is satisfied.” 

Sometimes, at moments of dissatisfaction--of personal troubles and distress, the prayer becomes more intense--more a sermon to myself.
“Please, O Lord, help me to look beyond my difficulties and perceive the good things in my life. Help me please not to be overwhelmed with the imperfections which plague me.” 

Recently the verse took a different turn. I was in the hospital after my knee replacement, confined to bed and with an IV line in my hand. When I began my morning prayers and started to wrap my Tefillin’s leather strap around my arm, I realized that my normal wrap would not work properly. I would have to work around the IV, and the wrapping pattern would not be quite right. So, when I prayed, “You open Your hand to satisfy every living thing,” a little inner voice provided a kind of commentary: “I guess, O Lord, today You might have to be satisfied with my less than idea Tefillin technique. I’ll do the best I can, but please accept my adapted devotion.” 

Then, to my surprise, there was a response. It could have been my inner sarcasm or perhaps my conscience, or it could have been what the ancient Rabbis called a Bat Kol, a voice from heaven. In any event, the inner voice said, “David, God has long  been accustomed to being satisfied with less than the ideal from you. This is nothing new.” 

I do not think that I am unusual in this regard. God is accustomed to all of our inadequacies—loving and gracing us despite them. This does not mean that our sins are okay. God still hopes that we will repent and improve, but our Tradition is clear: God’s love is embracing and overflowing. As the Psalmist declares: “Give thanks to the Lord Who is good; Whose lovingkindness is eternal!” 

This dynamic of tolerance and hope is expressed in a number of places in our Scripture and liturgy. 

We can begin with the Tzitzit paragraph of our Shema. Remember the purpose of the Tzitzit: “They shall be tzitzit for you so that when you look at them, you will remember all the mitzvot of the Lord and do them—so you will not go about after your own heart and your own eyes after which you used to go wantonly astray.” The Torah assumes that we all have baggage--indiscretions and mistakes and moral failures. We all have them, but God is hopeful that our sins, misdeeds, and transgressions will be object lessons in what not to do again--that they will inspire us to improve. 

There is also this passage from the Yom Kippur liturgy that speaks of God’s relentless tolerance, love, and hope for us. God is described as “the Ruler Whose forgiving love annuls our trespasses and the trespasses of the House of Israel year after year after year...”
It is a continual process--one in which we and God are engaged every single day. Life is hard, and temptation is tempting. We are created with great potential but with significant weaknesses and short-sightedness. God understands us because God created us, and God does not expect perfection. What God hopes for is improvement and better choices; God knows that they are within our power.  

There is also this passage from Un’taneh Tokef. Lest we think that God is not paying close attention, we are reminded: “Are not all things known to You, both the mysteries of eternity and the dark secrets of all that live? You search the inmost chambers of the heart, and probe the deep recesses of the soul. Nothing is concealed from Your sight.”
There is no hiding from God--and God’s hopes for us. God knows us intimately, deeply, and God has an appreciation for all of the challenges we face and all the little victories we manage to achieve. God’s appreciation for us is profound--and so, therefore, is God’s pride, disappointment, and hope. God is with us in every moment. 

The lessons of the High Holy Days are twofold. God loves us and will forgive us, but God also hopes for our repentance--for our improvement. Like a parent loving a child, God wants the best for us, and God prays that we will do better.
We are Your people; You are our Ruler.
We are Your children; You are our Parent.
We are Your possession; You are our Portion.
We are Your flock; You are our Shepherd.
We are Your vineyard; You are our Keeper.
We are Your beloved; You are our Friend. 

See You in Shul, Soon!

September 23rd: Nitzavim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though Parshat Nitzavim describes an ancient covenant-entering ceremony, it also seems to anticipate the High Holy Days—and our annual Jewish meeting.
“You stand this day, all of you, before the LORD your God—your tribal heads, your elders, and your officials, every householder, your children, your wives, even the stranger within your camp, from woodchopper to water-drawer— to enter into the covenant of the LORD your God, which the LORD your God is concluding with you this day…” (Deuteronomy 29.9-11)
Some 3300 years later, we who are already part of the covenant participate in something essentially Jewish by simply showing up and re-constituting the covenant community.  

Thus it is that the text continues with a kind of psychic and emotional truth:
“I make this covenant, with its sanctions, not with you alone, but both with those who are standing here with us this day before the Lord your God and with those who are not with us here this day.” (Deuteronomy 29.13-14) When we gather at shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, it is as though every Jew in the world and in history is present—even the ones who may not be in attendance. 

Of course, one of the principles of Jewish life is that community does not mean unanimity. Each person has his/her own opinions, and our Tradition has learned that this can be a positive. Given that each individual’s perspective and wisdom is limited, our experience has been that the accumulation and aggregation of many different Jewish opinions gives our religion a remarkable resiliency and reach. Through many voices—each attempting to express the infinite—our holy congregation approaches and often finds wisdom. 

This is one way to understand a passage that comes later in the Torah portion: “Surely, this Instruction which I enjoin upon you this day is not too baffling for you, nor is it beyond reach. It is not in the heavens, that you should say, ‘Who among us can go up to the heavens and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ Neither is it beyond the sea, that you should say, ‘Who among us can cross to the other side of the sea and get it for us and impart it to us, that we may observe it?’ No, the thing is very close to you, in your mouth and in your heart, to observe it.” (Deuteronomy 30.11-14)

The usual understanding of this verse is that the LORD is telling us that the conditions of this covenant are doable. (God could be anticipating the Nike commercial: “Just do it!”)  However, this passage could be telling us that the covenant needs our input to make it doable—that we need to live it and adapt it and personalize the covenant until it is practical and meaningful. This Covenant which the Torah characterizes as “the life and the length of our days” (Deuteronomy 30.20) turns out to be the relationship we have with God—the religious, moral, social, and civic teachings that we have formulated in response to the Divine Presence. We gather in sacred community to reflect upon God’s Presence in our lives and how our lives reflect our holy context. The hope is that we can improve both our understanding and our behavior. Only in the Presence of the Most Holy and our sacred community can this important work be done.

See you in Shul!

Appreciating A Promise Fulfilled

September 16th: Ki Tavo 
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

How does one introduce oneself? How is one’s story told? Whether in a biography, a job resume, a college application, or even an obituary, it is an interesting exercise summarizing the important events or qualities or relationships in someone’s life—and then leaving out the rest. Each and every life has hundreds and thousands of details, but which ones should be chosen for a particular context? 

The ancient Levites must have addressed this question when they put together the thanksgiving ritual described in this week’s Torah portion. Note how each Israelite is instructed to tell his story:
“My father was a wandering Aramean who went down to Egypt and lived there--small in number, but there our family grew, and we became a great people, an enormous tribe. The Egyptians oppressed us and treated us badly, imposing harsh labor on us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our ancestors, and the Lord heard our voices and saw our suffering and our misery and our oppression. The Lord brought us out of Egypt with a strong hand and an outstretched arm, with amazing power and with wonders and miracles. Then the Lord brought us to this place and gave us this Land, the Land flowing with milk and honey. Now behold, I have brought the first of the produce of the Land that You, O Lord our God, have given me.”  (Deuteronomy 26.5-10) 

It is a moving story—an important story that hits the highlights, but think of the many parts of our sacred history that are left out. All the stories of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob are subsumed in the phrase, “My father was a wandering Aramean who went down to Egypt…” The story of the Exodus from Egypt gets good attention, but quite a bit less than the fifteen chapters the Torah gives it. There is no mention of the Ten Commandments, or the elaborate Levitical system of ritual purity and atonement from sin. or the wandering in the desert for forty years. And, there is no mention of the moral laws like Leviticus 19’s: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” It is a less-than-complete statement of spiritual identification.  

The fact that this recitation is part of a ritual may be one reason for the short form.
“When you come into the Land that the Lord your God is giving you as an inheritance and a possession, and you dwell in it, you shall take of the first and best of all the produce of the land that you harvest from the Land that the Lord your God is giving you, and you shall place it in a basket and travel to the place where the Lord your God chooses for the Divine Name to dwell. You shall go into the priest who is on duty at that time and say unto him: ‘I declare today to the Lord your God that I have entered the Land that the Lord promised to my ancestors, to give us.’ Then the priest shall  take the basket from your hands and lift it up before the altar of the Lord your God. Then you shall recite….”  (Deuteronomy 26.1-4) 

Perhaps it is like the shortened history we have in Avot v’Imahot in the Amidah. We praise the Lord Who is also the God of our ancestors—Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah, but we leave out most of the people in our family chain of tradition. Since the point of the prayer is to praise God, our liturgists found it expeditious to summarize.  

Perhaps the point is obvious: We select and edit information to fit various contexts and formats. Since this harvest appreciation prayer is to be recited individually by every single Israelite presenting his first fruits, a more a complete sacred history would simply take too long. And yet, in this brief format, only certain facts are included—and thus it is fitting to consider their message. 

Though there is much for which we should thank God (think Dayenu from the Passover Seder!), here the focus is on God’s promise of the “Land flowing with milk and honey.” Worshippers are instructed to thank God for all their blessings and for the fact that God followed through on the promise. We started with nothing. We sank into slavery and degradation. Then God saved us and gave us everything. This prayer expresses a profound sense of appreciation. As the prayer book puts it, “na’eh l’hodot / it is supremely appropriate to give thanks!”  

Today we often hear the word “privilege” in a political context, but it can also speak to a deeper truth. We are the recipients of blessings which we did not bring about ourselves. Our ancestors and families, the founders of our country and the people who built it and defended it, the founders and sages of our religion, and the wisdom and contributions of civilization in general are all our benefactors. We who are privileged in these many ways should feel a deep sense of thankfulness. We should also feel a strong sense of responsibility to pass the blessings along. 

This ethical sentiment is expressed in a passage in the old Union Prayer Book—one so powerful that I included in our Siddur B’rit Shalom:
“How much we owe to the labors of our brothers and sisters! Day by day they dig far away from the sun that we may be warm, enlist in outposts of peril that we may be secure, and brave the terrors of the unknown for truths that shed light on our way. Numberless gifts have been laid in our cradles as our birthright. Let us then, O Lord, be just and great-hearted in our dealings with others, sharing with them the fruit of our common labor, acknowledging before You that we are but stewards of whatever we possess. Help us to be among those who are willing to sacrifice that others may not hunger, who dare to be bearers of light in the dark loneliness of stricken lives, who struggle and even bleed for the triumph of righteousness. So may we be co-workers with You in the building of Your kingdom, which has been our vision and goal through the ages.” (Central Conference of American Rabbis, 1940, page 45, slightly adapted) 

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)