An Ancient Tragedy Not to Repeat

April 14th: Shemini
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In Shemini, we usually find ourselves focusing on Leviticus 11 and the origins of our Jewish Dietary Laws. Starting modestly, Kashrut eventually develops into four main categories:
(1)  which animals are permitted to be eaten,
(2)  how the animals are to be slaughtered,
(3)  the separation of meat and dairy, and
(4)  the special Passover rules.

Only two of these categories (#1 and #4) are Biblical, and this week’s focus is on which animals are permitted for consumption. Mammals must have split hooves and chew the cud. Fish must have fins and scales. Insects must have “jointed legs above their feet for leaping upon the ground.” (Leviticus 11.21) And, while there are no characteristics identified for birds, there is a list of prohibited species. Thus does the formidable system of Kashrut begin.  

However, there is another passage which should draw our attention: the mysterious death of Aaron’s two sons. As you may remember, Aaron is appointed High Priest, and his four sons—Nadab, Abihu, Elazar, and Itamar—are appointed Priests to function alongside him in the Mishkan now, and eventually to replace him as Kohen.  

They are all ordained and trained as priests, but, shortly after the sacrificial rituals begin, a disaster occurs. “Now Aaron’s sons Nadab and Abihu each took his fire pan, put fire in it, and laid incense on it, and they offered before the Lord aysh zarah / alien fire, which God had not instructed. And fire came forth from the Lord and consumed them; thus they died at the instance of the Lord.” (Leviticus 10.1-2) 

The text does not identify their mistake or explain what this “alien fire” is. Commentators are thus left to speculate on what could have possibly merited such a punishment. One theory is based on a passage immediately following the story. Editors could have placed it there on purpose, or its placement could have been arbitrary. “The Lord spoke to Aaron, saying, ‘Drink no wine or other intoxicant, you or your sons, when you enter the Tent of Meeting, that you may not die. This is a law for all time throughout the ages, for you must distinguish between the sacred and the profane, and between the unclean and the clean; and you must teach the Israelites all the laws which the Lord has imparted to them through Moses.’” (Leviticus 10.8-11)  

Is the averah (sin) of Nadab and Abihu drunkenness? Is it inebriation per se or is it the fact that they try to perform their sacred duties while drunk—approaching God without the proper kavannah (focus) and kavod (respect)? 

Lessons about the dangers of alcohol are not new, but they are always important. As wonderful as alcoholic beverages can be—tasting good and leaving us with a nice, relaxed feeling, there are also problems. Our motor skills are reduced, and our judgment is impaired. As nice as it is to self-medicate with alcohol, we still need our wits about us.  

Every once in a while, scientists and then journalists will weigh in on the health effects of alcohol, and lots of conversation (and controversy) is triggered. After hearing for years about how moderate amounts of alcohol are good for our us—along with the advice that a glass of red wine a day is good for heart health, many of us were shocked at a recent report that consuming alcohol in any amount reduces our lifespan. Given the great emphasis on alcoholic beverages in our society, this is not a mere scientific contemplation. It is for many a kind of existential crisis with emotional, psychological, and physical stakes.  

The Bible weighs in on the subject with a characteristic nuance. In Psalm 104.15, we celebrate God’s abundance that gives us “wine that cheers the hearts of humans.” But, in Proverbs, we are warned about drinking and making fools of ourselves. “Wine is a scoffer, strong drink a roisterer; one who is muddled by them will not grow wise.” (20.1) There is also “Get wisdom; lead your mind in a proper path. Do not be of those who guzzle wine…” (23.19).  

Most of us have had experiences when we have had too much to drink, and we have learned that managing our drinking is crucial if we want to avoid sabotaging careers or family relationships. How do we localize our drinking so that the effects of alcohol do not interfere with priorities? What kind of advice is helpful—so we know “how to drink” or “how to hold our liquor?”  

Among the theories about introducing young people to responsible drinking is a myth about why “Jews are not alcoholics.” The story goes that a little wine for Kiddush and Seder somehow prevents alcoholism, but this bubbe meise comes as quite a surprise to all the Jewish alcoholics. While there may be less of a genetic predeterminant for alcohol addiction among Jews (as opposed to other ethnic groups), the fact is that there are plenty of Jews who are subject to and who suffer from alcoholism. Repeating the myth about Jews not being vulnerable to this disease makes them feel double failures—first as alcoholics and second as Jews. (And, for what it’s worth, there is some evidence that Jews have a genetic predisposition to cocaine addiction...)   

The dichotomy between the joys of alcohol and the dangers of alcohol are one of the reasons it is hard to address this issue with teenagers and young adults. It is also difficult to warn them of dangers that so many adults so frequently flaunt. Whether it is driving “after only a few drinks” or beers or martinis at lunch, there is a lot of modeling of risky behavior.  

Getting back to our Torah portion, one may think that Nadab and Abihu are youngsters—upstarts without much life experience. However, their father’s younger brother (Moses) is eighty years old at the Exodus, and one can figure that Nadab and Abihu are well into adulthood—old enough to know better. Unless, of course, they are in the habit of thinking they can “handle it”—that their self-medication does not diminish their kavannah or their kavod.  

The Torah lesson in this portion is not new, but it is nonetheless very important. Alcoholic beverages dull our senses and our thinking abilities. They can be useful, but we need to be very careful with them. Remember what God tells Aaron: There are times when you must be able to distinguish between acceptable and unacceptable—aware enough both to follow the right path and to teach it.

Old Stories; New Twists

April 8th: Pesach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

As we pray through the Haggadah this week, many of us will greet the familiar passage about Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah and how he learned something new in his old age. “Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah said, "Behold I am like a man of seventy years, and I have never understood why the story of the Exodus from Egypt should be told at night until Ben Zoma explicated it. He quotes Deuteronomy 16:3, 'In order that you remember the day of your going out from the land of Egypt all the days of your life,' and explains as follows. If the Torah would have said merely 'the days of your life,' then we could conclude that the story should be told only in the daytime. However, the fact that the Torah says, 'all the days of your life' indicates that we should tell the story during the nights as well.” 

Though the main point is about when we should tell the story of Yetzi’at Mitzrayim / the Exodus from Egypt, I want to focus on Rabbi Elazar’s surprise at learning something new. He was the head rabbi of his generation—learned and insightful and powerful—and might have figured he knew everything. However, Ben Zoma’s deduction from a well-known text was something completely new, and Rabbi Elazar’s surprise learning can be an example for us all. Even in often repeated texts, we may see something we did not notice before, or hear a different perspective, or have had recent experiences that render us more responsive or aware.  

This was certainly my experience a few weeks ago in Israel. We were visiting Herodian, a man-made hill just outside of Bethlehem. The site was originally a summer palace for King Herod, but, late in life, he decided to cover the palace with dirt and have his tomb built there. The tomb itself was also buried, and the whole complex lay hidden for centuries—until recent decades of archeological excavations. It is a wonderful and eye-opening place for tourists to visit. 

However, there were some surprises. Some 130 years after Herod’s 4 BCE interment, the abandoned and buried palace complex was used as a hide-out by Jewish rebels in the Bar Kochba Rebellion (132-136 CE). Though all covered by dirt, inside was a warren of service tunnels, water cisterns, and drainage tunnels in addition to the various living and gathering spaces of the palace. From this secret lair, the rebels could mount their attacks and find refuge afterwards.  

Here is where a well-known Seder passage comes in. “While observing the Seder at B’nai B’rak, five ancient rabbis lingered all night long. Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Joshua, Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah, Rabbi Akiva, and Rabbi Tarfon were so intent on celebrating and discussing the story of the Exodus from Egypt that they were still talking about it when the sun began to rise. Their students had to interrupt them with, “Rabbis, it is time to recite the morning Shema!” 

I always figured that their scholastic and religious kavannah was so intense that they simply did not notice it getting light outside. However, our guide—quoting an insight of his study partner, wondered about their obliviousness. Did no one in the discussion see the dawn? Any veteran of “all-nighters” knows that, at some point, someone looks up and notices daybreak. What really happened? 

The Tradition tells us that these five rabbis were among the leaders of the Bar Kochba Rebellion, and the commentary has always been that the “Exodus from Egypt” they were discussing was really plans for the Rebellion against Rome. Our guide’s friend’s theory is that these rabbis were hiding underground—perhaps in a place like Herodian—and literally could not see the sun rising. Guards up on the hilltop saw the dawn and descended into the hiding place where they interrupted the meeting with, “Rabbis, it is time to recite the morning Shema!” 

As we were crawling through the narrow passages and learning about the rebels’ defensive strategies, another Talmudic passage came to light. This one is found in Sanhedrin 14a and Avodah Zarah 8b, but most know it from the Martyrology section on Yom Kippur afternoon. Despite the Roman prohibition of training and ordaining rabbis, Rabbi Judah ben Bava defied the order and ordained five into the rabbinate. When the Romans arrived to execute him and his students, he told the students to run away. He would stay and single-handedly stop the Romans. He said, “I am cast before them like a stone that cannot be overturned,” or, in other translations, “I will be like an immovable rock.”

How could one man stop the Roman soldiers? If the old rabbi and his students were in an underground hiding place like Herodian, here is what could have happened. The narrow, twisting, and dark tunnels would have been very difficult for the Roman soldiers to negotiate. They had their armor and weapons and a torch in one hand to see in the darkness, and they would have been forced to walk in single file. This meant that a single defender, hiding around a dark corner, could have easily taken out the lead soldier—whom the following soldiers would have to climb over. Then the defender could have easily taken out the next lead soldier and then the next and the next. Thus could the elderly Judah ben Bava have defended several narrow positions and let his students escape—even if eventually he were overcome.

Our religious texts usually focus on faith and courage, but our Tradition is also full of strategy and practicality—all necessary for our sacred survival. 

Our generation is not the first to notice the repetitive nature of our holidays and holy texts, and remarks like that of Rabbi Elazar ben Azariah remind us to keep paying attention. There is also the advice of the ancient sage Ben Bag Bag: “Turn it over and over again,  for everything is there (in the Torah). And look deeply into it; And become gray and old therein; And do not move away from it, for you have no better portion than it.” (Pirke Avot 5.22)  

“Knowing” a story only means that we know some of what the story has to teach. Our Tradition is built of layers upon layers upon layers. Even when we know the story, there may be more for us to learn, more for us to appreciate, more for us to understand. The Buddhists say, “When you are ready to learn, a teacher will appear.” Perhaps we should say, “When you are ready to learn, an already-known story can reveal new truths we are finally ready to hear.”

K'lay Kodesh: Holy Treatment for Holy Vessels

March 31st: Tzav
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The Hebrew word k’li means tool or vessel, and Leviticus is very concerned with how the k’lay kodesh, the holy tools/vessels are used and treated. There are even special protocols for how they are packed and carried. The k’lay kodesh include the special priestly vestments, the portable altars (one for meat and the other for incense), and the various basins, bowls, firepans, tongs, and other tools for the sacrificial offerings. And there are the priests themselves. As holy and ordained servants of God, they are considered k’lay kodesh, holy implements and vessels of God’s presence among the people.                                             

This week’s Torah portion describes the ordination of the priests—the rituals that qualify them for officiating at the sacrifices. Clothed in their uniforms, they are the sacred workers and the only ones allowed to touch and use the sacred utensils and vessels. K’lay kodesh using k’lay kodesh: it is the sacred process in Israel’s worship of the One God.  

The Torah goes into lots and lots of detail about the equipment and the rituals, but one thing that is omitted is what should be done with the tongs or fire pans or incense equipment that get broken or worn out. There must have been ancient protocols, but the textual discussion had to wait several centuries for the Rabbis in the Talmudic Age. By then, Torah Scrolls and other sacred books had been added to the category of k’lay kodesh, and so that were included in these sacred repair or disposal discussions. And there was another addition.  

Rabbinic Judaism takes a passage from the Torah, “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19.6), and turns it into a kind of spiritual raison d’etre or modus operandi. Whereas God probably intended the phrase as an inspirational metaphor—with the actual priesthood being a hereditary institution in the Tribe of Levi, the Rabbis see in it a call to individual holiness for all Jews. By engaging in personal and communal acts of piety, non-Priestly Jews can attain a holiness and individual relationship with God—ministering as k’lay kodesh in the building of God’s kingdom on earth.  

So, as the Rabbis might have asked, How are human beings like Torah Scrolls—and what does this teach us? When human pass away, their bodies are treated with respect and holy care, and they are buried in consecrated ground. Should not the same care and respect be accorded to other k’lay kodesh—like worn-out Torah Scrolls and sacred books? As a result, we have the curious and endearing custom of burying old prayer books, Torah Scrolls and Tefillin—anything in which the Name of God is written. Sometimes, we bury holy books in the graves of the deceased, and other times we bury holy books in special graves dug just for this purpose.  

As both a practical and educational activity, we shall be joining with Penn State Hillel for a book burial on Monday April 24th at the historic Rodef Sholem Jewish Cemetery near Bellefonte. This Jewish cemetery dates back to the 1800s and is held in sacred trust by our congregation. The book burial will be begin at 1:00 PM on the 24th, and you are invited to join in the sacred work.  There are three ways to participate:
(1)  Lend us your shovels and pickaxes. The plan is for the Penn State students to do the digging, but they did not bring tools to college. If you can lend us your tools, please put your name on them so we can be sure to return them to you.
(2)  Bring us old and worn-out holy books to be buried. Hillel is bringing several dozen old prayer books, but we shall have room for any worn-out prayer books or Bibles you may have around the house. Just bring them to the synagogue and the rabbi’s office.
(3)  Join in the mitzvah of honoring our k’lay kodesh. While our main diggers will be Hillel students, we welcome any and all congregational members to join us. You can help dig, carry books up the hill, or just watch and give moral support.    

We shall be gathering at Rodef Sholem Cemetery around 1:00 PM on Monday April 24th. The cemetery is on Route 550, just off the Benner Pike/Willowbank Street in Spring Township. The turn off is to the left, before you get to Bellefonte and just past The Hot Dog House. The cemetery does not have a sign in front, but it is about 1/3 mile in on the left. We plan to be finished before 4:00. 

As is often the case in our faith, we work with a combination of the holy and the practical—bringing heaven to earth and earth to heaven.

"Va’ani Tefilati / May I Be My Prayer" (Psalm 69.14)

March 24th: Vayikra
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich  

With what do we come before the Lord? What does God want from us? 

These are questions with many answers, and our history as a religious people offers quite a few. Back in pre-Biblical times, people believed that they needed to feed the gods, and their worship involved sacrificing animals so that the gods could get sustenance. This ancient thinking is illustrated in the Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic’s story of Utnapishtim, a Noah-like character who saves himself and lots of animals from a great flood. When the waters recede, and Utnapishtim exits the giant boat and offers sacrifices to the gods, they “hover around the cooking meat like flies.” In deciding to destroy humanity, the gods have foolishly forgotten who feeds them and are now very, very hungry. 

As you no doubt notice, this ancient Babylonian tale mirrors the Biblical tale of the Great Flood—though there are a few significant differences. In the Bible, there is only One God, and our God is not hungry. God does, however, enjoy the re’ach nicho’ach, the aroma of the cooking meat. “So Noah came out, together with his sons, his wife, and his sons’ wives. Every animal, every creeping thing, and every bird, everything that stirs on earth came out of the ark by families. Then Noah built an altar to the Lord and, taking of every clean animal and every clean bird, offered burnt offerings on the altar. The Lord smelled the pleasing odor and mused, ‘Never again will I doom the earth because of the humans…’” (Genesis 8.18-21) 

From these ancient days until the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 CE, our people worshipped God with sacrificial offerings. Over time, the worship process became more formalized and professionalized, and its high point was the elaborate Priestly Service in the Temple of the Lord in Jerusalem. For our ancient ancestors, the answer to the question was: “We come before the Lord with burnt offerings,” and, as we begin the Book of Leviticus this week, we are taught again the ritual instructions.  

After the Temple was destroyed by the Romans, the new situation necessitated a new form of worship. Following the basic pattern of the sacrificial worship service, the Rabbis developed a prayer service in which a main prayer takes the place of the sacrifice. This main prayer is now known as the Amidah, the standing prayer, with nineteen blessings on weekdays and seven blessings on Shabbat. As scholars of the Torah, the Rabbis also included a section of Torah study. And so, for almost 2000 years, we have come before the Lord with prayer and with study. 

Through the years, however, many thinkers have expanded the discussion beyond the form of worship. Back in Biblical days, the Hebrew Prophets insisted that ritual alone is not enough for God—that the Lord also demands righteousness and morality. As the Prophet Amos proclaims, ritual propriety mixed with dishonesty in regular life is disgusting to our Lord: “Spare me the sound of your hymns, and let Me not hear the music of your lutes, but let justice well up like water, righteousness like a mighty stream.” (Amos 5.23-24)

When the Prophet Micah summarizes what is most important to God, ritual is merely an implication of a relationship with the Eternal One: “It has been told you, O Human, what is good, and what the Lord requires of you: Only to do justice, to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (Micah 6.8) Rituals are only acceptable if the worshippers behave righteously in every realm of their lives. 

There is also what we could call a pietistic theme in many spiritual texts—where we are reminded that ritual forms need to be filled with sincerity and respect. As David prays in Psalm 19.15, “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” If we want our prayers to be l’ratzon, acceptable, how do we make them so? The basic answer is that we must pray with kavannah, with spiritual focus. In Psalm 51.17, we even pray to be able to pray: “Eternal God, open my lips that my mouth may declare Your glory.” 

There is also the necessity of humility. “You do not want me to bring sacrifices; You do not desire burnt offerings. True sacrifice to God is a contrite spirit; O God, You will not despise a contrite and crushed heart.” (Psalm 51.18-19) 

Or, as the author of the 12th Century Hymn of Unity elaborates: “It is written: I, the Lord, will not reprove you for lack of sacrifices or your burnt offerings. For I commanded not your ancestors concerning sacrifices and burnt offerings. What have I asked, and what have I sought, but that you revere me? To serve with joy and a good heart; behold, to hearken is better than sacrifice, and a broken heart than a whole offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit. I will build an altar of the broken fragments of my heart, and will bow my spirit within me. My broken spirit—that is Your sacrifice; let it be acceptable upon Your altar. I will proclaim aloud Your praise; I will declare all Your wonders.  

Or, as the Baal Shem Tov explains, “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves.”  

When we read the ancient rules of sacrifices, above and beyond the ritual details is the human aspiration to lift ourselves into God’s Presence and be accepted and loved. Our long tradition of prayers and rituals represents our intense and deep desire to live in a positive and loving relationship with Divine. With what do we come before the Lord? With ourselves—our deepest and most sincere selves. “Va’ani tefilati…/May I be my prayer…” (Psalm 69.14) May we be our prayers.

Preparing Spiritually for Passover

March 18th:  Vayakhel/Pekuday and Hachodesh
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In addition to the regular weekly Torah portion—which completes the Book of Exodus, our sacred calendar also calls upon us to prepare for Passover. Thus do we also reread the original instructions for Passover (from Exodus 12). These instructions are well known and often recited, but, this year, I learned something new. As the ancient sage, Ben Bag Bag, said: “Turn it over and over again,  for everything is there (in the Torah). And look deeply into it; And become gray and old therein; And do not move away from it, for you have no better portion than it.” (Pirke Avot 5.22) 

We know about the instruction: “All the assembled congregation of the Israelites shall slaughter the lamb at twilight. They shall take some of the blood and put it on the two doorposts and the lintel of the houses in which they are to eat it.” (Exodus 12.6-7) 

And we know the purpose: “For that night, I will go through the land of Egypt and strike down every first-born in the land of Egypt, both human and beast and I will mete out punishments to all the gods of Egypt, I the Lord. And the blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, so that no plague will destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt.” (Exodus 12.12-13)  

If I had ever been asked where on the doorposts and lintels they painted the blood, the answer would have been pretty obvious: the outside. How else could the Angel of Death know which houses to Pass Over? However, as I recently learned, several commentators insist that the blood was painted on the inside of the doors. 

They reread the above passage and notice the clause, “the blood on the houses where you are staying shall be a sign for you.” For YOU! I always figured that the “for you” means “for the benefit of you Israelites.” However, the Mechilta and Rashi say that the blood is to be on the inside so the Israelites can see it. Ibn Ezra explains that this placement is to prevent panic among the Israelites when they hear the cries of pain and grief from their Egyptian neighbors. They can look at the blood and remember God’s promise and protection. 

The first nine plagues are meant to show God’s power to Pharaoh and the Egyptians. This one’s audience is also Israel. As we read earlier: “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your sons’ sons how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My sins among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.’” (Exodus 10.1-2) 

Another distinction of Plague #10 is that the Israelites themselves participate in it. If they do not kill the lamb and paint their doorposts—and roast the lamb over fire and eat it with matzah and bitter herbs, then they are not included in the salvation.  

This notion of participatory miracles and salvation is an important theme for the Rabbis. As appreciative as they are for miracles, there is also the realization that miracles are few and far between. If we do nothing but sit around and wait for God to solve our problems, many would not be solved. This double-sided view of miracles—hoping for and believing in them, but not wanting to ignore the human role in solving our own problems—is reflected in a Midrash that we have in our prayer books (page 38):
“When the Israelites stood on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea, terrified at the onrushing chariots, Moses lifted up his rod to divide the waters, but nothing happened. Nothing happened because Moses and the Israelites were waiting on God for the miracle. Then Nachshon, an Israelite filled with faith and bravery, jumped into the water and started walking. ‘By our faith shall these waters be divided,’ he shouted, and everyone followed him in. When all the people were in the sea—with the water up to their noses—only then did the sea part, and the Children of Israel could walk through on dry land.” (Talmud Sotah 37a and Bemidbar Rabbah 13.7)

By the way, this Rabbinic notion that God helps those who help themselves is not only a Jewish insight. Many ancient cultures shared this insight—though the ancient Greek version was phrased in polytheistic terms the gods help those who help themselves. So when Benjamin Franklin put it in Poor Richard’s Almanac, he was quoting from the ubiquitous wisdom to which all humanity has access.

The Hebrews & Slavery, Part II

February 24th: Terumah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Last week, we wrestled with the fact that, though holy and morally significant, our ancient texts are not always up to the standards we consider moral today. The subject arose from the various kinds of slavery allowed/prescribed in the Bible. In the Ten Commandments (Exodus 20), slaves are mentioned twice. In the Remember the Sabbath commandment (#4), slaves are among those who are to rest on the seventh day. In the Do Not Covet commandment (#10), slaves are among our neighbors’ “possessions” we are not supposed to covet. In Exodus 21, we learn about the various rules for debt slavery and women sold into marriages. There are later Torah passages about third-party injuries to slaves, the obligatory redemption of Hebrew slaves owned by Gentiles, and the fact that Hebrews are allowed to own Gentiles as slaves permanently.   

In other words, despite the dramatic and morally powerful release of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, slavery was a practice allowed and regulated (though possibly mitigated) by the Torah and Talmud. What are we to make of this grievous unjustness?! 

As I explained last week, though we can see many profound teachings in the Torah, it is a document that reflects its time and place and the social mores of the people involved. So many of the principles that emerge from the Torah were in a more primitive form—beginning as seedlings and taking centuries to grow into the great moral standards we cherish today.  

I also mentioned the possibility of incremental improvement—that given firmly entrenched social mores, progressive moral forces are often limited in how much improvement they can muster. Is total liberation the only acceptable solution, or are small improvements worthwhile? 

Though our faith believes in an All-Powerful Deity—Adon Olam!, the Tradition seems very aware of the limitations of human thinking and human society. Take the Creation stories in Genesis 1 and 2. Neither comports with modern science, but does that make them false or rather over-simplified summaries suitable for ancient shepherds unacquainted with astrophysics? A similar ancient accommodation is the Temple cult in which the Lord God is worshipped with animal sacrifices. The Prophets and Psalmists are quite clear that God needs neither meat nor blood, and, as Isaiah notes (40.16), if God did need such things, the Divine appetite could never be sated with the resources available to us. “Lebanon is not fuel enough, nor all its beasts enough for sacrifice.” What God wants—according to many Prophets and Psalmists—is our attention, our piety, and our moral obedience. Why would God establish the sacrificial cult—the preparation of which begins in this week’s Torah portion? “Let them build for me a sanctuary that I may dwell among them.” (Exodus 25.8) Rabbi Moses Maimonides explains that sacrificing animals is what the ancients understood as religion, and God wanted to give them religious practices they would recognize as such—making sure, of course, that these Hebrew sacrificial services were dedicated to the One God. Now, some 2000 years after the destruction of the Temple and the sacrificial cult, most modern Jews feel fine about prayers instead of animal sacrifices. The ancients got close to God using spiritual tools suitable for their time and culture, and we can get just as close to God, accessing the Divine in ways that better fit our modern spirits. Same God; same Judaism; same goals; just different Jewish techniques.

One of the problems with ancient texts is that some people read them literally and use them to justify less-than-honorable actions. This can be seen in the various Bible-based justifications for the chattel slavery practiced in the Americas up until the Civil War. “Since the Bible allows Hebrews to own non-Hebrew slaves in perpetuity,” so the logic goes, “Then it is okay for Whites to own non-Whites as slaves in perpetuity.”  Some people read the Bible this way, while others read it as a demand for freedom and human liberation. Thus were religionists sharply divided in their approaches to slavery and abolition—a split found in both Judaism and Christianity. As you may know, one of the most prominent defenders of the Confederacy was the Jewish Judah P. Benjamin, who served as U.S. Senator from Louisiana before secession and later as Vice-President (and other cabinet positions) in the Confederacy.  

Several years ago, our congregation was treated to a reading of a play by our own Gil Aberg. Gil, a longtime and beloved member who passed away last year, wrote the play about a fictional Passover Seder in England. The hosts are the Rothschild family, and one of the guests is Judah P. Benjamin, importuning the wealthy Rothschilds to give financial assistance to the struggling Confederacy. That his appeal takes place at a Seder makes the whole situation terribly ironic. One minute, they decry slavery in Egypt. The next minute, he defends slavery in America. It is quite a play, pulling the audience into the conflict of Biblical principles and self-interested interpretations. I would love to get a copy of the play and have it presented again.  

There is also the moral quandary—one that is quite personal for me—of Jews serving in the Confederate Army. Jews were a very small percentage of the Southern population and an even smaller percentage of those who owed slaves, but the fact is that Jews participated in pretty much every aspect of life in the ante-bellum American South. Thus did my great-great grandfather, Joseph Greenwald, find himself serving in the Confederate Army. To my knowledge, neither he nor his brother nor his wife’s parents were slave-owners, but these German immigrants felt the need to join in the effort to “defend the South.” One explanation is that they were “48ers,” refugees from the failed German Revolution of 1848 who had fled by the thousands to the United States. These former revolutionaries were regarded with suspicion by more established Americans and thus worked very hard to fit in and be accepted. This relative insecurity and the pressure to “be a real American” led many 48ers—both Gentile and Jewish, both in the North and in the South—to join the armies and fight for their new countries.  

We may look askance at such “fitting in” behaviors—especially in the pro-slavery South, but I think they point to the problems individuals face when they search for survival strategies in less than perfect places. How much do you give in to local attitudes and mores? How negotiable are your faith’s moral or ritual principles? When faced with social or legal injustice, what are your options? Is change possible, and how much should you risk for such change? We like to think that we are all heroic and would always stand up to oppression, but, when real evil is deeply entrenched, what are our realistic possibilities, and what risks are worth taking?  

Our Tradition represents the voices of real people facing real challenges in a variety of times and places. We do not need to agree with their responses, but we can study their lives and try to learn.

The Hebrews & Slavery, Part I

February 17th: Mishpatim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I had a bit of an awkward moment a few weeks ago as I was teaching the Ten Commandments in Religious School. Instead of providing my own translation of the Hebrew, I read aloud the translation in Etz Hayim, the Torah and Commentary volume we have in the sanctuary. The problem was the translation of Commandment #10. “You shall not covet your neighbor’s house: you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or his male or female slave, or his ox or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor’s.” (Exodus 20.14) I am not complaining about the scholarship of the 1999 Jewish Publication Society translation, but rendering the Hebrew words avdo and amato as male and female slaves and not as servants presents pedagogical difficulties. The Ten Commandments is our formative ethical text, and we had slaves?! 

There is sort of an explanation, but it is complicated. The Bible describes several different kinds of slavery. First is corvee labor, the slavery suffered by the Israelites in Egypt. It is a form of servitude where the government forces residents to labor on public works projects. During the annual Nile floods, the arable land was flooded, and farmers were drafted by the government to build temples, royal tombs, and “store cities” like Pithom and Rameses (mentioned in Exodus 1.11). Just as we may not care for taxes, our ancient shepherding ancestors did not cotton to forced labor, and they cried out to the Lord. By the way, King Solomon forced the same kind of corvee labor on his Israelite subjects in building the Temple in Jerusalem and his more elaborate palace. The resulting resentment is reflected in a number of anti-Solomon passages in the Bible.  

A second kind of slavery, debt slavery, is discussed in this week’s Torah portion: “When you acquire a Hebrew slave, he shall serve six years; in the seventh year he shall go free, without payment.” When an Israelite borrowed money and could not repay the loan, the borrower could “sell himself” into debt slavery for the time necessary for repayment. In exchange for the labor during this period, the employer had responsibilities in re room, board, just treatment, etc. There was a six-year limit: no matter how much was owed, six years of labor was the maximum. 

There were some complications that strike us as difficult or unjust: “If the slave came single, he shall leave single; if he had a wife, he wife shall leave with him. If his master gave him a wife, and she has borne children, the wife and the children shall belong to the master, and the slave shall leave alone.” (Exodus 21.3-6) 

There is also the interesting possibility of the slave deciding that life in the master’s house is better than being out in the world. “If the slave declares, ‘I love my master, and my wife and children; I do not wish to go free,’ his master shall take him before God. He shall be brought to the door or the doorpost, and his master shall pierce his ear with an awl; and he shall remain his slave for life.” (Exodus 21.5-6) 

A third kind of slavery is chattel slavery in which some humans permanently own other human beings. The Bible does not allow permanent ownership of Hebrews by Hebrews—and it makes arrangements for Hebrews to redeem enslaved Hebrews from non-Hebrews, but it does allow Hebrews to own non-Hebrews. Hmmm.  

Fourth, there is the matter of young women being sold by their parents into marriage. In such situations, the Torah tries to be careful about sexual propriety and good faith. “When a man sells his daughter as a slave, she shall not be freed as male slave are. If she proves to be displeasing to her master, who designated her for himself, he must let her be redeemed; he shall not have the right to sell her to outsiders, since he broke faith with her. And, if he designated her for his son, he shall deal with her as is the practice with free maidens. If he marries another, he must not withhold from this one her food, her clothing, or her conjugal rights. If he fails her in these three ways, she shall go free, without payment.” (Exodus 21.7-11) 

If we want to see our modern values reflected in the Bible, we are sometimes disappointed. While many of the principles of modern ethics are seeds or seedlings in the Bible, the fact is that ancient societal mores were very different. We like to think of our religion (and our God!) as progressive and just and totally respectful of all human beings, but some of the practices or attitudes of our ancient ancestors can be, frankly, embarrassing in our modern eyes. What are we to make of ancient customs and laws that are so stunningly unjust? 

For one thing, we should realize and celebrate the growth and development of human thinking. The ancients had many brilliant ideas and noble aspirations, but many of our modern sensibilities have taken centuries to develop—and were hard-fought at every step of the way. Conventional thinking about who is a proper/true/full and autonomous human being and what are acceptable human activities have changed significantly, and they continue to grow in our own day. Let us not forget the real tragedies of people persecuted in previous generations because of narrow thinking—and how much better things are today. 

A second consideration is the necessity of incremental progress, fairness, and respect. In a world where societal strictures are very firm, is it possible to lessen the oppression of some people, or to help them in less than complete ways? An example is in our Torah portion. In a world where women were sold into marriages, the Torah sought to give them a higher status than regular slaves who could be bought and sold at will. Prohibiting masters from trading in sexually-used slave women was better than the alternative. Establishing basic rights of food, clothing, and affection were better than the alternative. Later, in Talmudic times, the Rabbis established the Ketubah, a legal document guaranteeing rights and property for married women. Though men had the power in divorce proceedings, the Ketubah pre-nuptial agreement meant that, should a woman be divorced, she would go forth propertied and able to support herself. It is clearly not the complete equality that we demand today, but, in a world of lesser possibilities, our religion sought to work toward justice and compassion.  

We can still wonder how recently released Hebrew slaves could have kept slaves of their own. We can still regret the limitations on freedom and fairness that plagued our ancient ancestors—and that limited their thinking. And, we can give thanks that things have improved. As Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. observed, “…the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” We wish things would improve quicker, and we mourn for those who have suffered waiting for the justice and compassion they deserve, but patience is often a necessary partner of persistence. There is a better way, and we should answer the call to help find it.

Preparing to Encounter the Holy One

February 10th: Yitro
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

This week’s Torah portion concludes the story of the Exodus with the Revelation at Mount Sinai. In our traditional understanding, freeing the Hebrews from Egypt is not just a liberation; it is a  liberation for a purpose, and that purpose is an ongoing relationship with the One God. As it is explained in Exodus 19.6: “You shall be to Me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” 

As far back as Rabbi Akiva in the Second Century, mystics have imagined Yetzi’at Mitzrayim, the Exodus from Egypt, in romantic terms. Israel is a maiden imprisoned by an evil king, and the Lord whisks her away and brings her to desert to marry her. “Arise, my darling, my fair one, and come away.” (Song of Songs 2.10) Who is this coming up from the desert, all perfumed with myrrh and frankincense? (Song of Songs 3.6)  God rescues us brings us to Mount Sinai so we can “get married.” Thus do the Ten Commandments represent our “wedding vows,” as we officially begin our lives together. 

As with most weddings, the emotions are heightened. “As morning dawned, there was thunder, and lightning, and a dense cloud upon the mountain, and a very loud blast of the shofar; and all the people who were in the camp trembled. Moses led the people out of the camp toward God, and they took their places at the foot of the mountain.” (Exodus 19.16-17) 

Before this, however, the people are told to prepare for their Divine encounter. “The Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to the people and warn them to stay pure today and tomorrow. Let them wash their clothes. Let them be ready for the third day; for on the third day the Lord will come down, in the sight of all the people, on Mount Sinai.’” (Exodus 19.10-11) 

There are instances in the Bible when God appears to people suddenly and without any human preparation, but there are also cases where individuals need to ready themselves for the spiritual encounter. In the story of Moses and the Burning Bush, the Lord does not speak until Moses turns aside from his shepherding to inspect the miracle. For the original Passover night, the people need to prepare: choosing their lambs, painting the doorposts with blood, and eating the roasted meat with matzah and bitter herbs. Without our participation/preparation, the salvation does not take place. This seems to be the case at Mount Sinai as well. The people need to get ready for the Revelation.  

This is not unusual, as we often need to get ourselves ready. Whether it is warm-up exercises before sports, warm-up comedians before live television shows, aperitifs and appetizers before fancy meals, or pep-rallies before football games, we like to get our moods and bodies prepared so we can get the most out of our experiences. How much the more so would we need to get ourselves ready before hearing the Ten Commandments at Mount Sinai?

Growing up, I always figured that our worship begins at the beginning—at the opening hymn. Thus it came as a surprise to learn that the official beginning of the service is Barchu / the “Call to Worship” which comes later. Everything before that—the songs, hymns, Psalms, and prayers—are all designed to warm-up our concentration and focus, our kavannah. Thus, when the prayer leader instructs us to “Bar’chu et Adonai ham’vorach. / Praise the Lord Who is deserving of praise,” we answer by expressing our readiness: “Baruch Adonai ham’vorach le’olam va’ed! / Yes, we praise the Lord, Who is deserving of praise forever and ever!” Now that our minds and souls are ready, we can begin our prayers in earnest.  

It is certainly possible to pray without knowing the service’s spiritual process, but, to me, understanding the method and process has always enhanced my prayer experience. Remember the basic plan: 

(1)  The first part of the service, what I like to call “the Kavannah Exercises,” are to get us in a prayerful mood.

(2)  The Shema and Its Blessings (from Bar’chu up until the Amidah) are for us to contemplate the attributes of the God to Whom we shall pray.

(3)  The Amidah/Tefilah is the main prayer, the prayer that takes the place of the ancient sacrifices. In the Rabbinic mindset, it is the most important part of the service, and we are urged to be ready and in the proper state of mind. As the Mishna teaches: “One should not stand up to say Tefilah except in a reverent state of mind. The pious men of old used to wait an hour before praying in order that they might direct their thoughts to God.” (Berachot 5.1)

(4)  The Torah Service offers us another avenue to our relationship with the Divine. When we study the Lord’s word, we are brought into proximity with God and godliness. This is the point of Rabbi Chananya ben Teradion when he says: “When two sit together and words of Torah are [spoken] between them, then the Shechinah / God’s Presence abides among them.” (Pirke Avot 3.2)

(5)  With Alaynu and our closing prayers, we complete the mood, summarizing the themes and purposes of our worship—and remembering the continuity and eternality of our relationship with God.

The whole point of this spiritual process is to open our minds and hearts to the Divine—making room for God in our thinking and in our possibilities. As Rabban Gamliel understood it, the purpose is to “Aseh r’tzono kir’tzon’cha, Align your will with God’s Will.” (Pirke Avot 2.4) The Baal Shem Tov saw it in terms of making sure that we leave room in our lives for God: “There is no room for God in those who are full of themselves”— a sentiment echoed by the modern Rabbi Rami Shapiro who invites us to “empty some of our egos in order to make room for God.” 

At Mount Sinai, before meeting God, we were instructed, “Be ready.” May we remember this when next we gather to encounter the Lord.

Our Many Voices of Wisdom

February 3rd: Beshallach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

The problem with Biblical literalists is that the Bible is not internally consistent. There are a variety of opinions on most subjects, and pretty much any position can be supported or denied with a chosen quotation. Is killing wrong? Sometimes yes; sometimes no. Is idolatry okay? Usually not, but sometimes sort of okay. Is only kosher food allowed? Sometimes yes, and sometimes no. What about the priesthood: who should be the priests? Some passages insist on just the descendants of Aaron; other passages assign the holy task to the whole tribe of Levi. 

The Biblical text is full of koshis—anomalies, contradictions, or mysterious omissions, and a lot of Rabbinic effort goes into adjudicating the competing points of view and resolving the myriad contradictions. As a result, Judaism is better seen as a chorus of earnest voices rather than a single-minded set of dicta. The Tradition is self-aware of this dynamic and gives voice to its reality in a number of stories. Among them is about the ongoing debate between Bet Hillel and Bet Shammai—the schools of thought that followed the teachings of the sages Hillel and Shammai. The Midrash goes like this: “For three years, the House of Hillel and the House of Shammai argued. One said, 'The halakha is according to us,' and the other said, 'The halakha is according to us.' Finally, a heavenly voice spoke: ‘These and these are both the words of the living God…’” (Talmud Eruvim 13b.10-11) 

(This same kind of adjudicating can be seen in the centuries of work of Christianity’s Church Fathers and in the subsequent tradition of Canon Law. There is a lot of work to be done in wresting religious dogma and doctrine from the many views found in ancient texts.) 

This dynamic of multiple voices in a chorus is important to remember when one studies this week’s Torah portion. In one of the most dramatic passages in the whole Bible, the Lord splits the Red Sea so that the Children of Israel can walk through it on dry land. When the Egyptians follow them in murderously, they are swallowed by the sea and perish. That is in Exodus Chapter 14. Then, in Chapter 15, we have Shirat Hayam, The Song of the Sea, a poem which recounts the miraculous event and praises God as a “mighty man of war.”
“I will sing to the Lord, for He has triumphed gloriously; Horse and drive He has hurled into the sea. The Lord is my strength and my song; He is become my deliverance…the Lord, the Warrior—Lord is His name… In Your great triumph You break Your opponents; You send forth Your fury, it consumes them like straw!” (Exodus 15.1-3, ) 

Some of us may not be comfortable with such a bloodthirsty God. We may prefer to think of God in more loving terms, or in less anthropomorphic terms. Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan was among those who think of God as more a force in the universe rather than a giant personage. And, for those who sense in the Divine a conscious and approachable spiritual personality, the notion of murder and mayhem executed by God may not seem right—or worship-able. What does the Bible say? What does Judaism say about this? The answer is that there are many different human impressions of God, and both the Bible and subsequent Judaism are full of these different understandings.  

In the case of our rather savage song, we must remember the savagery of the situation—and the enemy: “I will pursue, I will overtake, I will divide the spoil; my desire shall have its fill of them. I will bare my sword—my hand shall subdue them!” (Exodus 15.) Had the Lord not saved us there at the Red Sea, imagine the brutality of the massacre of our ancestors! Facing certain death, our people found themselves, all of a sudden, on the other side of the sea and safe—with the people who had murder on their minds floating dead in the water. Is this the time for a tranquil meditation on the vagaries of life, or is this the time for releasing the fear and anxiety with screams and songs and dance? Is this ancient song a philosophical treatise, or is it a celebration of narrowly escaping the jaws of death? Does this reflect the totality of God, or does it reflect what the singers have just experienced? I think that this view of God’s participation in the world is one of many different voices in the Bible and Jewish thinking about the ineffable and inspiring Presence we call God. This is one voice in the Jewish chorus. 

This, by the way, brings up a pet peeve of mine about Christian mischaracterization of the Hebrew Bible. I do not know who originated this notion, but it is not uncommon to hear that, “The God of the Old Testament is angry and vengeful, while the God of the New Testament is kind and loving.” Such an interpretation is not born out in any way. Yes, there are moments of anger and violence in the Hebrew Bible, but there are also examples of Divine compassion and loving. Does not the Psalmist speak often about “Ki le’olam chasdo / that God’s lovingkindness is eternal!?” And, if one looks at the whole Christian Bible, it becomes quite apparent that, along with “turn the other cheek” and examples of Jesus’ kindness and love, there are also passages speaking about eternal pain and suffering for those who do not accept “the truth.” Fiery lakes in Hell are not exactly warm and cuddly or loving. The fact is that God is described in all kinds of terms in both the Jewish and the Christian Bibles, and trying to categorize either one as univocal is remarkably inaccurate. It gets us back to the problem of fundamentalists choosing a few passages as the totality of the Bible’s view of anything. 

An example of our chorus of views comes in the Midrash about the angels and Shirat Hayam. According to the story, the angels hear Moses and the men praising God, and they join in the song with great enthusiasm. Rather than appreciating their participation, the Lord shushes the angelic chorus with, “How can you sing while My children are floating dead on the water?!”  

Notice how the Midrash does not have God shushing the Israelites. The Holy One, it seems, is of two minds, caught between celebration and grief, between justice and compassion. On the one hand, the Egyptians are murderous and evil and deserve judgment. On the other hand, they are errant children of the Most High who could have/should have chosen a more moral path. Justice and sadness and anger and regret are all emotions that the Rabbis intuit on God’s behalf, and this ambivalence projected onto the Divine reflects the many thoughts that arise in such intense and difficult situations.  

Life is never simple, and one-liners seldom do justice to the complexity of human experience. One of the most wonderful aspects of our Tradition is that we approach every subject with both idealism and practicality, with both judgment and compassion, and with both truth and understanding. Our chorus of thoughtful voices is a hallmark of our people’s wisdom, and it is worthy of both respect and celebration.

Moses and Aaron: Speaking Truth to Power?

January 27th: Bo
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I have always been intrigued by the expression “speaking truth to power,” and I wonder how our Torah portion may offer some insights for modern practitioners. As we begin, God instructs Moses and Aaron to “Go to Pharaoh,” and they do. “Moses and Aaron went to Pharaoh and said to him, ‘Thus says the Lord, the God of the Hebrews, “How long will you refuse to humble yourself before Me? Let My people go so that they may worship Me.”’” (Exodus 10.1 and 10.3) 

On the one hand, this is clearly speaking truth to power. Moses is a foreign shepherd with little or no status. Other than memories of childhood, all he has in Egypt is a criminal record. When he and his brother demand major economic changes from one of the most powerful rulers on earth, one can imagine Pharaoh thinking that this former Egyptian is a fool. On the other hand, this is not at all about speaking truth to power. With God’s accompanying Presence, Moses and Aaron are speaking truth and power to a far lesser power. As God says to Moses, “You shall soon see what I will do to Pharaoh: he shall let them go because of a greater might; indeed, because of a greater might he shall drive them from his land.” (Exodus 6.1)

In our day, speaking truth to power is often just speaking. It could involve courage for someone to stand on the courthouse steps—or at the Allen Street gates—and, armed only with a moral truth, proclaim a message for all to hear. It may be brave, but is it effective? 

Public witnessing can be found in many cultures throughout history. The novelist James Clavell writes of such practices in his stories of Samurai Japan. In Shogun, in one case of a moral outrage, a high-status Samurai woman publicly performs seppuku (ritual suicide) with the purpose of “calling  out” the wrong-doers and invoking public approbation. It was in this spirit, back in the 1960s, that a number of Buddhist monks self-immolated as protests against war. Sacrificing oneself for the moral message certainly hopes to be persuasive. 

One can see similar thinking in regard to martyrdom in Rabbinic Judaism and early Christianity. That someone would be willing to sacrifice him/herself L’shem Shamayim / For the Sake of Heaven is seen as meritorious. However, martyrdom and such public witnessing is ultimately an act from weakness or desperation. Though we have inspiring stories about Rabbi Akiva and other martyrs, one figures that these brave souls would have preferred to continue living and teaching. It is just that they were out of options. 

To the extent that their martyrdom “speaks” to believers, then the message gets through. However, how do we know when speaking truth to power is communicative and when it is merely an act of self-indulgence? 

Aristotle, the ancient philosopher and “Father of Rhetoric,” defines rhetoric as “finding, in a given situation, the available means of persuasion.” In other words, the point of a communication should be to persuade the other of one’s opinion. Self-expression—like standing on a soapbox in Hyde Park—can be quite fulfilling, but I wonder how effective it is in terms of solving problems or improving the world. 

Let us get back to Moses and Aaron, standing nervously before Pharaoh. There as God’s agents, what is their plan and purpose? At its most simple level, their purpose is to free the Children of Israel from Egyptian slavery—and this will eventually happen. However, God’s plan is more expansive and more communicative, as the Torah explains:  “Then the Lord said to Moses, ‘Go to Pharaoh. For I have hardened his heart and the hearts of his courtiers, in order that I may display these My signs among them, and that you may recount in the hearing of your sons and of your sons’ sons how I made a mockery of the Egyptians and how I displayed My sins among them—in order that you may know that I am the Lord.’” (Exodus 10.1-2) 

God could just whisk the Hebrews out of Egypt, but God is after something bigger: persuading the Israelites, the Egyptians, and everyone else in the world that God is in charge—that God’s is the moral standard to which humans are called. In the Divine estimation, merely rescuing Israel will not be persuasive enough. Thus the Lord determines to make an object lesson out of Pharaoh and Egypt. Though Egypt is considered the most powerful kingdom in the world, God will make a mockery of it. Though Pharaoh is considered (and considers himself) a god, the real God will show that the Egyptian king cannot even control himself. The earthly king is manipulated and humiliated by the Great King, and the message is sent out to the world. 

Does God’s rhetorical strategy work? According to the Psalmist, even the topography gets the message. That is why,
“The sea saw it and fled; the River Jordan turned backwards.
The mountains skipped like rams, the hills like lambs.” (Psalm 114)
The Lord’s power is so amazing that the
“Earth trembles at the Presence of the Lord, at the Presence of the God of Jacob!”

Earlier in the story, when Pharaoh orders the midwives to the Hebrews to kill all the boys as they are being birthed, Shiphrah’s and Pu’ah’s strategy is not to speak truth to power. What good would a verbal protest do? Instead, they are courageously practical. “The midwives, fearing God, did not do as the king of Egypt had told them; they let the boys live.” (Exodus 1.17) When Pharaoh demands to know why the boys are still alive, the midwives dissemble: “Because the Hebrew women are not like the Egyptian women: they are vigorous. Before the midwife can come to them, they have already given birth.” (Exodus 1.19)  

Moral certitude is certainly a virtue, but it is seldom enough. The goodness of God needs to be brought to fruition—and thus Tikkun Olam requires strategy and practical application. When we pray, in the Kaddish, “V’yam’lich mal’chutay / May God’s influence reign,” our words are about more than speaking. We are praying about doing God’s work in the world so that God’s reign will truly prevail.

Learning to “See” the Lord

January 20th: Va’era
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

How personally do we take the Torah? While many commentators urge us to see ourselves in the possibilities of the Biblical narrative, are some scenarios just beyond our scope? An example would be Moses’ relationship with God. Is this something we can anticipate, or is it sui generis? The same can be asked about the special role Moses plays in the lives of both Hebrews and Egyptians.  

We begin with God’s revelation to Moses.
“Now Moses, tending the flock of his father-in-law Jethro, the priest of Midian, drove the flock into the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God. An angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire out of a bush. He gazed, and there was a bush all aflame,  yet the bush was not consumed. Moses said, ‘I must turn aside to look at this marvelous sight; why doesn’t the bush burn up?’ When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush: ‘Moses! Moses!’ He answered, ‘Here I am.’ And God said, ‘Do not come closer. Remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you stand is holy ground. I am,’ God said, ‘the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.’ And Moses hid his face, for he was afraid to look at God.” (Exodus 3.1-6) 

As we identify with Moses—much as we might identify with the hero of any story we read, what would it take for us to have a similar closeness to God? Some Commentators note that Moses “turns aside” from his shepherding to inspect the burning bush, and thus they conclude that he must have an interest in spiritual  phenomena. Indeed, they speculate, this is the reason God decided to assign the Exodus mission to him: “When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called to him out of the bush.” Does this mean that all people interested in spirituality or spiritual phenomena can expect a call from the Lord? 

According to Tradition, the answer is negative because revelation ceased around 500 BCE. God put everything necessary for us to know in the Torah—both the Written Torah (Bible) and the Oral Torah (Talmud). Since then, rather than wait for instructions from Divine revelation, we receive instructions from God by studying the Torah and commentaries.  

On the other hand, many spiritual seekers speak of accessing the Divine in mystical practice and awareness. There are countless descriptions and prescriptions, but one insight that always strikes me in that of the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning in Aurora Leigh:
Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every bush afire with God;
but only he who sees takes off his shoes—
the rest sit around and pluck blackberries.
In other words, it may not be a matter of waiting for or hoping for God’s booming voice but rather learning to perceive the Presence of God in the world around us. There are also activities—holy behaviors—with which we can encounter the Divine. Picking up on the passage in Exodus 34 in which Moses “sees God’s back” and a poem by the mediaeval philosopher Judah HaLevi, the rabbis who compiled and composed the Reform Movement’s The Union Prayer Book (1940), presented the following re-imagining of revelation and living in response to God’s Presence (slightly adapted):
“O Lord, how can we know You? Where can we find You? You are as close to us as breathing and yet are farther than the farthermost star. You are as mysterious as the vast solitudes of the night and yet are as familiar as the light of the sun. To the seer of old You did say: You cannot see My Face, but I will make all My Goodness pass before You. Even so does Your Goodness pass before us in the realm of nature and in the varied experiences of our lives.” 

“When justice burns like a flaming fire within us, when love evokes willing sacrifice from us, when, to the last full measure of selfless devotion, we proclaim our belief in the ultimate triumph of truth and righteousness, do we not bow down before the vision of Your Goodness? You live in our hearts, as You pervade the world, and we through righteousness behold Your Presence.” 

This notion of being close to God when we do justice fits very well into the story of Moses. After explaining the plan for the Exodus, God summarizes with,
“You shall bring forth the Israelites from the Land of Egypt, troop by troop.” (Exodus 6.26)
Moses, however, balks because he cannot imagine fulfilling the role of both leader and spokesman.
“I am of impeded speech; how then should Pharaoh heed me!” (Exodus 6.30)
God responds to his hesitation with this curiously phrased description of Moses’ role.
“The Lord replied to Moses, ‘N’taticha Elohim l’Far’oh. See I place you in the role of God to Pharaoh, with your brother Aaron as your prophet.’” (Exodus 7.1)
I do not think that God is elevating Moses to the Divine level. Rather, Moses is being promoted in the Divine-Human “chain of command” to a position superior to that of Pharaoh. The King of Egypt thinks that he is in control of morality, but God is here—represented by Moses and Aaron—to show him that God is the One in control. This word, Elohim / God is used later in the Bible in reference to judges. They are not gods but rather functionaries in God’s system of justice, carrying out the instructions and righteousness of the Lord. In other words, for both Moses and those in authority, there is an association with the Divine—a closeness—that comes with doing God’s work in the world.  

While we may not be fortunate enough to hear God’s booming voice, we can gain access to the Divine Presence. When we study Torah, we cleave to the Divine—drawing ourselves closer to the attributes God embodies and teaches. When we live lives of piety, we open our souls to the Spiritual Presence and fill ourselves with it. And, when we carry out the righteousness and justice and lovingkindness and compassion of God, we embody and channel God’s Presence and Love to the world. We can be God’s manifestations. 

As the Torah concludes (Deuteronomy 34),
“Never again did there arise in Israel a prophet like Moses—whom the Lord singled out, face to face…” However, there are nonetheless significant ways that Moses models possibilities for us all. We too can draw close to God, and we can bring God into the world.

Let Us Not Lose Hope

January 13th: Shemot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

A short supply of historical knowledge is more than just a pedantic concern. It can skew our thinking about our lives and bring about needless despondency. An example is the recent and persistent chorus about things being worse than they used to be. Our time is certainly unique—as have been all periods of history, but are our problems really the worst? 

There is no doubt that we face real problems. The tragedies and calamities that humanity faces are dire and in many ways existentially challenging. However, it does not take a lot of historical knowledge to realize that humanity has been facing these kinds of difficulties for a long, long, long time. Take the Hebrews’ experience in Egypt. In Genesis, we are welcomed into Egypt by Pharaoh, and we find a tranquil place of refuge from the famine. However, after a few centuries, Egypt gets a “new king…who did not know Joseph,” and the Hebrews’ Egyptian experience turns into a nightmare:
“A new king arose over Egypt who did not know Joseph. And he said to his people, ‘Look, the Israelite people are much too numerous for us. Let us deal shrewdly with them, so that they may not increase; otherwise in the event of war they may join our enemies in fighting against us and rise up from the ground.’” So they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor; and they built store cities for Pharoah: Pithom and Rameses.” (Exodus 1.8-11) 

Pretty soon, things get even worse as Pharaoh orders the Hebrew midwives to kill all the infant boys as they are being born. When the God-fearing midwives refuse, Pharaoh orders his people to seek out and murder all the Hebrew boys. “Every boy you shall throw into the Nile…” 

One can make a list of our oppressors: Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Seleucids, and Romans in the ancient world, Crusaders and Inquisitors in the medieval world, and Cossacks, Nazis, Soviets, and terrorists in the modern world. However, we are not alone in our victimization. Many other ethnic and religious groups have suffered the plague of intolerance and violence. Hate and oppression are not new phenomena.  

In recent years, many of us have learned about the shameful history of race massacres in early 20th Century America. The destruction of Tulsa’s “Black Wall Street” is just one example of mobs attacking Black neighborhoods and bringing hate, destruction, and death. Such terrible incidents are reminiscent of pogroms against Jews in Russia, the Turkish genocide against the Armenians, the Japanese “Rape” of Nanking, Idi Amin’s massacres of Ugandan Christians, and Myanmar’s Buddhist massacres of the Rohingya Muslims. However, things are different today. When the protests exploded after the public murder of George Floyd, the demonstrations were not met by White mobs and pogroms against Black neighborhoods. As despicable as it is to gerrymander and decrease the political power of minority groups, people of color in the United States can vote and hold office. As obnoxious as it is to prohibit volunteers bringing water to voters as they wait in long Georgia lines, those sweaty citizens can vote. There are real problems in our democracy, and we have a lot of improving to do, but anyone who says that “nothing has changed” or that “things are worse now” is not paying attention. 

The same can be said for political divisions and political anger. Think back to the draft riots during the Civil War. Idealists in the North believed that the Southern insurgency needed to be stopped, but lots of the potential soldiers did not want to be the ones to fight the war. Of course, the Civil War itself is a pretty good example of terrible conflict within our country. Jumping forward, do not forget the violence and lack of trust which typified the early labor movement as workers pitted themselves against the Robber Barons and “Big Business.” Do not forget the foment of the Depression Era—with demagogues like Huey P. Long, Theodore Bilbo, and Father Charles Coughlin attracting large crowds and threatening democracy. Do not forget Senator Joe McCarthy’s “anti-Communist” crusade, the Civil Rights Movement, or the Anti-War Movement. Political fury is not a new historical phenomenon.  

We humans have been fighting for fairness and tolerance and peace for a long, long time, and, though the challenges continue, we should realize that we have had some noticeable successes. While there is something in the human heart which is tempted to the Sitra Achra /  the Dark or Impure Side, there is also something in the human heart which inclines to the Sitra d’Kedushah / the Side of Holiness and Good. Temptation tempts, our wills are weak, and the struggle for goodness and justice is continually necessary. The Bible’s “Golden Rule” and the similar teachings in religions all over the world were not given out of context. “Love your neighbor as yourself” (Leviticus 19.18) was included because we need the reminder. 

The message of Exodus is particularly relevant. People will do evil, but God does not approve. In fact, God works through both miracles and human angels to make things right. God is the power through which humans understand goodness, fairness, and peace—and through which they work to achieve these blessed states. This, in the theology of Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan, is salvation, and this is the challenge for every generation. 

I believe that we can face the dangers and tragedies of our time without losing hope. The challenges are great. The evil and injustice we face are real. The tragedies of our lives are terrible. But the formulas for bringing goodness into the world have been with us for thousands of years. God is with us in our struggles, and we can be angels.

Divine Providence Then and Now

December 23rd: Mikketz and Chanukah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the midst of last week’s description of dysfunction in the family of our ancestor Jacob/Israel, there is a rather cryptic detail. After the description of Joseph and his dreams—and his lording over his brothers in re his dreams, we read: “So his brothers were wrought up with him, but his father kept the matter in mind.” (Genesis 37.11) The Hebrew says that Jacob shamar et hadavar, that he guarded or observed the matter. A part of me cries out, “Why do you sit there thinking when you could be doing something?! You are the Patriarch. You’re the head of the family. Why are you sitting there, paralyzed and inactive when great danger awaits Joseph?!” Could it be that Jacob is ambivalent—perhaps losing his edge as a family leader? 

Or could there be something deeper at play? Though the complexity of life and God’s plans should be obvious, sometimes we need reminding of all the layers that may be involved. As the Psalmist says of God, “How great are your works, O Lord, how very subtle your designs! A brutish man cannot know, and fool cannot understand…” (Psalm 92.7) The narrative seems to be speaking only of Joseph and Jacob and the family drama, but let us not forget God—Who presumably is the One sending the dreams to Joseph. 

Perhaps Jacob is starting to realize that this is more than family drama—that perhaps God is effecting a multi-layered plan. Among other clues, note the next paragraph. When Joseph is sent by his father to see how the brothers and the flocks are doing, the Torah identifies the Patriarch as Israel—whereas he has been identified as Jacob in the preceding passage. Could referring to him as Israel indicate that his guarding of the matter is part of his prophetic mode? Perhaps the father does nothing in re the family conflict but proceeds with God’s plan to get Joseph down to Egypt for his important work there.  

Throughout the story, God is constantly playing a role. God gives Joseph the initial dreams about his future grandeur. In the Egyptian prison, God sends dreams to Pharaoh’s butler and baker—and gives Joseph the ability to interpret them correctly. Then, in this week’s portion, God sends Pharaoh dreams and Joseph the ability to interpret them. Here is the exchange between Pharaoh and Joseph in this regard: “Pharaoh said to Joseph, ‘I have had a dream, but no one can interpret it. Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.’ Joseph answered Pharaoh, saying, ‘Not I! God will see to Pharaoh’s welfare.’” (Genesis 41.15-16) 

When Joseph explains the coming years of plenty and famine, he is clear that God is behind everything: “Pharaoh’s dreams are one and the same: God has told Pharaoh what He is about to do…as for Pharaoh having the same dream twice, it means that the matter has been determined by God, and that God will soon carry it out.” (Genesis 41.25-32) 

To complete this message, the Torah reminds us once again in the last paragraphs of Genesis. After Jacob’s death, Joseph’s brothers come to him and throw themselves at his mercy. They are worried that, with their father now dead, their powerful brother will exact his long-awaited revenge. “But Joseph said to them, ‘Have no fear! Am I a substitute for God? Besides, although you intended me harm, God intended it for good, so as to bring about the present result—the survival of many people.” (Genesis 50.26) 

In other words, whatever the brothers intend, whatever Jacob intends—from favoring Joseph and then doing nothing when the family dynamic gets ugly, whatever Potiphar and his wife intend, all of this is God’s plan to put someone in place to save Egypt and the many people who depend on Egyptian grain. “How great are your works, O Lord, how very subtle your designs! A brutish man cannot know, and fool cannot understand…” (Psalm 92.7) I guess you can count me among the brutes who does not see the subtly and complexity of God’s work in the world. It is hard to expand our vision wide enough to understand the Infinite. 

Can we understand the Chanukah story in a similar depth? On the surface, it seems a straightforward Jewish struggle with the tidal wave of Hellenism that brought both material blessings and stifling cultural homogeneity. The wonders of the Greek world were open to Jews if we would just give up our devotion to the One God. The High Priestly Family was so mesmerized with Hellenism that they were unable or unwilling to defend Judaism when the Seleucid regime got violent. It fell to an out-of-power priestly family—led by Mattathias and his son Judah—to mount a rebellion against the Hellenists and expel them from the Temple and Jerusalem. Lacking enough popular support, Judah and his brothers turned to the scholar class, a group called the Pharisees who sought a separate-from-Hellenism lifestyle, one that was strictly Jewish. These Pharisees—also known as Rabbis—joined the rebellion and brought their formidable popular support. The result was that the newly installed Hasmonean (Maccabean) High Priest allowed himself to be guided by Rabbinic interpretation, and a new and improved form of Judaism became dominant. It is the form of Judaism that has persisted until today and drives our “traditional” approach to God and life and holiness. 

How does God effect reform and improvement of religion? How does God encourage humans to enhance their devotion and understanding of the Divine? In times of revelation, prophets could be addressed directly, but, in post-revelation times (post 500 BCE), perhaps God had to proceed more subtly. And militant Hellenists, courageous Maccabees, and scholarly Rabbinic pietists could all have been a part of God’s plan.  

It is awe-inspiring to consider the many ways that God affects us and works through us. We aspire to be angels—doing the work of God in the world, but our work may be on more levels than we realize. 

On Chanukah, let us give thanks to God for the courage, persistence, and creative ingenuity that have been placed in our hearts and souls. Come, let us continue to bring God into the world.

The Places of our Sojourning

December 16th: Vayeshev
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Some commentaries focus on the first word in this week’s portion, Vayeshev, which means dwelled or was settled: “Now Jacob dwelled in the land where his fathers had sojourned, the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 37.1) They suggest that the problems in Jacob’s life come because he is dwelling on the past—or not making progress. His family falls into disfunction with his blatant favoring of Joseph (giving him a “coat of many colors”), and the result is Joseph being sold/kidnapped into slavery in Egypt—and Jacob being told he is dead! Judah’s two sons, Er and Onan, die mysteriously, and the dynamics of levirate marriage result in a family scandal. In Egypt, Joseph is falsely accused of rape and imprisoned. The problem, these commentators note, is that Jacob stops making progress in life. When he stops moving forward, troubles arrive. 

This is a decent point—though perhaps it is more for us than for Jacob. Our ancestor is beset by tzuris / problems throughout his life and wherever he goes. When he is at home as a young man, he and Esau have lots of conflicts. When he leaves home to visit the family in Syria, he is hoodwinked by his Uncle Laban and caught in a tense and conflictual marriage. When he moves back to Canaan, his daughter Dinah is raped by a local tribal leader, and Simon and Levi massacre that whole tribe. Whether stationary or moving, Jacob faces many troubles.  

There is, however, another possible focus for that opening verse; we could look at where Jacob dwells. “…Jacob dwelled in the land where his fathers had sojourned, the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 37.1) Jacob’s life and activities occur in particular contexts—in the various places where he lives. Much of life depends on the places in which we find ourselves.  

The matter of our location has been a constant concern in Jewish life. We were strangers in the Land of Egypt—and much of what happened there was a result of our outlander status. Later, we were in our own land, and our responsibilities and challenges were based on our new context. Many of the 613 mitzvot in the Torah are only applicable in the Land of Israel—and many are applicable only when the Temple of the Lord is in operation. Centuries later, when our people were inhabitants of Muslim Lands, things were much different than for our ancestors living in Christian lands. As historian Ellis Rivkin used to teach, the form of national government affected our Jewish intra-group governing. In Muslim Lands, there was usually an international regime—like a Caliph in Baghdad—ruling over wide swaths of territory. Mirroring this dynamic, the Jews in Muslim Lands invested trust in a few international Halachic authorities like Moses Maimonides. In Christian Europe, on the other hand, the governmental units were much smaller—kingdoms, duchies, principalities, and in each Christian region, a local rabbi was considered the authority. As a result, different kinds of Halachic texts proliferated in Europe as opposed to the Muslim world. The comparative uniformity of Halachah in the Muslim world is reflected in the great codes—compiled by scholars such as Isaac Alfasi, Jacob ben Asher, Moses Maimonides, and Joseph Caro. In Europe, the commentary approach of Rashi (Rabbi Solomon ben Isaac) was more helpful for the local rabbis charged with determining their own local Halachic decisions.  

The security of our people rested, of course, on who was in charge of any given place at any given time. As the Crusaders were terrorizing and murdering Jews in one place, Christian kings and bishops just a few hundred miles away were welcoming Jews and making them an important part of society. A recent article in Science Magazine, describing DNA evidence in a recently discovered Jewish cemetery in Erfurt, Germany, explains how Jews were welcomed there and integrated into the community at one point, but then a few hundred years later, were massacred. Then, a number of years later, Jews were welcomed back. Where and when we live can make all the difference in the world.  

Zionism, of course, is all about this question. Are Jews safer in a Jewish country, or is it better in a non-Jewish country that treats its Jews well? And, how long-term and trustworthy is a non-Jewish country’s kindness toward Jews? If Israel were a place of tranquility and security, the answer might be obvious, but dangers surround our Israeli friends and relatives. Or, is the Jewishness of the country more important than the danger. As Joseph Trumpeldor said as he died defending the Yishuv in Israel, “It is good to die for our country!”  

What about Jewish culture? Is Jewish culture stronger in a Jewish country? Perhaps, but we have done very well in the USA. Dr. Jacob Rader Marcus, founder of the American Jewish Archives, used to teach that the quality of a Jewish civilization is based on factors such as (1) freedom to practice Judaism, (2) social, economic, and cultural integration in general society, (3) economic prosperity, (4) contribution to secular culture and scholarship, (5) production of Jewish culture and scholarship, and (6) participation in charitable endeavors both Jewish and secular. He used to explain that these are the reasons the Golden Age of Spain (900-1200 CE) was so great—and then say that, based on these factors, it was the second best time for Jews in history. The best time? Our American Jewish Civilization! Where we live makes a lot of difference. 

Of course, Jewish life in America has its own problems—and this time of year is always a challenge. Amidst the cultural tidal wave of Christmastime, how do we Jews stand steady? How do we appreciate the cultural joy and charity that surrounds us and stay true to our religion? There are so many instances of religious challenges—from Christmas carols in school to inquisitions by kindly strangers in grocery store checkout lines, from Christmas decorations in public places to choosing a holiday greeting. We are not being oppressed or persecuted, but we modern American Jews do feel real cultural pressure at this time of year. We feel the need to stand out from our surroundings and stand up for our Jewish Identities. We live and respond in the places of our sojourning. 

The point is that our ideal life must be constructed within the possibilities and limitations of the places in which we dwell. We bring our principles and practices and do our best to live Jewishly in our far-flung habitations, and we have done pretty well, toting our “portable homeland” with us around the globe. However, the homes and communities we have crafted have always been dependent in large part upon the places of our sojourning. All of these are part of God’s world, and all are ready for the godliness our Torah commands us to bring forth.

Reaching For and Wrestling With Heaven

December 9th: Vayishlach
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

The Tradition teaches that the three daily services—Shacharit (Morning), Minchah (Afternoon), and Ma’ariv (Evening)—were each invented by one of the Patriarchs. The textual evidence for Abraham and Shacharit comes from the story of Akedat Yitzchak: “Vayashkem Avraham baboker. And Abraham got up early in the morning.” (Genesis 22.3) Though his activities involve saddling his donkey and assembling the necessities for the sacrifice up on Mount Moriah, they are considered devotional—since he is preparing for worship. 

The textual evidence for Isaac and Minchah is not quite as vague. “Vayetze Yitzchak lasu’ach basadeh lifnot arev. Isaac went out meditating in the field just before evening.” (Genesis 24.63) The exact meaning of the Hebrew word lasu’ach is unclear, with some understanding it as walking and others reading it as meditating. By the way, this is how Rebekah first sees Isaac—as she arrives from Mesopotamia to her new life in Canaan. 

Jacob’s evening creative worship can be seen in two incidents. The first comes in last week’s portion when Jacob dreams about the ladder between heaven and earth. “He had a dream; a stairway was set on the ground and its top reached to the sky, and angels of God were going up and down on it. And the Lord was standing beside him.” (Genesis 28.12-13) Since the goal of prayer is to engage in a relationship with God, that evening’s event certainly qualifies as prayerful. As Jacob himself gushes when he awakes, “How awesome is this place! It is none other than the abode of God, and that is the gateway to heaven!” (Genesis 28.17)  

The second nighttime encounter with God comes this week in Jacob’s mysterious wrestling match. He is camping alone, “and a man wrestled with him until the break of dawn.” (Genesis 32.25). When Jacob asks the “man’s” name, no answer is given. Rather, the “man” asks Jacob his name and then gives him a new one: “Your name shall no more be Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans and have prevailed.” (Genesis 32.29) This encounter with the Divine prompts Jacob/Israel to rename the place: “Peniel, meaning I have seen a divine being face to face, yet my life has been spared.” Again, at night, Jacob experiences the holy.  

As one can tell from the tangential quality of the “evidence,” the authorship of liturgical materials seems a far cry from these spiritual experiences—the attributions seemingly more legendary than historical. Similarly legendary is the teaching that the exact words of the Shemonah Esreh (weekday Amidah) were revealed to the Anshay K’nesset Hag’dolah, the Rabbis of the Great Assembly around 200 BCE. Such a teaching is used to prohibit any tampering with the text of the Amidah’s prayers. If the original were revealed by God and is the exact formula required to open the Gates of Heaven, changing words could impede the connection. The fact that Ashkenazim and Sephardim AND Chassidim—and various ethnic communities within these larger demographic categories—have variations in their liturgies are not part of the legend. The wide embrace of traditionalism is both charming and restrictive.  

The restrictiveness of Tradition is oppressive when we face resistance for needed improvements, and the charm comes when we find meaning in carrying on the wisdom and devotion of our ancestors. That, to me, is the appeal of the tradition about Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob inventing the three daily services. Though Shacharit and Minchah may be more historically traced back the formalized and scheduled worship of Solomon’s Temple in Jerusalem—and though Ma’ariv seems to be more a Rabbinic innovation, there is a spiritual truth for us in this notion of devotional antiquity and continuity. The record speaks of our ancient ancestors communing with the Almighty, and that same sense of closeness and holiness is a goal for us as well.  

It is interesting how different people regard and experience worship services. Some of us are like Abraham and approach worship with energy and vigor—attending to every linguistic, theological, and choreographic detail. Others of us are more like Isaac and approach worship meditatively—feeling the spirituality around us more than the words on the page. Others of us are more like Jacob/Israel the wrestler—struggling with the concepts and words and pondering the many questions we Jews have been asking for a long, long time.  

Jewish worship is, in many ways, a multi-generational conversation with the Divine. Though the years have rolled by, the aspiration for holiness continues. Joining with our fellow Israelites both ancient and modern, we sing with the Psalmist (150.6):
“Kol han’shamah t’hallel Yah! Halleluyah! Let every soul praise the Lord. Hallelujah!” 

Minhag Hamakom?

December 2nd: Vayetze
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

In the intra-family drama of this week’s Torah portion, most of us focus our attention on poor Leah and poor Jacob who are involuntarily married to each other. Jacob is in love with Leah’s sister, Rachel, and has worked for their father, Laban, for seven years to “earn” Rachel’s hand. At the last minute, Laban has Leah dressed in the (face-covering) wedding clothing, and Jacob does not find out he has married the wrong sister until it is too late. The situation is “resolved” when Laban agrees that, for an additional seven years of labor, Jacob can also marry Rachel.  

I say “resolved” because, while the Jacob and Rachel love story continues, there is never any real resolution for Leah. She is a perpetual victim who never has the full love of her husband. This is an example of “the sins of the father” inflicting themselves on future generations. One hopes that our Mother Leah found fulfillment in the love of her children—and perhaps in her place in the tribe. We just know that her romantic life was sabotaged from the very beginning. 

Focusing on Leah, Rachel, and Jacob, I find myself skipping over Laban—a Biblical character known for his dishonesty. In one Midrash, even his hospitality is treated as suspect. When we read in Genesis 29.13, “…Laban ran to meet Jacob, and embraced him and kissed him…,” the Rabbis explain that Laban was actually frisking Jacob to see if he had any valuables—and that the “kiss” was Laban sticking his tongue into Jacob’s mouth to see if he had any hidden jewels! He is known as bad actor but generally tossed aside to pay attention to the drama of Jacob, Leah, and Rachel’s household. 

However, there is something especially insidious about the way Laban “explains” his deception.
“It came to pass, that in the morning, behold, it was Leah (that Jacob had married!); and he said to Laban, what is this that you have done to me? Did I not serve with you for Rachel? Why then have you deceived me? And Laban said, It is not the practice in our place to marry off the younger before the older.” (Genesis 2.25-26) He acts as though his dishonesty is just a local custom that the “outsider” does not know. So focused is Jacob on his love for Rachel—and the mistaken wedding to Leah—that he does not call out Laban. He grasps for whatever “solution” is available. However, this claim of “local custom” is highly suspect. 

Note firstly that Jacob is not really a foreigner. He is a Laban’s nephew, the daughter of Laban’s sister, Rebekah. She raised him and presumably educated him in the various customs and mores of Western Mesopotamia. Does not Laban speak of their common bonds? “You are truly my bone and flesh… my kinsman.” (Genesis 29.15-16)  Add to this the fact that Jacob has lived in Laban’s house and worked for him for seven years—all in anticipation of marrying Rachel. One would think that local mores would have had a chance to reveal themselves. 

Wherever one goes, there are, of course, local ways of doing things. The Rabbis accord them with profound respect and often consider the minhag hamakom—local mores and customs—as authoritative as Halachah. However, it is possible to use local uniqueness as a kind of weapon—marginalizing newcomers or mislabeling personal preference as established precedent.  

The role of telling a newcomer local history gives the teller great power. Individuals or groups can be identified as important or tangential, as heroes or villains. Tellers of history should be careful, however, as the perceptions they shape can help or harm both individuals and community. Additionally, a misrepresentation revealed can do great damage to the tellers’ reputation. Since local stories are told by many people, a newcomer who finds that he/she has been misinformed cannot help but re-evaluate their previous sources.  

It is also quite possible to overstate the uniqueness of a place or group. Every place is unique, but we share much of the human situation with others. Take my experience among the Reform Jews of the South. I was raised among French/German/Alsatian Jews who immigrated to the United States in the mid-late 1800’s, and this same demographic populated the congregations I served in Mississippi, Arkansas, Alabama, Georgia, and Florida. Though each person in each congregation is unique, I found remarkable similarities in terms of Jewish backgrounds, attitudes, sensitivities, experiences, and customs. Indeed, these kinds of similarities lead to the bonds of sympathy and empathy which allow and enhance human relationships. The commonality of our human and Jewish experiences is striking. There are uniquely local mores and stories, but there are some things essentially human and essentially Jewish that bind us all together.  

Let me conclude with a slightly amusing anecdote about “local” ways. Shortly after I arrived in State College, our congregation suffered the loss of a long-time and beloved member, Peter Lang. I never had the pleasure of knowing Peter, but I was at his funeral and his shivah. When I arrived for the Saturday night shivah, there were lots of people present, but they were not yet ready for the service. Penn State was playing Michigan, and everyone was glued to the televisions. The game was fierce and going into overtime—and the mourners wanted to defer their prayers until after the game. A few people were concerned that I would not understand—that, as a newcomer, I would not understand the local devotion to Penn State football, and they tried to soothe my anticipated disapproval. Little did they understand that, though a “foreigner,” I was not ignorant of football frenzy. Football was big in my hometown, and I married into a rabid LSU family from Baton Rouge. More than that, in my very first congregational experience—in Greenwood, Mississippi, my home-hospitality host got so excited watching his beloved Mississippi State Bulldogs beat Notre Dame that he had to spend four days in the hospital, hooked up to heart monitors but incredibly happy. So, did I understand delaying Peter’s shiva minyan? Of course I did. The mourners clearly loved Peter, and they clearly loved their football team. Delaying the service was a ubiquitous experience.

Back to the Torah: Laban’s attempt to disarm Jacob from his very legitimate objection is both dishonest and absurd. Marrying off Leah is not the local custom, but rather one more example of Laban’s dishonest and destructive ways. He is, among many other sins, committing the transgression later forbidden twice in Exodus (22.20 and 23.9): “Do not oppress the stranger.” Yes, things vary from place to place, but human decency, honesty, kindness, and compassion should be practiced and respected in every place. In every place.

Rebekah, Our Mother: A Life of Blessing

November 25th: Toldot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

What is our goal in life? What are our hopes for our children?  There are lots of blessings for which we pray, but the word happiness can summarize them all. We want to be happy, and we wish it on those we love. (Think of the many times parents say to children, “I just want you to be happy.”) It is a ubiquitous hope, but it may not be as inclusive or expansive as we think. 

One might think that the Patriarchs and Matriarchs were happy. How grand it must be to be one of God’s elected! Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, and Jacob, Rachel, and Leah were gifted with a destiny of holiness and greatness, and we look back on the endeavor they founded—our Jewish people—with admiration and appreciation for their faith and resolve. But were they happy?   

The Torah does not really speak much about happiness. It does not rule it out or blame people for seeking it. However, the lessons of the Torah teach faith and principle and persistence. These are the words that characterize the lives of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs. 

An example is Rebekah. She is a woman of great faith and resourcefulness. In last week’s Torah portion, we see her extend great hospitality to a wayfarer (who turns out to be the servant of her Uncle Abraham). She offers him water, waters his camels, and then invites them all to the family camp to spend the night. This kind of hospitality is most commendable, but the Midrash concocts a scenario in which she does all this—as well as consenting to marry Isaac—when she is just three years old. She is a determined young woman who is full of faith and who believes in the destiny that God has set before her.  

However, her life is not easy—and, whatever happiness she may find, there are moments of difficulty and the opposite of happiness. Her destiny takes her far away from home and family and friends. She and her husband experience infertility for some twenty years: “Isaac was forty years old when he took Rebekah for his wife…and Isaac prayed to the Lord for his wife, because she was barren; and the Lord granted his prayer, and Rebekah his wife conceived….and Isaac was sixty years old when she bore the twins.” (Genesis 25.20-26) 

When she finally gets pregnant, she has a very hard time: “The children struggled together inside her and she said, ‘If this be so, why am I thus?’ And she went to inquire of the Lord.” 

God’s answer is helpful, but it does not bring happiness. Rather, it foretells a lifetime of conflict between the brothers. “The Lord said to her, ‘Two nations are in your womb, and two peoples shall be separated from your bowels; and the one people shall be stronger than the other people; and the elder shall serve the younger.’” (Genesis 25.22-23) 

Though the sibling difficulties are prophesied by the Lord, Rebekah and Isaac are drawn into the fray. “And Isaac loved Esau, because he ate of his venison; but Rebekah loved Jacob.” (Genesis 25.28) 

When Esau grows up, his marriages bring more conflict to the family: “Esau was forty years old when he married Judith the daughter of Beeri the Hittite, and Bashemath the daughter of Elon the Hittite; And they made life bitter for Isaac and for Rebekah.” (Genesis 26.34-35) 

And, there is the general question of Isaac’s ability or lack thereof. In Genesis 27, we are told about Isaac being “old, and his eyes were dim,” but there is a surprising lack of information about Isaac doing much of anything in his younger years. Compared to his father Abraham and his son Jacob, Isaac does not seem to be much of an active force in the world. He is traumatized as a child up on Mount Moriah. His wife is chosen by a family servant. He likes one son because of venison, but he does not seem to have much of a relationship with either of his boys. One thing we know is that he “meditates alone in the fields.” (Genesis 24.63) Perhaps he is a bit of a spiritual luftmensch—someone not particularly adept at the practicalities of life. Perhaps he carries life-long scars from his traumatic almost sacrifice. Perhaps there are other impairments. The point is that Isaac may not be the strong and resourceful Patriarch; he even chooses the wrong son to ordain as his spiritual successor—necessitating Rebekah’s clandestine corrective measures! The burden of the family, the tribe, and even the developing religion seem to rest upon Rebekah’s shoulders—and she carries the weight of the Tradition, making the future possible. She is a pivotal figure in our religious history, but the words that describe this Matriarch’s life may be other than happiness. The values that our Mother Rebekah exemplifies are purpose, strength, resourcefulness, and faith. Her life was most certainly a blessing.

Fast forward some four thousand years to the modern television drama Fargo which combines the Jewish sensibilities of the Coen Brothers with the hardy stoicism and purpose of archetypal Minnesota. Though many of the characters in the drama are evil or foolish or both, there are some genuine heroes, and one of them is State Trooper Lou Solverson. In the finale of Season Two, he muses about the incredible efforts some devote to protecting and caring for their families—often sacrificing themselves. He refers to a man who died this way and says to the widow, “Your husband. He said he was gonna protect his family—no matter what. And I acted like I didn’t understand, but I do. It’s the rock we all push, men. We call it our burden, but it’s really our privilege.”  

I believe that this is as true for women as it is for men. And I believe that there are many among us who know the burden and the privilege of pushing this rock—or carrying this load. Some of us are privileged to have strength and fortitude. Some of us need assistance. And, even the strong must occasionally be carried. We are all children of Rebekah. 

We pray for happiness. We pray for smooth roads and fair skies. But given the nature of the world, we must also pray for strength and courage and purpose and faith. In so many ways, these are the qualities that make happiness possible.

Helicopter Parenting in the Torah?

November 18th: Chayeh Sarah
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

Sometimes, the Torah seems very ancient and far away. Other times, it is very current and applicable to our lives. In this week’s Torah portion, we have a case of what could be called a “helicopter parent.” When Abraham decides that it is time for Isaac to get married, he proceeds to make arrangements without Isaac’s participation or even agreement.  

Abraham’s concerns are twofold. If he lets Isaac choose a local wife, she will not be “Jewish,” and Isaac could be drawn into the local pagan and (presumably) immoral culture. Abraham believes that his family’s relationship with God requires maintaining a holy separation from local “non-Jewish ways.” If, however, Isaac is allowed to go back to Abraham’s ancestral land, then there is a chance that he will stay, adopt Mesopotamian paganism and polytheism, and abandon the One God. Abraham therefore gives his head servant the mission of finding a wife for Isaac—and he imposes two conditions.
(1)  The wife shall not be local: “Swear by the Lord, the God of heaven and the God of the earth, that you will not take a wife for my son from the daughters of the Canaanites among whom I dwell.” (Genesis 24.3)
(2)  The wife shall come from Mesopotamia, but only the servant shall travel there to choose her. Isaac must stay in Canaan; Isaac must not go to Mesopotamia! “On no account shall you take my son back there!” (Genesis 24.4-6)   

Abraham has faith that God will bring this plan to fruition, as he explains to his servant: “The Lord, the God of heaven, Who took me from my father’s house and from my native land, who promised me on oath, saying ‘I will assign this land to your offspring’—He will send His angel before you, and you will get a wife for my son from there.” (Genesis 24.7)   

Where is Isaac while his Dad makes all these arrangements? Does Abraham overstep his bounds, or could there be another more legitimate reason? The Torah does not explain the situation, but there are some possible clues. Isaac could be overwhelmed with grief at his mother’s death. The Midrash suggests that he might have been away from home when Sarah dies. Sarah has the gift of prophecy, and, when she has a vision of her husband standing over their beloved son with a slaughtering knife, she immediately drops dead—and a temporarily relieved Isaac comes home to a deceased Mother. Another Midrash suggests that Isaac might be away “at school,” studying Torah at the Academy of Shem and Eber in Jerusalem. If he feels guilty for being away from his mother—and is thus emotionally impaired, or if he is in a very spiritual state of mind from his religious studies—and is thus uninterested in romance, perhaps Abraham feels the need to arrange the marriage and not wait for Isaac’s interest to develop.  

There is also the possibility that Isaac is somehow impaired and unable to get a wife for himself. One clue is the trauma of almost being sacrificed by his father. Some read the story and see Isaac as a faithful servant of God who acquiesces to God’s command, but one could see Isaac as a vulnerable child, victimized and traumatized by his father’s blind zeal. In other words, we could be looking at an ancient case of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and a consequently disabled Patriarch. Remember the hint in next week’s Torah portion, where Isaac is described as feeble—blind and unable to tell one son from the other. Is this a disability that comes later in life, or does his impairment date to his childhood? 

Of course, there is also the possibility that we are reading too much into the story—that this is just the way things were done back then. Parents arranged marriages for their children, and children lived in the family compound until their parents died—then becoming the leaders of the tribe themselves. Abraham could simply be following social mores and fulfilling his parental responsibilities.  

When it comes to Rebekah, we have a very different description of independence. When she meets Abraham’s servant at the community well, she is self-possessed enough to invite him to her family’s compound. The Midrash enhances this notion of her unusual maturity by concocting a scenario where she is only three years old! Already, she has the strength, piety, and good sense to be a Matriarch! When she assents to the marriage and agrees to leave immediately, we see the balaboosta that Isaac needs in his life. She is the one to carry and drive the family’s holy destiny. 

The art of raising children brings all sorts of challenges and advice. Among the choices parents face is the tension between keeping children safe and encouraging independence and self-reliance. Given a sense of increased danger in the world, many parents exercise more supervision that was typical fifty or a hundred years ago. Think of little Laura Ingalls (Melissa Gilbert) walking several miles from her Little House on the Prairie to school—often all by herself. For many modern children, this is as far from reality as is conceivable. What are parents to do when their children can face both physical and psychic danger (bullying, hostility, discrimination)? Everyone deserves a safe and affirming place in which to grow, learn, and play, but who should be fighting children’s battles, themselves or their parents and teachers? 

Is it possible for children to be protected too much? Could over-protection inhibit a young person’s resilience and ability to encounter difficulties? In the recent issue of Sapir Journal, Lenore Skenazy wonders about children who have been so protected from anything disagreeable that they, as young adults and college students, feel endangered by the presence of different opinions. Is a different or objectionable opinion really an assault? Does it require organizational protection? Is the inability to hear and respond to opposing viewpoints a result of life-long protection by helicopter parents and teachers? Does such protective hovering create an imposed intellectual disability that impedes the learning process and one’s functioning in a democratic society where there are lots of different opinions? Protection is clearly important, but how much is too much? 

As in many Biblical tales, we can read our own agendas and opinions onto this ancient story of parental involvement in a child’s life. Does Abraham overstep his rightful parental authority in taking over Isaac’s love life? Or, is such action required and appropriate? How much help does Isaac need? At what point does too much help impede Isaac’s ability to live independently and fulfill his potential? In other words, would less help from his father be helpful? There is a lot to think about in this ancient story, and there is a lot to think about as we continue the story in our own times.

Abraham, The Man of Faith

November 11th: Vayera
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As I wrote last week, our Tradition reads the Torah more as a document of faith than history and thus sees Abraham’s story as primarily one of faith and piety. Accordingly, the Midrash often enhances the story and “reveals” some interesting details. For example, did you know that Abraham and Sarah are prolific missionaries? According to the Midrash, they spread their new faith all over Mesopotamia. Since the dominant religions are pagan and polytheistic, their proselytizing is not without controversy. In one of the more famous Midrashic legends, Abram’s father owns an idol shop, and Abram tries to instruct his father about the One God by breaking the idols and claiming that they broke each other. When word of his blasphemy reaches King Nimrod, Abram is thrown into a fiery furnace. This is “supported” by the mention last week of King Amraphel of Shinar. Shinar, as we know from the story of the Tower of Babel, is the region around Babylon, and Amraphel is identified as the famous King Nimrod. This insight is gained from a close examination of his name. Amar means said in Hebrew, and phel means fall in Hebrew (nafal). In other words, Amraphel says that Abram should be thrown into the fiery furnace for his preaching. Of course, with God’s help, Abram survives the ordeal and emerges unscathed. Faith in God is very powerful.  

Another support for the legend of Abraham’s and Sarah’s conversionary efforts in Mesopotamia comes in a cryptic line in Lech Lecha. Shortly after God instructs, “Lech Lecha: Go forth from your native land and from your father’s house to the land that I will show you,” we read about Abram’s obedience: “Abram took his wife Sarai and his brother’s son Lot and all the wealth that they had amassed and the persons that they had acquired in Haran, and they set out for the land of Canaan.” (Genesis 12.11-5) The phrase that got the Rabbis’ attention was “the persons that they had acquired in Haran” because the Hebrew literally says, “the souls that they made in Haran.” Modern translators understand that the Hebrew word asah/made can also be used for other sensibilities—that it refers to the servants and retainers that became part of Abram and Sarai’s camp or tribe. However, the literal sense of the word begs for a deeper meaning, and the Rabbis explain as follows. Abram and Sarai were great missionaries who brought the truth about the One God to Mesopotamia, and they converted many people to their new religion. When one converts, it is as though he/she is reborn, so the Torah is “explaining” that these new converts were essentially made/remade by Abram and Sarai’s teaching.  

The agenda of the Tradition is to accentuate Abraham’s spiritual strength and piety. It is the role the Tradition wishes to model.  

As we continue through Abraham’s spiritual and prophetic career, we see a succession of spiritual challenges—or, as the Tradition sees it, a number of tests of his faith and piety. The ultimate test, Akedat Yitzchak (the Binding of Isaac) concludes our Torah portion, but Tradition holds that there are actually ten tests administered by God to Abraham: “With ten trials was Abraham our father, may he rest in peace, tried, and he withstood them all.” (Pirke Avot 5.3).  

Though Pirke Avot states this teaching, it is curious that the ten tests are not identified—thus leaving it to subsequent commentators to tell us what they are.   

The Rambam (Moses Maimonides), for example, lists these ten:
(1)  God instructs Abram to leave his homeland and move to Canaan.
(2)  When he arrives in Canaan, there is a famine, and he must deal with it.
(3)  The Egyptians seize Sarai and bring her to Pharaoh’s harem.
(4)  Abram fights in the War of the Four Kings versus the Five Kings and rescues Lot.
(5)  Childless with Sarai, Abram cohabits with Hagar to fulfill God’s plan and have a son.
(6)  God instructs Abram to circumcise himself.
(7)  King Abimelech of Gerar seizes Sarah, intending her to be his wife.
(8)  God (agreeing with Sarah) instructs Abraham to send away Hagar.
(9)  This means that Abraham is estranged from his son Ishmael.
(10)  God instructs Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. 

Rabbi Ovadiah of Bertinoro, on the other hand, identifies these as Abraham’s ten tests:
(1)  Abram is thrown into a fiery furnace by Nimrod/Amraphel.
(2)  God instructs Abram to leave his homeland and move to Canaan.
(3)  When he arrives in Canaan, there is a famine, and Abram must deal with it.
(4)  The Egyptians seize Sarah and bring her to Pharaoh’s harem.
(5)  Abram fights in the War of the Four Kings versus the Five Kings and rescues Lot.
(6)  Abram is told that his children will be strangers and slaves in a foreign land.
(7)  God instructs Abram to circumcise himself.
(8)  King Abimelech of Gerar seizes Sarah, intending her to be his wife.
(9)  God (agreeing with Sarah) instructs Abraham to send away Hagar and Ishmael.
(10)  God instructs Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. 

There are other compilations by other commentators, which suggests that each scholar read the Torah and Midrash and came up with his own “top ten.” Nevertheless, notice how each is portrayed as a test of faith—faith being the key ingredient in Abraham’s greatness. Again, that is the trait that the Tradition hopes to inculcate in his many descendants.   

Though Akedat Yitzchak is the most dramatic of the tests, there is one moment back in Chapter 15 (verse 6) that paints the relationship of faith and faithfulness between Abraham and God. In this encounter, God is speaking about Abram’s future progeny that will be as numerous as the stars in the heaven. Abram, however, brings us a sore subject: I am over ninety years old and am childless and have no heir. How can this promise come true? God assures him once again, and Abram believes. “And because Abram put his trust in the Lord, the Lord reckoned it to his merit.”  

The Torah can be read in many ways, but the Tradition has come to see Abram/Abraham as a hero of faith and piety. The hope is that we can carry on these qualities—and thus receive and continue his spiritual legacy.

Military Strength or Spiritual?

November 4th: Lech Lecha
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though “The War of the Four Kings Against the Five Kings” (Genesis 14) was a major event for those involved, it has always been a curious sidebar in the spiritual saga of our Father Abraham.  

Abram gets involved when his nephew Lot is kidnapped. Lot has been living in the Dead Sea region, in Sodom, and that region’s five kingdoms are invaded by four kings from the North. When Lot is kidnapped, Abram musters 318 of his men to pursue the fives kings and rescue his nephew. 

This twenty-four-verse story is not particularly religious. God does not command anything to Abram, and God does no miracles. It is a secular and military story. The only religious detail is the aftermath: While returning home with lots of plunder, Abram visits a place of religious pilgrimage. “King Melchizedek of Salem brought out bread and wine; he was a priest of God Most High. He blessed him, saying, ‘Blessed be Abram of God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth. And blessed be God Most High, Who has delivered your foes into your hand.’ And Abram gave him a tenth of everything.” (Genesis 14.18-20)  

Since the Torah is a document of faith—and not really a history, the Tradition senses a need to enhance the story with more spirituality. The Midrash begins by focusing on this cryptic passage about the Priest Melchizedek. Looking carefully at the Genesis genealogies, the Rabbis discover that this Melchizedek is none other than Shem, one of Noah’s sons. (If you live to be six hundred years old, you are around for many succeeding generations.) Further, Salem is none other than Jerusalem. As the Midrash explains, Shem and his great-grandson Eber run a religious center there in Jerusalem, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob all visit there for religious instruction and observance. How could one possibly be a Patriarch without studying at a Yeshivah?! 

We are still, however, left with a military story with very little religious substance. Enter Gematria—the art of assigning numerical values to Hebrew letters and from them finding hidden meanings. 

Let us look at the text: “When Abram heard that his kinsman had been taken captive, he mustered his retainers, born into his household, numbering three hundred and eighteen, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. At night, he and his servants deployed against them and defeated them; and he pursued them as far as Damascus.” (Genesis 14.14-15)  

It seems a simple description of a military campaign, but someone schooled in Gematria noticed that 318 is  the numerical value for Eliezer, Abram’s most trusted servant. (See Genesis 15.2): אֱלִיעֶזֶר
Alef is 1, Lamed is 30, Yod is 10, Ayin is 70, Zayin is 7, and Resh is 200. The lesson or hidden meaning is that Abram does not need 318 troops to defeat the Four Kings. He is such a master of faith, he just needs one soldier, his faithful servant Eliezer, to defeat his enemies! 

But, there is more: another Gematria student noticed another meaning of 318. It is the numerical value of the Hebrew word si’ach / converse or speak.  שִׂיחַ
Sin is 300, Yod is 10, and Chet is 8.  Gematria thus teaches that Abram does not really need to fight physically. All he does to defeat his enemies is to speak God’s Holy Name!    

Why would such a claim be made? It is clearly absurd—and counter to the meaning of the text. And yet, one can see in this miracle interpretation an indication of the Rabbinic approach to Jewish survival. After the twin debacles of the Jewish Rebellion (66-73 CE, when Jerusalem and the Temple were destroyed by the Romans) and the Bar Kochba Rebellion (132-136 CE, which saw Rome destroy not only the Jewish army but also many of the great Rabbis), the surviving Rabbis made a deliberate decision to eschew physical and military resistance.

They reasoned that the Jewish people could never compete militarily with powers such as Rome—that armed resistance could never succeed and would just invoke more brutal oppression and persecution. Their strategy was to encourage a different kind of strength: a spiritual strength based on faith and piety and the hope of God’s eternal love. It was completely different from the Biblical approach—where faith in God brought military victory—and is vastly different from our modern Jewish fighters who brought to life the State of Israel and defend it. The Rabbinic hope and strategy was to lay low and endure whatever came, hoping that faith and piety would allow a “She’arit Yisrael, a Remnant of Israel,” to survive for the Messianic future. This approach may seem strange to us, but it was the survival strategy that kept our religious community alive for some 1800 years and engendered one of the world’s great spiritual traditions. As Historian Ellis Rivkin used to explain, given that earthly victory over our enemies was impossible, Rabbinic Judaism moved away from the Biblical ideal of an earthly Jewish kingdom to a spiritual quest for “God’s Kingdom within.” 

In such a worldview, Abram’s military prowess is irrelevant, but Abram/Abraham as a giant of faith—who could simply speak the Divine Name and conquer enemies—is a much better example.

Another place one can see this transition is in the development of Chanukah. Whereas the story began as a military victory of the Maccabees over the Greek Syrians (165 BCE), the Rabbis of the Talmud (Second and Third Century CE) subsumed the military story in the story of the miracle of the oil. From the Biblical notion of God-supported military strength, the Talmud transitioned us to a more spiritual dimension. Then, in the 1800s, we began to change back with the Jewish Self-Defense Movement—and this, of course, set the stage for and inspired Zionism.

When commentators use Gematria to suggest that Abram, accompanied by a single servant and speaking the Divine Name, was as powerful as an army of 318 soldiers, they are encouraging their people to be spiritually strong—to ground themselves in faith and piety and observance. It is very different from our modern worldview, but it was a meaningful and successful spiritual approach to the centuries our people suffered unrelenting oppression. It is a monument to Jewish adaptability and creativity—and, as we face our own struggles in life, perhaps there are lessons we too can learn about spiritual strength and hope.