Love and God and Guilt

May 26th: Shavuot
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Jewish Tradition teaches that our relationship with God is filled with love—with ahavah. God’s love for us is described in many places in the Bible, and we pray about it in both the morning and the evening services (Ahavah Rabbah and Ahavat Olam). This imperative to love God is something we are supposed to consider every single day—“when we sit in our houses and when we walk by the way, when we lie down and when we rise up.” (Deuteronomy 6.7) Tradition has even imagined a kind of “soap opera” about our love. Though the Biblical Song of Songs speaks of a human love triangle—with a peasant maiden being wooed by both a king and a peasant lad, our mystics treat it as an allegory in which the maiden is Israel, and we are caught between our attraction to both the king (God) and the peasant lad (pagan religions). When the Biblical poet muses, “I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, as we luxuriate among the roses,” our mystics see it as love talk between God and Israel. When the king asks, “Who is this coming up from the desert, all perfumed with myrrh and frankincense?”, the mystics see it as God welcoming Israel, newly rescued from Egypt, as we enter our Chuppah at Mount Sinai. And, when God declares, “O, you have captured my heart, My own, My bride,” it means that God is deeply in love with us. 

The drama in Song of Songs includes attraction and devotion, doubt and frustration, estrangement and then loving reconciliation, and our mystics see these human emotions as reflections of the ups and downs of spirituality. Sometimes we feel very close to God and Jewish ways, and sometimes we feel less close. Sometimes there is passion, and sometimes there is distance. As we go through life, we find our religious sensibilities waxing and waning, and evolving.  

If we were to sing a love song to God, the sentiments could go in a number of directions. We could love intensely as in the Song of Songs: “Dodi li, va’ani lo ha’ro’eh, bashoshanim. / I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine, as we luxuriate among the roses?”  Or we could choose a song like this one penned by Willie Nelson: “Maybe I didn’t love you quite as often as I could have. Maybe I didn’t treat you, quite as good as I should have, If I made you feel, oh, second best, Girl, I’m sorry I was blind. But you were always on my mind. You were always on my mind.” You were always on my mind, but…  

In every loving relationship, there are times when guilt enters the dynamic. Though we may feel a deep devotion to God, to Judaism, and to Jewish ways, we often find ourselves pulled in other directions. With the demands of jobs, families, friends, and social and civic obligations, we may often neglect our religion and find ourselves worried that we are inadequately Jewish. Often this guilt hits us when we are in religious situations: a holiday, a Bar/Bat Mitzvah, running into relatives: Are we being Jewish enough, or not? 

We Jews have an uncanny ability to feel guilt, but sometimes it may not be the correct response. What, among our religious decisions, are the proper grounds for guilt?  

Reform Judaism teaches that each of us has the right to negotiate our own covenant with God, determining what “dosage” of God/Judaism is right for our souls. If keeping kosher helps you in your sense of holiness, wonderful. If it does not, then there should be no guilt in not keeping kosher. If prayer and synagogue or Torah study are helpful to your relationship with the Divine, wonderful. But, if they do not help your soul, then you have the right to determine for yourself the best way to feed your Jewishness. This is not a matter of guilt for deviating from the prescribed way, but rather a matter of using your God-given autonomy to craft your own life. The only time guilt is appropriate is when we fall short of our own standards or expectations—when we fail to nurture our own souls. 

If we are happy with our freely chosen dosage of God and Judaism, then we should feel no guilt. We and God are good. If, on the other hand, we feel that our dosage is not nurturing or developing our souls, then we should endeavor to make changes. Guilt is only useful if it spurs us to reflection and a possible re-ordering of our priorities.  

Our Tradition teaches us that God loves each one of us individually and personally—that God created and is interested in each one of us. Though much of Judaism involves relating to God as a community, our individual relationships are also of extreme importance. God cares about us and wants each one of us to take care of our souls. We should think of tending to our religious sensibilities as self-care and recall Hillel’s ancient advice: “If I am not for myself, who will be for me…and if not now, when?” (Avot 1.14) 

Whether close or distant, whether passionate or more calm, each of us has a relationship with God. How much closeness is good? How much is too much? How much God-consciousness do our souls crave? What kinds of Jewishness will be helpful? Like all important relationships, the love and obligation we feel in regard to God and Judaism need to be managed and cultivated and appreciated.  

When and if we feel guilt, we should try to understand what lies beneath. Is it a sense of failure, or is it simply the awareness of different choices? Or, is it a sense of yearning for “more God?” Is it a matter of clarifying our principles, or is it time to re-evaluate our life choices and make changes for the better? During our Festival of Shavuot, when we remember and celebrate the wonder of Mount Sinai, let us remember that the thunder of God’s revelation vibrates individually and personally for every Jew. What does it say to you? How best should you craft your response?

Entering Stories That Are Not Exactly Our Own

May 19th: Bemidbar
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich 

It is always interesting to me how we can be drawn into a story and recalibrate our thinking to fit with the characters’ values. We imagine ourselves as English aristocrats, as Mafia chieftains, as heroic spies, or as maverick fighter pilots. We enter these stories and imagine what we would do in their situations—accepting and adopting their rules and mores.  

This happens all the time when I watch movies, but it really struck home recently as our national attention was drawn to two British royal dramas—the actual coronation of King Charles III and the dramatic imagination of Queen Charlotte (the Netflix prequel to Bridgerton). I suspect that we are not unique in having dual thoughts on the subject: (1) we would never want to live in those ways, but (2) if we did, we have some ideas on how best to proceed. We “enter” those worlds and imagine how we would work within their rules, expectations, and possibilities. 

I have similar thoughts when I study this week’s Torah portion. After an extensive census of the Israelites and some genealogy of some prominent families, we read the instructions for packing up the Tabernacle’s holy furnishings and utensils. Remember, the Mishkan/Tent Temple is portable, and the Israelites carry it with them as they travel through the wilderness. The concern here involves the relative holiness of those who are allowed to touch or pack or carry the holy objects. The ancient priest-dominated sacrificial cult is exceedingly far from my experience as a Jew, and frankly it is something that does not appeal to me. Nonetheless, as I study the Torah, I find myself being drawn into its internal logic and taking on its proprieties. 

Though the whole tribe of Levi is holy, Aaron and his sons are the holiest. As the Kohanim/ priests, only they are allowed to touch the holy objects—both for ritual and for packing up. As for carrying, this holy honor is assigned to other and less holy Levites. “When Aaron and his sons have finished covering the sacred objects and all the furnishings of the sacred objects at the breaking of camp, only then shall the Kohathites come and lift them, so that they do not come in contact with the sacred objects and die. These things in the Tent of Meeting shall be the porterage of the Kohathites.” (Numbers 4.15)  

This is a strictly regimented caste system, with status and responsibility being based on lineage—and not on merit or religiosity. It is in marked distinction to other Bible stories that turn things upside down, with younger (and therefore “less important”) individuals proving themselves and becoming heroes. Look at Isaac instead of Ishmael, Jacob instead of Esau, and Joseph, David, and Solomon instead of their many older brothers. Whereas much of the Bible favors talent and faith over lineage, these Priestly passages stand firmly on ancestry-based power—and grate against our democratic and egalitarian sensibilities.  

Perhaps this is why many of us sympathize with Korah when he presents egalitarian aims for his rebellion (about which we’ll read in June). He gathers disgruntled Israelites and confronts Moses with, “All the community are holy, all of them, and the Lord is in their midst. Why then do you raise yourselves above the Lord’s congregation?!” (Numbers 16.3)  

Interestingly, Moses’ response is that Korah should be happy with his Levitical privilege. He is not a priest, but, as a Levite, he is higher than all the other Israelites. “Is it not enough for you that the God of Israel has set you apart from the community of Israel and given you access to Him, to perform the duties of the Lord’s Tabernacle and to minister to the community and serve them? Now that He has advanced you and all your fellow Levites with you, do you seek the priesthood too?!” (Numbers 16.8-10) 

The Torah has God coming to Moses’ and the Aaronide hierarchy’s rescue, and this leads the Commentaries to explain (post hoc ergo propter hoc) that Korah’s rhetoric is dishonest—that he is evil and just using the appeal of egalitarianism to seize power and prestige for himself. Like our feelings for George Orwell’s Napoleon the Pig (“All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others.”), we rejoice in the downfall of the usurpers. Moses and Aaron and the true religion are maintained. 

See, it happened again. Though I am very glad that my Judaism is post-Biblical/Rabbinic—that we do not have a hereditary priesthood ministering to God and barbequing animals on my behalf, I can very easily get drawn into the story and defend the very system I am glad is not mine. I find myself in need of a reality check. 

The challenge for post-Biblical (post-Temple sacrificial cult) Jews has always been to apply filters to our ancient and sacred heritage. We read the stories and try to discern wisdom. We reflect upon our ancestral relationship with God and try to replicate something of the devotion and faith. We regard the cultural and cultic details with interest but with a learned distance, filtering out those things that are problematic and not spiritually necessary, and holding precious the principles and aspirations that are enduring and eternally helpful. The ancient Israelite religion is not ours, and I do not want to return to it. In Judaism, we have distilled those ancient religious sensibilities into something much better. 

Among our tools are allegory and metaphor—with some passages requiring them more than others. When the Torah tells us to “love our neighbors as ourselves,” (Leviticus 19.18) or “not to murder” (Exodus 20.13), we can buy into the ancient text unequivocally. However, when we read about the ancient sacrificial cult and its strictly hierarchical priesthood—as well as other passages which command misogyny and intolerance, it is time to pull out the metaphors and mystical interpretations that allow us to appreciate rather than obey, to be informed by rather than to be instructed.  

Part of our Jewish way involves looking to the past and revering both God and the continuing relationship our people have enjoyed with the Divine. We study and we reflect, but we also give thanks that Judaism has moved on, constructing a magnificent spiritual system where we encounter God not with animal sacrifices but with Torah, with prayer, and with deeds of lovingkindness.

Aspirations for Imperfect People

May 12th: Behar / Bechukotai
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I do not see a lot of Christian bumper stickers up here, but, in the South, they are quite popular. Some proclaim a preference for Biblical translations: “If it ain’t the King James, it ain’t the Bible.” Others ask for theological affirmations from other drivers: “Honk if you love Jesus.” Some anticipate a miraculous end of days, “Warning: In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned.” Some present a kind of defense for less-than-exemplary co-religionists: “Christians aren’t perfect; they’re just forgiven.” This last one seems particularly necessary when religious scandals hit the news. 

For every religious scandal, there are thousands of people in the pews shocked, disgusted, and truly embarrassed. Some are even left wondering about the validity of their religious path. While ostensibly putting their faith in God, they also develop a loyalty to God’s representatives. Whether God is worthy of their loyalty is a theological question, but whether their clergy or congregational officials are worthy of their trust is, unfortunately, sometimes a question for denominational tribunals or even the criminal justice system. 

This was shown in an interesting irony in the fall from grace of televangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. Law enforcement had no role in judging their promises of heaven in exchange for donations to their lavish lifestyle. However, when they double-sold timeshare units at their Christian resort, they were hauled before the earthly justice system. Similarly, the grandiose theological claims of Jimmy Swaggart were believed by some and doubted by others. However, when he was arrested more than once for soliciting prostitution, thousands of his followers were left bereft and in danger of spiritual dismay. When religious leaders falter and sin, what does it say about the religion they preach? 

(For a fascinating study of the interplay of religion and ego, see the recent film Honk for Jesus; Save Your Soul, starring Regina Hall and Sterling K. Brown. It is inaccurately billed as a mock-documentary comedy, but it is achingly serious. When people speak for God, how much is God, and how much is the ego of the preacher?) 

Consider the plight of our Roman Catholic friends who have been battered over and over again in recent decades by the revelation of clergy sexual abuse. It has certainly rocked the institution of the Church, but what about the faith itself? One of my friends is a devoted Catholic, and she has described the intense pain she has felt at this betrayal by too many priests. However, she still believes that the Church has a valid message and presents a true path to God. The Church is her church. While it desperately needs to purge itself of the evil and irresponsibility of some of its leaders, she, like millions of other struggling parishioners, remains a faithful Catholic. The sins of some do not represent or negate the true faith. 

Of course, we Jews are not immune from sins and indiscretions. We blanche every time a Jew’s sins make the news. From Baruch Goldstein to Ivan Boesky and Bernie Madoff and Aryeh Deri, we fervently hope that their shame will not have negative ramifications for the rest of Jewry. When one of us does well, we all feel pride. When one of us sins, we are all ashamed—and worried that it will be a shanda for the goyim (make us all look bad in front of the non-Jews). As the ancient Sages observe, “Israel is like a pile of nuts. If you take one from the pile, all of them collapse and roll onto one another.” (Midrash Rabba, Song of Songs 6.11)  

Do bad members of a group necessarily mean that the group is bad—or that their aspirations are worthless? Those of us who disbelieve a particular message may feel a kind of satisfaction when its overbearing adherents are revealed to be less than perfect. However, to be fair, the messages of religion are often more aspirational than factual. They represent methods to human betterment—methods that are necessary because we humans are inevitably imperfect.  

In the heat of debates over the comparative value of various religions or denominations, the imperfect members of that religion can be held up as examples of its inferiority. A bad priest means that Catholicism is wrong. A dishonest pastor means that Evangelical Christianity is wrong. A terrorist imam means that Islam is wrong. But what about us? Does a dishonest or murderous Jew mean that Judaism is wrong? There are those who take the sins of religionists as evidence of religion’s worthlessness—and, while we might smile inwardly when another religion comes off looking bad, how do we feel when it is our religion that is impugned by sin?  

In our weekly Torah portion, we read about the ancient Sabbatical and Jubilee Years. Every seven years, the land was to lie fallow and have an agricultural Sabbath. Every fifty years, the real estate market was to have a kind of Sabbath: all deals made in the previous forty-nine years were to be cancelled, and the land was to revert back to the families assigned to it by God and Moses. There is evidence that the Sabbatical year was actually observed—with the land lying fallow and debts being cancelled. However, there is some scholarly doubt as to whether the Jubilee year was ever actually observed. If it were not an observed custom, why would such an injunction be preserved in the Torah? Perhaps, rather than a serious commandment, it represented a kind of aspirational ideal—one of the Biblical author’s hope for a return to the simplicity of old and purer ways. 

In reading the Bible, it is necessary to distinguish between passages that are meant to be followed, and passages that represent idyllic visions. Will the lamb really lie down with the wolf? Will little children really play with poisonous snakes? (Isaiah 11.6-9) Will “the Mountain of the Lord’s House” really “be exalted above the hills—and the nations flow unto it and many peoples say, ‘Come ye, and let us go up to the Mountain of the Lord, to the House of the God of Jacob, where God will teach us holy ways so that we may walk in holy paths?’” (Isaiah 2.2-3 and Micah 4.1-2) Or are these aspirational and idyllic visions intended to inspire us to work with other religions and nations and bring blessings to the world? 

We are all sinners—each and every one of us, regardless of our chosen faith. We are all subject to temptation, and we all succumb from time to time. Our failings are not due to the inadequacies of our religions but rather to our own weakness, selfishness, short-sightedness, and self-pity. Too often, we misuse our religions in the pursuit of sin. It is deplorable and, yet we should not lose sight of the aspirational possibilities of religion. We can be called from On High. We can be inspired to righteousness and holy behavior. We can respond and improve and become better children of the Most High.

Perfect? No. Forgiven? Maybe. Improvable? Absolutely.

Being Acceptable Before the Lord

 May 5th: Emor
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

I would like to focus on three passages in this week’s Torah portion. The first provides a philosophical and aesthetic basis: “When you sacrifice a thanksgiving offering to the Lord, lir’tzon’chem tizbachu / sacrifice it so that it may be acceptable in your favor.” (Leviticus 22.29) The Hebrew word ratzon is usually translated as acceptable and is found in many places in our Tradition. The most famous example is at the end of Psalm 19: “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart l’ratzon be acceptable to You, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.”  

The interesting and problematic thing about this word is that it is not very specific. Acceptable is a concept based on a variety of situations and cultural mores. An acceptable menu for a back yard barbeque is not the same as an acceptable menu for a formal banquet. Acceptable behavior for a raucous party is not the same as acceptable behavior for a worship service. Acceptable explanations for five-year olds are not the same as acceptable explanations for grown-ups. One could extend this to diverse cultural settings. While, in some cultures, a loud belch is a sign of appreciation for a delicious meal, such a response would not have been appreciated at my Mother’s table. 

It seems pretty obvious that we would want our worship to be acceptable to God, but exactly what does this mean? Fortunately, the Torah gives case-specific definitions: “The sacrifice shall be eaten on the same day; you shall not leave any of it until morning: I am the Lord.” This is for the zevach todah / the sacrifice of thanksgiving. For a different sacrifice, the zevah sh’lamim / sacrifice of well-being, the rules are a little looser: “It shall be eaten on the day you sacrifice it, or on the day following, but what is left by the third day must be consumed in fire.” (Leviticus 19.5-8) In both cases, however, the yuckiness of leftovers lessens the honor God feels in the sacred meal, and worshippers are warned lest they desecrate (lessen the sacredness of) their intimacy with the Lord.  

Acceptability is always a mixture of intention and form, and, if we really want a gesture or ritual to mean something to someone else, we need to pay attention. Just going through the motions does not accomplish the emotional or spiritual connection intended.  

Our second passage follows this theme, reminding us that the gifts we bring to God should be in good shape: “When a man offers, from the herd or the flock, a sacrifice…to be acceptable it must be without blemish; there must be no defect in it.” (Leviticus 22.21) A variety of physical imperfections for livestock are then delineated—the point being that giving something to God that would not fetch a good price in the market is not respectful. Farmers know the comparative values of perfect or imperfect livestock, and, as the Torah reminds us, God knows as well.  

What is disturbing is that this focus on physical perfection is carried over to the priesthood. In our third passage, Aaron is instructed: “No man of your offspring throughout the ages who has a defect shall be  qualified to offer the food of his God. No one at all who has a defect shall be qualified: no man who is blind, or lame, or has a limb too long, too short, or mutilated, or has a broken leg or a broken arm, or who is a hunchback, or a dwarf, or who has a growth in his eye, or who has a boil-scar, or scurvy, or crushed testes…” (Leviticus 21.16-20) These “imperfect” priestly descendants are allowed to eat the sacred meals—the priests’ share of the sacrifices being an important part of the priestly families’ income, but they cannot officiate in the Tabernacle or Temple. In the ancient mentality, this imperfection signals disrespect for God. It is not l’ratzon / acceptable. 

Hopefully, we are past this kind of thinking, and enlightened legislation like the Americans With Disabilities Act has hopefully cleared the way for “less than perfect” individuals to participate more fully in society. The past century has seen great strides in inclusion and accommodation for people with a variety of physical, intellectual, and emotional disabilities. Though these human beings may be limited in some ways, the challenge has been to find ways that they can function fully and constructively. As the specifics have been explored, it is remarkable how many disabilities seem to pale before the real work these formerly disenfranchised individuals can do. I  remember, in particular, a cashier at a Wal-Mart in Pensacola who had dwarfism. Her short stature made that work impossible—until the store provided a pedestal for her at the register, and she was able to work as well as any other cashier. The accommodation was remarkably small for the result, and these kinds of adjustments have given new life to thousands of disabled individuals in thousands of situations.  

Who knows whether God or the priesthood would have re-evaluated these ancient rules as time went by, but, when the Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE, the priesthood faded into inactivity, and such rules became irrelevant. The scholars who succeeded the ancient priests—the Rabbis—had no such limitations, and heredity and physical perfection ceased to be official factors in Jewish leadership.  

That does not, however, remove the biases that perhaps gave rise to those ancient prescriptions and which continue today. Is there not something in our souls which makes us think that “better” people are better at their tasks? Why have all of our U.S. Presidents been over six feet tall? Why was Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s disability hidden as much as possible? Why do we believe the testimonies and endorsements of famous and beautiful celebrities? Do successful athletes really know more about beer or trucks or sandwiches?  

This is not a new situation or realization—which is probably why the ancient sage Rabbi Judah HaNasi felt the need to give this famous counsel: “Al tis’takel b’kan’kan, elah bemah she’yesh bo. Do not look at the bottle but at what it contains: a new bottle may contain old wine, and an old bottle which may not even have new wine.” (Avot 4.20) 

We all know that this is true, but we somehow keep forgetting. We sacrifice our good judgment to fluff and pretty packaging, and we often pay the price. May we learn to look into the heart of things—into the internal truths which possess quality or truth or the lack thereof. Perhaps reminding ourselves of this ancient unfairness—of only allowing physically “perfect” priests to officiate—can help us in this process. God knows what is in every heart and mind, and God, I believe, is not deterred by what humans regard as imperfect. We are all—all of us!—created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, so let us look carefully.

Searching for God in the Torah

April 28th: Kedoshim
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

As Charles Dickens once opined, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…” 

Sometimes the highs and lows of life—or wisdom—are remarkably proximate, and, as much as this might have been true in London and Paris of the late 18th Century, we can say the same for the disparities in our Torah portion.

Leviticus 19 begins with profundity, “You shall be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy” and continues with many examples of holy/godly behavior. We are urged to bring God’s standards to every aspect of our lives, and the culminating verse (19.18) summarizes this aspirational thinking: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.”  This is a pinnacle of Torah wisdom. 

The problem is that, in its furtherance of ideal behavior, the Biblical author continues with some ancient attitudes that grate against our modern sensibilities. In verse 19, we are prohibited from crossbreeding different breeds of cattle, crossbreeding various kinds of fruits or vegetables, or wearing cloth made from different kinds of fabrics. These hardly seem like moral issues. 

Then we are presented with stunning harshness in the gratuitous application of the death penalty. Who is to be executed? Those who engage in pagan religious rituals, or insult their parents, or commit adultery. I am not suggesting that these behaviors are okay but rather that other disciplines or punishments seem more appropriate.  

Some of the prohibitions in the latter half of Kedoshim are difficult to understand. Exactly what is the problem or fear in various spiritualist practices? In Leviticus 20.6 and 20.27, we are forbidden from “turning to ghosts and familiar spirits, and going astray after them.” Is the averah (sin) consulting the spirits of the departed—or turning those communications into idolatry or polytheism? One of the benefits of Modernity has been the expansion of our understanding of the spiritual energy that fills our world. We have also expanded our appreciation and tolerance of different religious paths. Are the ancient fears still valid, or are we looking at clannish or narrow-minded prejudice? 

And finally, there is a prohibition with which most of us strenuously disagree. In Leviticus 20.13, we are told that homosexual sex is abhorrent and should be punished with death. “If a man lies with a male as one lies with a woman, the two of them have done an abhorrent thing; they shall be put to death—their bloodguilt is upon them.” This has certainly been the belief of most people through most of history—and tragically these attitudes continue in much of the world today. However, modern psychological insights have blessed us with the realization that homosexuality is just a natural variation of human sexuality. LGBT+ individuals should be respected and included, and fortunately this is the case throughout Reform Judaism and other Liberal religious movements—and in some of the modern world.  

What do we do with such painful words in our sacred Torah? Other than being reminded that Tikkun Olam is not complete—that justice and righteousness and open-mindedness must still be pursued, I think that the answer lies in understanding more about the Bible. The Tanakh (Hebrew Scriptures) reflects ancient times and cultural mores and the best thinking of a variety of ancient authors and editors. Though the text purports to be a series of instructions from God, it is rather a chorus of different human opinions about what they think God wants. There is rarely unanimity, and the ancient diversity of opinions is matched by diverse responses in every age of Judaism, including our own. The challenge is ascertaining the spirit of the ancient revelation and filtering out biases or time-bound and culture-bound attitudes that detract from the essential goodness and profundity of God.  

Are mitzvot like “Love your neighbor as yourself” and “You shall not murder” good and true because they are in the Bible, or are they valid and valuable on their own? Indeed, is their inclusion in the Bible a testament to the fact that our ancestors associated such wisdom with God?  

Revering the Holy Scriptures is not a matter of taking everything literally—or anything literally. Regardless of what some people claim, literally no one is able to follow the whole Bible. Interpretation and filtering are inevitably necessary, and the religious life calls on us to read the ancient words carefully and to search in them for godliness.

Learning or Sabotaging Abundance?

April 21st: Tazria and Metzora
THIS WEEK IN THE TORAH
Rabbi David E. Ostrich

Though the special Haftarah this week is for the New Moon, it also has an interesting connection to the theme of our Torah portions, Tazria and Metzora—possibly the “worst” Torah portions of the year. Their subjects? The diagnosis and treatment of leprosy and house mold, various bodily discharges, and the religious rituals surrounding these situations. These portions both call on all our analogy/ metaphor/allegory skills as we try to find modern meaning in these ancient instructions.  

Isaiah 66.1-24. Isaiah’s message speaks of a kind of moral rot that sin and depravity bring into human lives. Like mold that can render a good house uninhabitable, our sins can sabotage our happiness. Indeed, how can we expect to be close to God when we mix our religiosity with disrespect?
“As for those who slaughter oxen and slay humans,
Who sacrifice sheep and immolate dogs,
Who present as oblation the blood of swine,
Who offer incense and worship false gods—
Just as they have chosen their ways
And take pleasure in their abominations,
So will I choose to mock them,
To bring on them the very thing they dread…” (Isaiah 66.3-4) 

Isaiah’s read of our history is that the disasters experienced by ancient Judah and Israel are not by happenstance. Rather they are punishments meted out by God because of our immorality and idolatry. Just as our God of Justice plagued the ancient Egyptians because of their crimes and sins, so does the same God hold us responsible when we corrupt our lives. Justice and righteousness are incumbent upon every nation, and our only remediation is to repent—both individually and communally. 

Isaiah also counsels patience—that God’s forgiveness will come but it may take a while before the blessings become abundant again. 

I would like to pursue this metaphor of something rotting from within and apply it to the question of our abundance. I believe that a certain kind of economic thinking can rot our sense of abundance and bring  misery into our lives. The idea I am challenging is the one that says, If we are not winning, then we are losing. If we are not doing better than others, then we are unsuccessful. 

Part of this thinking comes from the competition upon which commerce is based. There are a limited number of cabbages, washing machines, or shirts that will be purchased, and merchants compete to sell theirs. However, when this competitive inclination is applied to our sense of abundance and happiness, we get into trouble. A case in point was reported last week. Whereas “the American Dream” has been, for many generations, that “children will do better than their parents,” this possibility seems to be waning. Statistics suggest that upward mobility is no longer a ubiquitous expectation, and, if this continues to be the case, is the American Dream dying? Or, as I suspect, is this thinking less than well-founded? Do we need to do “better than our parents” to succeed? 

I take these questions personally, because I am someone who chose a career in which I knew I would not make as much money as my parents. Was this therefore a poor career choice? Did my parents defeat me in a competition I was supposed to win? Or are there simply different income figures when one makes an unnecessary comparison? Is the point of income to win a competition or to provide for one’s needs and desires? Does one need to win a competition to win in life? 

A similar competitive analysis got a lot of attention back around a dozen years ago. The Great Recession of 2008 reduced the wages and retirement contributions of many young people, and, when pushed forward by economic modeling, these workers were projected to amass less wealth by the time they retire than the cohort that started their careers a decade earlier. Focusing on this disparity can bring about a lot of anxiety, frustration, and even nihilism. Unless we ask: How much is enough? If someone retires in 2050 with $2 million instead of $3 million—a possible disparity caused by the Great Recession, what would be the “abundance effect?” Will this earner have been able to purchase a home? Will he/she have been able to send their children to college? Will this citizen have been able to take vacations, drive reliable cars, and enjoy the various pleasures of life? Yes, but. Instead of vacationing in Aruba or Tahiti, they might have had to enjoy the beach on the Jersey Shore or the Outer Banks. Instead of living in a 3500 square foot house, they might have had to settle for one with only 2000 square feet. They might have had to endure with less, but could they have had enough? 

I am not talking about real poverty—or about the various social justice dimensions of income disparity. I am not talking about subsistence farmers or penniless immigrants trying to support their families. For so many of us—a few generations beyond that kind of economic desperation, the question is less about economic survival than about having enough to be comfortable. When we see everything in terms of a competition that we either win or lose, we bring misery to ourselves and miss the blessings we are given. We have, in other words, the ability to inculcate rot into the core of our abundance and to ruin our ability to appreciate. 

Our real concern should be developing the ability to be satisfied. We can be poor in the midst of plenty, or rich in relatively poor circumstances. We are not always in a race, a fight, or a competition. As we pray on Shabbat: “Sab’aynu mituvecha. Satisfy us with Your goodness.” May we, O Lord, learn to appreciate our blessings and to share them with others. 

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.